Star Wars_ X-Wing 05_ Wraith Squadron - Aaron Allston [32]
Wedge stared at Cubber and Kell with the ill-concealed incomprehension with which normal people routinely greet the pronouncements of the interplanetary society of mechanics. He heaved a sigh. “Can they be ready for training exercises tomorrow?”
Cubber looked dubious. “Well, two of them, sure.”
Kell said, “If we get a perfect run-through, first time, on the inertial compensator checks, maybe three.”
Cubber said, “And if a miracle occurs on the extruder valve tests, we could theoretically have all four ready. Maybe.”
Kell kept amusement from his face. There was no such thing as an extruder valve on the X-wing design.
Wedge looked unhappy. “Well, do what you can.”
Kell saluted. “Will do, sir.”
“And when you have a chance, though this isn’t necessary for tomorrow, paint out the red stripes on all the X-wings except mine and Janson’s. Replace them with gray.”
“Will do.”
When Wedge had withdrawn to his personal X-wing on the other side of the hangar, Kell asked, “What do you think? One hour, two?”
Cubber nodded. “One. Unless we do the stripes tonight. Which we won’t. You play sabacc, son?”
“A little. But I’m not very good at it.”
Cubber glared. “Do I look stupid? ‘I’m not very good at it,’ indeed. My six-year-old daughter is a better liar.”
“Well, I lie a little, but I’m not very good at it.”
Cubber snorted and pulled himself back into his engine.
Wedge Antilles wandered around the hangar for the next hour, long enough for the mechanics to grow nervous at his continued, needless presence. They got back at him by loudly telling one another stories of amazing mechanical failures they’d heard about, and the great loss of life that had usually resulted therefrom. Their work was done, but Cubber couldn’t dismiss them while Wedge Antilles was present; it would fly in the face of the story he’d told of the X-wings’ state of readiness.
Finally Kell heard a sound from the far end of the hangar’s exit tunnel: Its magnetic containment field hummed into life, and a moment later the heavy doors just beyond it rolled open. Outside, Kell could see dusty lunar surface, blast craters, the silhouettes of other surface buildings of the onetime mine, the distant lunar horizon, and stars.
Then, a light dot in the distance, gradually growing as it approached. When it was several hundred meters from the tunnel entrance, it resolved itself into a shape Kell recognized.
“Corellian YT-1300 Transport,” he said.
“Not just any YT-1300.” Cubber had moved up beside him. “That’s the Millennium Falcon.”
Kell gave the approaching ship a harder look. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. I was a year on Hoth, passing by that slab of rust and bad wiring every day. I never got to service her—Solo and his Wookiee friend hated for anyone but them to work on her. You can always recognize her by the specific pattern of corrosion.”
Kell heard a distant pop as the ship breached the magcon field, which obligingly permitted the ship through but held the tunnel’s atmosphere within. The twin-pronged prow of the ship dipped a little as it finished navigating the tunnel and reached the hangar proper. The Falcon moved smoothly to the largest bare patch of hangar nearest the tunnel entrance, then rotated in place so the bow was facing back out the tunnel. Only then did it set down, its master displaying considerable skill with the repulsorlift landing engines.
Its boarding ramp descended as Wedge Antilles approached. Down the ramp came General Solo, but not as Kell had seen him on holorecordings. Instead of being an uncomfortable-looking man in a New Republic general’s uniform, Solo wore brown pants and vest and a light tunic much better suited to casual travel. He also wore a broad grin that did much for his craggy features.
He and Wedge embraced, then turned toward the hangar exit. Kell caught a few of their words: “… flight in … diplomatic functions