[Black Fleet Crisis] - 02(3)

“I still don’t see the problem.”

“Yes, you do,” Josala said. “The problem’s all we can see. The problem is the ice.”

“Try me again.”

Josala sighed. “Where’d you pick us up?”

“Babali,” the pilot said. “Wait—you don’t have ice drills? Snow shelter? Cold suits?”

“Babali’s a tropical dig. For some reason, ice drills weren’t on the equipment list,” said Josala wryly. “Our rover isn’t even rated for this kind of weather.”

The pilot whistled sympathetically. “Now I see the problem. But why’d they send you, then?”

“We were the best solution to a two-variable equation,” said Josala.

“The nearest bioarchaeologist and the fastest available transportation.”

“It is not all bad,” Stopa said thoughtfully. “We were sent here to recover biological samples. The glacia tion virtually ensures that good samples still exist to be recovered.”

“Unless what triggered this climatic episode was a dirty war—with incendiaries, or surface-burst weapons,” Josala pointed out.

“Not much atmosphere left, but I can drop a probe to take a sniff,” said the pilot. “We ought to be able to settle that question pretty quickly.”

“No,” said Stopa. “Put us in a mapping orbit. Let’s have a look at the other side. We only need one landing site—a few grams of material. There could be a geothermal field, or some other sort of hot spot—a warm current from a deep vent, perhaps, that kept a portion of some seacoast ice-free. If so, surely the Qella would have fled there before the end.”

“You don’t expect to find anyone alive, do you?

Look at the surface temperature readings.”

“No, not alive,” Stopa said. “But I would be grateful for a single corpse that is not buried under three hundred meters of ice.”

“Mapping orbit it is,” said the pilot, reaching for the controls.

“Maltha Obex, here we come.”

“Qella,” Josala amended quietly. “If at least a little bit of this planet doesn’t still belong to the Qella, we’re going to be a big disappointment to the folks who sent us here.”

From the close vantage of a standard mapping orbit, Qella’s face proved no more inviting. The land was blanketed in ice to a depth of up to a kilometer, while the shrunken oceans, too salty to freeze, were thick with bergs and growlers.

“That’s it,” said Stopa, studying the data from the final pass. “Some of the Qella might have tried to live on the ice—we might get lucky and find their remains only fifty or a hundred meters down. It’s something we can work on while we’re waiting for reinforcements. But we have to assume the worst, and call for help.”

“Maybe we can get Dr. Eckels’s team,” said Josala.

“They were supposed to be finished with the Hoth excavation by now.”

“We can try. Open a hypercomm link to the Obroan Institute,” Stopa said.

“Ready,” said the pilot.

“This is Dr. Kroddok Stopa, verification code al-pha-eager-four-four-two.

I want Supply and Dispatch in on this call.”

“Done. Go ahead, Doctor.”

“I have an urgent requisition for additional equipment and staff for my current assignment.” Stopa quickly rattled off the detailed list he had composed.

“Have all that?”

“Supply here—I have it. We’ll get working on it right away.”

“We also need a crack cold*site team out here. Is Dr. Eckels’s Hoth crew available?”

“They reported back yesterday. I don’t know what their status is,” said the dispatcher. “But I’ll send this up to the committee right away, and get you an answer pronto.”

“Assuming that they are available, what’s your best estimate of when we see them and the gear out here?”

“If we can push the turnaround on Penga Rift and get the team and gear aboard by midnight—you are looking at sixteen standard days. Add on hour-for- hour for any delays getting off.”

“Is anything faster than Penga Rift available?”

“Not under institute registry—sorry.”

“Explore other options,” Stopa said shortly. “This has the highest priority. Stopa out.” He signaled the pilot to end the link. “Now you’d better get me Krenjsh at New Republic Intelligence. They need to know there’ll be a delay getting them what they asked for.”

There was little talking among the quartet trapped in the vagabond’s airlock. Everyone had a job to do.

Artoo searched for the inflow vents, while Threepio made entreaties to the vagabond’s masters. Lobot analyzed the acceleration and astrographic data while he inventoried the equipment on the equipment sled. And Lando returned to the control handle in the corner of the compartment to see if it would respond to him.