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  Artoo’s shrill reply needed no translation, even for Lando.

  “There’s no need to be rude,” Threepio sniffed.

  “If you two keep wasting your power cells on bickering, you’ll visit oblivion a lot faster than you were planning on,” Lando said, drifting between them. “Artoo, is there any hope for the limpet?”

  “I can answer that,” said Lobot, who had suddenly busied himself with collecting the parts of his contact suit and climbing back into them. “Just before it ceased transmitting, the sensors measured a monopolar ion density of more than twenty thousand Rahm units. It is a near certainty that the limpet is damaged beyond repair.”

  “Twenty thousand? Better than I thought. I’d have given you odds that it wouldn’t take more than twelve,” Lando said. “Well, no matter.”

  “The primary component of all spectral sensors is Favervil dielectric ribbon,” Lobot said. “Dielectric ribbon begins to debond under ion bombardment at a density of fifteen thousand Rahms.”

  “Is that so,” Lando said.

  “Master Lando, why didn’t the vagabond’s shields stop the ion barrage?” Threepio asked.

  “Now, that’s an interesting question,” said Lando. “The answer might be because there are no shields—no ray shields, anyway.”

  “No shields?” Threepio echoed. “Isn’t that unusual—and dangerous?”

  “It’s unusual—” Lando began.

  Lobot interrupted with another encyclopedic answer. “Since the inception of spacecraft licensing under the Registry Office, noncombatant vessels have been required to carry ray shielding generators of at least grade two strength, to protect the crew and passengers from cosmic radiation and stellar flares. More than ninety-six percent of alien ship types in the Registrar’s Catalog are known to carry both ray and particle shielding in some form.”

  Lando looked curiously at his old partner. Before he could give voice to his thoughts, however, Threepio filled the silence with a burst of indignant words.

  “Master Lando, this is intolerable. I am certain that Master Luke did not intend for us to be marooned on a vessel with no ray shielding. No wonder my circuits are so sluggish and Artoo has been so peevish. This could have the most serious consequences for us. We simply must leave this vessel now.”

  “That’s it,” Lando said, snapping his fingers. “That’s the reason there’s no ray shielding outside. There are no droids, no computers, no electronic devices of any kind on the hull—just organic machines, with organic sensors, and organic repair mechanisms. Different rules. We didn’t know because that’s the first time we’ve actually seen the vagabond under fire. Boldheart only fired across her bow. Pakkpekatt’s task force never fired on her at all. What do you think, Lobot?”

  “The issues for biological systems exposed to radiation are rate of damage versus the efficiency of repair, and heat absorption per unit of area versus heat dispersal per unit of area,” Lobot said in a flat voice. “The integumentary system of some organisms can provide effective protection for internal structures against charged-particle radiation, and significant protection against the J and C ranges of photonic radiation.”

  Lando was staring with open concern. “Lobot, what is wrong with you?”

  “Was there an error in my summation?”

  “I’m not talking about your summation—I’m talking about you,” Lando said. “Don’t take this wrong, old pal, but your conversational style’s regressed back to Early Mechanical. You’ve started nattering like an overeager knowbot. But I can’t find you anymore—just a wall of data.”

  Lobot plucked a drifting glove out of midair, avoiding Lando’s eyes. “It is possible that I am retreating to the certain and the familiar as a means of reassurance, or in an attempt to enhance my sense of control over my circumstances.”

  “What kind of answer is that? You sound like a droid running a self-diagnostic,” Lando said. “I get the feeling that if your links were up, you wouldn’t be talking at all. Come on, partner—what’s cracking your glue?”

  After a few moments, Lobot stopped fussing with his suit. “I confess I am having difficulty maintaining a positive outlook,” he said, his eyes still downcast. “Perhaps you could share with me some of the reasons for your apparent optimism.”

  “Didn’t you feel her wheel around before we jumped into hyperspace? We escaped from the Prakith, and we’re headed back to where we do have friends. And we now have all the air we need to hang on until they find us,” Lando said. “What’s more, we’re moving through the ship more or less at will, and we’ve figured out how to operate Qella mechanisms. On top of all that, we’re being treated like visitors, not hunted like intruders. Things could be a lot worse.”

  “Things are worse. We’re headed for an unknown point within an enormous volume of space in a ship that routinely manages to escape detection for years at a time,” said Lobot. “We have no food and limited water, and the droids and the suits are both running low on power. None of the mechanisms we can operate allow us to either control the ship or communicate with it. We’re being guided through public spaces and kept out of private spaces—if we’re going to get control of the ship, we need to be treated like the owners, not visitors.”

  “I admit we haven’t yet found the doors marked RESTRICTED—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY,” Said Lando. “But we can’t be more than two or three compartments away from the bow, according to the map Artoo’s been keeping. I say we gather up the gear and keep looking for the control center.”

  “There is no reason to believe that the control nexus is located in the bow,” said Lobot.

  Lando peered at Lobot questioningly. “I thought it was you who pointed us in this direction.”

  “On general probabilities derived from known designs,” said Lobot. “But this vessel was not derived from known designs. It was not engineered by starship-wrights working within an established design paradigm. It is unique. And we will never unravel all its secrets, because we are unable to think as the Qella thought.”

  “One secret at a time will be enough to keep me happy,” said Lando. “Why are you so sure the bridge isn’t forward?”

  “Look at the map. The compartments we’ve entered over the last few days have gradually been defining a space in the center of the ship to which we have no access.”

  “Then we have to keep going, don’t we?” Lando said. “The link between the two zones—the hatch that says SENIOR STAFF ONLY, the key to the executive refresher, the turbolift to the penthouse—could be in the next compartment, or the one after that.”

  “Or it could be so well hidden that we will never find it. There may not even be a link between the two.”

  “If we have to, we can make one,” Lando said, flashing a quick grin. “But right now, it looks like we have a bet to settle. What do you have that’s worth anything?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “If I’m right and you’re wrong, I want something out of it,” said Lando. “Nothing like a little wager to keep things interesting when the life-or-death stuff gets old. So what are you willing to risk on your opinion that says we die here like trapped rats?”

  Lobot stared blankly at Lando. Then his normally expressionless face began to shudder and twitch. His mouth worked, his eyes blinked. Finally he unleashed a stiff, unpracticed bleat that quickly melted down to a stuttering titter. “You’re crazy, Lando,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that for years.”

  “A first time for everything,” Lando said, still startled by a sound he had never before heard—Lobot’s laughter. “But you didn’t answer my question. Are you in or out?”

  Lobot grabbed a drifting boot and threw it across to Lando. “I know you too well to take a wager against you,” he said. “Let’s go find that control nexus.”

  “Pardon me, Master Lando—”

  Lando was exploring the inner face of a new compartment with his hands while Lobot did the same on the outer face. “What is it, Threepio?”

  “T
here is something that is puzzling me,” Threepio said. “Artoo insists that if this ship has no ray shields, there would be no interference with a realspace tracking signal.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Artoo also insists that even if there were ray shields, they would not interfere with a hypercomm tracking signal.”

  “That’s also right.”

  “Then can you explain why we have not been sending out a tracking signal each time the ship returns to realspace?”

  “Sure. Because we don’t have a rescue beacon,” Lando said.

  “I see,” said Threepio. “If it isn’t too much trouble, Master Lando, could you explain how exactly the armada is to locate us?”

  “They weren’t ever supposed to lose us,” Lando said. “Hammax’s foray team had orders to go in hard and fast—disable the vagabond before it could clear or break down the interdiction field.”

  “I see. But you persuaded Colonel Pakkpekatt to let us try to go in gently and slowly.”

  Lando shrugged. “Something like that.”

  Lobot raised an eyebrow at the evasion.

  “But was no thought given to contingency plans, in the event that the outcome was not as desired?” Threepio persisted. “Surely the possibility of the vagabond escaping came up in your strategy sessions with Colonel Pakkpekatt.”

  “Of course it did,” Lando said. “But a rescue beacon might attract the attention of outsiders. They’re designed that way, after all—all frequencies, all receivers. Remember, this was a New Republic Intelligence operation. Getting control of the vagabond was only part of the goal—doing it quietly was the rest. Even Hammax’s team didn’t have a beacon—just short-range comm units.”

  “I see—you were forbidden to add a beacon to our equipment.”

  “No,” said Lando. “That was my decision. I figured if we had one, we might use it. I elected to remove the temptation.”

  “I’m certain I don’t understand, Master Lando.”

  “Well—you don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle,” Lando said. “Let’s just say that my orders and Pakkpekatt’s orders don’t quite coincide. We didn’t have his permission to board this ship, and I didn’t intend to hand her over to him—at least not right away.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she would have disappeared into a black hangar somewhere and never been seen again whole,” said Lando. “The NRI has hundreds of people who do nothing but take apart captured alien weapons looking for ideas to steal. The man who sent me out here—call him the Admiral—had a notion that this ship might be something more than that, might be something other than a weapon—and might deserve a better fate. And, as he usually is, he seems to have been right.”

  “I see,” said Threepio. Artoo chirped briefly, prompting Threepio to add, “But there seems to have been some deficiencies in his plan.”

  Lando shook his head. “The only thing that’s gone wrong with the plan is that I promised him we’d be able to get control of this ship, and we haven’t succeeded in doing that yet.”

  “Master Lando, Artoo would like to know if we have any way of signaling the armada.”

  “Not at light-year distances, no. But remember, I don’t exactly want to be rescued by Pakkpekatt.”

  “Then how do you intend to signal the man who sent you out here?”

  Lando pursed his lips. “There’s a blind-band hypercomm transmitter on Lady Luck, very black stuff—I have no idea how it works. But the Admiral can use it to track the ship’s movements, locate her anywhere within the transmitter’s range—which is a secret, but I was told it was a very large number.”

  “But Lady Luck is no longer attached to the vagabond,” Threepio said. “We saw it cut away from the airlock. Lady Luck may even have been destroyed. What use is the transmitter to us? No one has any hint of a clue of an idea where we are. Lobot was right—we’re doomed, doomed to oblivion—”

  “Would you plug that leak, now?” Lando demanded, his tone dripping annoyance. “I swear before an honest dealer, you must be the most tiresome droid ever built.”

  “Oh! How very rude—”

  “There you go again,” Lando said. Digging a bare hand into one of the pouch-pockets of his contact suit, he pulled out a silver cylinder as thick as his thumb and as long as his palm. “Look,” he said. Lando flipped the cylinder end over end in midair, then snatched it up cleanly and tucked it safely away. “They’ll be able to find us when they need to.”

  “Why? What are you talking about? What’s that thing you’re throwing around?”

  “The beckon call for Lady Luck,” Lobot said.

  “Did you know about this?”

  “Of course.”

  Threepio cocked his head. “Is that a transmitter? Can we call for help?”

  “It transmits the signal that activates the yacht’s slave circuits—across hyperspace, too, now, thanks to the Admiral,” said Lando. “The slave circuits then bring the ship to me.”

  “Pardon me, Master Lando, but have you had that device in your possession all this time?”

  “That’s a stupid question, Threepio—even for a protocol droid.”

  “I see no reason to respond to simple interrogatives with abuse—”

  “Let me save you the trouble of asking any more ‘simple interrogatives,’” Lando said. “Yes, I’ve had it all along, and I haven’t used it. The reason I haven’t used it is that we don’t have control of the vagabond. If I call Lady Luck to wherever we stop next, one of two things will happen, neither of which helps us. Either the yacht’ll spook the vagabond into running, or the yacht’ll provoke the vagabond into firing. And if Lady Luck is put out of commission, we’re going to be in real trouble. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear, Master Lando.”

  “Good,” said Lando. “Then I’m going to get back to what I was doing, and you’re going to avoid distracting me. Because we can’t go home until we do what we came out here to do, and I’m too tired and hungry to have any patience with a fussy droid. I’d rather blast you into components than listen to you for one more minute. Is that clear?”

  “As clear as the morning air on Kolos Moon.” Threepio tapped Artoo on the dome with his good hand. “Come, Artoo. I believe we’re in the way here.”

  The bow compartment of the vagabond was at least five times more voluminous than any other that Lando’s party had previously discovered. The chamber took the shape of a fat disc standing on edge, with the inner face convex, the outer face five meters away and concave. Counting the one they had entered through, there were eight portals evenly spaced around the rim of the disc. Each of the new portals seemed to be the gateway to another long series of compartments.

  “All star routes lead to Imperial City,” Lando said. “I don’t know if this is the control nexus, but it’s something different, that’s for sure. And it’s pretty clear the Qella didn’t want you to miss coming here.”

  While the droids hovered near the center of the compartment, Lando and Lobot began the now familiar drill of searching its surfaces by hand for contact triggers. But for all the surface area of the compartment, it was unusually unreactive. Lobot found no triggers on the outer face, and Lando only a single trigger on the inner.

  That contact brought a pattern of curving, evenly spaced projections curling out from the entire inner face of the chamber. Each blunt-ended L-shaped hook was as thick as Threepio’s wrist and as long as Lando’s forearm, and the pattern invited the eye to see trapezoids, pinched rectangles, and overlapping wavy-sided triangles.

  “What do you think, Lobot? A bridge control panel, Qella-style? They sure say ‘grab here’ to me,” Lando said, hovering near the droids.

  Lobot, drifting just over the inner face, reached out and seized hold of one of the projections. There was no response within the chamber and no detectable response from the ship.

  “If these are controllers, perhaps they only operate in combination. It would be useful if we knew what the body plan and
limb span of the Qella species was,” said Lobot, turning toward Lando. “Of course, the size of this chamber would readily allow for more than one operator.”

  Lando jetted forward. “Isn’t this what kids do when you let them sit in the cockpit for the first time—start pushing buttons at random?” He reached for the nearest projection with his left hand, then drew it back. “Artoo, can you spot any writing anywhere on this wall—like what you saw in the airlock when we boarded?”

  The droid’s silver dome swiveled back and forth for a few seconds. Then Artoo emitted a short squeak that needed no translation.

  “Just our luck,” said Lando. “We’re dealing with a species that never invented the sign.”

  By then, Lobot was moving across the chamber face by using the projections as handholds. “I don’t think these are control devices, Lando,” he said. “Or if they are, the controls are locked out. I’ve touched fourteen different pairs now, and nothing is happening. Even if something was going on elsewhere in the ship, there should be some confirmation here.”

  “Maybe we’re all wrong about this chamber.”

  “I am more and more convinced by the moment,” said Lobot. “I can barely reach from one grip to the next—even if the Qella are larger than we are, it seems inconvenient to scatter controls over such a large area.”

  “Maybe this is where they hung prisoners, or maidens, or honored sacrifices, like figureheads on the bow.”

  “I think that unlikely.”

  With a grin and the faintest puff of thruster gas, Lando began a slow rotation, until he was floating upside down in relation to the others. “You know, Lobot, they look even more like handholds this way—handholds and footrests. I wonder—” He craned his neck back until he could see the outer face of the chamber. “Artoo, how many of the rectangular patterns are there?”

  A moment later, Threepio relayed the answer. “Artoo informs me that there are twenty-seven.”