3

“I think it’s all wrapped up in the symbolism of the Iron Fist,” Face said.

The Wraiths were in the officers’ lounge of Sivantlie Base, their temporary station on Coruscant. Once a hotel catering to mid-level Imperial bureaucrats from offworld, it now housed units of the armed forces that were in transition: soldiers awaiting transport to their assignments, squadrons in rotation between bases, new units being assembled. Two stories down, where the base’s tower just began to extend above the surrounding buildings, there were hangar accesses large enough for small cargo vessels. The lounge itself had vast viewports that gave the Wraiths and other officers present a clear view of the limitless sea of Coruscant’s building tops, as well as storm clouds concentrating only a few kilometers away. Tiny dots like insects, actually shuttles and other craft, buzzed above the cityscape and beneath the clouds.

Face was at the viewports, staring down into the dark depths of Coruscant’s streets, trying to shift his tastes around, trying to become the sort of man who would look upon this world as a thing of beauty. Trying to become a loyal Imperial officer, if only temporarily, to understand how they thought, reacted.

“You’re saying the Iron Fist is his hammer, symbolically as well as effectively?” That was Janson, stretched out on one of the lounge sofas, a tumbler of brandy on the table at his head.

Face nodded absently. “He uses it for strikes against high-profile targets. Not targets that are easier than the others, nor harder, just more visible. Such as the assault on Noquivzor, designed to destroy Rogue Squadron—what a coup that would have been. He named Iron Fist after his first command, an elderly wreck of a Victory-class Star Destroyer. It’s a symbol to him, of his rise from obscurity to power. It’s the key to him, I think.” He glanced over at Runt, who leaned lazily against a support pillar on the other side of the main viewport. “What do you think?”

The brown-furred nonhuman turned toward him. Face felt his own spine stiffen. This wasn’t Runt’s usual body language, and the long-faced pilot’s eyes drooped almost closed. Runt said, “Did I give you leave to speak?” His voice was rich and deep, without his usual melodious tones and odd inflections.

“Your pardon,” Face said. He felt oddly formal. “Iron Fist? Zsinj’s primary and most important act of symbolism?”

Runt shook his head, sending his long, glossy ponytail swaying. His smile showed his large teeth but did not seem in the least friendly. “You don’t understand Zsinj,” he said. “To Zsinj, symbols are for others. Zsinj uses them as simple controls. Knobs and buttons by which he can cause his lessers to do their duty. Dials and gauges by which he can measure their fear. No, Zsinj’s tool is that fear itself, fear and respect. Zsinj smashes with one hand and feeds with the other. One act impresses the unaligned governors who used to support the Empire. The other hand beckons them. As more and more feed from that hand, still more will be forced to.” Runt finally looked fully at Face. “It is the governors. It must be. Zsinj will do whatever it takes to draw them into his camp, one by one or ten by ten. Smash them, entice them, seduce them, terrify them.”

Face glanced back at Janson. The squadron’s second-in-command grinned at him, obviously amused by Runt’s performance, then cocked his head to one side and froze—near-universal pantomime of a droid whose power has just been shut off, pilot’s shorthand for someone whose brain is receiving no power.

One of the lounge’s simulators hissed as its canopy opened. The new Twi’lek pilot, Dia Passik, bounded out as though she were partially made of springs. She had a smile on her face, nearly a smirk, and she headed straight for the bar. Face watched her closely; there was something odd about the way she moved.…

That was it. Hers was the strut of a Corellian pilot. A male Corellian pilot, to the extent that her build would allow her such motion. She, too, knew something about body language and simulated manners.

The adjoining simulator opened and Phanan climbed out more sedately. He came over to Face. “Well, she dropped the heavy end of the hammer on me,” he said.

“Vaped you?”

“Three times out of three. I don’t think she’s up to Kell’s level, and certainly not up to the commander’s, but she’s deadly.” Phanan added, a hopeful note in his voice, “Perhaps she’d show me some mercy on account of my physical appeal and personal charm.”

“I’m sure she would if you had any.”

They joined Dia at the bar, flanking her, and ordered a nonalcoholic fruit fizz to match hers. Squeaky, the 3PO unit with mismatched gold and silver components, drew their drinks, uttered a sigh, and murmured something about the scarcity of fresh fruit in the Coruscant market.

“Ton says you’re a pretty hot shooter,” Face said.

“It won’t work,” she said.

“Eh?” Face glanced across her at Phanan, who returned his confused expression. “What won’t work?”

“You wouldn’t have said that to a male pilot unless it had been a real run. Which means you only said it to ingratiate yourself with me. You want to provoke an emotional response, gratitude, that a lowly flight officer might find worth under the eyes of the famous Garik Loran. At some point I’m supposed to swoon into your arms, aren’t I?”

Face blinked. “That actually hadn’t occurred to me.”

“I didn’t see your holos, Face. When you were acting your heart out as a child star, I was a slave dancer in training, not permitted choice rewards like seeing entertainment holos. You don’t occupy a place in the adolescent quadrant of my heart the way you do with most females my age. I am immune to your alleged charms.”

Face glanced at Phanan again. The other pilot was turning red with the effort not to laugh. Face modulated his voice to low, resonant, romantic tones. “I am so glad I met you,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you all my life.”

“You have?” Her expression turned to confusion. “Why?”

“The one woman in all the galaxy immune to my charms? Do you know how often I’ve said, ‘Where is she, does she truly exist?’ ”

Phanan got himself under control. “It’s true. I raised Face from the time he was a cub, and since almost the day he could talk, he’s been saying, ‘Find me the one woman who can withstand me. Who can loathe me for who I really am.’ He’s had a long, lonely life until today. Now you can abuse him and give me a rest.”

Face nodded sagely.

Dia’s face twitched into a smile, which she quickly suppressed. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

Face let his expression and voice return to normal. “Oh, we’ve barely gotten started. Anyway, after a casual remark about your skills to open up the conversation, my plan actually was to ask you how you fouled up.”

“Fouled up.” She looked between the two men. “I don’t recall fouling up.”

“Then what brings you to Wraith Squadron?”

“I volunteered. After the story broke on your destruction of the Implacable, I wanted to join a unit as savage as that. Why? Are you supposed to be screwups?”

Phanan whistled. “She doesn’t even know. We didn’t even have time for our true reputation to circulate before another reputation swam up and swallowed it.”

Face gave Dia a stern look. “I’m sorry, you appear to have been transferred here under false pretenses. We’re a hard-luck squadron. If you’re not a real screwup, we’re just going to have to make you an honorary screwup. Keep that in mind.”

“I will,” she said, her voice solemn.

“She’ll do,” Phanan said.

“Even if she doesn’t swoon.”

“How did you get into Starfighter Command?” Face asked.

She looked between them as if evaluating them, then shrugged. “My … owner … was a very rich man of Coruscant, founder of a firm that made communications equipment. Very reliable HoloNet receivers, for example. He and his preferred advisers lived on an enormous yacht called the Violet Hem—a reference to the Emperor’s robes. Anyway, over the years I was able to persuade several of his personal pilots to teach me how to control their vehicles. Few things make a male feel as grand as the opportunity to teach a young, fascinated female.” She opened her eyes wide in an expression of innocence.

Face snorted. “So you stole a vehicle?”

“My owner was visited by a pilot with an armed shuttle. I stole it and turned it over to the New Republic.”

“And the Violet Hem?”

This time her smile was not that of an innocent. “Before I left, I locked her shields down so they could not be brought up. My first combat action of any sort was to blow Violet Hem out of space.”

Face suppressed a shudder and decided to change the subject. “I wonder if the other new pilots are just as unaware of our true nature. Hey, Castin!”

The blond pilot, seated in a stuffed chair nearby, looked up guiltily from the datapad in his lap. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

Face grinned. “I’m not monitoring you. I just wanted to know what you did to end up with the Wraiths.”

“I volunteered.”

“Why?”

Castin looked thoughtful. “I wanted to be where things happened. And things always happen around Commander Antilles. I want to go after enemies like Zsinj and eliminate them. Erase them. Overwrite them to the point that no one in the galaxy even remembers them.”

“Well, that’s admirable … but again, why?”

“People like Zsinj, they have to be squashed as hard and as fast as you can. Because the next thing they do is going to be something awful. They never do anything that isn’t awful, and ordinary people get killed.” Castin’s tone was bitter, and other Wraiths perked up to listen.

“You’re speaking from personal experience.”

“Oh, yes.” Castin looked around blankly, staring not at his fellow Wraiths but at some point in the past. “The day the Emperor died—what were you doing?”

Face didn’t have to think back. Most people recalled exactly what they were doing the moment they heard that Palpatine had been killed at Endor. “I was in civilian flight school on Lorrd. In class studying astronautics. Why?”

“I was in one of Coruscant’s plazas. A little one, couldn’t have held more than a couple of hundred thousand people, way up high where only a half-dozen buildings cast shadows down on it. The word spread like fire through an old building. The New Republic HoloNet broadcast was being rebroadcast on a wide band so that every personal comlink would pick it up. All holoprojectors were showing the second Death Star exploding.

“The crowd went crazy. Loyalists were turning white. Some of them fainting dead away. Rebels and people with Rebel leanings were going berserk. Before very long, they were actually tearing a statue of Palpatine down. A big one. It took cables and skimmers to knock it over.” Castin shrugged. “And then stormtroopers came.”

“To restore order.”

“If you want to call it that. They opened up on the crowd pulling down the statue. And their blasters weren’t set on stun. You could smell the burning-meat odor all over the plaza. I was right next to a young mother who took it right in the head. I grabbed her baby on the way down so he wouldn’t be trampled in the stampede.” He shook his head, his expression bleak, and fell silent.

Face said, “The Imperial HoloNet wouldn’t have transmitted the news of the Emperor’s death over normal channels like that. Not before they’d had time to sweeten up the story and turn it into some sort of Imperial victory.”

Castin shook his head, not meeting Face’s eye.

“So someone else, someone technically proficient, had to have intercepted it and rebroadcast it like that. You?”

Castin nodded. “My group was one of them, yes.”

“So Zsinj is another Imperial killer, and if you don’t stop him personally, it’s the plaza all over again. Is that it?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, that’s as good a reason as any.” But that was an answer for Face. Castin might have volunteered for this duty without a blemish on his record, but there was still a possibility of volatility there. Now he had to wonder if Dia and Shalla were also carrying around emotional demolition charges just waiting to go off.

“Pirates,” Piggy said, interrupting. The Gamorrean settled into a stuffed chair situated between Janson’s sofa and the bar, near Donos and Castin.

“Pirates to you, too,” Phanan said. “Is that a new greeting? Something Gamorrean? ‘Scabrous pirates to you this morning.’ ”

“ ‘And bleeding pirates to you.’ ” Face gave his wingman a formal bow.

“Zsinj was negotiating with the pirates on M2398, trying to enlist their services,” Piggy continued. In spite of the mechanical simplicity of Piggy’s voice translator, Face thought he could detect a contemplative quality in the Gamorrean’s tones. “It’s a tactic we haven’t seen with him before. Is he in such dire need that he must rely on pirates? I don’t think so. He’s assembling a second navy, perhaps a disposable one.”

Runt shook his head again. “Zsinj needs such scum only to hear what their prattling mouths have to say. To obtain news, intelligence, that he cannot derive from some more legitimate source. The pirates are nothing.”

Piggy grunted a laugh. “You’ll need plenty of cleanser for that scum when it assembles and comes at you. At all of us.”

•      •      •

“A minute of your time, sir?” Castin Donn stood at the door to Wedge’s interim office. Rather, he leaned against it, his body language suggesting a man who’d prefer to be elsewhere—definitely anywhere but a military base. He was unshaven, his eyes tired.

Wedge would have accepted this pose and manner from one of the established Wraiths, but not from a newcomer. He merely cleared his throat and looked expectant, as though the pilot hadn’t spoken.

Castin apparently got the hint. He straightened, slowly enough to demonstrate reluctance, and threw a salute. “Flight Officer Castin Donn reporting, sir. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”

Wedge took a moment before responding with his own salute. “Certainly, Donn. Have a seat.”

Donn’s posture, once he was seated, reverted to that of a career code-slicer; he slumped into his chair as though he’d left his spine in his locker. “I was wondering if I could get assigned to different quarters.”

Wedge brought out his datapad and tapped up the information on living assignments. It showed that Donn had been put in the same bunkroom as Runt Ekwesh. Runt’s former roommate had been Kell Tainer, but that pilot had been assigned solo quarters ever since his promotion to lieutenant. “Is something wrong with your current assignment?”

“Yes, sir. I’m not getting any sleep.”

“I don’t understand. Does Runt snore?” Kell had never made any such complaint.

“No, sir. It’s just not working out.”

“Personality conflict.”

“No, sir.”

“Request denied, Donn. Unless you can come up with something a little more substantial than ‘it’s just not working out.’ ”

Castin squirmed in his chair. Wedge thought it an unusually childlike mannerism from a grown man who’d been through pilot training and scored high enough to be fit for Wraith Squadron. “Sir, he, uh … he smells.”

“I take it you mean he smells bad.”

“Yes, sir. It’s keeping me up at night.”

Wedge kept his face impassive and thought about it. Runt Ekwesh was a member of the Thakwaash species, humanoids who averaged over three meters in height and were covered with fur; Runt came by his nickname because he was, in fact, very short for his species, the only reason he could fit in standard New Republic cockpits. And his odor was indeed different from that of humans, though it was very faint, usually undetectable except when he was wet or had been in the cockpit for several hours.

Wedge kept the pilot waiting, still squirming restlessly, while he brought up Castin’s full record. The man, a native of Coruscant, had been a code-slicer since he entered his teens, and had belonged to a rebel group not associated with the Alliance. Shortly after the Emperor’s death, nearly four years ago, he had forged himself a false identity, arranged passage offworld, and had ended up in New Republic-controlled space, where his technical skills had served him and the New Republic well. After two years as a coder for the fleet, he’d transferred to Starfighter Command and entered pilot training.

The synopsis said very little about him as a man. Wedge switched to the record of his citations and reprimands. He’d seen all this data before, while reviewing the new pilot candidates for approval, but he’d been looking only for specific types of information then.

There were citations for courage and ingenuity under fire, but also many punishments for failure to perform routine duties in a reliable fashion. That hadn’t bothered Wedge; he knew Castin would either shape up in that regard or be kicked out of Starfighter Command altogether, a motivation that should keep him in line. But in the record was also a chronicle of personality conflicts with fleet bridge crew members, mostly Mon Calamari. Transfer from the fleet accepted after a fistfight … with a Sullustian navigator. Hmm.

“I could put you in with Piggy. Voort saBinring,” Wedge said.

Castin’s squirming became more acute, and Wedge suspected he had the answer.

“I’m not sure that would work either,” Castin said.

“Same reason?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Donn, this independent revolutionary faction you belonged to—were there any nonhumans in it?”

“No, sir.”

That was interesting. Most such factions on Coruscant had high proportions of nonhuman members. The factions that didn’t include nonhumans tended to be just as anti-Imperial … but had still supported Coruscant culture’s legendary suspicion and dislike of nonhumans.

“So you’ve had very little protracted contact with nonhumans.”

“Well … that would be correct, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Donn, but I’m afraid this is something you’re just going to have to get used to. Whenever it bothers you, you need to ask yourself, ‘I wonder what I smell like to them?’ ”

Castin’s voice dropped and came close to but did not quite cross into the realm of surliness. “I don’t smell at all, sir. I keep myself very clean.”

“But their senses aren’t like yours. If you ever get up the nerve, ask them sometime if they can smell you and what it’s like. You might be surprised by the answer.”

Castin’s expression became one of distress. “But, sir, we have plenty of room here at base—”

“But not everywhere we’re going. I’ll modify room assignments when there’s a genuine reason to do so. Not before.”

“Sir—”

“That’s all, Donn.”

It looked just like the bridge of the Iron Fist. It had its own command walkway facing the forward viewports, the ones that stared out into depthless space. It had its crew pit below, with its numerous crew stations.

But it was actually a portion of Warlord Zsinj’s private quarters, a replica of the true bridge, and it had no crew. The viewports were actually screens receiving holocam views from the real viewports. The viewscreens at the crew stations showed the data or visual feeds the crewmen on duty would be accessing if they were here; commands flickered across the screens and were executed as though the station operators were in place. But sounds from the console speakers—beeps, dialogue, noises indicating errors or computer achievements—were the only ones to be heard. No one spoke.

Warlord Zsinj moved among the ghost stations, peering over the shoulders of imaginary crewmen as if to evaluate their performance. A small man whose waist outperformed his chest in dimension and magnificence, he looked like a holo comedian pretending to be an officer: His spotless white uniform was that of an Imperial grand admiral, while his bald head, luxuriant mustache, florid complexion, and too-cheerful manner suggested a backwater bandit.

He bent over the back of a chair; the screen before him showed a fleeing Y-wing attack craft as if seen through the viewport of a pursuing TIE interceptor. The background was a busy battlefield; Zsinj recognized the chaos of the battle above Endor’s sanctuary moon, just under four years ago.

He leaned closer to see the name of the crewman logged onto the computer. “Ah, Ensign Sprettyn,” he said. “Running attack simulators again while on duty. Shirking your responsibilities again.”

“Perhaps he wants to become a pilot.”

The voice, smooth and reassuring, came from behind Zsinj. The warlord straightened and turned. “General Melvar. What have I told you about creeping up behind me?”

The general, a tall man with features that were elegant when he was paying attention but impossibly bland and unmemorable when he lost concentration, smiled. “Not to.”

“And what did you just do?”

“I stomped up to you with all the silent grace of a gut-shot rancor. You were so intent on your observation of poor Ensign Sprettyn’s activities you failed to notice me.”

“It’s the sign of pure concentration. The ability to shut out all other concerns.”

“Of course.”

“What do you want?”

The general handed him a datapad. Lines of data were already up on its screen. “A private communication for you. Through Admiral Trigit’s old routing system.”

Zsinj gave him a look that was all raised eyebrows and curiosity, then scanned the text. “Hmm. Lieutenant Gara Petothel. Expects to be a member of one of Antilles’s squadrons within a few weeks. ‘Would you be interested …?’ I see she has a fine sense of irony. What do you have on her?”

“I’ve put her file in there with the communiqué. In short, she’s an Imperial Intelligence prodigy who was orphaned—she was in deep cover as a Rebel mission coordinator when Ysanne Isard was killed. Her controller was a member of Isard’s support staff and also died. Petothel managed to get in touch with Apwar Trigit, offered her continued services to him, and fed him information that led Trigit to some important temporary provisioning centers and allowed him to annihilate an entire Rebel X-wing squadron. She joined his crew and was presumed dead when the Implacable was destroyed.”

“Oh, she’s that one. So she eluded capture. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she was captured, then turned, and is being used to flush us.” Zsinj shrugged. “Where’s her holo?”

“We found that holos of her in both Imperial and Rebel records show the wrong woman. She has covered her tracks well. I’m having a simulation assembled from people who were in her Rebel academy class … which will take some time and caution.”

“Very well.” Zsinj handed the datapad back. “Pursue this. Have an agent or a cell on Coruscant try to do independent verification of what she’s saying. Find out what identity she’s currently wearing. Once that’s determined, we must find out where her loyalties lie before we commit any real resources to her.”

“Done. And Ensign Sprettyn?”

“Do you want to handle that? It’s a task for his executive officer.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“Very well. Sprettyn is under direct orders not to waste time with the simulators, but he just wants to fly too much. So spirit him off into the night. Tell the rest of the crew he’s been executed for disobeying orders. But tell him that he’s being taken aside for pilot evaluation. Put him through the simulators.”

“And if he turns out to be a good pilot trainee?”

“Weren’t you listening?” Zsinj looked regretful. “I deplore the waste of good crewmen, I really do. But we can’t have pilots who disobey orders. Evaluate his piloting performance, chastise or compliment him as appropriate, then execute him.”

“The evaluations of the three Zsinj theories have come back from Admiral Ackbar’s office,” Wedge said.

They were in the briefing room temporarily assigned to Wraith Squadron. This was an office far enough down in the building that there were no viewports; viewports would only have shown a depressingly bleak vista of dark, grimy duracrete corridor between the lower reaches of skyscrapers. Instead, the orange walls were decorated with large holoscreens that transited between views shot from planetary orbits, vistas of distant and beautiful worlds, and promotional images of hotel resorts belonging to the same chain that had once owned this facility. The Wraiths were all seated near Wedge’s lectern, except for Shalla Nelprin, who paced at the back of the hall—until Wedge caught her eye. She quickly sat in the seat nearest to her.

“Before I get to the admiral’s conclusions,” Wedge continued, “I think we ought to let the writers of the three reports synopsize their conclusions; not everyone has heard these. Runt?”

The long-faced alien stood up. His body language changed; his posture became that of a human carrying a fair amount of extra weight and he folded his hands over his belly in the fashion of a well-fed senator. “In our considered opinion,” he said, once again taking on the mellow voice of the ersatz Zsinj, “the warlord’s overt and covert tactics suggest that he will continue to add resources, industrial and planetary, with as much cost-effectiveness as possible. This means continuing the expansion of the secret financial empire whose edges we detected … and a more direct appeal to the unaligned governors that previously belonged to the Empire and now belong to the Empire’s successors. I think this means using Iron Fist in actions of direct interdiction that benefit these governors more than Zsinj himself, an effort to bind the governors to him in debts of gratitude.”

“And your recommendations for ways to counter this?”

“Examine the resources of unaligned governors, find out which one it would best serve Zsinj to court, and cause that governor problems only Zsinj can solve … luring him to that system and confronting him directly.”

“You’re very erudite in this mind, Runt.”

Runt’s body language changed back to normal; he once again seemed lanky, overtall, a little awkward. “But it makes our ego puff up like a gas giant.” He sat.

“Piggy?”

The Gamorrean stood. He cleared his throat. Once upon a time, that would have blasted the Wraiths with a burst of static, but his throat translator had since been reprogrammed to squelch a wider variety of irrelevant sounds. “In the last few weeks, as we were nibbling at the edges of Zsinj’s organization, we found three anomalies. One was the network of manufacturing corporations owned within unaligned and even Alliance-controlled space by Zsinj under false identities. One was his attempt to hire a pirate nest made up of outlaws somewhat under his usual standards. And the third was the presence, at one of his companies, of prison-cell components identical to the cell where I was raised after Imperial scientists altered my biochemistry.” The scientists’ alterations were what gave Piggy his unusually temperate personality—for a Gamorrean—and his inhuman mathematical acumen, both traits that allowed him to become a proficient New Republic pilot.

Piggy waved, his gesture taking in Myn Donos, the 3PO unit Squeaky, and Castin Donn. “My group feels that the industrial connection is something better suited for New Republic Intelligence to pursue, so we eliminated it from our recommendations. Of the two that remain, the site where I was scientifically modified and reared is of great interest to me personally, but we all feel that we would have a greater chance of discovering Zsinj by disguising ourselves as a pirate band and trying to impress Zsinj enough for him to employ us. This would keep us in close association with starfighters and play to the strengths that I think we demonstrated in the pursuit of Admiral Trigit and the Implacable.”

“Well put, Piggy. Face?”

The onetime actor stood. “Well, first I have to admit to a certain dissension in my own group. Lieutenant Janson and Ton Phanan here think that Runt’s idea is best. Dia Passik and I both favor Piggy’s pirate scheme. But since I was obliged to come up with a tactic, I have.

“Intensive analysis of Zsinj’s history suggests that he draws much of his inspiration from the performances of small theatrical companies. I suggest that we pose as a traveling troupe of players performing the sorts of works he seems to have the most affection for.”

Confused, Wedge scanned his records of the proposals the group leaders had generated. Face’s was on top, but its contents did not match what he was saying.

“I’ve discovered that Kell has a pleasant tenor singing voice, and Runt is actually an accomplished mime, a skill that few know is widespread on his homeworld of Thakwaa. By integrating modern holographic technology with traditional song-and-dance routines, we could capture the warlord’s attention—”

By now the other Wraiths were snickering. Wedge caught Face’s eye and glowered. “Perhaps you could give us the set of conclusions you turned in to me, Loran?”

Face had the gall to look surprised. “Oh, those. Sorry.” He sobered. “I think the Iron Fist is of tremendous importance to Warlord Zsinj, not just as a powerful weapons platform but also as a symbol, both of his career and his power. If Warlord Zsinj were more like us than he were like himself, I think he’d launch an expedition deep into the territory governed by Ysanne Isard’s successors, make a strike on the Kuat Drive Yards building facilities, and steal the next Super Star Destroyer in production.”

Wedge gave him a look of amusement. “That presupposes that Kuat is working on another Super Star Destroyer. They’re horribly expensive. And even though they can do an incredible amount of damage, they can be destroyed by a much less expensive enemy force … though usually at a tremendous cost of life.”

Face nodded. “Correct. But Zsinj doesn’t admit anyone is his equal in military intelligence, so he thinks he can keep it intact. And I keep remembering that he, Zsinj, hinted that he was promoting Admiral Trigit to a better position. We all thought maybe he meant captain of the Iron Fist, but what if he meant another Super Star Destroyer?”

Phanan spoke up. “Don’t forget your goofy ideas that never made it into your final proposal.”

Face waved him away, but Wedge asked, “What goofy ideas?”

Face looked unhappy. “Just an idea. Ysanne Isard is alive.”

“What?” Wedge looked as stunned as if someone had picked up a chair and broken it over his head.

Ysanne Isard had been the head of Imperial Intelligence when Emperor Palpatine died years ago. She survived Palpatine’s successors, a consortium of Palpatine’s advisers, and gradually assumed control of the Empire herself—though not in name. Months ago, she had died, killed fleeing the planet Thyferra in a battle-equipped shuttle, shot down by Rogue Squadron’s Captain Tycho Celchu.

“Follow me on this,” Face said. “Months ago, Ysanne Isard is chased off the world of Coruscant. Actually, she abandons it voluntarily to let the Krytos Plague infect the nonhuman population and lock up all of the New Republic’s resources when we occupy Coruscant. But she actually stays on Coruscant for quite some time after she pretended to flee. Eventually she really does leave, goes to Thyferra, takes over there, and is finally wiped out by the Rogues.

“Except—she was never seen climbing into the shuttle she was supposed to be using for escape. Except—it was not particularly intelligent for her to run off in a vehicle slower than the X-wings she had to have suspected would follow her. Except—she’d already shown a tendency to hide out with her head down when she was supposed to have fled. It raises the question: What if she actually wasn’t on that shuttle, and was communicating with the Rogues ‘chasing’ her through a remote-control link?”

Wedge said, “You’ve got to be wrong. There was no lag time in her transmissions, nothing to suggest she wasn’t there.”

“A shuttle she’d personally fitted as an Emperor’s escape vehicle might have a miniaturized hypercomm system. With instantaneous transmission and reception, there wouldn’t be any lag time.”

“Face, do you believe she’s alive?”

Face shook his head. “Sometimes I hope she is. I’d still like to kill her myself. But I believe Captain Celchu actually killed her. Still …” He shrugged and resumed his seat.

Wedge gave him an exasperated stare. “Well, here’s your punishment for nearly giving me a heart attack. Write this theory up and I’ll route it on to the new Thyferran government and to General Cracken at Intelligence. Between them, they should be able to sniff out any other evidence for Iceheart’s survival … if there is any.”

His expression cleared. “All right. As I said, Admiral Ackbar has evaluated these theories and made a decision. He’s asking Intelligence to step up any operations involving Kuat Drive Yards to find out if, in fact, they are building a new Super Star Destroyer. But that’s low priority and not our concern. For us, he wants to combine both Runt’s and Piggy’s ideas. We’ll be founding our own pirate band, Wraiths, and then assaulting a planetary system that Zsinj is courting—or should be, if he isn’t. Officially, we’ll be assigned to the Mon Remonda with Rogue Squadron; funny, though, the other pilots will never see us in the ship’s corridors.

“We have a little reorganization to do to accommodate our new pilots. Flight Officer Donn, you’re now Wraith Two, and my wingman.”

The pilot with the unruly blond hair smiled. He couldn’t have known that the position of Wraith Two, by Wedge’s policy, usually went to a raw pilot, one in need of additional instruction or protection.

“Wes, you’re now Wraith Three, with Dia Passik, Wraith Four, your wing.” Janson waved at the Twi’lek female, who gave him a grave nod.

“Kell, Runt, you’re still Five and Six. Runt, incidentally, is in training to be our new communications specialist. Phanan, Face, still Seven and Eight. I’d hate to break up the best comedy team this side of the janitor’s closet.”

“I love an understanding commander,” Phanan said. “Know where I can get one?”

“Myn Donos, still Nine. Flight Officer Nelprin—can you still hear me back there?—you’re his wing, Wraith Ten. Piggy, you’re still Wraith Twelve, and Tyria, you’re now on his wing as Wraith Eleven. I lead Group One, Face leads Group Two, and Donos leads Group Three. Questions?”

Wedge waited for the inevitable reaction from Kell. Previously, Kell had led Group Two and had been very twitchy whenever Face received recognition that might affect his own—Kell’s—position, and now Face had replaced him as group leader.

But Kell looked easy with the new arrangement, which surprised Wedge considerably.

It meant—Wedge wasn’t sure. Either Kell was content to let Face have a go at command, or Kell’s goals had changed and command was not so high on the list.

Wedge would wait. The truth would come out eventually. “Intelligence gives us a good candidate for our new piratical occupation. The world is called Halmad. It’s an Outer Rim world not far from the loose border to what we consider Zsinj-controlled space. It’s also a trade center at the hub of several well-traveled trade routes. A century or so back, their mining industry—ground, lunar, and asteroid belt—failed, leaving a number of facilities abandoned there. New Republic Intelligence has a team already in-system to check them out for us; if they haven’t found us a base by the time we arrive, they will at least have found us a place from which to stage.”

Kell asked, “Do we get the Night Caller back? Since we’ll be pirating in TIE fighters, I assume we’ll have to have something to haul us around when we hit sites out of our home system.”

Wedge shook his head. “Not the Night Caller. Think about it. Admiral Trigit is destroyed by a covert fighter squadron supported by a Corellian corvette, and then a pirate squadron pops up supported by a Corellian corvette? That would probably set off at least one alarm bell in Zsinj’s mind.” He gave Kell a grim smile. “No, we’ll receive hyperspace transport from an old Xiytiar-class transport. Unarmed. Slow. Creaky. Leaky. And instead of having a cargo bay full of your sophisticated metal brackets to hold our fighter craft, we’ll be using a few crossbeams and netting—so we can quickly switch out X-wings for TIE fighters without having to reconfigure our brackets every time.”

Kell sat back, his expression suggesting he’d just swallowed a mouthful of hydraulic fluid.

Phanan’s hand shot up. “Do we get new snubfighters?”

Wedge shook his head. “No. No new X-wings for the foreseeable future. We got lucky when we were putting the squadron together; when Rogue Squadron captured Ysanne Isard’s facilities on Thyferra, we also seized a number of X-wings she’d been accumulating for various Intelligence missions. That’s where four of our snubfighters came from. But the New Republic hasn’t had another windfall like that, and Incom is producing new X-wings as slowly and meticulously as ever. So we’re stuck with what we have … and what we can seize. Dia Passik was transferred with her snubfighter, but we’re still four short to make up a full squadron. However, the two TIE fighters we have remaining from the Implacable attack, the ones Wes and Piggy were flying, are assigned to us. And part of our assignment involves acquiring new fighter craft for our pirate identities … and that means stealing whatever we can get our hands on. From the Imps and from the warlords, that is. Do any of you new pilots have TIE-fighter experience? Simulated or real?”

Both the women raised their hands. Castin Donn looked unhappy that he couldn’t follow suit.

“Excellent. Castin, Kell, Phanan, since you three lack X-wings and TIE experience, I recommend you spend time in the TIE-fighter simulators and checking out our small complement of TIE fighters. Once we’re at our new station, that is. For now, you have only a little while to pack and settle your affairs; the transport Borleias takes off for Halmad in three hours.” He ignored the chorus of groans and cheers. “Dismissed. Phanan, Face, can I see you for a minute?”

As the others trickled out, he asked, “What is the news from what’s-her-name, Notsil?”

The two pilots exchanged glances. “Well,” said Face, “Lara seemed reassured by what you offered. We helped her put together her application for fighter-pilot training, and both of us and Kell wrote recommendations for her. Face set up an account for her so she could afford some limited HoloNet access to us; we’ll leave a router so she can reach us through Sivantlie Base. Things are in motion.”

“This had better work … or had better produce absolutely no results,” Wedge said. “Because if there are any foul-ups, General Cracken will personally feed you, and me, into a food reprocessor.”