Star Wars the Truce at Bakura - Kathy Tyers [16]
“What do you think, kid?” Han’s voice filtered through the speaker at Luke’s elbow. “Doesn’t look good.”
“I’ve got to get to Bakura,” Leia insisted over the same speaker. “I have to convince this Governor Nereus to declare an official truce. Otherwise they have no reason to work with us. You can’t end-run the entire Imperial Navy.”
“Han,” Luke answered, “did you read how we’re going to move?”
“Oh, yeah.” His friend sounded amused. “Good luck, hero. I’m afraid our only trained diplomat is going to wait this one out.”
“Good idea,” said Luke.
“What?” Luke heard exclamation points follow Leia’s question. “What are you talking about?”
“Excuse us.” He pictured Han turning aside, trying to reasonably explain an unpleasant truth to the more stubborn Skywalker twin. Maybe her brother ought to step in.
“Leia,” he said, “look at the board. Bakura is blockaded. All communications out must be jammed—we haven’t heard a peep except some scatter from entertainment bands. You’re too valuable to risk in the battle zone.”
“And you’re not?” she retorted. “I have to talk with the governor. Our only hope is to persuade him that we’re coming in as nonaggressors.”
“I agree,” answered Luke, “and we could use the Falcon in a sweep, but we’re not risking you. Be thankful you’re on your own gunship.”
Stony silence. Luke called out more orders, maneuvering his carrier group into a loose carpet formation for the tricky intersystem jump.
“All right,” Leia grumbled. “The sixth planet isn’t far from this vector. We’ll head in that direction. If it looks safe, we’ll land and wait for a rendezvous.”
“Planet Six sounds good, Leia.” Luke could feel her indignation, and it wasn’t directed only at him. She and Han must learn to resolve disagreements. Develop their own system.
He shut her sense out of his perception. “Be in touch, Han. Use standard Alliance frequencies, but monitor the Imperial ones.”
“Affirmative, Junior.”
Luke watched the light freighter swing out of formation through his viewscreen. The blue-white arc of its engines shrank in the black distance. According to his status board, his fighter pilots stood by, mounted and ready, with Wedge Antilles running squadron checks. He didn’t belong up here. Today his cold X-wing would sit in a dark hangar bay, and Artoo in his quarters, linked through the Flurry into the Battle Analysis Computer. Maybe next time, he could rig Artoo to link him with the carrier’s command deck and run things from a fighter … except where could he install control and status boards?
“Calculations are in,” he announced. “Prepare to jump.”
The blue picket ships’ lights turned green.
Luke clutched the arms of his seat. “Now.”
Han Solo kept an eye on the Falcon’s sensors as he swung the nimble freighter aside. Too experienced to get caught in the battle group’s jump hyperwash, he couldn’t resist watching until Luke’s carrier—imagine the kid commanding a carrier group—winked out. Leia flinched.
Now he was back where he belonged, on board the Falcon. Alliance repair teams had wasted no time getting his beloved freighter back into service after Lando rattled her around inside the second Death Star (—but no hard feelings, Lando. It was for a good cause). He belonged in this cockpit, with good old Chewie in the copilot’s seat.
But even that wasn’t the same. Leia sat behind the huge Wookiee, wearing a gray combat coverall belted around her waist, leaning forward as if she thought she ought to be copilot instead.
Well. He’d give Leia everything he owned, the whole galaxy if he could swing it, but she wouldn’t bump Chewie out of that chair. Yeah, she’d handled the Falcon just fine during a couple of emergencies. But even a smuggler drew the line somewhere.
Threepio occupied the other back chair, his golden head swiveling from side to side. “I am so thankful you reconsidered, Mistress Leia. Although my expertise will be wasted more seriously than usual out here in the system’s far reaches, our safety is of paramount