Star Wars_ The New Rebellion - Kristine Kathryn Rusch [132]
“Well, then you shouldn’t have any trouble finding him,” the receptionist droid said.
“Finding him?”
“He left when you came up here.”
Threepio spun. “Artoo? Artoo!”
The room had quieted as the petitioners watched the exchange between the receptionist droid and Threepio. There was a gap in the wall near the sculpture where Artoo had been. The Ychthytonian pointed his top left arm toward the door.
“She’s right,” he said. “Yer little buddy zoomed out while you were arguing. He was heading toward the pilots’ turbolift.”
“The pilots’ turbolift?” Threepio said. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” He started out, then stopped, and turned to the reception droid. “I expect you to inform Mon Mothma that we were here. If you do not, I will personally make certain that you are demoted to working as a translator for mechanical garbage compactors.”
Then he hurried out of the room, calling for Artoo. The hallway was full of more petitioners arriving to see Mon Mothma. Apparently the change in leadership meant that opportunists were trying to see if Mon Mothma would help them where Mistress Leia had not. Threepio pushed past several young humans, a Gosfambling, and a Llewebum, and stopped in front of the pilots’ turbolift.
It was called that because it led directly into the shipyard. The Emperor’s pilots had been on call all the time. Any threat to the Empire had the pilots on the turbolift, going down kilometers to the ships, and taking off to defend Coruscant. The New Republic had deemed the lift useful, and had kept both it and its name.
The turbolift was just returning to this floor.
“Artoo,” Threepio said softly, “when I catch up with you, I am going to recommend a restraining bolt.”
The turbolift doors opened, and Threepio stepped on. He hit Express and braced himself as the car plunged. At the bottom, the doors opened. Threepio peered through them.
The doors into the pilots’ wing were opened, the panel on the computer-locking system on the ground. Artoo had been in a hurry; normally he replaced such things. Machinery hummed at the far end of the wing.
Threepio scurried down the hallway. It was empty. He slid into the bay. Dozens of X-wings were in various states of disrepair. Master Luke’s stood near the space doors, as if waiting for him to return.
Beyond that were other ships in various states of disrepair. And no sign of Artoo.
“Oh, dear,” Threepio said. “I don’t like this.”
He stepped over power cables and computer parts. Then a movement flashed in the next room. Threepio hurried toward it. Artoo was standing near a stock light freighter. It appeared newly reassembled. Someone had taken the time to clean the carbon scoring and space dirt off the sides.
“What are you thinking, Artoo?”
Artoo whistled.
“I can’t pilot a freighter. You know droids can’t. We need help, Artoo.”
Artoo chirruped.
“They aren’t ignoring you. Artoo, you must see someone in charge!”
Artoo beeped again. Threepio hurried toward the freighter.
“Artoo, really. Just because you couldn’t speak to Mon Mothma when you wished doesn’t mean that you can’t wait. It would have been only a moment longer, and I would have gotten you inside.”
Artoo bleebled.
“Of course you have time. There’s always time.”
Artoo moaned.
“Surely it can’t be as bad as all that, Artoo!”
Artoo warbled.
“Let me talk with Mon Mothma,” Threepio said. “I’m sure she’ll send someone—”
Artoo emitted a long, lengthy raspberry.
“Artoo, really. What were you planning to do? Wait for the owner to return? You have no idea what sort of person flies this contraption—”
Artoo beeped indignantly.
“All right,” Threepio said. “So I don’t know what your plan is. But I believe that if we take the official route—”
Artoo warbled. The sound was almost happy.
Footsteps sounded behind them.
Threepio turned.
Cole Fardreamer stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. “I suppose the cryptic message Luke Skywalker left for me on the systems computer actually came from you, Artoo, since Master Skywalker isn’t here to meet me.”
Artoo cheebled.
“Artoo,