Enemy Lines II_ Rebel Stand - Aaron Allston [78]
“Uhh …” Kyp struggled to come up with an answer, the right answer. “I also don’t want to be in the way. In your way. Between you and, you know.”
Jag extended a hand. “Colonel Jagged Fel. Glad to meet you.”
“Shut up, you. Jaina, it’s uncomfortable.”
“Yeah, I know. Jag and I are partners, too, and something more besides, and you’re here, and you were sort of chasing after me for a while, and it’s got to be confusing. It is to me as well. Is it going to make you leave?”
“It should.”
“Then you should leave now and stop wavering.”
Kyp stood. “You’re right. I’m sorry I—”
“Sit down!”
Surprised at the strength in her voice, Kyp sat before he realized it. He gaped at her.
“That’s better,” Jaina said. “Jag, why are males so stupid?”
“Biological predisposition. Here’s an example.” Jag took another sip. Even in the darkness, the ripple of anguish that moved from his neck to his feet was clearly visible.
Jaina sat up, her pose a mirror of Jag’s. “Kyp, it’s uncomfortable because partnerships are uncomfortable. Families are uncomfortable. I know mine is. You have to put up with the discomfort because the only alternative is to lose everything.
“Once upon a time, you were kind of a kid brother to my father. I don’t care about that. That relationship didn’t make you my uncle. You have a relationship with me. It’s not boyfriend-girlfriend. It’s no longer Master-apprentice. I think we both know that neither of these is right. It’s partners, whatever that means. Whatever we figure out for it to mean. If we’re partners, it’s something that lasts until one or the other of us is dead. And whether that pains Jag or not, he’s keeping it to himself, because he’s smart enough to know that he can’t control my relationships for me.
“So—once again—are we partners, or do you go off to die alone?”
Kyp sighed. “I see you inherited your father’s considerable powers of negotiation.”
She ignored the jibe at Han’s style, so very different from her famous mother’s.
“That’s right. So?”
“So we’re partners.”
“Good.” She hoisted her glass. “Drink to it.”
“Do we have to?”
“We have to.”
Jag chuckled. “It’s a drink that makes death-duels with Vong pilots pale in comparison.”
TWELVE
Borleias
Commander Eldo Davip, captain of the Lusankya, the greatest New Republic ship engaged in the defense of Borleias, took the turbolift down to the Beltway.
The Beltway was a central corridor running the length of the Super Star Destroyer, from stern to prow. It was not a corridor for pedestrian traffic; the octagonal shaft featured a tracked hauler at the top, allowing it to be used for transportation of heavy equipment. It was wide enough that skilled pilots could have flown paired X-wings wing-to-wing along its length.
As the turbolift slowed to a halt, he pulled on a pair of darkened goggles. When the lift doors opened, the precaution proved to be an appropriate one; directly in front of him, mechanics were welding another section onto the apparatus that now filled the forward portions of the Beltway, blocking all movement forward of this point.
The outer shell of the apparatus was rolled metal meters thick. Each section of the shell was a hundred meters long, open at either end, with the prow end slightly narrower than the stern, allowing the sections to be installed in an overlapping fashion. The mechanics welded them together at the overlaps.
Inside the shell were metal cables drawn in intricate weavelike patterns through hardy metal rings on the interior surface of the shells. The pattern of the cables, their carefully monitored tensions, was not only to keep the