Star Wars_ The Black Fleet Crisis 03_ Tyrant's Test - Michael P. Kube-McDowell [4]
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I just don’t understand—why are they doing this, Lieutenant? Why won’t they let us land our ships ourselves?”
“Ours not to reason why,” Bos said. “Just do as they ask.”
“I know why,” said Ferry Eight grimly. “They’re not sure who’s out here in ’em. For all they know, the Yevetha yanked us out during the ambush and put raiders in these cockpits. Think about it.”
“Bravo Flight leader, beginning recovery operations now,” Venture advised. “Request you observe comm silence until further notice.”
“Affirmative, Venture. Bravo Flight, observe comm silence, effective immediately.”
Lieutenant Bos’s recon-X was the first to be pulled out of line and towed inside Venture’s aftmost landing bay on the invisible line of a tractor beam. Plat Mallar could not see what happened after that—he did not have a good angle on the bay, and the outer doors closed again quickly after Bos’s ship disappeared inside. Five minutes later the process was repeated with Lieutenant Grannell and Ferry Two, taken aboard amidships.
Nearly an hour passed before it was Plat Mallar’s turn—a long, lonely hour of anxious silence. They will never forgive us for what we let happen, Plat thought as his ship began to move. They will never trust us again.
The lights in the landing bay were blazing at the levels used for maintenance work and foreign-object scans. After living for nearly two days under combat-cockpit lighting, Plat Mallar was blinded. Before his eyes adjusted, he heard the honk of the rescue alarm and the hiss of the hydraulics as the cockpit canopy began to rise around him.
“Come on down out of there,” a commanding voice barked sharply as a boarding ladder clanged against the side of the recon-X.
Squinting against the glare, Plat started to rise, but was hauled back by his unseen umbilicals. He fumbled with the releases, then felt his way over the side and onto the ladder, assisted by a hand that guided his booted foot to the top rung.
By the time he reached the bottom of the ladder, he could see well enough to identify the six helmeted and body-armored troops that surrounded the recon-X. Their blaster rifles remained pointed at him as he stepped down off the ladder and backed away from the ship.
The two security officers who were actually within reach, however, appeared to be unarmed. “Second Lieutenant Plat Mallar reporting. What’s going on?” Mallar asked, still trying to blink away the last of the dazzle spots.
“Just stand right there while we take a look at your ID disc,” said the nearer of the two officers.
Mallar fished the silver circle out of its special shoulder pocket and held it out to the man who’d spoken.
The major dropped the disc into a portable scanner and studied the display. “What race are you?”
“Grannan.”
“That’s a new one on me,” said the major, handing the disc back to Mallar. “Isn’t Granna an Imperial world?”
“I don’t know what its current status is, sir,” said Mallar. “I was born on Polneye—and I was never much interested in politics.”
“Is that so?” The major dismissed four of the troopers with a flick of his fingers. At the same time, the other two shouldered their weapons and moved behind Mallar, one hovering over each shoulder. “Report on ship status.”
It was then that Mallar noticed another pilot standing by, a flight helmet tucked under one arm. Behind him a tech crew waited with an instrument sled. “Engine three gets close to the redline running up to rated thrust. Other than that, I didn’t notice anything.”
“Any combat damage?”
“Uh—we were hit by an Interdictor, and then we took a heavy ion salvo, maybe two, I don’t really know. Everything went out for almost five minutes.”
“Any operational gremlins or glitches afterward?”
“No, all the systems seemed to come back all right once the integrator was stabilized. It should all be in the flight logs.”
“Very well,” said the major. “Second Lieutenant Plat Mallar, I formally accept delivery of recon-X KE-four-oh-four-oh-nine,