Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [67]
“Pity. Still, we’ll do what we can. How does the crew escape?”
“Both bow and stern are equipped with a Sentinel-class landing craft. The crew has a chance not only to evacuate, but to fight their way out of pursuit.” Melvar offered a little sigh. “The crew doesn’t know that if a capital ship approaches within a kilometer before they’ve engaged the hyperdrive, they, too, will detonate. The crew will not be captured, will not be able to betray your secret to the Rebels.”
“Excellent. Fine work, as usual. Give her a station in the fleet, outside of visual range of any of the other vessels. I am so pleased.” Zsinj smiled. He hoped he’d never be forced to utilize the hideous amalgamation that had earned his approval and praise. Using it meant failure on his part—meant he’d been beaten and needed to hide to lick his wounds. But he liked to keep his options open. “Oh. What about the Nightcloak function?”
“Working … mostly. Would you like a demonstration?”
“Please.”
Melvar held up his comlink. “Second Death, this is General Melvar. Activate and initiate Nightcloak.”
“Yes, sir,” came the tinny voice from the comlink. “Deploying satellites.”
Tiny flares erupted from Second Death, four from the bow and four from the stern, deploying at precise angles so they suggested the corners of a wire-frame box surrounding the junkyard vessel. After a few moments of flight, the satellites ceased their acceleration; their burn trails vanished and they became all but invisible in the starfield.
“Nightcloak engaging,” said the comlink.
And Second Death was suddenly gone.
Where she had been, where the space around her had been, was blackness. Not starfield—not even the stars were visible through it.
Zsinj offered a little exhalation of happiness. “Sensors, give me a reading on Second Death.”
The sensor officer in the crew pit below examined his screen. He took on a stricken look as he raised his head to face the warlord. “Nothing, sir. We don’t even get a return on the active sensors. It’s a sensor anomaly.”
“Fine, fine.”
Out in space, stars briefly flickered through the darkness, then shone brilliantly again, and Second Death once more floated before them.
Melvar frowned. “Second Death, I didn’t order an end to the test.”
“Sorry, sir. System failure. It’s still not entirely reliable.”
“Well, bring in the satellites and get back to work. Until it’s one hundred percent, it’s not adequate. Until it’s one hundred percent, we’re not happy with you. Melvar out.” The general pocketed the comlink and turned to his warlord. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be.” Zsinj waved his apology away. “It’s a fine demonstration. A wonderful adaptation of what we’re accomplishing at Rancor Base. They’ll have it done in time. Or else.” He smiled.
In Mon Remonda’s pilots’s lounge, in stuffed chairs dragged against the viewports to suggest thrones, sat Wes Janson and Runt Ekwesh.
Standing before them, Face said, “For intercepting great quantities of damage so the rest of us didn’t have to, your crowns, o mighty ones.” He took circlets made of flimsy material and placed one on each pilot’s head. “For enduring medical treatments without whining, for surviving days of bacta bath without crying, for emerging from your treatment without asking for extra cake and sweetening, your royal scepters.” He placed a wooden dowel, its end decorated with tassels and ribbons, into the hand of each pilot. “And now, receive the accolades of your subjects.”
He stood aside, and the gathered Wraiths and Rogues hurled confetti upon them, a rain of color and rubbish.
Janson blinked against the atmospheric assault and turned to Runt. “This is the last time, positively the last time, that I suggest