[Black Fleet Crisis] - 02(2)

“Yeah, they’re going to be looking for us,” said Lando. “But finding us— we could pop out five light-years from where we were, or fifty, or five hundred. And normal evasive tactics would call for an immediate course change, then another jump. Once that happens, you might as well be playing hide-and- seek with the Ewoks on Endor.”

“But, Master Lando–there must be some way they can rescue us. Surely they wouldn’t abandon us. If they do not come for us, we are all doomed to perish as prisoners, lost in space—” “Threepio, we can’t afford to wait for them.”

Lando tapped his faceplate to remind the droid why.

“The chrono’s already moving. Lobot and I could be dead before this ship even decides to leave hyperspace.

That’s why we have to act now. We can’t count on any help from the armada, unless we can figure out some way to give them some help finding us first. Until then, we’re on our own.”

Threepio raised his arms and his voice together.

“We apologize,” he called to the ship. “Please, believe me, I never meant to harm anyone—” “Shut up, Threepio.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lando,” said Lobot.

“What?”

“It couldn’t hurt,” said Lobot. “Someone might be listening.”

Lando frowned. “As far as this ship is concerned, we’re pirates, burglars, tomb-robbers, or worse. Not too likely they’ll forget that just because we suddenly develop better manners after breaking down the front door. “

“The probability of success may be low,” said Lobot. “But diplomatic words are the tool Threepio is best equipped to wield. And perhaps an apology will prove to be the key that will open the next door.”

Sighing, Lando waved his gloved hand toward See-Threepio.

“All right. But, Threepio, a little dignity, please.”

“Of course, Master Lando,” the droid said, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “I am programmed to conduct myself in a dignified manner at all times. Why, it’s one of the fundamental principles of etiquette and protocol—” “Right,” Lando said, cutting him short. “Just get to it. We have no idea how much time we have. Use the secondary comm channel so Lobot and I can still hear each other.”

“Very well, Master Lando,” Threepio said, then seemingly fell silent.

“Lobot, you have access to Attoo’s event log?”

“Yes, Lando.”

“See if you can figure out our new heading from his gyro

and accelerometer readings leading up to the jump.

Maybe that, plus Artoo’s astrographic database, can tell us something about how much time we have—” New Republic ferret IX-26 came out of hyperspace close enough to its destination for the planet to fill most of the forward viewscreen.

“Check the coordinates,” Kroddok Stopa ordered, frowning. “Absolute reference.”

“The astrogator says forty-four, one-niner-six, two-one-oh.”

The pilot spun the index wheel on the ship’s log with a swipe of his palm. “Yeah, that’s what you gave me.”

“Those numbers came directly from the Third General Survey.” Stopa pointed at the astrogation display.

“But if I’m reading your board correctly, it says that this planet is Maltha Obex. That’s a Tobek name.”

The pilot cocked his head toward the astrogator.

“Maltha Obex, that’s right.”

Stopa, expedition chief for the Obroan Institute’s mission to Qella, shook his head as he studied the data coming in from IX-26’s sensors.

“My stars. What happened here?”

Glancing up at the viewscreen, the pilot said, “Why, what d’ya mean?

Looks just like ten thousand other iceballs.”

Josala Krenn, the other half of the Obroan expedition, moved forward from her station. “That’s just it.

The Three-GS survey mission reported this as a temperate world. It had a population of seven million and a primary ecosystem rated provisionally at complexity two.”

Shaking his head, the pilot said dryly, “We must have missed the summer season.”

“That was expected,” Stopa said. “When the Three-GS contact mission came here, they found a third of the landmass glaciated.” He left unspoken that the contact team had found the planet dead, the Qella civilization in ruins.

“When the Tobek came, they must have thought this world was theirs for the taking, and gave it a claiming name,” said Josala.

“What difference does the name make? This is where you wanted to be, right? What am I missing?”

“The last Three-GS contact was a hundred and fifty-eight years ago,” Stopa said. “The planet should have begun its recovery by now.”