It was half past eight (half past three in Paris, of course) when Becki returned to the Batcave, accompanied by a red and black astromech, which darted before her, then behind her, threatening to trip her at every other step.
"I see why you're called Kitten," she grumbled. "You're chronically underfoot. Space, droid. Give me space." The droid wheeled back with a surprised squeak, and despite her annoyance Becki grinned. "No, it's okay. I just need room to walk, you see?" Kitten gave a chastened-sounding whistle, and they entered the hangar, the droid keeping a careful distance from her for the moment.
Not far from the Red Home, Brad was at his B-wing, getting it ready for flight; he gave her an inscrutable look, and she waved back. Kitten chirped as two of the team's other astromechs zoomed by to the right: from the high-pitched squeals one of them was making, Becki recognized it as Hyper, the most aptly named droid in Mendellia. Ducking into the little room where she'd unintentionally spent the night, she grabbed the Parisian maps off the table and stuffed them into her gear bag.
Back in the hangar, she headed straight to the Red Home and hurried up the ramp into the passenger compartment. From a seat towards the back of the compartment, Josh Nolan grinned and waved an inflated alien at her. Becki decided it was best not to ask, but she grinned and waved back. Heading towards the ship's storage areas, she found a place to stow her bag--considerably lighter now, since, with Zee having memorized most of her French books, she had no need to lug them along. Turning around to return to the passenger compartment, she almost tripped over her astromech again.
"Okay," she said, "this is not going to work. You're going to have to stay here, Kitten."
The droid squealed in protest.
"Yes, I know, but I just don't think there'll be much for you to do on this mission. And I need to be able to walk from one end of this ship to the other without being tripped."
Kitten backed away immediately, but Becki shook her head.
"No, you stay in the Palace." She had an idea then and knelt down next to the droid. "In fact . . . maybe there's something you can do for me here."
Kitten chirped inquisitively, edging closer to her.
"Mike said you're very loyal. . . . Can you extend that loyalty for me? Keep an eye on Thayer while I'm gone." At the droid's confused- sounding whistle, she giggled and explained, "You know, Thayer. The Dictator. The guy in charge of this place. With the moustache and the bright eyes? Always in a hurry?"
That drew a stream of beeps and whistles from the droid that Becki couldn't begin to translate, but the general mood seemed to be one of recognition. "Um," she said, "yeah. So, will you do it? Watch out for him?"
Kitten answered with one short chirp, which she took for an affirmative. "Thanks," she said. The droid turned and hurried away towards the exit ramp, while Becki headed for the cockpit.
When she saw what had taken the place of the old, drab curtain separating the cockpit from the rest of the ship, she burst out laughing. Mike appeared at the sound, parting the new curtain of beads with one hand and peeking out at her.
"What?" he said.
"The beads," she giggled.
"Oh." He looked the curtain up and down and then glanced back at her. "You have a problem with it?"
"Oh, no," she said when she'd caught her breath from the laughing. "It's just that every time I see one of those it reminds me of one of my Dad's stories. When he was pastoring his first church he went to visit one of the members and, just to be sociable, complimented him on this beaded curtain that he had. Apparently he was a little more enthusiastic than he needed to be, because a few days later the guy showed up at the parsonage, pulled out a measuring tape, and started measuring the doorway there. He thought, since Dad liked those beads so much, he'd just do him a favor and make one like it for the parsonage!"
"And what's wrong with that?" Mike grinned.
Becki shrugged. "Didn't match the décor, I suppose. But it always struck me funny--the crazy sorts of people Dad's encountered in his ministry."
"The adventures of the clerical life," Mike grinned and ducked back into the cockpit.
"Right," she said, joining him there and peering out the viewport. The ship's chrono read 0834 Mendellian time--and, yes, a secondary chrono had been set to show Paris time, now at 1534. "So, Wingmate," she said, "are we good to go?"
"All set," Mike said. "As soon as everyone's on board. Or 0900. Whichever comes first."
At 0844, the Red Home's comm sounded and Josh Cochran's voice came over the speakers: "Is Vickie with you folks? I haven't seen her arrive yet."
"We haven't seen her," Becki answered.
"Well, she hardly looked awake at breakfast, and I haven't heard anything from her since then," Josh said. "If she's not here soon, I'm going to--Oh, wait. Never mind; there she is."
Becki glanced out the viewport, but from this angle she didn't see anything. A moment later, however, footsteps rattled the flooring in the passenger compartment beyond the beaded curtain.
"Okay," Josh called, "everyone present and accounted for?"
"Ten here," came Brad's voice over the comm; he would be flying his B- wing to Paris, the only other starfighter they were taking besides Josh's X-wing.
Becki parted the beads to peek into the passenger compartment. Vickie was there, indeed, sprawled over one of the couches and looking barely half-awake. Somewhat more awake was the Crispy Fried Aussie, trying to fend off Z-3PO's attempts to get in some French practice with him, by explaining--unsuccessfully--that he didn't know French. Zee would not be put off. Out came the alien. Zee was wheeped. Becki had to giggle: who'd have known a droid could look so flabbergasted?
"We're set," she told Mike as she turned back toward the viewport.
Mike nodded and keyed the comm. "Four here, carrying Three, Five, Nine, and the droids."
"Well, then," came Josh's voice over the comm, "let's go!"
"It's not 0900 yet," Becki pointed out.
"Better early than late," said Josh. "We're all here, so we'd better get going."
"But--" Becki began, but then she reconsidered. What was the point of waiting any longer? She supposed she'd been hoping, consciously or not, that Thayer would show up at the last minute to see them off. But if he'd not sought her out in the last day, why now? With a sigh, she let go of her hopes. "Right, of course."
"Okay," called Josh, "Operation Arrakis is officially under way. Bon voyage, everyone!"
"Yes, Councillor, I see that. Yes, of course, I realize your position- -no, I assure you--no, Councillor, it's--"
Lenka paused in her typing as Thayer's voice grew more and more impatient. Turning her head only ever so slightly and looking out of the corner of her eye--one learned such tricks in the Queen Mother's service--she watched him glower at the door and drum his fingers on his desk as the person on the other end of the telephone conversation spoke.
"I don't doubt that it was a sight to see, Councillor Mram," he soon said, and Lenka smiled slightly, wondering if the Councillor could hear the irony in the Dictator's voice. "But--you'll excuse me for asking, Lord Sklat--just what did you say to him?"
Lenka could hear the click of disconnection even from her seat at the computer, so hard Lord Mram must have slammed down his receiver. Thayer gave a wry laugh as he set his own back on its cradle. "Well, at least that got rid of him."
"Why does he call you about this, anyway?" Lenka asked softly. "What does he expect you to do? Terra Group has your favor, and it's known well enough that Sklat Mram does not."
"I doubt he expects me to do anything," sighed Thayer. "Likely he only hopes to taunt."
"Why let him?" she asked. "Why do you have to answer for Terra Group's actions? You are not their servant."
Thayer smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Nor are they mine. They are our allies, Lenka. Terra Group has stood by me at times when few others would."
"Well, at the least," she persisted, growing ever more comfortable with the notion of a sovereign with whom she could speak freely, "they ought to answer for their own actions."
"They do, Lenka. And--" Suddenly he whirled around to stare at her fully. "Oh, good grace--what time is it now?"
She glanced at her computer's clock and told him, "Ten till nine, Sire."
"Ten minutes . . . I might just make it." Hurrying out the door, he paused to tell her, "I'll be back shortly. Carry on with the journals."
Ten minutes--it wouldn't give him much time, but at the very least, there was little chance that she'd be anywhere else but the Batcave, so close to the hour of her team's departure. So this was his chance. Thayer raced to the Batcave, taking stairs half the way there rather than wait for the turbolift to arrive, flying down two steps at a time in his hurry.
And it was all for naught. With eight minutes left till the hour, he arrived to find Terra Group's hangar quiet, the Red Home nowhere in sight. No one saw him arrive; nothing moved--save one astromech, an R5 unit trimmed in black and red, that came tootling over to him.
"They've gone," he whispered, disbelieving, still gasping for breath after his run.
The droid chirped cheerfully and circled him, scooting back and forth, almost as if it meant to play.
"They've gone," he said again. "It's not yet nine and they've gone."
The droid's tone changed, such that Thayer fancied it was trying to ask him a question.
"What? I don't . . . No, don't you see? I've missed her. Again."
The Dictator turned and headed for the turbolift, and the red and black droid followed cautiously, whistling a sound of quiet disappointment and concern.