"Planetfall. What a lovely concept," Tocneppil grumbled to himself as he trudged in from the outer icefield. The last hard rays of the Hothian sunset rimmed the clouded horizon with bronze. 'Sunset.' What a joke. You could go through three of them in time it took Echo Base to slam the main shield doors. Speaking of which, the doors should be closing any minute. The temperature was dropping rapidly. He picked up the pace, hurrying to get inside.

He was met at the door by a pair of droids, a protocol and an astromech, making him think manpower must be pretty short. The astromech was running scan sweeps. The gold protocol twitched fussily, nothing unusual for the model. "Sir, have you seen any tauntauns, riderless or otherwise?"

Sano halted, annoyed to be held up in the cold. Great. A pass-phrase. Nobody mentioned anything about that. Bad enough that he'd had to put down outside, since there was no space left in the hangar. The only thing on his mind was finding some cold weather gear and fast.

Right inside the hangar doors crouched the Millennium Falcon, looking more beat than ever. She'd really fallen apart since Calrissian had owned her. With a shrug, Tocneppil muttered, "Save the Princess, you get to park inside."

The protocol droid turned back to the R2 unit and muttered something about rude people.

Tocneppil had half a mind to turn back and give him rude people, but the droids were standing in the draft. Which reminded him, first order of business was to get a hold of something more substantial, clothing-wise. He checked in with the deck officer and was told to see Lt. Gell. "In Supply?" he asked hopefully.

The officer pointed him down an ice corridor. "Second turn after the second turn. And whatever you do, don't go in anywhere that you see a yellow warning sticker."

"What? Security access in a field base? The Alliance is getting all full of itself."

"Not security. Wampas."

"Oh, sure," Tocneppil agreed. "Wampas." What the hell's a Wampa? he wondered.

"You been to an Orientation briefing yet?"

"No, I just got here."

"Well, you can -"

Sano cut him off. "Yeah, yeah, I'll make sure to do it, buddy. Look, I gotta see about gettin' some warmer gear."

The recommended number of turns later, he found what he thought was a crowded hallway. It turned out to be the line for Supply. Not that it was all that long, it just wasn't moving. Frankly, inside the base was almost as cold as outside, except not as windy. While he waited, Sano discovered that bits of frozen condensation would drop off the heat units on the ceiling, down the back of any unprotected neck. His neck, for instance.

Finally, it was Sano's turn at the makeshift counter. Most of the inventory behind Gell seemed to consist of empty crates. However, to Sano's relief, there seemed to be a fair amount of the Alliance-issue beige and white cold weather gear. Fishing into his belt pouch with numb fingers, Sano pulled out the worn green ID card, presenting it to Lieutenant Gell. "Echo Com said to see you, once I put down for the night."

The lieutenant took the card with that preemptory air of supply officers the galaxy over, who know without a doubt that they are masters of the immediate domain. Gell dipped the card into a read-slot and traced a pinkie across his comp screen. "Tocneppil, Sano S., Flight Lieutenant, status: Irregular."

Sano said, "Yeah. I take a 40 long. Hat size is..."

"Where's your flight helmet? You signed it out on Yavin 4 three years ago."

" 'Scuse me?"

"I cannot proceed with re-supplying you until we square your account from Yavin 4."

"Look, buddy, there's got to be a mistake."

"No, there isn't. Don't even start."

"I was transferred off Yavin with Captain Baylor's squadron. We were assigned to Pr-"

"I don't care if you were called in the lottery to the Senate at Coruscant. According to your records, you were also assigned a Y-wing fighter and your managed to return that. A Y-wing is very large and a helmet is..."

"It's a little thing!"

"Exactly. We all do our parts by maintaining the little things. No matter how trivial, no matter how tedious, no matter how thankless. Not everyone gets to be a fighter pilot, who can leave or rejoin the cause at his convenience."

Sano put a tone in his voice as cold as the hallway he was tired of standing in. "Look, mister, I am about one-half of a time-part from taking this matter up with my old friend General Rykan."

The lieutenant cut him off. "Ri-ke-an," he said, enunciating it irritably. "Don't even bother with this bluff. If you want to go through official channels, it's three days' standard processing time for the documentation to clear. If you come back this time tomorrow with a flight helmet that has a matching serial number, we'll see about getting you taken care of."

Sano advanced a menacing step, fists balling in their thin flight gloves. "Is there anything...anything...I can get right now without a waiting period?"

Gell fished in a bag on the counter, then tossed him a small orange plasform cylinder on a lanyard. Sano held it up to the light, trying to see through it. "What's this?"

"Wampa whistle."

"Okay, I give. What's a Wampa?"

"If you see one, you'll know."

"Great. Thanks." Sano stuffed it in his jacket. "Look, if it wouldn't it be out of your area to answer me this: where can I get a drink in this place without 24-hours' paperwork?"

Lt. Gell brightened noticeably, perhaps glad that Tocneppil was about to be someone else's problem. "Temporary officers' club, down the hall. Make a right and a right and..."

"A right?" Sano guessed.

"Well, if you've already been there, why'd you ask?" Gell sneered, waving him on dismissively.

Sano turned his back and trudged off down the cold hallway.

*

Morning wasn't the most pleasant time on the Plague. Kelly had learned over the last three years to walk softly, avoiding eye contact and conversation until closer to the day's midpoint. Neither Doc or Sam were what you'd call morning people.

So while he waited for his turn at the head, he drank his coffeen and tossed down his rations packet as quietly as he could. He couldn't help thinking about all the supplies lost when the convoy'd been hit yesterday. He wondered how food rations were holding up elsewhere on the base. It made him chew his tasteless nutri-bar more slowly.

Doc stepped from her quarters, dressed in her gray coveralls and a thermal vest, as Sam emerged from the head, still in sleep clothes. They passed silently and Kelly got up for his turn at the shower.

"Hang on, Kelly," Doc said. "Do me a favor?"

He shrugged. "Uh, sure." Doc's favors were rarely optional, but he appreciated that she asked.

"Pick me up a bottle on your way home tonight, will ya?" She dug three five-credit pieces out of a vest pocket and dropped them into his hand.

Sam's voice sounded behind her. "Good to know you got your priorities set. Better to run outta rations than Ambersi, right?"

Doc rolled her eyes before she turned to face him. They'd had this discussion before. Sam thought Doc drank too much. Doc thought it wasn't his business. As a truce, usually Sam watered her bottles and Doc pretended not to notice. As far as Kelly could tell, Doc didn't drink lots, but steady.

"Are we in danger of running out of rations, Sam?" she asked, her voice much more reasonable than normal.

"No, not y-"

"And if we did, would my fifteen credits be able to buy more someplace on this rock?"

"No." Sam heaved a sigh. "But, Doc, I'm just thinkin' you're gonna need to stay sharp is all."

She shook her head. "Sam, sharp is the last thing I wanna be 'round here."

To be continued...