Star Wars the Truce at Bakura - Kathy Tyers [89]
Han waited until Threepio levered himself into another speeder, then he took off headed north, glancing back only once to make sure Threepio didn’t crash on takeoff. Then he concentrated dead ahead, squinting while the wind whipped his hair.
The cantina adjoining Pad 12 smelled like smoke and old grease. Everything inside looked cheap, from stippled black floor to ceiling panels. Several of those flickered as if their power supplies were giving out. No automation, nothing even remotely modern. Tour hawkers would no doubt call it “quaint.”
Luke glanced down at an open commnet hookup that lay at a central table, then toward a corner table that hunkered behind a tottering divider. A hefty service-crew type sat back there, hunched over a more private commnet terminal. Luke had spotted only these two terminals in the building, and the outdoor comm booth, while it had visual capabilities, wouldn’t access an uplink to orbit.
So he’d rather use the semiprivate hookup than sit out in the open at a greasy orange tabletop, even if that meant waiting a few minutes. He was stuck until the shuttle to orbit arrived, anyway. He wanted to check in with Wedge, and find out how the defense web was holding—and why his shuttle was overdue. More of Nereus’s maneuvering? He glanced out the cantina’s west window. The Falcon was only a quarter kilometer away, but he couldn’t see it for gantries and other parked ships.
Something scraped the grubby floor behind him—not one of Bakura’s ubiquitous repulsor chairs, but a plain, cheap, metal-and-cushion affair. Luke turned around. The corner table stood empty.
Luke sat down facing out into the room, pecked in his clearance code, and requested contact with Wedge Antilles: vocal/keyboard interface, if possible.
Black letters appeared beneath the ones he’d punched in.
Capt. Antilles unavailable, sir. This is Lieutenant Riemann. May I help?
Luke recognized the name, a young artist of interplanetary stature who’d been forced by the Empire first into hiding and then into fighting back. “What’s the status of the defensive net?” he asked softly. “Have you monitored anything unusual during the last few hours?” This would’ve been so much more convenient with Artoo to relay. He wondered if the droids had finished translating for Prime Minister Captison.
His answer appeared.
The net’s still holding, everyone’s in his assigned orbit. We’ve monitored a lot of chatter on the Flutie bands in the last hour, but those close-in gunships and that cruiser haven’t shifted.
Something was afoot, even if the Ssi-ruuk weren’t moving yet. He asked about that next shuttle up to orbit.
On its way down, sir. Should land in about 30 minutes.
Luke thanked the lieutenant and signed off.
What could he accomplish in thirty minutes—here? At the back of his mind he heard Ben Kenobi telling Master Yoda, “He will learn patience.” Determined to prove Ben correct, he made himself calm down. Soon he’d be back aboard the Flurry, and once Han located Leia and picked up the droids, they’d join Chewbacca on the Falcon. He pushed away from the corner table.
As he was about to pass a booth clustered with strangers, his comlink squeaked in his breast pocket. He spun around and headed back to the comer, where he pulled out the comlink. “What is it, Han?” he asked quietly.
“Master Luke,” Threepio’s voice exclaimed, “I’m so glad that I reached you. Mistress Leia has been arrested. General Solo has gone to rescue her—”
Luke slumped behind the booth divider and kept his voice low. By interrupting and repeating hasty questions, he found out where Han had headed. “And sir,” Threepio added, “the Ssi-ruuk mean to attack within less than an hour. You must hurry. Notify Chewbacca that I’m on my way to the Falcon, but I’m disguised as a stormtrooper.