Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [109]
“How can we be sure where they’ll be?” said Janson.
“Lara, you know about Castin’s plan. About the program he was going to slice into the communications system aboard Iron Fist.”
She nodded.
“Can you adapt that for this new Super Star Destroyer?”
“Unless Castin’s slicing style is so idiosyncratic that no one can make sense of it, yes, sir.”
“See to it, then.” Wedge turned his attention to Wes. “I’m going to draw up a preliminary plan of operation for this mission and see if I can get Admiral Ackbar to sign off on it.”
“For my part,” Janson said, “I’ll get some sleep.”
“You’ll calculate which routes Zsinj is likely to take in his escape from Kuat and suggest some fleet deployments that give us the best likelihood of being able to encounter him.”
“Which is something like sleep, but much less interesting.”
Wedge smiled. “As for you, Lara, good work, and thanks.”
Runt’s preparations of the galley area became more and more elaborate.
He pressed several of the astromechs into service as painters. The little R2s and R5s, with paintbrushes held in their clamps, meticulously added black crisscrosses and hatchwork to the green floor paint, making it look like a child’s impression of grass.
He rigged an overhead spotlight that would bathe his green oval in light but extend not much beyond that.
To the same pole he attached speakers whose cables snaked all the way to the base communications center, farther down the Trench.
He occasionally entered the closed galley, and Wraiths passing by could see him, through the partially opened door, exchanging words with Squeaky. The 3PO unit, who was a more than adequate chef when he could be persuaded to cook, looked more agitated than usual.
Wedge did remember to issue his command, and shortly before eight hundred hours the Wraiths did begin to assemble.
“I can’t believe you got me out here in full dress,” said Janson, his tone a deliberate whine. “Just because Runt asked you to. You’ve known me longer. You should like me better than him.”
Wedge snorted. “Let’s just say I was intrigued by the mystery.”
“Mystery? I’ll give you a mystery. I’ll spend tomorrow with my feet and forehead painted red and never tell anyone why. Is that mysterious enough?”
“Anything to stay out of dress uniform, is that it?”
“Anything.”
By ones and twos the Wraiths assembled. Several obviously felt as Janson did about dressing up, or at least took the summons with less than total seriousness. Piggy scratched unhappily. Shalla asked each person present—separately—what it was all about, then stood off by herself and fidgeted. Face had added to his dress uniform a sand-colored Tatooine scarf, giving him the look of an officer who’d been stationed too long on the desert world and had partially “gone native.” Some of the mechanics were still working on their hands with cleanser-cloths, trying to remove the last stubborn patches of oil stains.
By the time Donos arrived, a handful of seconds after the appointed hour, Runt was still not in evidence. The main lights of the Trench cut out, leaving only the new spotlight and the false stars overhead blazing, and Runt, quite dashing in his dress uniform, emerged from the galley. “My friends,” he said, waving his hands with unusual theatricality, “how glad we are that you have chosen to accept our invitation.”
That elicited some chuckles, and Runt plowed on. “We are obliged to admit that we may have accidentally misled Commander Antilles when describing this event. We think he believes this to be a Thakwaash ritual.”
Wedge crossed his arms and gave Runt a stern look. “ ‘Accidentally misled’?”
“Well, you will have to ask the Runt you were talking to this afternoon. We are not he at this moment.”
“We are now the Runt who ducks and retreats when confronted with the errors of his ways?”
Runt grinned, his huge teeth flashing white in the gloom in front of the galley. “Kell must have given you lessons in knowing who we are