The sequence of pazaak card numbers that continually streamed through Atton's head gave way to curse words as Korlen Olligard's gleaming red blade slipped inside his guard, burning effortlessly through his outer tunic to reach the light combat suit beneath. Though little more than a nick, it still melted a section of the armorply sleeve, leaving a finger-length stripe of searing-hot pain on his right forearm.
Foregoing subtlety, the squid-head slashed twice more at the same arm, hoping to take it off this time. Trying to swallow his agony, Atton awkwardly blocked the first blow, then leaned aside from the second, flailing one arm, and kicked Olligard in the knee. Both of them hopped away from each other, Olligard's back nearly hitting the aquarium to the left of his desk.
Briefly, Atton's free hand went to his belt. He tried to distract from the motion by spinning his lightsaber before him in a fancy chain of arcs that took several seconds. He finished it off by falling into a defensive posture with dominant foot planted back, sizzling blue-white blade held high and angled toward his opponent, and left hand outstretched in challenge.
This was the opening stance of the Jedi's Soresu form. Atton thought it looked stupid, and Form III itself had barely factored into his own training as a Sith. However, showing off one's knowledge and practice of the classic fighting modes was a common tactic in dueling, both to psyche oneself up and to give one's partner-in-murder a visual signal as to how completely fracked he was.
Olligard showed himself a good sport in this regard, answering Atton's display with a slower, less frenetic series of flourishes. In the meantime Atton concentrated as hard as he could on counting cards; otherwise his thoughts might give away the ArmaTek TP-21 mini-mine that he had palmed out of his belt. Flat and vaguely triangular, it was much less powerful than a standard frag mine, but it would have been tough to sneak heavier explosives through the station. As it was, Atton had only gotten away with two of these.
Just before Olligard could settle into whatever ceremonial anachronism he had in mind, Atton tripped the arming switch on the mini-mine and sent it telekinetically whirling out of his hand like a Vrakolian spin-blade. Somehow he was unlucky, though, as the squid-head saw it coming in time. Force energies twisted in the air, causing the mini-mine to veer off-course over Olligard's desk, where it hit the head of the chair and exploded in a sharp, white flash.
Chunks of foam and synthleather were still flying when Atton drew a blaster pistol and fired—not at the prefect or his blade, which would have protected him, but at the aquarium right behind him. Failing to absorb the bolt's energy, the front panel of the tank disappeared into an eruption of water and crystalplex shards that slammed Olligard to the floor. Saturated by the deluge, his lightsaber shorted out with a tremendous hiss. Aquatic creatures spilled past him, flopping and squirming.
Atton winced and looked away from the flying bits of glass, getting off several blind shots before a wave of Force swept him up from behind. He windmilled, trying to regain his balance even as he stumbled over the saturated carpet. Seeing that he was headed straight for the soaked, balled-up lump of robes that was Korlen Olligard, he tried to sweep his lightsaber down to split the Quarren's head in two, but Olligard sprang inside Atton's reach, plunging both fists into his gut.
Blaster and lightsaber alike fell from Atton's hands as he doubled over, all the breath and then some slammed out of his body. Black lumps wavered before his eyes as Olligard rose to full height, grabbed his collar, and yanked him onto his knees, one hand drawn back to bury its claws in Atton's throat.
Working more out of instinct than tactical brilliance, Atton shook himself partway out of his daze and drove a fist into Olligard's groin.
The wheeze that escaped the squid-head's fanged mouth sprayed Atton with rancid air. With wobbling knees, Olligard pushed off from Atton, making it two steps before dropping to the ruined carpet with a heavy splat, as though the weight of the soaked robes that clung to his body had proven too much for him. Leaning the opposite way, Atton slapped a quivering, white-striped fish out of his way as he reached for his fallen blaster pistol.
Snatching it up, he got onto one knee and took aim. His first shot scorched a chunk of flesh off of Olligard's left forearm, which had been reaching for the still-active lightsaber Atton had dropped. The Quarren howled and leaped belly-first onto his desk, rolled, and spilled over on the other side, toppling the mangled chair as he went.
Meanwhile, with pain and fatigue fraying his patience, Atton was continuing to fire with all the cool precision of a drunken moisture farmer militiaman. The desk shuddered with laser impacts, coughing flames and scattering chunks of black metal. Several bolts went wide, cratering display screens and detonating shelved holobooks like frag grenades.
Atton paused, chest heaving as he peered into the swirls of smoke around what remained of the desk. His right hand swayed and bobbed; the blaster felt like it weighed five kilos. In the sudden lull his attention was drawn to his lightsaber, which was still burning the carpet meters away. He dove for it, landing flat and crushing some poor half-dead fish under his chest as he caught the hilt with his free hand.
Hauling himself upright, he spotted Olligard running past the destroyed fish tank toward a back corner of the room—where Atton had noted some kind of emergency exit during his initial sweep of the place. He tried to track the Quarren with his blaster, firing twice, but the shots never came close.
Olligard barely caught himself against the reinforced door, pressed the panel, and crouched to reduce his profile. In doing so, he found himself at eye-level with an ArmaTek TP-21 mini-mine, which had recently been stuck to the opposite frame with a bit of foam-cast. He snarled and pushed himself away from the door, but the explosion blew him into the base of the ruined fish tank, the empty frame of which shuddered and collapsed with a clattering of steel and crystalplex.
Atton heaved a sigh that degenerated into a fit of coughs. He tried to stand and put away his weapons, but all his body did was pitch back and forth on his knees; the best he could do was not fall on his face. The lightsaber wound trickled lava into his arm, and his gut felt like somebody had rammed a piston rod halfway through and then left it there. The rest of him didn't feel great, either.
A bony hand latched onto his shoulder, and he gasped as the pain—well, most of it—went rushing out of him. Welcome though it was, his skin crawled as he got to his feet and found Atris retrieving her cane from the crook of her arm. "I'm more used to stimpacks," he told her.
She half-turned to wave her maimed arm back at the entrance. The panel there had been smashed, and the door itself was warped in its frame, clearly unable to open—and unable to entirely muffle the shouts and stamping of boots outside.
"I did what I could, but it won't hold them for long," she said. "Did you find what we came here for?"
Crossing the room, Atton yanked open a cabinet beside the food processor and slung on the duffel bag he had stashed inside. The bag was bulging with datatapes and disks, and they incessantly clicked together. "Hell if I know. I ripped everything I could from his desk-comp, swiped some other stuff. It's all encrypted, but that's not our problem. I'm sure there's something useful in there."
And if the admiral tells me there's not, I'll blast his head off.
In unison they looked back at the entrance, listening to the guards chattering on the other side of the ruined door.
Atton took a few seconds to do the math. The plan had been to take the prefect down quickly and quietly enough that they would be on their way to the Ebon Hawk before anyone could sound an alarm. Failing that, the plan had been to be fast enough that they weren't trapped inside the office like a womp rat in its hole. Failing that, it was to figure something else out.
"I've met enough new people for one day," Atton said.
Behind the emergency exit was a turbolift with enough space to fit the two of them uncomfortably. There was one button on the inside panel which, when Atton pressed it, shot them like a bullet down through the station. A screen showing their progress indicated that the shaft ended close to the bottom levels; he guessed that it was a private hangar with an escape craft of some kind, but ruled out stealing it. There would probably be more layers of security to get through. Besides that, station security would undoubtedly arrange for a welcoming party down there, since they had to know where the shaft ended.
While they were still underway, Atton checked his comlink, noting the message with the Ebon Hawk's hangar number and level. Without taking his eyes from the turbolift readout, he gave the others a quick call.
It was Cole who answered. "Hey, glad you're not dead. We just blew up the courier. And our Sith friend from Gulvitch went along with it."
Atton's eyes widened a little. "Wait, the guy on the catwalk? He followed us?"
"Yeah, and he wasn't alone—apparently. Kaevee thinks there's another Sith on your tail."
"Great." He cut his gaze to Atris, who effected a slow nod.
"You two on your way here yet?"
Chewing on his lip, Atton paused to study the screen readout and match it up with his memory of the schematics. "Yeah, we're sort of taking an alternate route, but we're coming. Keep the engines hot."
"Will do."
Hoping he was lucky, Atton waited, then threw the emergency stop lever; he and Atris braced themselves against the walls as the turbolift screeched to a halt. Drawing his lightsaber, he sliced his way through the side of the lift, then the shaft wall. Finding himself three meters above the floor on the other side, he dropped down, then used the Force to levitate Atris down after him.
Thick dust motes tickled their eyes and nostrils, and the air was tinged with exhaust. The old woman spent a moment hacking up a lung, and Atton offered an arm in case she needed support. With his other hand he drew a blaster, worrying somebody might hear her.
They were standing in the narrow, shadowed gap between two scaffolded racks that reached to the ceiling of a cavernous storage room. Nothing else could be seen except more racks, crammed with battered containers and arranged to form aisles and intersections. No guards or workers—in fact, nothing moving could be seen, but the place was saturated with noises, drowned by distance into unintelligible echoes that could have begun as anything from footsteps to repulsorlifts.
When Atris had quieted down, Atton leaned out into the aisle, looking from side to side.
The old woman shuffled up beside him. Her voice was raspy and hideous. "May I ask exactly where we are?"
Mimicking her Coreward accent, he answered, "No. You may not."