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Part 6

Biting back a curse, Wes dodged around the crate-laden droid and ran back to his desk. Skidding into his seat, he slapped at an override button and the security door slammed down, locking Navik and his droids out. The besieged pilot slumped in his chair for a second, running both hands back through his hair. At least now he had a little breathing room to figure out what to do with his roomful of loaded boxes.

The tone from the door started chiming insistently. Wes looked at his monitor, seeing Navik punching the call button over and over. He keyed the outside comm, which was immediately flooded by a stream of abuse. "... defiled son of an uu'thlu, if you don't open this door immediately I will --" Wes shut off the channel again. Bringing up the directory, he furiously scanned for the watch officer in charge of the loading docks and punched in his comm code.

A brusque voice answered his summons. "Major Frantloo here. Please make it fast, we're very busy."

"Major Frantloo, this is Major Janson at security door Gamma-8. I've got an insane Quarren here trying to stuff my bay full of boxes. Can you help?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the comm. "Could you repeat that?" the voice finally asked, carefully.

Wes closed his eyes and forced himself to speak slowly. "This is Major Janson, covering door Gamma-8, right beside your loading bay 19. I've got a Quarren here insisting that I take on his supplies, instead of putting them into your warehouse where they belong. What would you suggest I do with him?"

"A Quarren -- Aruul Navik?"

"Yes!" Wes exclaimed, relieved that someone down here seemed to have a clue what was going on. "He's the most insufferable, rude excuse for a higher life form I've ever met." The constant chiming from the door was joined by loud banging, Navik's unfortunate datapad being used as an ineffectual battering-ram.

"You can say that again. We've had nothing but problems from him. We'll fix him this time, rest assured, and I don't care whose great-uncle is in charge of procurement for Sector XB-25. Old Qawati can find himself a new delivery-nerf."

"Huh?" Wes winced as the banging on the door echoed around the small room. "Um, look, I don't care so much whose uncle is in charge of what, could you just get someone to take care of this guy?"

"Yeah, well, we're understaffed across two of our docks tonight, and everything is backed up. Let me pull up the delivery schedule ... Navik's got eight trucks?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"I'll tell you what, send two of them down to bay 19, and then you can let him offload the rest at your location. It should all fit in that long corridor, and will give us some time to --"

"What!" Wes exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his seat. "You mean I still have to deal with this bladder-fly? This isn't a loading bay, it's a security post!"

"It's the quickest way to get him off all our backs. Look, it's under my authorization. I'll lock down the door at the other end of your hall from here and notify Security of the change. Just let him dump his crates and send him on his way. And ignore the bluster. He's got an endless supply, but he's harmless."

"Yeah, I noticed," Wes muttered. "All right, I'll let him in. Janson out." He punched off the comm, leaned his elbows on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. "Sharps, you are gonna pay for this," he mumbled to himself. Scrubbing his face briefly in his palms, he keyed the outside speaker again. "All right, Navik, stuff it. Move back from the door and I'll let you in."

"And about time, you shoddy excuse for a land-grown burlik, stinking rotten fish-gut carcass of a bloated whale-shark..."

Wes rolled his eyes and keyed open the door. Navik charged inside, wildly waving his datapad, without once stopping for breath. "Diseased hump of sea-cow, I'll use your liver for nihil-bait, you --"

In one smooth motion, Wes rose to his feet, drew his sidearm, flicked off the safety, and aimed it squarely between Navik's eyes. The Quarren squeaked to a stop, eyes nearly crossing as they stared down the barrel of Wes's blaster. "Do I have your attention?" Wes gritted out between clenched teeth. Navik nodded, a quick, frightened jerk of his head. "Good. You will send the last two of your trucks back to bay Gamma-19. The rest you will unload here. Your droids can stack the crates in the hallway. And If I hear any more abuse, I will drill a new set of gills straight through the center of your Sith-rotten head. Do you understand?"

The Quarren nodded again. "Get to it," Wes ordered, lowering the blaster. Navik gibbered for a moment, then quickly waved the first of his droids forward. It glided smoothly across the floor, in stark contrast to its quaking master, and eased its load through the opening into the corridor. Navik looked at Wes, still wide-eyed and speechless. Wes reseated himself at the desk, crossed one leg over the other, propped both hands behind his head and smiled sweetly back.

Continued in Part 7...