Star Wars_ The Black Fleet Crisis 03_ Tyrant's Test - Michael P. Kube-McDowell [140]
It was an event on a par with the greatest finds of the modern era—the Shadow Traproom on Liok, the Nojic Beanstalk, the Great Subcrustal Tubeway of the Pa Tho, the Foran Tutha star probe. But at first, there was no joy in it—only the sudden, numbing weight of responsibility. Dreiss and Mokem had died in the Shadow Traproom. Bartleton had watched helplessly as the Foran Tutha probe was gutted by a fire his own people inadvertently triggered.
But Pakkpekatt’s team did not appear burdened by thoughts of either history or posterity. With matter-of-fact efficiency, they immediately began to deal with the surprise.
“What message should I send to HQ, Colonel?” asked Pleck.
“A contact report only,” said Pakkpekatt. “Let us see what sort of greeting she has for us first. Is the satellite prepared for deployment?”
“I’m finished with it. It’s set up on the fantail and ready to go,” said Taisden.
“Recommendation?”
“Penga Rift needs to move to the far side, keep the planet between it and the vagabond until they’ve collected their people and cleared orbit. If we place ourselves and the satellite a hundred and eighty degrees apart in geosynch, we can get complete coverage of the approaches plus maximum separation.”
“Deploy the satellite,” said Pakkpekatt. “Doctor?”
Looking slightly bewildered, Eckels shouldered his way forward. “May I speak with Penga Rift, Colonel?”
“Of course. Colonel Hammax, get the doctor set up at station three.”
Eckels gave the recall order, then apprised Captain Barjas of the situation. “Get everyone aboard and everything locked down,” he said. “Have Mazz monitor everything that goes through our satellite. See what you can get on the incoming ship. But don’t risk the artifacts—at the first sign of any direct threat, jump out.”
Then he turned his attention back to the others, who seemed to have forgotten him for the moment.
“Let’s do one more test cycle on the autoresponder,” Pleck was saying. “When that interrogative comes—”
“No,” said Pakkpekatt. “The earlier tests were satisfactory. The interrogative could come at any time. Bring it up and put it online.”
“Yes, Colonel,” Pleck said.
“Satellite is away, active, and moving to position,” said Taisden. “Fourteen minutes to station. We can make our station six minutes after the skiff clears.”
Pakkpekatt turned toward Eckels and eyed him curiously. “Doctor, shouldn’t you be going?”
“Where?”
“Back to your ship—to Penga Rift.”
“To hide on the other side of Maltha Obex? I don’t think so, Colonel. I think you can make more use of me than that.”
Eckels expected and braced himself for an argument. But the only detectable dialog took place between his determinedly steady gaze and Pakkpekatt’s sharply inquiring one. Against the possibility of an undetected dialog, Eckels held one thought in his mind: I accept your authority. Let me help. Let me be there when the door is opened.
Pakkpekatt grimaced in a manner reminiscent of a yawn. “If Penga Rift does not need you, then we will take advantage of your presence,” he said. “Agent Pleck, take Dr. Eckels to the observation deck and familiarize him with the equipment.”
Lobot found sharing his interface with the vagabond a seductive preoccupation. After as little as twenty minutes, he began to lose both the will and the ability to respond to Lando or the droids.
It was not that the link was so rich and easy that he experienced what cyborgs spoke of among themselves as “falling down a hole into heaven”—much the opposite, in fact. The link was so difficult, communication so painfully slow, and the data structures so alien that staying in contact with the vessel gradually absorbed all of his attention and resources.
Even switching to Basic to process aural input or formulate and voice a response gradually became an insuperable burden. For the first time in his memory, Lobot found himself single-tasking, surrendering his