DARK FORCES 6

　Kyle felt lonely and depressed as he made his way through a maze of corridors, passageways, and drop shafts to the hangar deck. In spite of the fact that he'd been granted the very thing he'd hoped for, a chance to join the Alliance, there was none of the "hail fellow well met" camaraderie he'd expected. Just an impossible mission, minimum support, and a none-too-emotional parting of the ways. Yes, Mon Mothma had shaken his hand, and Jan had sent an E-mail: "Have a new mission - sorry I can't see you off - best of luck."
　Pleasant enough, but not the sort of send off lavished on departing heroes. Not in holovids, anyhow.It Seemed he was and would forever be an outsider. Ah well, he was on his own, which beat the heck out of taking orders. That was something he was truly tired of.
　A horn beeped, Kyle stepped out of the way, and allowed the auto cart to pass.The hangar bay was just ahead and he stepped in to the main lock. A group of techs continued their noisy debate as they crowded in behind him. The discussion centered around the question of which one of the ship's meals was worst - breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Kyle cast a silent vote for brcakfast, smiled when dinner won, and followed the men and women out into the bay where an avalanche of stimuli assailed his eyes, ears, and nose.
　Where the Star's hangar deck had been only two-thirds full, this one was crammed with X-wing starfighters, assault shuttles, and a bewildering array of other craft. It was almost impossible to hear himself think over the screech of power cutters, the rattle of chain hoists, the whine of hydrospanners, and the announcements made via the overamplified PA system.
　Not only that, but where Kyle had encountered just the occasional whiff of ozone aboard the liner, he now inhaled a rich amalgam of exhaust fumes, fresh paint, hot metal, bonding agents, cleaning compounds, and lubricants. The total effect was overwhelming.
　Kyle spotted a sign that read "Deck Master," along with an arrow which pointed the way. The first arrow led to a second arrow, and so forth, until he arrived at the edge of a yellow-and-black striped "no park"zone. A ten-meter exoskeleton occupied the center of the space. The operator was nearly invisible within his protective cage. He yelled amplified instructions to an overhead crane operator who raised a thumb by way of reply. Their failure to communicate via comlink seemed strange, but consistent with the overall atmosphere. The decal on the front of the exoskeleton's chest plate read "Deck Master."
　Kyle stepped over a power cable, ducked under a wing, and entered the striped area. A Mon Calamari, a Wiookiee, and a human were in line ahead of him. Fifteen minutes had passed by the time his turn came. The DM towered above Kyle and his voice rolled like thunder. "Don't ask for a maintenance droid. They're busy right now."
　Kyle shook his head. "No, sir. I'm here to select a ship."
　The DM shook his head. "Can't hear you, hold on." Kyle watched with alarm as a pair of skeletal arms reached down, got a grip on his torso, and lifted him up. The DM had bushy eyebrows, bloodshot eyes, and at least three days' worth of beard. "There - that's better - say it again."
　Kyle said it again. The DM raised an eyebrow. "Select a ship? What do you think this is? A supermarket? You got a chit?"
　The data card was in his right-hand pants pocket. Kyle felt more than a little ridiculous as he searched for and found it. Was everyone staring at him? Or was this sort of thing so common that no one paid attention?
　The DM locked his mechanical arms in place and used the flesh-and-blood versions to accept the piece of plastic. The terminal mounted on his roll cage ate the rectangle and spit it out again. Characters flickered, steadied, and scrolled down the screen. The DM read them, shook his head in disgust, and grumbled about the "metal heads on the bridge."
　Kyle, who was used to an atmosphere in which superiors were never criticized, not even jokingly, must have looked concerned because the deck master chose to explain. "People in civilian clothes rarely return the ships they borrow, or if they do, we spend weeks patching the battle damage. I don't know where you folks go, or what you do out there, but it's hard on my inventory, Here - check these out, and whichever one you pick, take good care of it. The Alliance will deduct the damages from your salary."
　Kyle didn't have a salary so far as he knew, but he smiled politely. The deck master laughed and put Kyle down.
　Relieved to have both feet on the deck again, Kyle scanned the printout. He saw three hull numbers and the spaces they were parked in. Nineteen, twelve, and three. He left the no-park zone, found a slot number, and worked his way down a line of X-wings. Could it be? They were hot ships by all accounts, and he'd love to fly one. Assuming he could cut the mustard. Engineering students were trained to fly a wide variety of support craft but limited to thirty hours in TIE fighters. Kyle was perfectly willing to learn, however, and would like nothing better than a sleek one-seater of his own.
　The numbers dwindled and Kyle's hopes went with them. A half-junked shuttle occupied twenty-two, followed by a grease spot in twenty-one, and a lifeboat in twenty. Kyle's heart sank as he inspected the pre-Empire gig that occupied slot nineteen, the courier ship that slouched in twelve, and the Corellian-built lighter that overflowed three. The Sorry was nowhere in sight but would have been preferable.
　Kyle gave a sigh of disappointment, returned to the gig, and started a lengthy inspection of each ship's hull, drives, armament, life-support systems, and controls. It was a laborious process but necessary, since his life would depend on the choice he made.
　In the end, with all the facts he could muster before him, the choice was rather simple. In spite of the fact the ship in slot three looked as if had bounced around the inside of an asteroid belt for a month or so, she was only ten years old, and Corellian-built. A good beginning for any ship. He also liked the fact that her drives had been overhauled only three months before, her shield generators tested ninety-six percent effective, and her logbooks were up to date. Last, but not least, was the fact that he related to the name painted along both sides of her atmosphere-scarred bow: the Moldy Crow. It sounded the way he felt - like a bird no longer accepted by its flock.

Dark Forces
Soldier for the Empire
P. - P.

　Like most of her kind, the courier ship had been built for speed, with scant attention paid to creature comforts. Jan made her way aboard, discovered that the pilot was little more than a teenager, and was amused by the pigtails she wore. The pilot accepted the agent's satchel, grumbled about women who carried too much makeup, and forced the bag into a tiny locker.
　Jan considered telling her the truth, that the satchel contained energy cells for her weapons, a half dozen grenades, two knives, an ounce of plitex, a garrotte, a lock pik, electrobinoculars, a couple of comlinks, and a toothbrush, but decided to let the matter go.
　The pilot turned. "You ready?"
　Jan smiled. "Always."
　The girl nodded. "Good. Now let's get a couple of things straight. I go by 'Jes,' not 'Jessica,' not 'dear,' and not 'honey.' This is my ship, I run it my way, and I don't need any advice from freeloading goof-offs. Got it?"
　Jan kept a straight face. "Got it."
　"Good. Strap in, keep your mouth shut, and hang on to your lunch. You'll be standing on Danuta before you know it."
　Jan strapped into the copilot's position, thought about Kyle, and wondered how he was doing. If the pilot was even half as good as she claimed to be, and if the courier ship was even half as fast as it was supposed to be, she'd land a day before he did, and have plenty of time to reconnoiter. The hatch sealed itself, Jes brought the drives up, and the stars beckoned.

Dark Forces
Soldier for the Empire
P. - P.