Heart pounding in her ears, Diyrian could hardly hear the claxons ringing in the background, excluded by her adrenaline. She peeled her hands from the pilot controls, slumping back against her chair while the last minute flashed in her mind.
Seconds after popping out of hyperdrive, the Collective forces had jumped on them — a squadron of headhunters. Diy had been in a scrap or a few in space and her co-pilot lacked combat experience, yet together they made a cocksure team. Trusting in the heart of The Lady’s Flower, she dug deep into its capabilities, pulling on those thrusters and taking speed in the game of tail chasing. With the cannons on this bird forward facing, she had to loop back in attempts to get a few good hits in. Those starfighter stuck like glue to her rear though, crimson lasers grazing the shields of the KST-100 as they careened closer to their destination.
Diy spotted the quadrijets seconds before L4-C1A had her bright idea, commandeering control and driving the fight into the midst of bomb-packed space tugs. Zelosian curses laid on thick, the Kiffar had yanked them sideways, just clearing between two when a headhunter collided into them. The explosion detonated licked up much of the Lady’s remaining shields. Gritting her teeth, Diy brought the ship into the nearest Nesolat hangar fast and hot.
“You are welcome,” a electronic voice snapped her focus. A wide grin splayed across her face as the Zelosian-wannabe panted.
“I’d said ‘let’s lose these nerfherders,’ not drive through a space minefield,” she addressed, blue-green eyes looking to the interface that flashed under the crimson lights.
“Your limitations on strategic flight maneuvers was minimizing our chances of survival. You are welcome,” smugly replied L4-C1A, the droid brain and co-pilot — or as it preferred the head pilot — of the ship.
“Oh yeah, basic pilot?” Diy rolled her eyes as she shot back her jokeful taunt on the Droid’s programming. The sharp sound of her harness’ buckles clanged against the metal back of the chair and she bounced to her feet, fingers administering a quick code on the terminal before ruffling in a nearby panel compartment.
The door to the cockpit hissed open as Sera rushed in, white cloak flowing behind her. The Zabrack’s proud brow was set with a mix of concern, seriousness, and anticipation. “What happened?”
Diyrian flashed a toothy grin, taking a couple tabs of Vutalamine before replying, “Had some friends pop in, weren’t real respectful of personal space—”
The cockpit shifted under foot, causing the pair to catch their balance as the surviving landing gears propped up the ship at an awkward angle. L4-C1A interjected, “The hatch has fifty percent of available clearance available for exit now.”
But neither of the organic women seemed to be paying attention. The settling of the landing gear had drew their attention to the hanger outside. Among the destroyed crates, crushed drones, and the x-wing pinned in front of the KST-100, figures shifted into cover and formation. It was hard to tell whether or not they were Collective or the Nesolat station forces.
“Showtime?” Diy smiled, pulling one of her pistols from the belt attached around her flight suit and twirling it.
Sera nodded and, despite the seriousness of the stakes and the lives endangered she felt, was eager to head into the fight, trusting fully in their ability to help. “Let’s grab the others.”