Star Wars_ The Black Fleet Crisis 01_ Before the Storm - Michael P. Kube-McDowell [135]
“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 look, 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 hyperspace,” 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 Torrock, you