“It’s hardly their fault if you don’t win the battles faster, either,” the foreman countered, half turning to peer out the viewport at the Springhawk floating nearby, silhouetted against the blue-white disk of the frozen Csilla surface filling half the sky.

“We won it fast enough,” Samakro assured him. “And let’s not get overly dramatic, shall we? There’s not that much damage.”

“You don’t think so?” the foreman said sourly. “Well, I suppose that’s why you’re out there running into missile salvos and I’m in here putting your ship back together.” He lifted a finger. “Sensor nodes needing replacement: seven. Hull plates needing replacement: eighty-two. Spectrum lasers needing repair or refurbishment: five. And what’s this nonsense about adding an extra tank of plasma sphere fluid?”

“We use a lot of plasma spheres.”

“And where exactly does Senior Captain Thrawn suggest I put it?” the foreman retorted. “His quarters? Your quarters?”

“I have no idea,” Samakro said. “That’s why you’re in here performing maintenance miracles and we’re out there making people regret tangling with the Chiss Ascendancy.”

“This would take a miracle,” the foreman grumbled, looking at the questis again. Still, he seemed pleased by Samakro’s small compliment. “The least he could do is come ask for these miracles in person.”

“He’s in consultation with General Ba’kif right now.”

The foreman sniffed. “No doubt planning his next foray into trouble. Fine. I’ll get started on the rest of this, and see if I can find enough space somewhere for this impossible plasma tank he wants.”

“If anyone can do it, you can,” Samakro assured him. “What kind of time frame are we looking at?”

“At least six weeks, maybe seven,” the foreman said. “If I get a rush order from Ba’kif or Supreme Admiral Ja’fosk, I can maybe slice a week off that.”

“Well, go ahead and get started, and I’ll see about getting you that rush order,” Samakro said. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by not wrecking your ship next time.”

“What, and make the Council wonder if they still need people like you?” Samakro asked blandly.

“I’d love to see the Council try their hand at this job,” the foreman said. “The Ascendancy would never fly again. Go on, get out of here—I’ve got work to do.”

Fifteen minutes later, Samakro was on a shuttle heading for the surface.

A hard knot in his stomach.

Do you deliberately run into the middle of your battles? the foreman had asked. Samakro had waved off the sarcasm…but in the core of his heart he wasn’t nearly that certain. There’d been at least two times during the Lioaoin skirmish, maybe three, when Thrawn had taken the Springhawk far deeper into the enemy fire zone than he’d had to. Nearly all of the damage the foreman had groused about had come from those particular sorties.