X-wing_ Iron Fist Part 29

She smiled. "I forgot. We have X-wing and TIE simulators on base, sir, and they're already linked. And already set up to a.n.a.lyze ship statistical data and translate into precise strength values of enemies. I can adapt that programming to do what you want. It wouldn't be too hard."

Wedge copied the Zsinj information to a fresh datapad and handed it over.

"I want all this information translated into the nearest equivalent force of vessels and vehicles that are purely Imperial in origin. Then come back here and we'll compare that with some planetary defense data. How long will that take you?"

"I'm not sure. Half an hour, twelve hours-I'll know more when I've had time to look over the simulators and this data."

"Let me know as soon as you can."

Wedge stretched his legs again while waiting for her initial estimate.

Outside, something odd was going on at the mess and patio. The thermal blanket normally used as an awning over the mess picture viewport had been lowered, indicating that it was closed, and all the patio's chairs and tables had been drawn aside. A hand-painted sign decorated the main door into the module: MESS CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE PIRATE RUNT.

Runt now stood in the middle of the newly open s.p.a.ce, goggles over his eyes as he used one of the maintenance crew's backpack paint sprayers to put a layer of matte-green paint down on the stone floor.

Wedge wandered over and watched for a while as Runt finished transforming a large oval of gray stone into a green surface. Then Runt removed his goggles and switched off the sprayer.

Wedge asked, "Runt, what are you doing?"

Runt looked at him levelly. "Painting, sir."

"Ah. Why?"

"For the ritual, sir."

"You're going to have a ritual."

"Yes, sir."

"Something your people do?"

Runt had to consider that one, blinking a few times before he answered.

"Something some of our people do, sir."

"And you thought you had to close the mess to conduct this ritual?"

"Yes, sir. The food is still being prepared. That is a necessary part of the ritual."

"And who is going to be part of this ritual?"

"Well, we wanted to talk to you about that, sir. It would be a help to us if you would issue an order for all pilots to be here at eight hundred hours in full dress uniform."

Wedge resisted the urge to laugh. Runt seemed so earnest, so sincere.

"It would, would it?"

"Yes. Also, all civilian crewmen not on duty should be here in formal dress."

"Why should I do this?"

"Because I ask little and will deliver much."

"Ah. Can you tell me what this is about?"

"Well, no, sir."

"I see. Carry on."

It took Lara only two hours to translate the data, and took her and Wedge less than five minutes to get a close match in their comparison of the new data with sites in Imperial s.p.a.ce.

"You're joking," Janson said. "Kuat?"

Wedge pointed to the other man's pocket. Janson retrieved the note and unfolded it. There was a single word scrawled on it: Kuat. He whistled.

"It's Kuat, all right," Wedge said. "Zsinj is making a raid on a s.p.a.ce platform at Kuat."

"How did you know?"

"Zsinj is so devious it's sometimes predictable. He gave us information intended for very limited circulation, and yet he still concealed his real purpose a level or two down. I'm sure others he's working with are very pleased with themselves that they've identified the target as Coruscant. They're going to be very surprised when they come out of hypers.p.a.ce in the Core Worlds."

"So his objective isn't cargo," said Lara. "He's after a Star Destroyer."

Wedge nodded. "A Super Star Destroyer. Just as Face predicted, weeks ago."

With deliberate slowness, Janson leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and put his feet up on Wedge's desk. He smiled.

"Zsinj has delivered himself into our hands."

"Not yet, he hasn't," Wedge said. "In what sense do we have him? He shows up with his fleet at Kuat and-what? We drop in out of hypers.p.a.ce and attack him? It would take a large portion of the fleet of the New Republic to menace him and defend itself against Kuat's defenses... and the defenses they could bring in on short notice. We'd lose far too much."

"Maybe we just alert the government of Kuat," Lara said.

"No... Zsinj has spies in place already. Our intelligence says that the shipyards, especially the orbital ones, are rigged to explode in case of invasion. Zsinj has to have provided for that, and his spies will notice any sudden preparations for invasion." Wedge sighed. "I think we have to let Zsinj get away with his new toy... and then jump them later."

"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 RSs, 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 gra.s.s.

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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.semble.

"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 a.s.sembled. 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 at any moment. So. This is a ritual we have seen among the military officers of the New Republic. It is called a formal dance. I have painted a lawn.

Come forward and dance under the stars."

The Wraiths and maintenance personnel looked at one another as though to inquire silently as to which of them would summon the military police in charge of pilot sanity.

Piggy huffed and asked, "And if we decline?"

Runt's expression became serious, even menacing. "We will have hurt feelings. And this is a compulsory dance, so we will shoot you."

Kell crossed to him, grabbed him by his fur-backed ears, and shook Runt's head.

"Runt! That was a joke. A human-style joke. I'm so proud of you."

Runt smiled again. "We are pleased you are pleased."

Kell moved to the center of the absurd dance floor and extended a hand.

Tyria came to him, smiling, and took it. Kell glanced significantly at Runt, who in turn nodded to Chunky, Tyria's R5 unit, who stood watch at the bottom of the pole on which the spotlight rested, and suddenly music blasted out at the squadron-a formal dance of Alderaan, Wedge noted. Runt gestured at Chunky, a lowering of his hand, and the volume decreased to appropriate levels.

And Kell and Tyria danced, smiling at one another, the rest of the universe suddenly lost to them.

Janson sighed. "I'm going to have Runt shot."

Wedge gave him a tolerant smile. "Wait for results before you a.s.sign punishment."

"Now you're talking like a general again."

"Oh, that stung."

Then Shalla was out on the dance floor, beckoning Donos to join her, and Wedge saw one of the female mechanics hauling Cubber out to dance, her fingers firmly clamped on his septurn as the mechanic protested inarticulately.

Janson turned to Dia. "Shall we, wingmate?"

She looked startled. "I don't know how."

"I thought you were a dancer."

"Not that kind. I have never danced with anyone. Only for them."

"Time to learn." He led her out onto the floor.

Leaving Wedge alone.

He watched others drift onto the floor, some smiling, some tentative, some resigned. He watched Runt reenter the galley and emerge, carrying one end of a long table, Squeaky carrying the other, and then the two of them began bringing out trays and bowls and gla.s.ses and cutlery-the night's dinner, transformed by some extra work and attention into a wider variety of dishes, a buffet appropriate for a dance.

When they were done and Squeaky had returned to the galley, Wedge approached. Runt was now slicing a ripe ball cheese and setting slivers of the stuff on a plate.

"Good job, Runt."

Runt straightened and almost saluted. "Sorry, sir. You surprised us." He returned to cutting.

"No need to apologize. Nor is there any need for formality. This is a social event. What gave you the idea?"