transmissions from the kind of local comlink the occupant—if there was one—would probably be using. He picked up various low-power transmissions, including just about every navigational beacon for a light-month, before finally lucking onto a faint voice calling stridently:
“—n emergency!
Someone
answer me, please! I’m in need of assistance. Can anyone hear this? I’m—”
“This is Colonel Jag Fel calling the occupant of life pod—” He checked the ident number visible on the stubby cylinder as it rotated into view. “—one-one-two-V. Can you hear this?”
“Yes!” The reply was immediate and drenched with relief. “Yes, I can! Thank the Balance you found me! I was beginning to think my escape had all been for nothing!”
Jag fine-tuned his trim preparatory to coming in closer. The voice clearly did not belong to the Wookiee captain of the destroyed freighter. “Want to tell me what happened back there?”
“The drive failed in midjump and I didn’t know what to do to fix it. The navicomputer died in the energy surge following the engine failure. I was lucky that bucket of bolts made it as far as she did.”
“Are there any other survivors there with you?”
“Just me. The crew is dead—and good riddance to them, as far as I’m concerned. Murderous fiends, every one of them!”
Jag hesitated. “You killed them?”
“Only in self-defense.” The voice took on a more commanding tone. “Look, are you here to rescue me or ask questions?”
“I’m trying to ascertain
whom
I’m rescuing, that’s all.”
And what kind of monster you are
, he added to himself.
“You want to know who I am? I’m Prime Minister Cundertol, that’s who—and I’m ordering you to pull me up this instant! After all I’ve been through, I’m not going to let some rookie pilot fumble my rescue. You put me through to Orbital Control this instant or so help me I’ll have your license faster than you can—”
“I apologize, Prime Minister,” Jag cut in, biting down on the reply he would have preferred to give. “Bringing you up now.”
He pulled his clawcraft in closer to the pod. Magnetic clamps engaged, and he fired his thrusters only slightly more roughly than was necessary to bring the escape pod out of its headlong descent into the atmosphere. The roar of thrusters prevented further communication between Jag and his unlikely pillion rider, let alone Orbital Control. The Prime Minister was forced to ride out the long burn in silence, in whatever passed for acceleration straps among Corellian engineers. Although he probably had every reason to be impatient, if his use of words like
escape
and
murderers
was any indication of what he’d been through, Jag wasn’t going to let him off easily.
Rookie, indeed …
“… seven of them, four humans, two Rodians, and that wretched Wookiee captain of theirs. I resisted, of course, but they took me by surprise. Once they’d smuggled me out of the Bakuran Senate Complex, it was just a matter of getting me to the spaceport. No one stopped to question a group of traders carrying a crate of records—and not one person thought to scan the crate to make sure it contained what they said it did.” The Prime Minister shook his head gravely. “Someone’s head will roll for this, mark my words.”
Prime Minister Cundertol was a big, solid man with thinning blond hair and a pink hue to his skin. He held his age well, overpowering any hint of frailty with blusterand exaggerated gestures. Safely recovered from the escape pod, he was sitting on a bench outside
Pride of Selonia
’s medical bay.
Jag and Captain Mayn sat with him. Mayn, as tall as Cundertol but half the weight, sat opposite him, her narrow features frozen in concentration. Only Jag, standing to one side, could see the tic pulsing in the skin beneath her shaved scalp.
“Go on, Prime Minister,” he encouraged. “What happened next?”
“They took me aboard their ship and knocked me out, that’s
“—n emergency!
Someone
answer me, please! I’m in need of assistance. Can anyone hear this? I’m—”
“This is Colonel Jag Fel calling the occupant of life pod—” He checked the ident number visible on the stubby cylinder as it rotated into view. “—one-one-two-V. Can you hear this?”
“Yes!” The reply was immediate and drenched with relief. “Yes, I can! Thank the Balance you found me! I was beginning to think my escape had all been for nothing!”
Jag fine-tuned his trim preparatory to coming in closer. The voice clearly did not belong to the Wookiee captain of the destroyed freighter. “Want to tell me what happened back there?”
“The drive failed in midjump and I didn’t know what to do to fix it. The navicomputer died in the energy surge following the engine failure. I was lucky that bucket of bolts made it as far as she did.”
“Are there any other survivors there with you?”
“Just me. The crew is dead—and good riddance to them, as far as I’m concerned. Murderous fiends, every one of them!”
Jag hesitated. “You killed them?”
“Only in self-defense.” The voice took on a more commanding tone. “Look, are you here to rescue me or ask questions?”
“I’m trying to ascertain
whom
I’m rescuing, that’s all.”
And what kind of monster you are
, he added to himself.
“You want to know who I am? I’m Prime Minister Cundertol, that’s who—and I’m ordering you to pull me up this instant! After all I’ve been through, I’m not going to let some rookie pilot fumble my rescue. You put me through to Orbital Control this instant or so help me I’ll have your license faster than you can—”
“I apologize, Prime Minister,” Jag cut in, biting down on the reply he would have preferred to give. “Bringing you up now.”
He pulled his clawcraft in closer to the pod. Magnetic clamps engaged, and he fired his thrusters only slightly more roughly than was necessary to bring the escape pod out of its headlong descent into the atmosphere. The roar of thrusters prevented further communication between Jag and his unlikely pillion rider, let alone Orbital Control. The Prime Minister was forced to ride out the long burn in silence, in whatever passed for acceleration straps among Corellian engineers. Although he probably had every reason to be impatient, if his use of words like
escape
and
murderers
was any indication of what he’d been through, Jag wasn’t going to let him off easily.
Rookie, indeed …
“… seven of them, four humans, two Rodians, and that wretched Wookiee captain of theirs. I resisted, of course, but they took me by surprise. Once they’d smuggled me out of the Bakuran Senate Complex, it was just a matter of getting me to the spaceport. No one stopped to question a group of traders carrying a crate of records—and not one person thought to scan the crate to make sure it contained what they said it did.” The Prime Minister shook his head gravely. “Someone’s head will roll for this, mark my words.”
Prime Minister Cundertol was a big, solid man with thinning blond hair and a pink hue to his skin. He held his age well, overpowering any hint of frailty with blusterand exaggerated gestures. Safely recovered from the escape pod, he was sitting on a bench outside
Pride of Selonia
’s medical bay.
Jag and Captain Mayn sat with him. Mayn, as tall as Cundertol but half the weight, sat opposite him, her narrow features frozen in concentration. Only Jag, standing to one side, could see the tic pulsing in the skin beneath her shaved scalp.
“Go on, Prime Minister,” he encouraged. “What happened next?”
“They took me aboard their ship and knocked me out, that’s
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