you when you got back from Thyferra, but I was off on another pointless leg of the search for Zsinj.”
They passed through the archway leading into the main access corridor serving most of the hangar chambers.
“You’re not still doing that? I was under the impression that you were on the Mon Remonda and that the Millennium Falcon would be in storage until Zsinj was flushed out.”
Han grinned. It was the roguish grin he offered up when he was among friends and enemies, but never at official functions, never in the presence of holorecorders. “I escaped Coruscant and its endless diplomatic functions with the Mon Remonda mission, but we haven’t had any luck on the Zsinj pursuit in the last few weeks, so it’s all dull procedure and maintenance right now. You know how I feel about procedure and maintenance.”
“So you escaped your escape?”
Han nodded. “Officially, I’m hand-carrying orders regarding the hunt for Zsinj. Unofficially, I’m here to compare and evaluate on-base gambling all over the Alliance.” He sobered. “The orders are variations of the ones Coruscant has sent out recently. They supercede those orders. We’re trying to see whether Zsinj and the other warlords have a tap in on those transmissions.”
“Meaning that if they set up patrols and ambushes that would be really efficient against the old orders but not as good against the new, you have a problem.”
“Right. I have to head out again tomorrow for my next destination—which leaves only tonight for recreation. So, what do you do around here for entertainment?”
“Nothing.” Wedge kept his face straight. “There are no women assigned to Folor Base. Because of the general’s philosophical beliefs, there’s no alcohol, no gambling, and we can’t watch broadcasts from Commenor. This has led to a rather high suicide rate, but there’s no getting around that. We do have some holorecordings of Coruscant diplomatic functions, if you’d like to see them.”
Han wore an expression of growing horror, then it became pure outrage. He pointed a finger at Wedge as though it were a blaster barrel. “You—you—”
Wedge grinned. “I had you going. You believed every painful word. Come on, I’ll introduce you to General Crespin, and then to DownTime, which has the moon’s greatest supply of Corellian brandy. We’ll see if we can put a dent in it.”
“I should never listen to you.”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“Even Leia finally realized that you’re a liar.”
“Well, she’s right.”
“She always is. But if you ever tell her I said that—”
“I’ll be vaped for sure. I know.”
7
Four X-wings raced through the hangar tunnel and punched through the magcon field into the vacuum surrounding Folor.
“Two Group, form up on me,” said Kell. “Pack it in close. We’re under the eye.” The “eye” was another X-wing, Wedge’s, already on station half a klick above their position.
Runt, Phanan, and Face formed up smartly around him. This didn’t do much to alleviate the tension that had clamped down on Kell as soon as he lit up the engines of the X-wing. Janson wasn’t around to cause his concern; no, this was the old trouble, the tightness, the difficulty in breathing that came to haunt him whenever he was in charge of something. It wasn’t the same in a simulator; now he was piloting a real snubfighter worth a fortune in a mission where sloppy aim or bad maneuver could cost his life or the life of a wingmate.
He forced his shoulders to loosen, tried to bring himself under control. Maybe Wedge wasn’t listening too closely to the comm, couldn’t hear his labored breathing. Maybe no one was monitoring the biodata sensors that were sometimes wired into the chairs of novice pilots. Maybe no one would notice his trouble.
He checked out the data currently reading on his navigationalcomputer—very simple data, as it didn’t involve a hyperdrive jump or even extralunar travel. He transmitted the data to
They passed through the archway leading into the main access corridor serving most of the hangar chambers.
“You’re not still doing that? I was under the impression that you were on the Mon Remonda and that the Millennium Falcon would be in storage until Zsinj was flushed out.”
Han grinned. It was the roguish grin he offered up when he was among friends and enemies, but never at official functions, never in the presence of holorecorders. “I escaped Coruscant and its endless diplomatic functions with the Mon Remonda mission, but we haven’t had any luck on the Zsinj pursuit in the last few weeks, so it’s all dull procedure and maintenance right now. You know how I feel about procedure and maintenance.”
“So you escaped your escape?”
Han nodded. “Officially, I’m hand-carrying orders regarding the hunt for Zsinj. Unofficially, I’m here to compare and evaluate on-base gambling all over the Alliance.” He sobered. “The orders are variations of the ones Coruscant has sent out recently. They supercede those orders. We’re trying to see whether Zsinj and the other warlords have a tap in on those transmissions.”
“Meaning that if they set up patrols and ambushes that would be really efficient against the old orders but not as good against the new, you have a problem.”
“Right. I have to head out again tomorrow for my next destination—which leaves only tonight for recreation. So, what do you do around here for entertainment?”
“Nothing.” Wedge kept his face straight. “There are no women assigned to Folor Base. Because of the general’s philosophical beliefs, there’s no alcohol, no gambling, and we can’t watch broadcasts from Commenor. This has led to a rather high suicide rate, but there’s no getting around that. We do have some holorecordings of Coruscant diplomatic functions, if you’d like to see them.”
Han wore an expression of growing horror, then it became pure outrage. He pointed a finger at Wedge as though it were a blaster barrel. “You—you—”
Wedge grinned. “I had you going. You believed every painful word. Come on, I’ll introduce you to General Crespin, and then to DownTime, which has the moon’s greatest supply of Corellian brandy. We’ll see if we can put a dent in it.”
“I should never listen to you.”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“Even Leia finally realized that you’re a liar.”
“Well, she’s right.”
“She always is. But if you ever tell her I said that—”
“I’ll be vaped for sure. I know.”
7
Four X-wings raced through the hangar tunnel and punched through the magcon field into the vacuum surrounding Folor.
“Two Group, form up on me,” said Kell. “Pack it in close. We’re under the eye.” The “eye” was another X-wing, Wedge’s, already on station half a klick above their position.
Runt, Phanan, and Face formed up smartly around him. This didn’t do much to alleviate the tension that had clamped down on Kell as soon as he lit up the engines of the X-wing. Janson wasn’t around to cause his concern; no, this was the old trouble, the tightness, the difficulty in breathing that came to haunt him whenever he was in charge of something. It wasn’t the same in a simulator; now he was piloting a real snubfighter worth a fortune in a mission where sloppy aim or bad maneuver could cost his life or the life of a wingmate.
He forced his shoulders to loosen, tried to bring himself under control. Maybe Wedge wasn’t listening too closely to the comm, couldn’t hear his labored breathing. Maybe no one was monitoring the biodata sensors that were sometimes wired into the chairs of novice pilots. Maybe no one would notice his trouble.
He checked out the data currently reading on his navigationalcomputer—very simple data, as it didn’t involve a hyperdrive jump or even extralunar travel. He transmitted the data to
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