Star Wars_ X-Wing 01_ Rogue Squadron - Michael A. Stackpole [70]
Being the opportunists they were, the Rebels did tend to prefer worlds that already had structures on them that could be converted into installations. It appeared that the more benign and abandoned the world seemed, the more likely the Rebellion was to choose it as a base. Kirtan doubted the Rebels themselves realized they had this predilection for taking over ruins for their own use, and he imagined it had to do with a subconscious desire to renew the Old Republic. The very thing that drove them against the Empire demanded they embrace things older than the Empire to give their movement a legitimacy it lacked itself.
The final list of primary worlds contained only ten names on it. Kirtan subjected this list to the final selection process—one that had come to him as inspiration upon waking from a dream that included visions of Ysanne Isard metamorphosing into a scarlet ghost of Darth Vader.
The X-wings, in arriving at Chorax, had not expected to be dragged out of hyperspace. That meant their entry vector, if drawn as a line through space, would point out their intended destination. Kirtan plotted that line through his data model and then asked the computer to sort the candidate worlds according to their proximity to any world on that line.
One world had a perfect correlation with that line. Kirtan smiled. “Talasea, in the Morobe system.” He downloaded his result into his personal datapad and headed off for Admiral Devlia’s office. “We know where you are, Rogue Squadron. Now we will crush you.”
18
Corran’s eyes snapped open. He knew from the chill of the air and the deep darkness that it was still night. The fog drifting in through the window of the small cottage seemed to amplify the silence of the night. He knew that nothing, not light nor sound had awakened him, but he also knew something was wrong.
He glanced over at Ooryl’s cot and saw it was empty. That wasn’t much of a surprise. He’d learned that Gands needed only a fraction of the sleep humans did and appeared to be able to store it up for times when they could not sleep. He would have loved to know what set of evolutionary pressures had given the Gands this ability, but Ooryl remained decidedly private concerning his species and Corran hadn’t pressed for details.
Corran’s sense of unease didn’t center itself on Ooryl. It remained a feeling that something was wrong, and this sensation was one with which Corran had a lot of experience. He’d felt it when preparing for meetings with criminals or during undercover work when his cover had been blown and enemies were waiting to hurt him. His father had nodded sagely when Corran told him about that feeling, and had encouraged him to heed it when it occurred.
He threw open his sleeping bag and shivered as the cold air hit his naked flesh. Well, Father, I’ll “go with my gut.” Corran pulled on his flight suit and discovered that its synthetic material retained the night’s chill better than his flesh retained heat. He stepped into boots that were also rather frigid. He would have run in place for a moment to warm himself up, but a wave of malignancy washed over him.
Corran crossed to the cottage’s open doorway and crouched in the shadows. He’d have given his right arm for a blaster, but he stored his personal sidearm in Talasea’s flight center, along with his helmet, gloves, and other equipment. In my days with CorSec I wouldn’t have been caught dead without a gun of some sort. I don’t even have a vibroblade. Either I’m going to be very lucky here or very dead.
Any advantage he might have came from the basic appearance of the cottage itself. With an open doorway, unglazed windows, and sagging roof, the cottage hardly looked like the sort of place anyone, let alone pilots, would choose