But each time he suppressed the impulse. The Aristocra's midnight discussion about the casual waving of alien weapons was still fresh in his mind, and he'd already learned enough about Chiss pride to know that Formbi and the others would probably rather do it their way than accept his help. Particularly when that help wasn't really necessary.
And so the company waited as the crewers finished the job. Once they'd broken through the hatchway there was another short delay as the ship's medic tested the atmosphere, confirming that none of the microorganisms, trace gases, or suspended particulates present would be dangerous to Chiss or human. With only a few days' worth of data on Geroon biochemistry he was less certain as to whether there would be any adverse effects on them, and there was some talk of rigging protective suits for the four who would be coming aboard.
But Bearsh declined the offer. The proper ritual clothing would be impossible to wear inside such suits, he stated, and assured Formbi that he and his people were willing to take whatever risks were necessary.
With all the delays, it was actually closer to three hours before the party was finally ready to go.
A strange-looking party they were, too, Luke reflected as they lined up on the Chiss side of the transfer tunnel. Drask and Formbi were dressed in the same stately outfits they'd worn at the first night's reception dinner, while Feesa and a black-uniformed Chiss warrior carrying an elaborate banner on a pole wore much simpler and more functional clothing. Fel was back in his dress uniform, and Luke would swear that the four stormtroopers had put extra effort into making sure their armor was gleaming. Jinzler had discarded his earlier layered robe-tunic in favor of something simpler and less constrictive, and Luke found himself wondering if the older man was expecting dirt and close quarters aboard the Dreadnaught or whether he was just tiring of his ambassadorial play-acting.
Each of the four Geroons who would be attending wore one of the blue-and-gold-collared wolvkil bodies over the shoulders of his thick brown robe, making an odd contrast to Estosh and the bandages he was wearing on his shoulder. The young Geroon had argued at length with Bearsh in their melodic language about going along, and was clearly still not happy that he was merely there to see the others off. He stood off to one side, nursing his shoulder and looking even more lost and pathetic than usual.
Luke was back in his dark jumpsuit and duster, but Mara had passed up her formal gown in favor of a jumpsuit similar to Luke's that she could move more freely in if necessary. Still, her natural poise and elegance made him feel as if she were far better dressed than he was. "Next trip," Luke murmured to her as the Chiss standard-bearer led the way into the tunnel, "remind me to pack a couple of formal outfits."
"I've always said you and Han are the scruffiest heroes I've ever met," she murmured back.
He looked sideways at her. The comment was typical Mara—that sarcastic manner that had proved so useful in distracting and irritating opponents in the past.
But this time he could tell that the words were pure reflex. There was something going on behind her eyes, some strange concentration.
Shifting his eyes back forward, Luke stretched out to the Force. If something was bothering Mara, he'd better get up to speed, too.
They emerged from the tunnel into an entryway and storage area that was probably half again the size of even the extravagant equivalents aboard the Chaf Envoy. A few boxes were still stacked along the bulkheads, their markings somewhat faded with age, but most of the room was empty. Everything seemed to be coated with a thin layer of dust. "Amazingly clean," Jinzler commented, looking around as the group gathered in the center of the room. His voice echoed strangely from the bare metal walls. "Shouldn't there be more dust?"
"Must be some housekeeping droids still functioning," Fel said. "Or at least there were. Repair droids, too—see where they've patched the cracks in the hull?"
"These machines can still function after all these years?" Bearsh asked in wonderment. "With no one to supervise or repair them?"
"Everything aboard Outbound Flight was well automated," Fel said. "It was all internal rather than being linked to a lot of other ships. Otherwise they would have needed probably sixteen thousand people on each Dreadnaught just to crew it."
"So few?" Bearsh asked, looking around. "Our own vessel is less than half this size, yet it carries more than sixty thousand Geroons."
"Sure, but this wasn't just a colony ship with everyone packed tightly inside," Fel pointed out. "The Dreadnaughts were warships, the biggest the Old Republic had before the Clone Wars, with weaponry and equipment—"
Formbi cleared his throat. Fel took the hint and subsided.
"On behalf of the Nine Ruling Families of the Chiss Ascendancy, I welcome you all to this solemn and sorrowful occasion," the Aristocra began, his voice deep and resonant. "We stand today on the deck of an ancient vessel that lies here as a symbol of human courage and Chiss failing..."
Luke let his eyes drift around the group as Formbi continued his speech. Off to the side, he noticed, Bearsh was murmuring into a bulky comlink in the melodic Geroon language. Probably giving Estosh a running commentary on the ceremony, he decided, and found himself wondering why the young Geroon had been left aboard the Chaf Envoy in the first place. Surely this short a trip wouldn't have strained his injuries that much. About the only thing he could come up with was the fact that the positioning of Estosh's injuries precluded his wearing one of the ceremonial wolvkils.
Personally, Luke considered that a rather ridiculous reason to leave him behind. But he'd been with the New Republic long enough to know that not every aspect of an alien culture had to make sense to him. It was enough that such rules and customs were important to the people who lived under them, and that as such they were worthy of his respect if not necessarily his approval.
And then, without warning, something touched Luke's mind. The last sensation he would ever have expected.
He twisted his head to look at Mara. One glance at her widened eyes was all he needed to show she'd caught it, too. "Luke—?" she whispered tightly.
"What is it?" Formbi demanded, cutting off his speech in midsentence. "What's happened?"
Luke took a deep breath. "It's Outbound Flight," he said, stretching out harder to the Force. No mistake. They were there: minds—human minds, not Chiss—somewhere deep beneath them. A lot of them. "We're not alone, Aristocra Formbi. There are survivors aboard."
CHAPTER 11
Someone gasped, a sharp intake of air, just as quickly cut off. "What did you say?" Bearsh demanded, his comlink sagging forgotten in his grip. "You say... survivors?"
"Unless the Chiss are running a vacation transport service," Mara said, stretching out harder to the Force as she tried to sort out the twisting tapestry of sensations. "There are humans down there, at least a hundred of them. Probably more."
"But that's impossible," Jinzler said, his voice hoarse. "This ship died fifty years ago. It died."
Mara frowned, drawing some of her concentration away from the distant minds to focus on Jinzler. His lined face was tight, his sense swirling like storm clouds in a crosswind, every mental barrier stripped away in a strange combination of hope and dread and guilt.
And in that moment she knew that he hadn't been lying, at least not about his sister having been aboard.
Or was she possibly still aboard? Was that the thought that was sending this emotional groundquake through him? "Maybe the ship died, Ambassador," she told him. "But not everyone aboard died with it."