21

Hours later, Wedge—freshly scrubbed and uniformed, a little bacta treatment having rid his lungs of the smoky crud that had coated them but also having left a nasty taste in his mouth—marched into Mon Remonda’s bridge.

It wasn’t quite the same bridge. The armature of the captain’s chair had broken and Onoma was standing over his control board. Portions of the deck were crumpled and an entire control board was still black from burn. A new shift of officers was at work. Han Solo had his back to the bridge; he was lost in thought, staring into the depths of hyperspace.

Wedge approached to stand beside him. “Commander Antilles reporting.”

Solo didn’t answer for long moments. He looked tired, the lines in his craggy face deeper than Wedge had ever seen them. He took a deep breath. “We lost him.”

“We hurt him. We eliminated the other Destroyer. Razor’s Kiss.”

“But Zsinj is still at large.”

“We’ll get him next time.”

“I am so sick of next time.” Finally, Han grinned, looking briefly like his old self. “I’ll bet you’re just as sick of the gloomy Han Solo.”

“We’ll vape Zsinj together and you can go back to a life of irresponsible good cheer.”

“I’ll drink to that. How are your people?”

“Good. Lieutenant Loran will make it. We almost lost Piggy saBinring—he was floating off to oblivion with no thrusters, no lasers, no comlink—but Shalla Nelprin calculated his last known course and Sungrass retrieved him. We even picked up a hyperdrive-equipped interceptor out of the deal.”

“If they ever make you a general, demand to be head of the quartermasters. You’re really learning to turn a profit.”

Wedge watched him return to his distracted, distant staring. “Han, what’s it like? Actually being someone’s personal enemy?”

“I hate it. But I can’t just hand the job off. Not until someone feels about him the way I do.”

“Still up for that drink?”

Han snorted. “What do you think?”

Melvar appeared with his customary stealthiness beside Zsinj’s desk in his private office. He put a datacard before the warlord. “The final tally of losses.”

Zsinj barely stirred. He seemed drained of energy, so drained that even his fat sagged. “I’ll look at it later.”

“How do you think they did it?”

“One of the pirates,” Zsinj said. “He must have planted a transmitter on Iron Fist while collecting his pay, in spite of our sweeps, in spite of our sensors. I don’t know how. We’ll find out.”

“Your orders?”

Zsinj nodded listlessly. “Get all available cargo ships and tugs back to the last engagement zone. I want them to collect every piece they can find, no matter how large or small, of Razor’s Kiss for transportation back to Rancor Base.”

“Yes, sir.” Melvar waited a polite few seconds. “May I ask why?”

“Ask tomorrow. No more talk today.”

Melvar saluted—one of his few genuine salutes—and took his leave.

•      •      •

Face jumped as Kell came barging through the door, potted flowers in his hands. The big man took a look around, ignoring Face, and set the wavy mass of violet-colored vegetation down on a meal table. Then Kell caught sight of Dia, seated next to Face’s bed; she had an arm around his neck, her other hand stroking his brow, in what had been a most comfortable pose until Kell’s sudden arrival. “Oh, I see,” Kell said. “Celebration’s already started.”

Face glared. “What celebration?”

“Ask the commander.”

Behind Kell came Piggy, Janson, all the other Wraiths. Tyria was holding some sort of figurine, a gray human figure half the length of a forearm; it gripped something in its upraised hand. Wedge came in last.

“All present?” Wedge asked.

“And no accounting for,” Janson said.

Wedge turned toward Face, his expression stern. “Lieutenant Loran. You returned your X-wing to the training frigate Tedevium in the worst shape her mechanics had ever seen a flying snubfighter. You arrived in similar shape for an organism. As I understand it, parts of you and your X-wing were intermingled.”

“He had to be cut out of the cockpit,” Lara confirmed. “Kept wanting to talk to the medics about surgery.”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you about that …” Face said.

“For this,” Wedge continued, “we present to you the Award of the Mechanic’s Nightmare.”

Tyria held out the statuette, which was of a New Republic mechanic with wrench upraised as a weapon. The mechanic’s expression was of pure, if silly, rage.

Face took the thing. “Looks like one of Cubber’s children.” He looked around the room. “I want to thank everyone who retrieved pieces of me, everyone who retrieved pieces of my X-wing, and especially those who sorted them out correctly.”

“On a more serious note,” Wedge said. “Attention.”

The Wraiths snapped to attention, all but Face, who tried to sit up, and Dia, who held him in place.

“With all our recent excitement,” Wedge said, “I’ve neglected to finalize a little business I should have seen to days ago. But I’m happier to do it now, since Face can join us for it. Shalla Nelprin, step forward.”

She did so, struggling, Face thought, to keep uncertainty from her expression.

“Since being posted to Wraith Squadron,” Wedge said, “you have demonstrated fine piloting and intrusion skills, in addition to improvisational instincts that have benefited this unit and the New Republic. It is my pleasure to convey to you your promotion to the rank of lieutenant in the New Republic’s Starfighter Command.” He handed her her new officer’s insignia, then shook her hand. “Congratulations, Shalla.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but it was a moment before sound emerged. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me; you did all the work. It’s well deserved. Just as significant for your reputation, I think, is the fact that Starfighter Command has calculated your role in the battle with Razor’s Kiss … and has determined that you are authorized to paint half a Super Star Destroyer silhouette on your canopy from now on. Half that kill is yours.”

Shalla put her hands to her mouth as the other Wraiths cheered, patted her back.

Dia, still stroking Face’s forehead, suddenly frowned. “Say, what’s this?” The surprise in her voice caused the others to quiet down. Dia pinched at Face’s skin, and the others could see that a tiny flap of skin at the corner of Face’s scar was loose. She tugged at it.

Face squirmed. “Uhh, well, this is something new, I haven’t had an opportunity to tell you.…”

She continued tugging and the scar began to come up at that edge, as though it were some sort of appliqué, with pink, healthy skin beneath it. “Face?”

Face sighed. “Get involved with a woman and she thinks she can tear your face off.”

Dia pulled and half his scar was in her hand, leaving the right side of his face unmarred. She gave a final tug and the rest of the appliqué came free, dangling in her fingers. Her expression was incredulous as she looked down at him. Where he had once worn a scar, his flesh looked pink and new, but definitely undamaged.

Face looked around at all the Wraiths peering at him. He shrugged. “Ton Phanan’s fault. He left me some money. Enough for some elective surgery. Or it would go to someone I hated. I pretty much had to do what he wanted.”

“Well, it suits you,” Dia said. “You look almost as young as you did in The Black Bantha.”

He stared up at her accusingly. “You said you’d never seen any of my holodramas.”

She smiled. “I lied.”

Runt reached out the door and tugged in a rolling cart. It was laden with bottles in cooler buckets and glasses. “Face cannot drink yet,” he said. “But we can drink to him.” He handed the bottle off to Janson.

Janson began prying at the seal. “And to Ton Phanan and Castin Donn.”

Dia said, “And to scars you can peel off whenever you no longer need them.”

Face said, “And to—”

Dia dropped the rubbery false scar into his mouth. “And,” she said, “to friends who don’t try to fool you all the time.”

Face pulled the false scar out and gave her a rueful look. “Dia, this is Wraith Squadron. You’re never going to have that.”