Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [79]
As if unsure as to which of the city’s many offerings to choose, Kell led his group out over one of the sector’s deeper forest tracts. As his pilots exchanged banal comm traffic about which sites would offer the most recreation, Kell scanned the forest floor for life. And when he’d chosen a spot that included a clearing large enough for the Falsehood but was so deep within heavy forest that it seemed humans did not frequent it, he transmitted that data back as well.
They found a personal-vehicle landing zone near a district full of brilliantly lit entertainment businesses. They came to rest there and emerged from the top hatches of their interceptors.
Kell pulled his helmet free, dropped it onto his pilot’s couch, and began removing other pieces of piloting paraphernalia he wouldn’t be needing. “Drake Two, Drake Four, keep all your gear on. You’ll be staying with the interceptors.”
Shalla nodded. She slid down to the ground in full gear and stood at attention before her starfighter, a guard on duty.
“Aw, no.” Elassar sounded heartbroken. He clutched his chest as though someone had shot him. “Why me? I’m the youngest, I’m in the greatest need of fun.”
Dressed only in his black jumpsuit, Kell slid down to his wing pylon, then dropped to the ground. He clambered up Elassar’s interceptor and leaned in close to the younger pilot. “Let me ask you something, Elassar.”
“Fire away, sir.”
“You go into one of these wonderfully diverting bars.”
“Yes.”
“You put down your credits.”
“Sounds good so far, sir.”
“You take off your helmet.”
“Well, I’d certainly want to at some point. Even if I were only getting a drink.”
“What do the other patrons see?”
“Well, they see the galaxy’s best-looking—oh.”
“Devaronian pilot.”
“Right, sir, I get it.”
“How many Devaronian TIE interceptor pilots do you suppose there are in the Empire?”
“I understand, sir, I really do.”
Kell shook his head and dropped to the ground.
Wedge set the Millennium Falsehood down so gently that not even he was fully aware of the transition between repulsorlift support and the settling of the hydraulic landing skids.
Chewbacca rumbled something.
Squeaky said, “Well, of course that was a good landing. He can’t afford to set this flying trash heap down any harder. Pieces would fall off.”
Chewie’s grumbling became louder, more eloquent.
“What do you mean, this is a good ship? Just this morning you were calling her names that would peel new paint off a hull. You’re disagreeing with me just to be disagreeable.”
“Captain’s leaving the bridge,” Wedge announced. “Chewbacca, the controls are yours.”
He trotted back to the top of the loading ramp and found his passengers gearing up, ready to leave. One man and one woman, both with dark hair and unmemorable, average features, dressed in black pants and tunics decorated with dazzling bright zigzag stripes—this season’s very definition of tourist in certain portions of the Empire.
They’d never told Wedge their names. He thought of the man as Bland One, the woman as Bland Two.
Bland One turned to him, extended a hand. “Thanks for a smooth flight. Much better than some insertions we’ve been through.” Bland Two nodded; Wedge couldn’t remember her saying a word.
Wedge shook his hand, then activated the ramp control. The access ramp whined but did not budge.
“I have one pilot,” Wedge said, “who’d be certain that you jinxed it with the compliment.” He stomped down on the nearest portion of ramp. The mechanism’s whine increased in volume, then the ramp lowered. “Good luck.”
Then they were gone, and the ramp closed again with less complaint.
By the time Wedge returned to the bridge, Tycho had decoupled from the top hull and his X-wing was settling to the ground just ahead of the Falsehood’s cockpit. Then the X-wing appeared to vanish as its lights faded. Suddenly they were in darkness, the trees all around them acting as an impenetrable