"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.
The handle proved immovable, and Lando's touch alone elicited no
detectable response from the ship. But through his efforts, he
realized that his bare hand was puffy, stiff, and aching--the pressure
from the wrist collar was compounding the damage done by the
decompression.
"Do we have any sample bags?" Lando asked, returning to where Lobot
and the equipment sled floated.
"Yes. Six small, six large, and two capsules of freeform sheet gel."
"The bags--they're self-sealing, right?"
"Yes, Lando." He paused. "I'm sorry--I don't have any more
information. Do amnesiacs know that there are things they cannot
remember? If so, then I know how it feels to have amnesia. What I
know best is making links and browsing for information. I do not seem
to have much other expertise."
"Save the self-examination for another time," said Lando. "Grab one of
those small sample bags and see if we can't improvise a mitten for
me."
Before long, they managed to attach the mouth of the sample bag above
the wrist lock for the missing gauntlet. By squeezing the locking
pins, Lando was able to make the wrist cuff relax. Almost immediately
the swelling in his fingers began to subside.
"I do not know if the bag or the adhesive is strong enough to withstand
another depressurization," said Lobot.
"I'm not counting on that," Lando said. "I just don't want to lose
consumables, or the use of my hand.
The odds are bad enough already. Did you get anything out of Artoo's
data?"
"I believe I have our heading prior to the jump to within half a
degree," Lobot said, then rattled off the numbers. "I apologize for
the imprecision."
"That would put us on a course toward Sector One-Five-One," Lando
said.
"Yes. The boundary is eight light-years from our original position."
"Is there anyone out in 'Fifty-One who might be able to help us?"
"I'm sorry," said Lobot. "Artoo has navigational data only. There is
no geopolitical or sociological data."
Lando nodded. "Stop apologizing for what you can't give me. We
haven't the time to spare. How far is this road open?"
"The imprecision of the heading becomes more significant the farther
out we lo ok, of course," said Lobot.
"The nearest body that is close enough to the center flight path and
has a large enough gravity shadow to force a ship out of hyperspace is
forty-one-point-five-three light-years away."
Frowning, Lando said, "That doesn't help me much. Turn the question
around--how far to the spot along this flight path that's the farthest
from everything else?"
Lobot closed his eyes and concentrated. But the answer came from
Artoo-Detoo as a long series of beeps and chirps.
"Artoo says that in twelve-point-nine light-years, this vessel will
enter the most isolated region along this flight path," Threepio
offered. "At that point, there will be no charted bodies larger than a
class five comet for nearly nine light-years in any direction."
"Sounds like a good place to make a course change," said Lando. "And
far enough out to give us a little time to work with."
"But we do not know how fast this vessel is capable of traveling in
hyperspac
e," Lobot pointed out. "That region could be twelve hours
away, or eight, or six--or even fewer. The conventional upper limit on
hyperspace velocity may be technological rather than theoretical.
And there's something else--" "What?"
"If we do clear that gravity shadow forty-one light-years from here,
we'll be heading straight for the border of the New Republic, in the
general direction of Phracas, in the Core."
"All the more reason not to just stand around waiting," said Lando.
"Artoo, what did you find?"
Artoo beeped, and Threepio translated. "Master Lando, Artoo says that
there are no inflow vents anywhere in this chamber."
"What? Then how was this chamber repressurized?"
"According to Artoo, the atmospheric gases are passing through the
bulkheads molecule by molecule. He says that most of the surface area
of the compartment is involved."
"Let me get this straight--these bulkheads are porous?"
Artoo chittered, and Threepio offered the answer.
"No, Master Lando. Artoo says that molecules of gas simply appear on
the surface."
"Curious," said Lobot. "I wonder if the bulkheads could be actually
producing the gas."
"Artoo, is there any area that's more involved with this process than
the rest?" asked Lando.
The little droid jetted down to the center of the chamber and
illuminated a band across the inner bulkhead with a beam of orange
light from his holographic projector.
"Got it. Threepio, give me a report on your progress."
The golden droid cocked his head. "Sir, so far I have hailed the
masters of this vessel in eleven thousand, four hundred sixty-three
languages, offering our abject apologies and asking for their
assistance. There has been no reply on any band I am capable of
detecting."
"Do those six million languages of yours happen to include the
Qella?"
"Alas, Master Lando, they do not."
"Do you have any information at all about the Qella language? Maybe
it's related to some other language you are fluent in--the way that if
you know rock, you can almost get along in Thobek or Wehttam."
"I'm sorry, Master Lando. I am completely at a lOSS."
"What about matching up geographically?"
"Sir, it is a standard first contact procedure to attempt contact with
regional languages when the native language is unknown," Threepio said
with a note of indignation.
"I began with the eight hundred seventy-three languages spoken in the
sector where Qella is located, and continued with the three thousand,
two hundred seven languages with direct links to those linguistic
families."
"And now you're just going A to Z on the rest?"
"I am continuing by astrographic proximity."
"How long will it take you to try them all?"
"Master Lando, by reducing the wait time to the minimum specified by my
protocols, I will be able to complete the initial series in
four-point-two standard days."
"That's about what I figured," said Lando. "Lobot, dig out the cutting
blaster. We're going to have to make our own door."
With a grim expression on his face, Admiral Hiram Drayson sat on the
edge of his desk and studied the final contact report from Colonel
Pakkpekatt at Gmir As-kilon.
The recordings from the spotter ships were dramatic and alarming.
Moments before the vagabond broke away, a ring of six rounded
bumps--accumulator nodes or beam radiators, Drayson thought--appeared
at the forward end of the ship. A fierce blue light began to dance
over the bow.
Moments later, twin beams of energy shot out from two of the nodes and
scissored back through the gap between the vagabond and Lady Luck,
slicing them apart. Another pair of beams knifed out from two other
nodes and carved through the interdiction generator on the underbelly
of the picket Kauri. The blowback surge from the fully charged
generator destroyed Kauri's power compartment and left the ship afire
and dead in space.
The instant Kauri was neutralized, the vagabond began to move, turning
away from Lady Luck and accelerating out past the disabled picket's
position, well clear of the remaining interdictors. Just forty-two
seconds after it began, it was over, the vagabond vanishing into the
center of a hyperspace cone.
The final tally for the contact One drone ferret destroyed.
One interdiction picket disabled and abandoned, with twenty-six
casualties, including six fatalities in the power compartment.
One yacht recovered and returned to a mooring on Glorious's hull,
undamaged except for the primary air-lock.
One successful boarding of the target.
One successful escape by the target.
One expedition armada scattered across space, with four ships in
pursuit of the target and the others pulling ambulance or cleanup
duty.
And, most troubling of all to Drayson, one contact suit gauntlet
recovered in the debris--right hand, in Lando's size.
The report contained some positive information as well. It was beyond
dispute now that the vagabond's weapons were compound--the intersection
of two or more beams did the damage, probably through some sort of
harmonic resonance. Unless there were more weapon nodes concealed
amidships, it seemed as though six targets were all the vagabond could
handle. Possibly as few as four ships, properly spaced, might
overwhelm its defenses.
But first Pakkpekatt would have to find the vagabond again--a task that
had taken two years the last time.
Drayson called up the chart of the pursuit and studied it closely.
Three ships were racing for search stations along the vagabond's last
heading Lightning ten light-years out, Glorious twenty, and Marauder
thirty. The improvised plan called for them to drop sensor buoys with
hypercomm repeaters at those entry points and then begin making short
jumps out to the limits of sensor range, hoping to catch a glimpse of
their quarry.
The precision of the plan did not mask its weak-ness--its slim chance
of success depended on the vagabond's making a single short jump. If
it followed a short jump with a second jump on another heading, where
there were no eyes to see or sensors to track--or if it carried the
first jump out fifty, a hundred, five hundred light-years, beyond the
borders of the New Republic and into the chaos of the Core-Drayson knew
that Colonel Pakkpekatt had addressed an urgent appeal for more ships
to both New Republic Intelligence and the Fleet Office before Glorious
jumped out from Gmir Askilon. He also knew the likely answer to that
appeal.
"The only real chance for us to catch her lies with you, Lando,"
Drayson said softly. "You must help us find you."
But it was not Drayson's way to abandon someone he had sent into
danger. His fingers danced over his controller, bringing an inventory
of Alpha Blue's assets in Sector 151 to the screen. There might be
little he could
Shield of Lies 17
do, but he would do what he
could. And there was always some way to
alter the odds.
The habits of the Senate's Council on Security and Intelligence were
not unlike those of the institutions over which it reigned. It
announced no meetings, released no public reports, and met only in
closed session in the field-shielded Room 030, deep in the subbasements
of the old Imperial Palace.
So earnestly secretive were the seven sitting members that, in
Coruscant's own dialect of Basic, the phrase "CSI agenda" had become a
benchmark for the unattainable, the impossible item on a scavenger
hunt. Discouraged suitors would despair that they had "a better chance
of taking a CSI agenda home." Subordinates handed a daunting task
could comfort themselves with the thought It could be worse he could
want a CSI agenda, too.
Even Drayson found it difficult to discover when the CSI would take up
Pakkpekatt's request. And when he finally did learn about that
session, it was too late to find a way to listen in.
"Last item on the agenda is the Teljkon expedition," said General
Star Wars - Black Fleet Crisis - Shield Of Lies Page 2