Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [28]
“—from the very beginning, then there’s no reason to have them along. We’d have to improvise their participation.”
“She’s right,” Tycho said. “And I’ve had some thoughts about this. We could have the Wraiths, before or during their intrusion, get to certain key spots on the Binring buildings and plant targets there. Infrared markers, comm tracers, anything to give us an edge. Then if they needed to call an air strike, they could give us very precise data on where we needed to put our damage. ‘Thirty-seven meters on heading two-five-five from Marker Number Three’ is very precise, and our astromechs could integrate those instructions onto our heads-up displays on the fly.”
“Good point,” Wedge said. “Face, you haven’t done enough work in figuring out how to exploit all your resources.”
“I’m not used to having resources.”
Wedge nodded. “Welcome to the real Starfighter Command. And having to think like a soldier instead of a pirate. All right, people, let’s hear the rest of Face’s plan. We’re going to dissect it and reassemble it into something more likely to keep us all alive.”
Brightness—illumination piercing the pinkness around him—awakened Piggy.
He could hear nothing, feel almost nothing—only the respirator adhering to his face, supplying him with air to breathe. It took him a split second to recall where he was, why most of his senses seemed to be failing him. Then he opened his eyes.
As with the last couple of times he’d awakened, he floated, suspended, in a bacta tank taller than a Wookiee. The bacta medium colored everything pink. He could see, beyond the confines of the tank, the antiseptic wardroom that was his temporary home. A medical technician, a dark-haired human female, waved at him, offering a smile that humans called “perky.” He knew that human males could not help but be cheered by it. Nor was he entirely immune to it; the fact that she made the effort to reach him still lifted his spirits a notch. He waved in return, his motion slowed by the thick liquid.
Something was different. He ran through his checklist of surroundings, events, and circumstances to see what had been added. Nothing. He reversed it to look for what had been removed.
Pain. Ah, that was it. He didn’t hurt anymore. He looked down at his stomach, which had not so long ago featured an injury that looked like a smoking crater, and saw only new flesh and some scar tissue.
Good. He would be leaving soon. He wasn’t bored, was never bored—he could always work up problems of math, of navigation, of logic to keep himself occupied. But the lack of contact with others, the lack of activity that was useful, was beginning to annoy him.
There was motion outside his tank. He focused on several people walking with purpose into the wardroom, toward him, surrounding his tank—his fellow Wraiths. Their expressions were cheerful, and it was not the forced cheer that several had exhibited during previous visits.
The perky technician was waving at him, and when she had his attention, she gestured upward. He glanced up to see the top hatch opening. He kicked himself upward and moments later emerged into real air for the first time in many days.
When he once again had his feet on the ground, had a robe around him and a towel to mop away the remaining traces of bacta medium, he could begin to take in the words of his comrades.
Face said, “Forgive the intrusion, but we heard that the new vintage of Piggy was being decanted.”
Lara said, “But it looks like it’s turned to vinegar.”
Dia said, “And it’s corked.”
A young Devaronian he did not know said, “I am pleased to meet you. I need you to kill me. Nobody else will.”
The perky technician said, “You’ll need as much as possible to avoid activities that put a strain on your stomach muscles.”
Janson said, “To make sure you remember this little event, we’ve had some special things made up for you. Bacta-flavored candy. Bacta-flavored brandy. Bacta-flavored cheese.”
Shalla said, “Kell and I worked up an instructional manual for you. It’s called, How to Dodge.”
Piggy