Part 8 (2/2)
Every precaution that could be taken had already been taken.
She should have run. Han touched the keypad again, and watched the long parade of scramble 9s-there were fifteen of them now-scroll past.
The face of Luke's beloved-the soft oval contours, the strong chin and full, decisive lips, the rain-colored eyes that were at once so old and so innocent-returned to his mind. The light, husky alto voice that was like a teenage boy's and the gawky grace of her long-boned body.
She'd disappeared almost a year ago. She knew Luke would go after her, thought Han. She wouldn't resurface lightly.
All that, Leia had known.
And had gotten on the Borealis shuttle anyway.
It was a kind of courage Han frankly wasn't sure he possessed.
He said again, out loud this time, ”She should have run.”
The screen blinked again. Another scramble 9. From Coruscant, this time, a long block of text, in the purple lettering that meant very, very urgent. At the same time a green light went up over the fancifully carved, moss-padded stone doorway that led from the terrace to the house, and in what looked like an antique stone niche a decorative statue revolved to admit a round TT-SL droid on the end of its jointed limb.
The bronze lid blinked as the blue gla.s.s optical adjusted to read who was on the terrace. Then a very pleasant voice announced, ”Two visitors in the vestibule, Captain Solo. They have declined to present credentials.
Would you like them to be admitted or would you prefer an observation first?”
”Admit 'em.” Han hated spying on his guests. If they came out the door shooting, he and Chewie could probably deal with the situation.
”It will be my pleasure.”
Chewie grumbled something and shook his mane. He disliked vestibule observation as much as Han did, and disliked tattletale droids, if possible, even more. Han laughed, and agreed, ”Yeah, can't you just see all his little diodes sparkling with sheer delight?”
The laughter wiped from his face a moment later as the automatic door slid quietly back into its quasi-stone slot, and he saw who his visitor was.
He had a bad feeling about all this.
”Well, well.” The door of the airlock slipped open. ”What have we got here?”
See-Threepio, who had advanced with hands extended in near-ecstatic welcome, pulled up short at the question. ”As I explained over the viewscreen, ” he reiterated, ”this is a scout vessel detached from a....
a major disaster, and we are on our way to the fleet base at Cybloc XII.”
As he spoke he was a.n.a.lyzing the broad-shouldered, fair-haired man with the scar on his lip who stood in the doorway, the man who, half an hour previously, had identified himself on the viewscreen as Captain Bortrek of the Pure Sabacc.
”Our pilot is unfortunately deceased...” He followed Captain Bortrek down the corridor to the bridge, the young man swaggering ahead, looking around him thoughtfully and whistling a little through his teeth.
”He the only crew?” Bortrek paused in the doorway of the tiny lab, where Yeoman Marcopius lay cramped into the stasis box.
”Of course. Had there been anyone else to navigate us into the Durren roads, we could have...”
”What'd he die of? Anything catching?”
”I believe so, yes, sir, but the stasis box is certified for full-spectrum biological security.” Though scrupulously programmed to have no personal opinions about humans whatsoever, Threepio could not help comparing this young man to Captain Solo as he had been when Threepio and Artoo had first encountered him in company with Master Luke. This man seemed to have a far more casual att.i.tude about things, however, and to walk with more of a swagger, aside from dressing in a fas.h.i.+on that Threepio recognized as both flashy and not in the best of taste. ”Eighty percent of the crew had perished by the time we were able to.... Here, sir, what are you doing?”
”What's it look like I'm doing?” demanded Captain Bortrek irritably, pausing in the midst of ripping the stasis box's connectors free of the walls. ”Gimme a hand getting this to the other airlock, Goldie-over there, you stupid hunk of junk! Antigray lifters!”
Threepio automatically filled in-as he was programmed to do-the context and gesture to mean, Bring me those antigrav hikers under the cabinet. He could not but compare the man's tone to Master Luke's-and Her Excellency's-invariable use of polite nonessential grammatical elements such as Please and Thank you-not that any protocol droid worthy of his battery packs would take offense at being referred to as a hunk of junk or even by the patently untrue epithet stupid. Threepio knew quite well that he was not stupid.
But it was contrary to his programming to correct the man's deeply inaccurate estimate of his mental capacity, as it would have been for him to object to Bortrek's manhandling of the stasis box onto the antigrav lifters and shoving it out into the corridor with the patent intention of dispatching Yeoman Marcopius's mortal remains into the outer vacuum, box and all. Captain Bortrek was a human.
Thus Threepio kept his reflections to himself, as he a.s.sisted the captain in maneuvering the detached box into the smaller, secondary airlock.
Marcopius had been a loyal retainer of Her Excellency's, a good pilot, and, as far as Threepio was capable of judging, an admirable young man.
Though Threepio personally saw no reason why human remains should not simply be jettisoned, burned, or for that matter stewed and eaten by other humans in an emergency (provided they were certified free of harmful bacteria first and, if possible, aesthetically prepared), he was acutely aware that neither Her Excellency, the young man's family, nor the deceased himself would have considered this send-off at all respectful. Respect and custom being the foundation stone of protocol, Threepio was deeply offended.
Not nearly as offended as he later became, however.
”Nice s.h.i.+p,” remarked Bortrek again, turning from the airlock door before the cycle had even cleared.
”My counterpart informs me that it is a top-of-the-line scouting vessel designed for short-range deep-s.p.a.ce travel and limited hyper-drive,”
replied Threepio helpfully. ”It has ten-point-two engines and a hull capacity of thirty-five hundred cubic meters.”
”What,” grunted Bortrek, ”you trying to sell it to me?” He pa.s.sed a hand close to an auxiliary door on the way down the pa.s.sage, nodded with approval of the opening speed without going in. ”Sure beats h.e.l.l out of the old Sabacc. Pity it's not bigger.”
Having seen the Pure Sabacc as the large, ramshackled vessel which had been maneuvered into docking position on the scout, Threepio was inclined to agree, though he knew his own judgment on such matters was limited.
Artoo had checked the Sabacc by scanner and had confirmed the opinion: The other vessel's power output ratios were all far lower, and though clearly a long-distance hyperdrive vessel, she appeared to be less maneuverable as well.
”The engines of this vessel were seriously damaged by collision with debris during the recent battle,” Threepio went on, still trailing Bartrek as the man made his way around the little s.h.i.+p, flicking readouts to life, tapping walls, bending to look into access hatches.
”It is imperative that my counterpart and I obtain pa.s.sage to the fleet installation on Cybloc XII. Although I have no official clearance, I can a.s.sure you of a high probability of reward, to be forwarded to you after our arrival on Coruscant at whatever address you wish to give.”
Bartrek halted in the middle of the bridge, looking from Threepio to Artoo-Detoo, who was still linked into the main navicomputer, absorbing readings and information whose echoes flashed across the screens all around him. Though, as Threepio had said, the guidance systems of the scout vessel had been damaged by collision with debris-rendering drift into interplanetary s.p.a.ce almost inevitable had not Bar-trek picked up their distress signal-the camm lines were still open.
Artoo tweeped a string of information that made Threepio exclaim, ”Good heavens!”
”What's he say? Bortrek was tallying up the burned-out consoles with a knowing eye.
”There are reports of revolt from Ampliquen and King's Galquek, and according to Artoo, plague has broken out on the Durren base as well.
This is terrible!”
”Terrible enough for me to get my tail out of here, anyway, Goldie.”
Bortrek crossed to where Artoo stood and rapped with speculative knuckles on the little droid's domed cap. ”What model R2 is he, Goldie. Dee?”
”A dee, yes. They're quite good models, and extremely versatile, though sometimes a little erratic. For any type of sheerly astromechanical or stellar navigation, one cannot better the records of the R2 series in general, and the dee models in particular-or so I'm told.”
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