[Thrawn Trilogy] - 01(142)

And looking out the viewport at the confused mass of ships crowding the Sluis Van orbit-dock area, it wasn’t hard to figure out why. “Yeah, well, we’re stuck out here, too,” he reminded the captain.

The other snorted. “Yeah. Big sacrifice. You lounge around my ship like overpriced trampers for a couple of days, then flit around for two hours while I try to dodge bulk freighters and get this thing into a docking station designed for scavenger pickers. And then you pull your snubbies back inside and go back to lounging again. Doesn’t exactly qualify as earning your pay, in my book.”

Wedge clamped his teeth firmly around his tongue and stirred his tea a little harder. It was considered bad form to mouth back at senior officers, after all-even senior officers who’d long since passed their prime. For probably the first time since he had been given command of Rogue Squadron, he regretted having passed up all the rest of the promotions he’d been offered. A higher rank would at least have entitled him to snarl back a little.

Lifting his cup for a cautious sip, he gazed out the viewport at the scene around them. No, he amended-he wasn’t sorry at all that he’d stayed with his X-wing. If he hadn’t, he’d probably be in exactly the same position as Afyon was right now: trying to run a 920-crew ship with just fifteen men, hauling cargo in a ship meant for war.

And, like as not, having to put up with hotshot X-wing pilots who sat around his bridge drinking tea and claiming with perfect justification that they were doing exactly what they’d been ordered to do.

He hid a smile behind his mug. Yes, in Afyon’s place, he’d probably be ready to spit bulkhead shavings, too. Maybe he ought to go ahead and let the other drag him into an argument, in fact, let him drain off some of that excess nervous energy of his. Eventually-within the hour, even, if Sluis Control’s latest departure estimate was anywhere close-it would finally be the Larkhess’s turn to get out of here and head for Bpfassh. It would be nice, when that time came, for Afyon to be calm enough to handle the ship.

Taking another sip of his tea, Wedge looked out the viewport. A couple of refitted passenger liners were making their own break for freedom now, he saw, accompanied by four Corellian Corvettes. Beyond them, just visible in the faint light of the space-lane marker buoys, was what looked like one of the slightly ovoid transports he used to escort during the height of the war, with a pair of B-wings following.

And off to the side, moving parallel to their departure vector, an A-class bulk freighter was coming into the docking pattern.

Without any escort at all.

Wedge watched it creep toward them, his smile fading as old combat senses began to tingle. Swiveling around in his seat, he reached over to the console beside him and punched for a sensor scan.

It looked innocent enough. An older freighter, probably a knockoff of the original Corellian Action IV design, with the kind of exterior that came from either a lifetime of honest work or else a short and spectacularly unsuccessful career of piracy. Its cargo bay registered completely empty, and there were no weapons emplacements that the Larkhess’s sensors could pick up.

A totally empty freighter. How long had it been, he wondered uneasily, since he’d run across a totally empty freighter?

“Trouble?”

Wedge focused on the captain in mild surprise. The other’s frustrated anger of a minute ago was gone, replaced by something calm, alert, and battle-ready. Perhaps, the thought strayed through Wedge’s mind, Afyon wasn’t past his prime after all. “That incoming freighter,” he told the other, setting his cup down on the edge of the console and keying for a comm channel. “There’s something about it that doesn’t feel right.”

The captain peered out the viewport, then at the sensor scan data Wedge had pulled up. “I don’t see anything,” he said.

“Me, either,” Wedge had to admit. “There’s just something … Blast.”

“What?”

“Control won’t let me in,” Wedge told him as he keyed off. “Too much traffic on the circuits already, they say.”

“Allow me.” Afyon turned to his own console. The freighter was shifting course now, the kind of slow and careful maneuver that usually indicated a full load. But the cargo bay was still registering empty …

“There we go,” Afyon said, glancing at Wedge with grim satisfaction. “I’ve got a tap into their records computer. Little trick you never learn flitting around in an X-wing. Let’s see now … freighter Nartissteu, out of Nellac Kram. They were jumped by pirates, got their main drive damaged in the fight, and had to dump their cargo to get away. They’re hoping to get some repair work done; Sluis Control’s basically told them to get in line.”