[Black Fleet Crisis] - 02(23)

Lando thought dark thoughts about lax maintenance schedules and the consequences of letting droids go too long without a memory wipe. Your decision, Luke, but they’ve both got entirely too much personality for my taste. But he kept those thoughts to himself.

“Once we’re through,” he continued, “I’d like to see if we can avoid blowing any more holes in the walls—” Lobot nodded approvingly at that.

“—but that means one of us is going to have to solve the puzzle of what a Qella door looks like and how to open it,” Lando said. Then he looked directly at Artoo. “So the first thing we’re going to do when we get over there is get six hours’ rest—all of us. I should have insisted on it sooner. I’m sorry, Artoo. I don’t know if it would have changed anything. But I never meant for Threepio to get hurt.”

Artoo’s dome swiveled back toward Lando. “Chirrneep-weel,” he said.

“He told me to tell you that he is considering giving you a second chance,” said Lobot.

Lando nodded, drawing the blaster from its pouch.

“You tell him for me that that’s all a smart player should need.”





CChapter 4


The nudge that finally awakened Lando was provided by a dehydration headache and a stomach knotted with hunger. The dream that lingered in his awareness was of being pursued through a dark city by a soft-voiced, unseen assassin, and he was eager to chase it from his senses. Reaching up, he switched his helmet lamps to the low setting and looked for the others.

Lando found he was the only member of the team who was conscious.

Lobot was floating near the wall below him, a few meters away. His arms were raised beside his face and his legs drawn up and bent at the knees like a child’s. Artoo was still holding Threepio protectively with his grasping claws, and the duo spun slowly in the air at the far end of the chamber as though dancing to music only they could hear.

Glancing down at the controls on his left forearm, Lando checked the timer he had started before closing his eyes. He was startled to see that the six-hour rest he had proposed had stretched to more than sixteen hours.

He and Lobot had both slept through their alarms, and the droids were still powered down, waiting for an awakening touch.

For amoment he felt a flash of guilt over the lost hours, but he swept that away with the realization of how necessary the rest had been. The body knows what it needs, he thought, looking at Lobot’s blissful expression.

But sleep had not healed all the insults. Lando’s hunger was keener than ever, and the water from the helmet pipestraw only spurred wishful thoughts about bottomless ice-filled glasses of charde and skoa.

More than anything, though, he wanted out of his contact suit. The air inside was decidedly rank, and his own breath came back to him off the sneeze-spotted faceplate as a foul cloud. His scalp and a half dozen other unreachable places itched maddeningly. His skin felt greasy, and he craved a hot shower. And the suit was a prison, preventing him from stretching out tight muscles and deep aches.

The makeshift glove on Lando’s right hand was clinging lightly to his fingers, a sign that the atmospheric pressure in the compartment was slightly higher than the one-normal of the suits. Lando began fingering the helmet release with his other hand, absently betraying his thoughts.

It’s not as if there’s anything poisonous in the ship’s air—it’s just a bit on the chewy side. I held my breath for six minutes once in a tank test. That’s plenty of time to wipe my face and scratch my-Lobot’s voice interrupted Lando’s thoughts. “I would like to know,” the cyborg said, “which agency you used to make the arrangements for this vacation.

The accommodations have not been up to expectations.”

An easy smile creased Lando’s face as he turned toward Lobot. “You’re just cranky because I ate your complimentary breakfast while you were sleeping in.”

“Which is just one of several hundred reasons why I’m never traveling with you again.” dren,” Lando said. “I hear today’s going to be one of the highlights of the tour.”

By mutual agreement, they activated Threepio first, so that Lando could have a few minutes to diagnose his status without Artoo’s protective interference. It took only a short conversation with Threepio to discover that the droid had regained most of his verbal faculties and with them, most of his dignity. All that remained of his vocal injury was a background buzz when he spoke, a rasp in the speech synthesizer that made it sound as if the droid were suffering from a sore throat.

“Threepio, I’m very glad your language systems came around,” said Lobot. “I may have to raise my estimation of Bratan Engineering’s cybernetic productsg—my first neural interface was from Bratan, and I had nothing but trouble with it.”