Star Wars: The New Rebellion (44 page)

Chewbacca growled again, then left Wynni’s side. She was still unconscious, but Han could see her pink-covered chest moving up and down. Blue stepped over her gingerly. Despite soaking in filthy water, Blue looked fresh and dignified. Even her wet hair looked planned.

She was clutching her blaster and used her other hand to guide her along the rock wall. “Where’s the Skipper?” she asked.

“Two tunnels up,” Lando said. “I’ll lead the way.”

He looked as if he couldn’t move a muscle. Han had never seen Lando’s skin so gray. But Lando climbed across the rocks as if he hadn’t been exercising at all. Apparently the thought of freedom appealed to him.

“What about the other Glottalphibs?” Han asked.

“I don’t think we have to worry about them,” Lando said.

Han joined him in the cavern door. Dozens of Glottalphibs were sprawled on the rocks and in the pond. Most of their long snouts were open, and the insides picked clean.

“Watumba bats did that?” Han asked. “Why would the Glottalphibs keep them around?”

“Sometimes you have to take risks for a good meal,” Lando said.

The stench of smoke, dead Glottalphib, and rotting greenery was overpowering.

Chewie began to growl.

“I know, I know,” Han said. “It stinks.”

“That’s an understatement,” Blue said. She had her hand over her nose. “I don’t want to be here when these things decay.”

They picked their way across the bodies. The opening into the next cavern was also full of Glottalphib bodies, and five Skippers, all of which were unattended.

Blue smiled. “Reks. You’ve gotta love them. They only think of themselves.”

“Rather like you, huh, Blue?” Han said.

She patted his shoulder. “I do a good deed now and then, Solo. I didn’t have to bring you here.”

He moved her hand away from him. “You could have worked harder to rescue me, Blue. I saved your life.”

“A favor for a favor, Han. I figured we were even at that point.”

Lando and Chewie were looking at the Skippers. “This one is ready to go,” Lando said. “If you know how to hot-wire these things.”

“There’s always an access code,” Blue said. “And with Nandreeson, it should be obvious.”

She pushed them aside, and studied the small voice monitor.

“You don’t think it has voice recognition, do you?” Han asked.

Blue laughed. “All Glottalphibs sound alike.” She tapped the edge. “What are Nandreeson’s favorite things, Lando?”

“Why ask me?” he said. “I hadn’t seen the man for years.”

“I thought you’d know his obsessions,” she said.

“I only knew of one,” Lando said.

“All right.” She leaned against the jamb and said, “Kill Calrissian,” in a remarkable approximation of a nasal Glottalphib voice.

The door slid back. She grinned. “Well, gentlemen, let’s go back to Skip 1 and see if they stripped the
Falcon
in our absence.”

Threepio and Artoo-Detoo had returned to the Solos’ chambers to discover that Leia had left. The computer informed them that she had resigned her position as Chief of State and had given orders to shut down the apartments until a family member returned, then it threw the droids out.

Mon Mothma had replaced Mistress Leia, and the droids were in her anteroom now, along with a collection of senators’ aides, well-wishers, and employment seekers. The antechamber was packed. Threepio leaned against the wall, next to a metal sculpture that looked suspiciously like a droid’s innards, and Artoo rocked beside him. They were the only droids, except for the receptionist droid, a new model who refused to acknowledge Threepio at all. On her list, she kept adding the sentients first, from the Kloperian guard Leia had relieved of duty (and from whom Artoo had hidden behind an Ychthytonian) to a winged Agee that had flown into the room on a lark.

When the Kloperian went into Mon Mothma’s chambers, Artoo began rocking. Hard.

“Settle down, Artoo,” Threepio said. “I’m sure Mon Mothma will see us. She knows how important we are.”

Artoo whistled and the conversation in the room
stopped. Heads swiveled, and focused on the droids. Threepio put his hands up as if nothing had happened, and the conversations resumed. Except for the receptionist. She continued to stare at Threepio as if he had committed a major breach of etiquette.

“Now you’ve done it,” Threepio said. “Your rudeness will get us tossed out of here.”

Artoo cheebled and rocked, his wheels clanging on the tile floor.

“That is a bit melodramatic, even for you. No one is going to die simply because we’re waiting in line.”

Artoo blatted at him, and the Ychthytonian looked down at him.

“Yer little friend is kind of agitated.”

Threepio nodded. “He believes we’ve found—”

Artoo shrilled.

The Ychthytonian put all four hands over his ears. Some of the humans cringed. The Agee flew out of the room as quickly as she had arrived.

“That’s it,” the receptionist droid said as she stood. “You droids can leave.”

“See what you’ve done?” Threepio hissed at Artoo. “Now I have to go convince her that we should stay. It won’t be an easy battle, what with all the names you’ve called her: Most droids, no matter what their designation, dislike being termed traitor, you know. She’s only doing her job, and rather well at that, if I might say so.”

He left Artoo’s side and pushed his way to the desk. The receptionist droid was standing, her bronze arms crossed. “You have no business here,” she said. “The President is only dealing with important matters today.”

“This is important,” Threepio said.

“I’m certain it is to you,” the receptionist said. “But whatever the problem is, it can wait.”

“I’m afraid it can’t,” Threepio said. He lowered his voice. “You see, my counterpart and I have found the
cause of the bombing in the Senate Hall. We were going to report this to President Leia Organa Solo, but she has stepped down. So we came to her successor.”

“Delusional,” the receptionist said. “They really should have retired your make a generation ago. I had heard that your type was given to hyperbole. I hadn’t believed it until now.”

“This is not hyperbole!” Threepio said, pulling himself up to his fullest height. “This is fact. You should know the difference.”

“If you don’t move from my desk, I shall have you removed by force,” the receptionist droid said.

“You will not,” Threepio said. “I am the personal droid of President Leia Organa Solo, and my counterpart belongs to her brother, the Jedi Master Luke Skywalker. We are above your petty bureaucratic power gambits. If you tamper with us, you’ll be tampering with some of the most important people in Coruscant.”

“Your counterpart?” the receptionist droid asked. “Do you mean the astromech droid that was squealing rudely a few moments ago?”

“Yes,” Threepio said. “He’s eccentric, but he’s a hero of several battles and is quite well-known.”

“Well, then you shouldn’t have any trouble finding him,” the receptionist droid said.

“Finding him?”

“He left when you came up here.”

Threepio spun. “Artoo? Artoo!”

The room had quieted as the petitioners watched the exchange between the receptionist droid and Threepio. There was a gap in the wall near the sculpture where Artoo had been. The Ychthytonian pointed his top left arm toward the door.

“She’s right,” he said. “Yer little buddy zoomed out while you were arguing. He was heading toward the pilots’ turbolift.”

“The pilots’ turbolift?” Threepio said. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” He started out, then stopped, and turned to the reception droid. “I expect you to inform Mon Mothma that we were here. If you do not, I will personally make certain that you are demoted to working as a translator for mechanical garbage compactors.”

Then he hurried out of the room, calling for Artoo. The hallway was full of more petitioners arriving to see Mon Mothma. Apparently the change in leadership meant that opportunists were trying to see if Mon Mothma would help them where Mistress Leia had not. Threepio pushed past several young humans, a Gosfambling, and a Llewebum, and stopped in front of the pilots’ turbolift.

It was called that because it led directly into the shipyard. The Emperor’s pilots had been on call all the time. Any threat to the Empire had the pilots on the turbolift, going down kilometers to the ships, and taking off to defend Coruscant. The New Republic had deemed the lift useful, and had kept both it and its name.

The turbolift was just returning to this floor.

“Artoo,” Threepio said softly, “when I catch up with you, I am going to recommend a restraining bolt.”

The turbolift doors opened, and Threepio stepped on. He hit Express and braced himself as the car plunged. At the bottom, the doors opened. Threepio peered through them.

The doors into the pilots’ wing were opened, the panel on the computer-locking system on the ground. Artoo had been in a hurry; normally he replaced such things. Machinery hummed at the far end of the wing.

Threepio scurried down the hallway. It was empty. He slid into the bay. Dozens of X-wings were in various states of disrepair. Master Luke’s stood near the space doors, as if waiting for him to return.

Beyond that were other ships in various states of disrepair. And no sign of Artoo.

“Oh, dear,” Threepio said. “I don’t like this.”

He stepped over power cables and computer parts. Then a movement flashed in the next room. Threepio hurried toward it. Artoo was standing near a stock light freighter. It appeared newly reassembled. Someone had taken the time to clean the carbon scoring and space dirt off the sides.

“What are you thinking, Artoo?”

Artoo whistled.

“I can’t pilot a freighter. You know droids can’t. We need help, Artoo.”

Artoo chirruped.

“They aren’t ignoring you. Artoo, you must see someone in charge!”

Artoo beeped again. Threepio hurried toward the freighter.

“Artoo, really. Just because you couldn’t speak to Mon Mothma when you wished doesn’t mean that you can’t wait. It would have been only a moment longer, and I would have gotten you inside.”

Artoo bleebled.

“Of course you have time. There’s always time.”

Artoo moaned.

“Surely it can’t be as bad as all that, Artoo!”

Artoo warbled.

“Let me talk with Mon Mothma,” Threepio said. “I’m sure she’ll send someone—”

Artoo emitted a long, lengthy raspberry.

“Artoo, really. What were you planning to do? Wait for the owner to return? You have no idea what sort of person flies this contraption—”

Artoo beeped indignantly.

“All right,” Threepio said. “So I don’t know what your plan is. But I believe that if we take the official route—”

Artoo warbled. The sound was almost happy.

Footsteps sounded behind them.

Threepio turned.

Cole Fardreamer stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. “I suppose the cryptic message Luke Skywalker left for me on the systems computer actually came from you, Artoo, since Master Skywalker isn’t here to meet me.”

Artoo cheebled.

“Artoo,” Threepio said softly, “you aren’t supposed to tamper with the equipment. And using Master Luke’s codes!”

“I think the chiding can wait. The message sounded urgent,” Cole said.

Artoo swiveled his head and beeped.

“Artoo wants to know who owns the stock light freighter,” Threepio said, “although I don’t know why. Frankly, Master Fardreamer, Artoo has acted strangely since he was hit with that blasterfire.”

“Artoo has good instincts,” Cole said. He came into the room. “The freighter was stolen, and we impounded it. I’ve been fixing it up. No one really owns it. I think we’ll try to sell it.”

Artoo churbled and rocked.

“Artoo,” Threepio said. “Really, Master Fardreamer, he’s not himself.”

Cole smiled. “I think you might want to translate for me.”

Threepio glanced at Artoo. Artoo wailed. “Oh, all right,” Threepio said. “Artoo believes he knows who bombed the Senate Hall. He says if we don’t go there immediately, there will be another explosion.”

“To the Senate Hall?”

“No,” Threepio said, as if Cole were slow. “To the place that the detonators came from.”

Artoo cheebled urgently.

“He wants to know, sir, if you can help us.”

Cole Fardreamer frowned at the stock light freighter. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “But I can certainly try.”