13

At dawn, Face rose from his makeshift camp. He took one last look at the bundle he was leaving behind—ruined speeder bike, ruined pilot, and the combination of his own datapad and a Raptor comlink he’d laboriously programmed by moonlight, all beneath the thin thermal blanket he’d retrieved from the bike’s cargo—and then headed into the trees.

In spite of the pulsing aches that seemed to have replaced his muscles and bones while he slept, he would be able to travel swiftly. He had good directional sense. He did not have an injured comrade to tow through difficult, slow terrain.

Within an hour, he passed by the gutted hulk of Phanan’s TIE fighter. There were no bodies here. Zsinj’s investigators had come and gone, and had posted no one to guard a valueless, burned-out hull. There were no distant sounds of speeder bikes or TIE fighters. The search had moved or been called off.

When morning was still young, he swam out to where his interceptor lay partially submerged, and took a long and lonely time going through the routine power-up checklist.

But when that was done, he had to act fast. His window of opportunity would be a narrow one.

The murky water behind his interceptor boiled as he cut in his engines; he could see bubbles and foam drift around to his front viewport as his interceptor strained. Then the repulsors overcame the muck that trapped his vehicle. He rose to the water’s surface and then shot into the air.

Up, southwest across a narrow band of forest, a mere few moments until he found the river. Downriver just a few more moments as terrain blurred beneath him.

When he recognized the approximate area of his camp, he sent a signal across his comlink. The distant Raptor comlink responded with the signal he’d programmed into its companion datapad and a moment later he hovered over the glade where he’d spent the night.

There it was, the black thermal blanket atop his friend.

He could not wait. Revulsion for the deed he was about to perform had been his companion last night; he did not have time for it now. He rotated so that his interceptor was pointed straight down, as though it were about to fly into the ground.

Repulsor and thrust emissions kicked leaves and plants into motion, and a moment later whipped the blanket from atop the speeder bike and Ton Phanan.

Phanan’s organic eye was closed—Face had closed it last night. But his mechanical eye was still powered, still staring redly, and Face wondered what it saw.

Then Face fired.

His lasers turned the center of the glade into a burning inferno, charring speeder bike, organic body, and prosthetic parts into a melted crater of ash and bubbling metal. He fired until there was nothing recognizable there, nothing for the investigators of Zsinj or Halmad to identify as Ton Phanan.

Then he turned his bow skyward and fled to space.

At the end of Face’s debriefing, Wedge asked, “You’ve eaten?”

Face nodded. He rubbed his chin where the General Kargin scar makeup had been removed, and seemed surprised to find stubble there. “A little.”

“Good. Listen, Face, I know this isn’t going to help very much, but as far as I can tell from your report and your interceptor’s recordings, you did everything right. You did everything possible to preserve the integrity of this mission and the lives of your fellow pilots. I think highly of what you accomplished down there.”

“But I was unable to bring Phanan back alive.”

Wedge nodded. “I’ve been unable to bring a lot of friends back alive. And I’m not going to pretend that it’s not going to eat at you. It will. It still eats at me. I just want you to understand that it’s not something you alone have gone through. If you need to talk, come to me, or to Wes or to Myn. I don’t think we can make you feel any better … but we can remind you that it’s possible to survive the experience.”

“Yes, sir.” Face looked reflective. “I’d like to try to return that favor, if you’d like me to.”

“How’s that?”

“I knew Ton better than anyone in the unit. I think I should at least help write the letter of notification to his family.”

“Ah. Well, that’s not going to be necessary, Face. We’re both off that particular hook. While you were cleaning up, I went through his records and the datapad you brought back to me. The person we’re supposed to notify in the case of his death is you.”

Face’s eyes went wide. “Me. Why not his family?”

“No living family. He was the only child of a couple who had him comparatively late in life. They both died before he completed his education. No siblings. No family member closer than distant cousins who’ve never met him. You’re also the beneficiary of his will.”

Face didn’t even manage a reply to that statement. He just gaped.

“I have to process some of these documents. Then I’ll get them into your hands. It won’t be for a while. In the meantime, I want you to get some sleep. At least, get some rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wedge returned the pilot’s salute and watched him go. He waited a few moments before calling, “Wes.”

Janson stuck his head in the doorway. His normally merry features were now schooled into somber lines. “Yes, Commander.”

“Assign Lara Notsil to Face as his wingman. Also, she’s had the military first-aid course more recently than any of the rest of us, so assign her as squadron medic. Get her whatever instructional holos and equipment she’ll need for the task.

“And ask her to keep an eye on him, to watch out for signs of undue distress or any sort of overreaction to Phanan’s death. But she needs to keep it very surreptitious. We can’t have him feeling that we’re all spying on him.”

“Even though we are.”

“Correct.”

Moments after Janson had gone, there was a rap at the door.

“Come.”

Donos entered and saluted.

Wedge returned the salute and tried to keep from frowning. There was something different about the pilot. The somber expression was the same, the thick mop of black hair over brooding dark eyes was the same—though lacking the air of defeat Donos had worn when he joined Wraith Squadron.

Then Wedge caught it. Donos was in casual dress, mostly black, his jacket still bearing a patch for Talon Squadron, and Corellian Bloodstripes on his pants.

Donos had earned the decorations while serving with distinction as a sniper with the Corellian armed forces. He hadn’t worn them in the first several weeks of his service with Wraith Squadron, demonstrating the lack of self-esteem that followed the destruction of his former squadron.

That injury to his spirit seemed to have healed. A good sign. But Donos still wasn’t the ostentatious sort and wouldn’t have worn a decoration like this, even though it was his right, with his ordinary dress. Wedge gave him a suspicious look and gestured for him to sit. “This obviously isn’t about Face.”

“That’s right, sir. It’s about Lara.”

Donos told him about Lara’s brother, who shouldn’t have survived but did, who shouldn’t have found her again but did. And he described a possible mission to Lara’s homeworld of Aldivy.

Face rose after a long time. Most of it had not been spent sleeping. Nor had he been truly awake; he’d been in a restless state where conscious thought could not take hold, but neither could sleep, for his mind was fully occupied by images of the last two days.

The light on his terminal was blinking, a sign of messages or files received. He brought the terminal up.

A dispatch from the commander. Lara, Wraith Thirteen, was now his wing, and the replacement medic. No surprise there.

A copy of Ton Phanan’s will. Face skipped it.

A message from Phanan. It was dated and timed less than an hour before his death. Face took a deep breath and brought it up.

It was simple text, the only means Phanan had to take notes at the time. It read,

Face waited for some sort of blow to hit him, but he was left only with the dull ache that had been his companion all through the night.

He brought up Phanan’s will and read it as well.

“Some of us will, as you know, be away on missions with varying levels of consequence,” Wedge said. “A couple will remain here at Hawk-bat Base for maintenance and security purposes. The rest—now, contain yourselves—will receive leave.”

He waited through the resulting cheers. They were in the conference-room module, packed in around its table, and the Wraiths’ expressions were a study in contrasts, ranging from glum to suddenly cheerful. Well, partially cheerful. Phanan’s death was still fresh on their minds.

“Mission One is the meeting with Zsinj,” Wedge said. “Face commands, and he has chosen Dia and Kell to accompany him. This is all intelligence gathering, very delicate, which is why the crew is full of deadly killers.” That got a chuckle. Wedge saw Tyria give Kell a little irritable punch in the shoulder—doubtless she was unhappy that he’d be on a very dangerous mission, and doubly unhappy that she wouldn’t be along to get him out of trouble. “This mission will utilize the shuttle Narra.

“Mission Two is Lara’s meeting with her brother. We hope that will turn out to be nothing more than a joyful family reunion, but there’s a chance that this is a probe by Zsinj. Lieutenant Donos will accompany her, and they’ll be in their X-wings.

“Mission Three consists of me traveling by X-wing back to Coruscant to make a routine report and pick up orders. With our complement of X-wings, up to five more of you can accompany me back and get in a little rest and recreation. Lieutenant Janson will remain here in command of the facility—because he got to go back last time and now it’s his turn.”

Janson’s expression turned glum. “Nobody is allowed to have any fun on Coruscant. If I find out that anyone has had any fun, he gets kitchen duty for a month.”

“We all promise to be miserable, Wes.” Wedge noticed one of the pilots’ hand raised. “Yes, Castin.”

“Sir, you remember the special mission I talked to you about? Sneaking a program into Iron Fist’s communications system so that it will broadcast its location occasionally?”

“I remember. I remember saying it was a good plan … but not for the initial contact mission.”

Castin waved as if to brush away the last part of Wedge’s statement. “Sir, I finished the program.”

“You did?” Wedge nodded. “Excellent.”

“I finished it in time for this mission, sir. It still needs an experienced code-slicer to cut it into the system in question—otherwise it’d never get through the system’s defenses—but it operates flawlessly on my Imperial-computer-system simulators.”

“It won’t be for this mission, Castin. But we’ll try to bring back an upgraded simulator from Coruscant to give you that much more of an edge.”

“Dammit, sir, this is the only opportunity we’re certain we’re going to have. We need to take it. You’re being too cautious, and that’s going to cost us.”

The other pilots looked between Castin and Wedge, all cheer draining from their faces.

Wedge took a deep breath, giving himself a brief moment to calm himself. “Flight Officer Donn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Flight Officer Donn.”

Suddenly uneasy, Castin looked around, then rose and stood at attention. “Sir.”

“Your tactical sense and gut feeling tell you that now is the time to implement your plan. Mine tell me that later will be better. All else being equal, whose do you think I am going to rank higher?”

“Well, yours, sir.” Castin looked very unhappy under this sudden scrutiny.

“Now, think about this. If we do it my way and I’m right, we’ve saved lives. If we do it my way and I’m wrong, we’ll have missed an opportunity—an opportunity we’ll regain if the rest of the mission goes according to plan and the Hawk-bats begin doing work for Zsinj—and I’ll have both learned something and suffered a slight blow to my reputation, both of which I can survive.

“On the other hand, if we do it your way and you’re right, we conceivably speed up the destruction of Zsinj. But if we do it your way and you’re wrong, you get yourself and the whole team captured or killed, which you can’t survive. Do you see the difference?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Save that thought. Now, imagine that you’re a New Republic pilot and you feel a need to criticize a superior officer’s performance or thinking. All else being equal, should you do so in private or in a public forum?”

Castin seemed visibly to sag. “In private, sir.”

“I’ll give you some time to think about that. You’ll be remaining on Hawk-bat Station while your fellows return to Coruscant. Now, sit.”

Castin did, flushing red, looking miserable.

Wedge looked among the other pilots. “Anything else? No? Prep for your missions, then. Dismissed.”

Face caught up with Castin out in the Trench. He asked, “What was that all about?”

Castin shook his head, angry, and didn’t slow his pace … though he was just walking up the middle of the stony shaft with no destination evident. “He’s wrong, Face. He’s just wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because, I don’t know, he’s so concerned about preserving our lives that he’ll flinch from a tactic that could end this whole campaign in one stroke.”

“No. Castin, he hasn’t hesitated to risk our lives, or his own, not in the time I’ve been with the Wraiths. But in spite of all the jokes about Corellians not caring about the odds, he does. And he knows more about resources and strategy than we do. So if he says your mission isn’t worth the risk—”

“He’s right and I’m wrong.”

“Probably.”

“All right.”

“I want your promise that you won’t try anything on your own.”

“I promise.” Castin stopped suddenly and looked around. He and Face were now beside the kitchen and mess. “I’m hungry.” He headed in that direction.

“A good, brisk walk will do that to you,” Face said. He did not follow the code-slicer—better not to put him on the defensive.

There were two gray blurs, the X-wings of Lara and Donos, shooting up past the magcon field holding in the atmosphere of the Hawk-bats’ hangar. Face, seated in the cockpit of the shuttle Narra, watched them flash by. They were followed a moment later by a stream of five more snubfighters—Wedge, Runt, Shalla, Tyria, and Piggy, off on their routine mission to Coruscant.

He envied them. It wasn’t just that they’d be getting a little rest and recreation, even just a few hours of it; the prospect of facing Warlord Zsinj was making him more than a little tense. He had no abnormal fear of the man—but ever since this mission had been described to him, he’d harbored the fear that somewhere in the middle of a conversation with the warlord, a vision of Phanan would cross before his eyes and he’d be unable to restrain himself from making an assault on Zsinj. Such an attack might hurt or kill Zsinj, but it was certain to be fatal to Face and his comrades. “Power,” he said.

“Ninety-seven percent, reserves one hundred percent.” That was Dia, seated beside him, in the copilot’s seat. But it wasn’t the Dia he was used to. She was now in the guise of Seku, her Hawk-bats identity, and as dramatically different from her usual appearance as Face was when, as now, he wore his General Kargin scar makeup.

Her normally bare brain tails—or lekku, as they were known to the natives of Ryloth—were now decorated with an intricate pattern of black cuneiform marks, temporary tattoos that, in the Twi’lek language, told stories of the character and misdeeds of her fictitious identity. Instead of the gray TIE-style pilot’s uniforms Face and Kell wore, she was dressed in a vest, trousers, and boots of black hide—lined, she had assured him, for comfort—all decorated with shiny metal replicas of animal teeth and claws, accoutrements she’d persuaded Cubber to lathe out during some of his infrequent off-duty hours. Face found her attractive under normal circumstances; this barbaric persona was even more visually appealing.

“Ninety-seven? Why are we not at full?”

She shrugged. “Cubber said something about the manhandling Narra sustained in Iron Fist’s tractor beams causing some system problems. Nothing he can repair until the commander returns from Coruscant with some replacement parts.”

“Wonderful. What else did he say we can expect to go wrong?”

Kell stuck his head up between the two seats. There was more to his head now; he wore a false mustache, beard, and absurdly long wig of fiery red hair. “Hull seals are a little more questionable. We had to repair some slow leaks when we got back. But she’s in good shape. Assuming we don’t have to take on another Star Destroyer, she’ll do just fine.”

“Good. Remember your signature action.”

Kell’s eyes slitted. With a slow and deliberate motion, he drew the hair hanging down his right shoulder to fall behind his back. As he turned to look at Face, he added an insolent little shake of the head that set his hair to swaying. It was an elaboration Face hadn’t taught him, but it was perfect, making his persona even more obviously a victim of arrogance and self-love.

Dia gave the two of them a hard smile. “He’s loathsome.”

Face said, “That’s the idea. All right, strap in and prep for space. We have an appointment to keep. No, wait a minute: Kell, drag Castin out of the smuggling compartment and send him packing. We can’t have any stowaways.”

Grinning, Kell moved aft, behind the seats, and tapped a complicated rhythm against the starboard bulkhead. A portion of what had looked like seamless wall swung down on hinges and he reached inside. An expression of surprise crossed his face and he ducked down to look. “Hey, no Castin.”

“It’s empty?”

“I didn’t say that.” Kell retrieved something fairly large and furry from the compartment’s interior and waved it at the others. It was the Ewok toy. “Say hello to Lieutenant Kettch.”

Face snorted. “You ever wonder how he gets around? I’m not sure he isn’t alive.”

Kell peered inside the compartment again. “And some generous spirit has loaded this thing up with goodies. A couple of blasters, some preserved food, a couple of bottles of Halmad Prime—”

“Hey, bring that up here.”

Kell replaced Kettch within the compartment and sealed it. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s every general’s right to be uproariously drunk on diplomatic missions.”

Kell dropped into the seat behind Dia and began practicing his signature move. With every repetition it became more obnoxious. “I’m going to keep this up until you shut up about the Prime.”

“Ooh. You win, mutineer. Prepare for space.”