Star Wars_ The Black Fleet Crisis 03_ Tyrant's Test - Michael P. Kube-McDowell [74]
It was a recording of Nil Spaar speaking to the members of the New Republic via Channel 81. Time-stamped forty hours ago, it began, “I address the strong, proud leaders of the vassal worlds—”
Formayj pressed another object on Chewbacca, this one a datacard. “Old Imperial Star Destroyer shield codes, sensor jam frequencies, defensive fire patterns—these are readily at hand. No demand. Historical value only,” he said. “My service charge will cover.” Standing, Formayj offered his hand. “Still like Han, old trickster. Smuggler made good. Deliver greetings to him, if you see him.”
Chewbacca hurried back to the ship and played the recording for the others. [My honor brother is Nil Spaar’s prize,] he said, and pointed at the blue-black hull of the great starship visible behind the viceroy. [Wherever this enemy is, Han will be.] Then Chewbacca pointed at the planet beyond. [They are there now.]
Twenty minutes later, the Millennium Falcon lifted off from Esau’s Ridge. Immediately on making orbit, it turned toward Koornacht Cluster and jumped into hyperspace, continuing its solitary journey to N’zoth.
INTERLUDE III:
Derelict
With Artoo guiding him, Lobot had penetrated deep into a realm the structure and purpose of which he was still struggling to understand.
The vagabond’s core passages were more akin to the great accumulator conduit in which they had spent their first hours aboard the vessel than they were like the network of chambers in which they had spent the last many days. But the core passages were much narrower than the accumulator conduit. Their cross section was never greater than Lobot’s armspan, and often less—especially at the junctions.
And there were many junctions. The passages were cross-connected in a complex web that had not yet revealed its pattern. This web promised to link all parts of the vagabond as a transport or communications system might, but nothing was moving through or along the passages save for Lobot and the droids. None of the ready biological metaphors—vascular tubules, alimentary canals, respiratory ducts, neurological pathways—seemed appropriate.
Lobot wondered if the lack of activity was a symptom of the damage the vagabond had sustained or a sign that he still did not understand the nature of the vessel. He had to keep reminding himself that though the ship was the product of bioengineering, it was not an organism. It was a biological machine, which was still an unfamiliar paradigm.
Three hundred meters in from chamber 228, the passage had narrowed to the point where Lobot found it necessary to shed his contact suit in order to continue.
“Master Lobot, are you certain that you wish to do this?” Threepio asked in a familiarly anxious tone. “Are you confident that the risk is justified? Given our present circumstances, and the alarming frequency with which warships seem to attack this vessel—”
“I’m certain,” Lobot said. “The deeper we go into the core, the more it feels like an obstacle standing between me and the ship. When my shoulders brushed both sides at the same time, it felt like the ship was inviting me to shed the suit. I can’t explain this in acceptable terms, but I think I must do this to find what I am looking for.”
“I see, sir,” said Threepio. “Artoo, are you still monitoring the air in this passage?”
“The air is fine, Threepio,” Lobot said, patting the droid on the top of his head. “I am fine. I am simply following a hunch.”
“Oh, dear,” Threepio fretted.
“What’s the matter?”
“Very well, Master Lobot—since you asked, I shall tell you,” said Threepio. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, Master Lando’s influence on your habits of thought is becoming manifest at the worst possible time.”
“What influence would that be?”
“Why, his unhealthy psychological dependence on the teleological self-deceptions of a gambler, sir—hunches, lucky streaks, wish fulfillment, feelings of entitlement, and the other trappings