"I still can not believe they let us go," Auriga said, sitting in the Big Chair.
"I can't believe they fell for it," Arkwright replied, sitting at the control station to his right, one arm laid across a raised knee. "We made so many mistakes."
"Like calling the Captain a bloody Madam?"
"Hey, I happen to think I did a flaming good job covering that turbolift thing."
"You did a flaming good job on my floor, too," the captain said, poking at the blaster mark in the floor by the Chair with his toe.
"Yeah, well, that false log of mine would have had us out of there in a jiffy if it weren't for Tallen's outburst."
"He was only trying to help," Auriga scolded. "Someone had to step forward as the phony deck officer."
"Agreed. I still would have just sneaked the fighters outside."
Things beeped.
"Ah, we're here. Mr. Wereling?"
"Got it, sir," Wereling called from below, reaching for the appropriate lever.
Starlines receded to points, sprinkled on a thin velvet wisp of gas.
Arkwright turned lazily, not moving his foot, reaching across to the sensor board with his other arm. "The Acumen's off our starboard main ... there's another ship with her."
Auriga perked up and turned to Arkwright. "ID?"
"It's one of ours, a bulk freighter. The Fullerton. That's probably what they'll have us shuttle everything over aboard."
"Very well. I'll handle the formalities if you'd like to head down to His Imperial Majesty's private docking port and see to things."
"Roger." Arkwright was already on his feet, and headed for the door.
Auriga's radio call reached his ears as he left. "Acumen, Acumen, this is Liberator, kilo delta yankee three zero one ... "
"Hey, hey, wait a minute!" Arkwright yelled as he approached the foyer of the docking port, Imperial insignia still adorning its walls. "What's all this?"
Workmen were pushing large hovercarts worth of crates and equipment through the airlock and setting them in the receiving chamber. A scruffy, dentally-challenged little man with a datapad turned to face him. The nametag sewn on his work jumper read 'Carl'.
"You in charge here?" asked Carl.
"Yeah. You're making a mistake. See, we're here to drop some personnel and assorted junk off with the Acumen, then we're out of here."
"Not any more you're not." A toothpick bobbed in his mouth as he spoke. "We've got orders to drop this assorted junk off with you first, then take your trash over there."
"We weren't informed of -"
"- of any transfer of supplies, I know, they told me that. This is me telling you now, kapice?"
Arkwright leaned very far forward into the man's face and flicked the toothpick out of his mouth with one finger.
"Then where do I put it, Carl?" he asked slowly, putting very firm emphasis on the T's.
"Goes in the hangar," he replied, unfazed. "And don't worry about not having room - we'll be taking some stuff you got down there off your hands." He smiled an I-know-more-than-you smile and returned through the airlock, backing against the wall to let another cart past. Arkwright wanted to hit the smile with a brick.
"Puke," he muttered.
Carl jumped off the turbolift first, motioning the first cart over to the side. "Just set it all down over there by the pile of blackened debris."
Arkwright followed the cart out of the lift as Carl marveled at the mess. He whistled. "Wow! What the hell'd you guys do in here?"
Arkwright's response was cold. "Don't even ask, little man."
"Right. Are those your Y-wings over there?" A brilliant crimson nebula was visible behind them.
"Yes. Don't ask about the paint job either."
"Is that all four of 'em?"
"Yep. I don't think they've ever been flown in combat."
"How's that?"
Arkwright just looked at him with slitted eyes.
"Right, don't ask." He took a deep breath, said, "Okay!"
The turbolift opened again, and another cart full of crates emerged. Four pilots left behind them.
"That's them over on that side, fellas. Just leave whenever you've got 'em prepped."
"Hey, hey, I don't think so!" Arkwright exclaimed, but the orange men paid him no heed.
Carl was about 5'4". Flynn lifted him up to his eye level in short order.
He could project his voice when he wanted to, with a throat that had commanded strike teams. "Stop right where you are!"
The pilots froze.
Turning back to the squirming little man, he said, "I don't care one lick who gave you your orders. You and your men are not on the Fullterton any more. You are standing on the Liberator, which is my ship. I command its crew, I direct its weapons. The fighters on it are my property, and the responsibility of my crew. Any cargo on your ship you have been ordered to give to me also became my property the moment I entered the system according to the New Spacefaring Maritime Act, section seven. If you care to flaunt this any further I would be glad to illustrate that my ship's bulkheads resonate quite differently from yours when one is thrown against them." Arkwright began walking with the now goggle-eyed man into the turbolift. "You will give all data concerning the equipment you are delivering to me, and I will tell you where to put it. My pilots will take those y-wings back to your ship, and my pilots will fly the replacements back. Kapice?"
"... o ... okay," Carl finally managed. Arkwright set him down.
"I can give you everything but that last one," he said, straightening his outfit.
"And why's that?"
"Because your pilots ain't certified to fly the replacements yet," and Carl gave that brickable smile again.
Two hours later, Ean Der was in heaven.
"They're beautiful!"
Flare looked like she'd eaten a bug.
"What are they?"
"I don't know, but I want one!"
"You've got one," Arkwright said. "You've got four. Apparently this is all we get, so don't blow any of them up. They're important."
"What are they called?" Tallen asked.
"According to this, they call them A-wings. Fighter/Interceptor early prototype. Very early prototype."
Ean Der ran over and climbed into the cockpit of the nearest one to begin fiddling around. To counter his boyish enthusiasm, Arkwright contented himself with reading the statistics as dryly as possible from the datapad he'd been given.
"Dodonna/Blissex design ... Twin Novaldex J-77 Event Horizon engines."
"Great mother," Flare exclaimed. "It must be a bitch to control."
"Massive sensor jamming package ... excellent against TIEs, terrible against larger ships because it acts more like a beacon than anything else. Hmm ... anything else here?" Arkwright said to himself, scrolling through the data.
"Check this out!" Cor exclaimed. The laser cannons on the A-wing pivoted up and down gleefully.
"I think I'll leave those two alone," Arkwright whispered to Tallen and Flare as he headed for the turbolift. Then, louder, "The simulators are being updated right now with full A-wing capability, and you're all ordered to put in at least 40 full hours there before you even turn on these engines. I'm sure you understand this is fairly generous?"
Flare and Tallen nodded. Cor was nearly glowing.
"The only reason I'm not holding you all to a wing-standard 500 hours is that we need these fighters for our next mission. And if I hear of any of them launching before we leave, I'm holding you responsible, Cor."
The reply was muffled by distance. "Awww ..."
Arkwright shook his head and stepped into the turbolift, reviewing the schematics further.