[Legacy Of The Force] - 07(92)
Jag straightened up from his latest simulation run. “I’ve got it.”
“You know, there have never been many people I’d let fly this baby. Chewbacca. Leia. Lando. Now you.”
“She’s Corellian by design. I’m full-blooded Corellian by ancestry. We’ll get along just fine.”
“Make sure you do.” Restless, Han turned away. This was the fifth time they’d had this conversation, or one much like it, in the last few days.
Oh, well. The kid wouldn’t resent it too much. Jag had to understand the love of a man for his ship. Didn’t he?
A button on the comm board lit, and Booster Terrik’s voice, aged and hoarse, came across the speakers. “Jedi
Recon Three reports the Anakin Solo leading a formation of ships out of Coruscant orbit. This looks like no drill.”
Han stood. “Good luck, kid.”
“You, too, s-Han.”
“That’s better.” Moments later, Han trotted down the boarding ramp, wincing at the unaccustomed, unwelcome sensation of leaving his first love in somebody else’s hands.
Kyle Katarn, moving easily, with C-3PO behind him, headed toward the Falcon and crossed Han’s path. Han trotted past, offering the Jedi Master a wave and calling back over his shoulder to the droid: “Don’t talk them to death, Goldenrod.”
“Oh, no, sir, I would never endanger a mission or my comrades through the employment of excessive verbiage. Though I appreciate your levity on this matter. As I have appreciated it many, many times in the past. They say the soul of humor is repetition …”
A few steps farther, and Han could no longer hear the droid over the sounds of engines being fired up and boots clattering across durasteel decks.
More pilots, mechanics, and Jedi were now running into the bay from turbolift access corridors. Myri Antilles and the woman she was named for, Mirax Horn, carrying the now folded table, passed them in the other direction, hurrying toward the distant operations center of the Errant Venture.
Han reached the foot of the shuttle Reveille, the first member of his crew to do so. He leaned against the hull, affecting a pose of boredom, tapping his foot while he waited.
Luke and Leia, he in black robes and she in brown and tan, were next.
Leia looked him over. “Sorry if we kept you waiting.”
“Do Jedi even carry chronos?”
She grinned and dashed up the ramp. “Hey, do the preflight checklist while you’re up there.” Luke waited with Han while the others arrived: Ben, wearing a black high-necked tunic that was neither Guard uniform nor dark Jedi garment but somewhere in between; Saba Sebatyne, silent and imposing in her fearsomely reptilian manner; lella Antilles, in a black jumpsuit draped with matching utility belts, bandoliers, and backpack, her face and graying brown hair the only areas of color on her; and R2-D2, who hit the bottom of the ramp at speed and rolled up into the shuttle’s belly as though he were on level ground.
Luke headed up the ramp. “All present and accounted for.”
Han followed. “Do you have to talk that military talk?”
“Hey, you’re the one who went to the Academy. I thought you’d like it.”
Syal settled into her X-wing-borrowed from one of the Jedi, and she hoped she’d be able to return it in perfect shape-and ran through her checklist as the comlink crackled to life on her squadron frequency.
“Rakehell Leader to Squadron.” Her father’s voice, and it jolted her to realize that she was finally going to fly with her father, in combat. “Count off by number, and indicate readiness. Rakehell Leader ready.”
“Rakehell Two, armed and ready.” It was a woman’s voice, heavily flavored by an exotic accent-Sanola Ti, the Dathomiri Jedi, one of several squadron members Syal had not met before they transferred to the Errant Venture.
Tycho was next. “Rakehell Three, all green, optimal.” His comm board was slaved to the squadron frequency, as was Syal’s, and would be until the mission was well under way-a precaution implemented to keep him from informing Alliance forces of the true purpose of this mission.
Syal cleared her throat. “Rakehell Four, four lit and in the green.” Her knee began bouncing. She pressed down on it. Nerves-she had never flown an X-wing in genuine combat, all of her live-fire experience having been with A-wings and Alephs. But she’d flown X-wings before she’d ever handled an airspeeder, starting when she was a child, when her father would take her up in a twin-seat trainer and hand over the controls. She knew the X-wing like a housebound office drone knew the family sofa.
Other members of the squadron counted off, their roll call suggesting a Starfighter Command hall of fame. Five, Corran Horn, leading the second flight. Six, Twool-an unknown quantity, a Rodian Jedi whom Syal had never heard of. Seven, Tyria Tainer, a Jedi who had flown with Wedge long ago, before Syal was born. Eight, Cheriss ke Hanadi, onetime head vibroblade instructor for Starfighter Command.