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The turbolift had barely hummed into motion when the whole compartment seemed to lurch a meter or two to one side, hard enough that Lando had to clutch at C-3PO—who had his peds, as he preferred when on a moving surface, maglocked to the deck—to keep his feet. “What was that? It felt like an impact—but an impact big enough to shift the whole ship like that should have pretty much vaporized us.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, General, but—”

“It was a rhetorical question, Threepio.” Lando dusted himself off and grimaced when he discovered a tiny spot of machine oil on one cuff. “You’re not expected to answer.”

“Oh, yes—I entirely understand. I, myself, am programmed with a number of conversational null-content phrases, used only for emphasis or—”

“Okay, okay.” Lando fished out his comlink and brought it to his mouth. “Calrissian here. What just happened?”

“Unknown, General. We’re looking into it.”

C-3PO was still nattering on. “I misunderstood your rhetorical intent, General, because I can acquire that information for you.”

Lando lowered the comlink. “You can?”

“Oh, certainly. The ship will know.”

“It will?”

“Of course, General. Mon Calamari designs are quite intelligent—much more capable than any organic brain.” C-3PO emitted a brief burst of static that sounded remarkably like an apologetic cough. “No offense intended, of course …”

“Of course.” Lando nodded at the turbolift’s comm panel. “Please.”

The protocol droid stepped over to the comm panel and his vocabulator emitted a high-pitched whine nestled in white noise. The comm panel gave back a noise that to Lando’s ears sounded indistinguishable from the first.

“What?” C-3PO’s hand came up to his vocabulator slot. “Ooh, that’s awful! Oh, my goodness!”

“What did it say?” Lando said. “What was that jolt?”

“The jolt? I don’t know.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The ship made an improper suggestion,” C-3PO said primly.

Lando blinked. “Are you kidding?”

“If only I were,” the droid sighed. He leaned close to whisper in Lando’s ear. “She’s a terrible flirt,” he confided. “You know how sailors can be …”

“I sure do.” Lando was, after all, Lando. “Flirt back.”

“General, really!”

“You want a girl to tell you secrets, you better be ready to at least nuzzle her ear.”

“Well, I never!”

“I know—but you should.”

C-3PO was still sputtering static when the turbolift doors hissed open on Deck Seven. Lando strode off toward the fighter bays without looking back.

Mon Calamari fighter bays were as beautifully functional as any other feature of their ships. Fighters entered the bay in a smoothly continuous stream, assisted by force-shield-reinforced capture netting that also gathered each one up and delivered it, as appropriate, either to its designated berth or to the huge transfer field that would carry a badly damaged craft to the battle cruiser’s onboard repair bay. There was virtually none of the barely controlled chaos that characterized fighter bays on more conventional warships; even the roar of the entering fighters’ engines was muted by phased-array sonic dampers.

Nestled among the ranks of A-wings were, unexpectedly, an X-wing fighter and a B-wing bomber—and standing stiffly at attention in front of them stood Commander Wedge Antilles and First Lieutenant Tycho Celchu.

“You got here fast,” Lando said as he received their salutes.

“Yes, sir.” Wedge, still at attention, sounded not the slightest bit like an insubordinate troublemaker who was roughly one atomic diameter short of demotion and serious brig time. “I did happen to recall that the general hates to be kept waiting, General. Sir.”

“Don’t think you’re gonna smooth your way out of this one, Wedge—” Another shift-shock rocked the whole ship sideways and knocked Lando off-balance again; this time he had to steady himself against Wedge’s shoulder, which was nearly as hard as C-3PO’s. “Damn it! What is that?”

“The ship informs me,” C-3PO reported calmly as he came up behind, “that it was gravity shear of unknown origin, interfering with the ship’s engines as well as its artificial