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Part 12

Okay, so maybe it wasn't impossible. But it was close.

Wes leaned on the handle of the hoverjack, starting to breathe heavily. A Supplies crewer had quickly arrived after his conversation with Colonel Arpenau, two of the promised jacks in tow. He had quickly demonstrated the simple controls, then jogged away toward the loading bays again, leaving Wes to organize his own freight as well as he could. Which turned out to be, not very well at all.

He found it was possible to load two jacks and drag them into the warehouse, pushing one awkwardly ahead and pulling the other along behind, but it was far too slow. He could handle one jack nearly at a run, but he still couldn't move fast enough to get all of the boxes moved in ... just under three hours, he found when he checked his chrono. Sithspawn.

Wes sighed heavily, running a hand back through his hair. Much as he hated to, there was nothing else for it. Time to start burning some favors. He pulled out his comlink, set it to a familiar frequency, and clipped it to his collar to keep his hands free. Thumbing the transmit button, he lined up the jack with the next pallet and waited for a voice to come through from the other end.

It took a while. "This had better be something dire," it slurred sleepily.

"Yeah Hobbie, it kind of is. Look, I'm sorry to wake you up, but I need a favor."

"That's nice. Good night." The transmission cut out.

Wes thumbed his comlink again, pulling the box out of line and pushing it toward the closest door. After another pause, Hobbie was back. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Yeah, it's 0311," Wes replied without a hitch, glancing at his chrono for the time. "About that favor."

"You have no idea how much I don't care right now."

"I need you to get out of bed and come down to the warehouse section. Look up entrance Gamma-8."

Nothing but silence on the other end. Wes maneuvered the box through the door and headed up the row. "Hobbie?"

No answer. He had been hung up on again. Wes re-thumbed the button on his comlink, briskly pacing toward his assigned shelving unit.

Hobbie's voice came back, sounding a little more awake. "Tell me this is a bad dream."

"It's a bad dream. But you still need to come down to the warehouses. It's important."

"What have you gotten into now, Wes?"

Wes winced at the resigned accusation in his wingmate's voice; Hobbie knew him far too well. "It's kind of a long story."

"Start talking."

"There isn't time. Look -- do you remember Captain Lendrooloo from Karshen Base?" Wes asked, drifting to a stop.

There was a brief silence as Hobbie dredged up the memory. "Loonie Lenny? Yeah, I remember him."

"The officer in charge down here is just like him. But worse."

"Worse than Lenny?" Hobbie interrupted, incredulous.

"Yeah. And he's gonna hit me with a reprimand, unless I get a bunch of cargo moved by morning." With the reminder that time was pressing, Wes shoved the crate back into motion, turning the corner and heading down the narrower row between shelves.

"Why are you moving cargo? You were manning a security post."

"That's part of the long story. Hobbie..." Wes sighed again, letting the crate come to a stop beside the handful of crates he'd already racked. "I'm really sorry to drag you in on this one," he continued, for once perfectly serious. "But I can't do this by myself."

There was another pause, a longer one, and then a quiet noise that might have been an answering sigh. "All right. You owe me big this time."

"I know. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"You bet you will. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Thanks, Hobbs, you're the best. Oh -- would you mind stopping by the cafeteria on the way down for some caf? I could really use it," he added, turning the jack to face the shelf.

"Sure, I'm gonna need some anyway," Hobbie's voice grumbled back at him.

The crate slid off onto the shelf; one more down, far too many left to go. "And while you're at it, see if they have any pastries? Something sweet."

"Yeah," Hobbie mumbled, plus something Wes couldn't make out and some rustling noises, probably his wingmate stumbling into whatever clothes were nearest to hand.

"Thanks. Oh -- and if they've got any Narunien orange figs --"

"Wes!" Hobbie snapped, loud and clear.

The recalcitrant pilot grinned, turning the jack around and starting on his way back out. "Well, if you'd rather have the purple figs, by all means. I'm not picky. See you in a few."

Hobbie growled something unintelligible and cut the transmission. Wes jogged back toward the corridor and the next box.

Continued in Part 13...