6

“I wasn’t too sure about this crematorium idea,” Netbers said. “But I must admit it seems to have come off rather well. Though the warlord might have preferred a better souvenir than several kilograms of ashes.”

Dr. Gast nodded. “But I think he’ll be pleased that they didn’t just die—that they died very, very painfully.”

“True.”

The building rocked and the sound of a muffled detonation reached them. Technicians jumped up and looked around as though deciding whether to situate themselves in doorways.

Netbers sighed. “Not good,” he said. “I’m going to lead the stormtroopers down to the crematorium level.”

Gast stood. “I’m going with you. You’ll need me for access to all levels.”

“Come along.”

The explosion hit before Face heard it, before he comprehended it. All he knew is that something hard, the frame of the experiment chair, hit his back and propelled him forward—launching Dia toward the burning floor, the burning wall. He rolled with the impact, tumbling, trying to keep Dia from contacting the glowing floor grid.

He succeeded. His shoulder hit the grid and he felt the flooring burn through his light tunic, branding him. He continued the roll and the burning sensation tore down his back, across his buttocks.

There was a burning in his throat, too. It had to have been from his scream. He felt as though his back had been torn completely free, revealing bones and blood for all the world to see. He almost gave up then, as the pain told his body to tighten up into a tight ball and lie there until he died, but he felt his heels hit the floor and he rose, instinct and adrenaline giving him the energy to keep moving.

He turned back toward the source of the explosion. The flames on the walls were now growing, extending toward him, but in the center of them there was a different sort of light—whiteness, not redness. He lurched toward it, gaining speed.

There it was in his mind, an absurd image—his childhood visit to an arena on Coruscant where animals from all the planets of the galaxy did tricks for the entertainment of men. One of those tricks was leaping through fiery hoops and frameworks. Now he was doing it.

The floor grating disappeared two steps ahead, ending in a broken edge of red-glowing metal. He leaped over the edge into the white void beyond—

And hit something. White, cold hardness. He bounced off it and landed on his back.

And there the pain from his burns hit him. His back arched and he shrieked. His body would not obey him, would do nothing but writhe and shout.

He could not even look down to see if Dia was still with him, if he’d managed to carry the woman he loved out of that inferno.

Lara drew her blaster pistol and fired. Her first shot missed the leading wave of stormtroopers but checked their progress—most of them dropped to skid behind antennae, air-conditioning equipment, and other rooftop gear. The first of them returned fire and Lara realized rather belatedly that she had no cover before her.

Elassar had his blaster out in a two-handed grip. He fired, tearing uselessly into the side of the metal housing between him and his target. Lara grabbed his tunic at the shoulder and tugged him toward another metal housing.

They ducked down behind the landskimmer-sized equipment case and heard blaster shots hammer into the far side. “We’re in trouble,” Lara said.

“True. Should I charge them and wipe them out for you?”

“Oh, if you think you could, that’d be really decent of you.” Lara popped up, took a quick shot, was rewarded with the image of a pair of stormtroopers ducking behind cover. “I’ll help too,” she said. “I’ll call the troops.”

“Deal.”

Lara brought out her comlink. “Wraith Two to Rogue Leader. Emergency. Emergency. Do you read?”

The only answer was a hiss of static.

Face forced himself to look around. He was in a hallway.

There, to his right, lay Dia. She was moving, her eyes half-open. Beyond her was a jagged hole in a once-pristine white wall. It was three or four meters in diameter, starting at knee height and continuing up into the ceiling and beyond, and it was lined in flames. Heat rolled out of it, a steady wind from a manmade hell.

Out from the fire shot Wes Janson, crashing into the same wall Face must have hit, but he kept his feet when he landed. His right shoulder and back were on fire. He dropped to the floor and rolled, swatting at the flame.

Then came Tyria. She landed short of the wall, her blaster rifle in hand. Poised as a heroine from an action holodrama, she swept up and down the hall with the rifle. There was no sign of fire, even of burn upon her.

Four out. Four to go. Face heaved himself to his feet, leaving Dia where she lay for the moment. There was blood all over the flooring where he’d fallen. He decided not to think about that for the moment. Or about the pain—he swore and brought out his blaster pistol, then reached down and began dragging Dia out of the path of oncoming Wraiths.

Seconds later, Kell landed where she had just been. His hair was charred and his eyebrows were gone, singed away. There were burn stripes on his chest, stripes identical to the flooring in the crematorium—and not only on his chest. His palms and fingers were also black and red with the marks, and shook uncontrollably.

Piggy came flying out of the inferno and crashed into the wall. He bounced off and slammed to the floor atop Face’s blood slick. A fraction of a second later, Shalla landed atop him. She was on fire and had burn stripes along her right side from armpit to knee, and she shrieked as she rolled to extinguish the flames. Piggy slapped at her, trying to help.

Seven of eight. The Wraiths looked at one another as, in their pained and distracted states, they tried to calculate who was missing.

“Oh, no,” Kell said. “Runt—”

Then Runt was among them, his chest and left side fully engaged in flame, his fur blackening away as it fed the fire. He landed on his knees atop Piggy, howling in pain, swinging arms as though to strike the enemy burning away at him.

Kell leaped at Runt, a body check that took him from atop the Gamorrean. Piggy got up to his feet and fell atop Runt, hammering away at patches of flame his corpulent body didn’t smother.

They just stood there breathing for a moment. Then Face straightened, despite what it cost him in agony to his back. When he spoke, he found that his voice cracked with pain and exertion. “We’re moving out,” he said. “There have to be access panels or stairs near where the turbolift used to be. First, open communications with our other team and the Rogues.”

Janson took the scorched comm pack from Runt’s back. Fortunately the unit within, though blackened along one side, was functional.

Maybe.

Janson looked up from it. “I’m getting nothing but hiss. Some of it may be because we’re too deep, but I think we’re being jammed.”

Face nodded. “That figures. All right, we go. Ten, you take point. Four, rear guard.”

Janson and Tyria nodded to accept their respective tasks.

Shalla got Dia up to her feet and quickly rigged a sling for her arm. Dia still looked groggy, but she managed to catch Face’s eye and gave him a look that said she was there, she was functional. There was no time for them to exchange anything else.

Piggy tried to haul Runt up to his feet, but the Thakwaash pilot shook off his hand and stood. He was a mess, much of his upper body marked by flame-blackened fur, and his eyes were wide, vibrating.

Face knew how he felt. It wasn’t just pain. Anger blossomed within him like the explosive cloud from a proton torpedo. “Wraiths,” he said, “no rules. No mercy. Take out anything that gets between us and home.”

From the looks in their faces he knew they’d have accepted no other order.

Lara hazarded another look over her shoulder. The nearest path to escape was the edge of the roof, some thirty meters back. But she was behind the last cover between this point and the edge. If she and Elassar got up to run, they’d be cut down. “I think we’re done for,” she said.

Elassar shook his head. “No. Today’s a lucky day. I calculated it before we started on this mission.”

“Ah. Did you remember to invite your luck? Or is it in its bunk on Mon Remonda?” Lara popped up to try another shot.

A laser blast, brilliant red, flashed out of the distance. It struck behind the equipment housing Lara had been firing at—and hit one of the stormtroopers there, blasting him sideways, leaving his charred and smoking body lying in plain sight on the rooftop.

Elassar gave her an infuriating grin. “My luck is your boyfriend. Excuse me.” He leaned out to the right of the housing protecting him.

Lara and Elassar had enemies dead ahead, and Donos with his sniper rifle across the street to their left. That meant that stormtroopers close to the Wraiths could be protected from Lara and Elassar, or from Donos, but not both. Lara saw stormtroopers scramble to get their cover between them and Donos’s more potent weapon … and as soon as they got around the side of their cover, Elassar opened fire, taking down one, two, three of them before the remainder realized the full extent of their predicament.

Lara prepared to pop up for another exchange of shots. The stormtroopers, she knew, had only a couple of options. They could retreat until they could get cover between them and both sets of Wraiths, or they could take out one of the directions of enemy fire … which probably meant charging her and Elassar.

They rose and charged, roaring as they came. Lara half rose and opened fire.

The technician Drufeys, now in the command chair of the control room, watched events unfold on the rooftop. Of the eight stormtroopers who’d risen to charge the two visible Wraiths, four were now down, two felled by blaster pistols, two more by the laser sniper. The other four were in fast retreat. “This isn’t going well,” he said. “Call Argenhald Base and ask them to scramble a couple of TIE fighters. Give them the approximate position of the sniper.”

The technician he had addressed, the communications specialist, said, “We’re still jamming.”

“Use a land line, stupid.”

“You don’t have to call me stupid.”

“Yes, I actually do have to. Get to it.” Drufeys settled back into the chair. He liked the feel of it. Too bad this facility was being shut down. But perhaps, if he displayed enough competence, he’d find some task with Warlord Zsinj. He smiled. He liked that idea.

The Wraiths were within sight of the old turbolift doors, were within thirty meters and could see how the doors had been laser-welded shut, when a side door slammed open and stormtroopers began pouring into the hall. Stormtroopers, an unarmored officer, a civilian woman.

“Get back!” Face shouted. “We have to—”

He was going to say “retreat.” They had to get back and away from a numerically superior—and uninjured—enemy force.

But then it happened. Face recognized the big man in the Imperial captain’s outfit. Weeks before, disguised as General Kargin of the Hawk-bats, Face had watched Shalla, in her own disguise of Qatya Nassin, bruise the big man in a test of martial arts skills.

And now he saw recognition in the captain’s eyes.

The captain couldn’t have recognized him; Face had been wearing burn-victim makeup designed to make stomachs turn. He must instead have seen Qatya Nassin in Shalla, recognizing her in spite of the makeup she’d worn at the time.

Shalla charged the big man and the dozen and more stormtroopers now crowding into the hall. Her intention was all too obvious: kill the big captain so he couldn’t report that a member of Wraith Squadron was also with the Hawk-bats.

She’s going to get herself killed, Face thought.

And us too.

He finished his command. “Charge!”

Wes Janson lurched into motion, charging in Shalla’s wake, taking the left side of the hall where she ran along the right.

He had no wisecracks to offer now. He could only offer one of his other skills, one that might make him unfit for a normal life when this war was finally done. The skill that made him proficient at killing people.

In full stride, he raised his blaster pistol and fired, catching the lead stormtrooper in the chest. The man was thrown back into the arms of one of his companions, his armor now blackened and penetrated.

Janson didn’t sight in—he aimed by instinct, by the natural point of his weapon, and fired again. The second stormtrooper took the shot in the dark visor material over his right eye.

Shalla wasn’t firing—why not? Janson traversed right and shot at the lead stormtrooper on that side of the hall, catching him in the gut. Behind him was the big captain, now raising his own blaster. Janson fired again. His shot caught the man in the elbow, spinning him back into the wall, causing him to drop his weapon.

Janson traversed leftward again, targeting a stormtrooper with a blaster rifle, his shot catching the man in the throat.

Five steps. Five shots. Five hits. But the hallway was a natural channel for blaster bolts. Its straight lines would angle stray shots back into play. He’d never reach them—

He didn’t. He felt fire again and suddenly the world was spinning, slamming into his head—

Dark.

Netbers saw the dark-skinned woman charge and for a moment was so surprised by this tactical insanity that he couldn’t react. Then he shouted, “Fire!” and drew his own blaster pistol.

The woman’s gaze was fixed on him. He knew he was her target. He knew why, too. And he couldn’t get his blaster in line before she had hers aimed, before she pulled her trigger—

And the charred blaster in her hand failed to go off. He almost laughed. He aimed.

The stormtrooper in front of him was thrown back into him, jarring his aim. He shoved the man, probably already dead, aside.

A stray blaster beam slammed into his right arm. It spun him back and pain flashed through him.

That was all right. He knew pain. Pain was his friend.

When he looked up again, the dark woman was upon him, lashing out with a side kick meant to shatter his knee, to bring him to the floor. He twisted, took it as a graze against the side of his knee.

She was hurt. Burn marks all along her right side. Netbers swung at her flank, a left-handed slap that hit bare, burned flesh. The blow knocked her to the floor and she lay there, curled up, helpless.

Conditioning is a big part of it, Qatya, he thought. He reached down and took a blaster pistol from the dead stormtrooper beside him. You might beat me once, but never twice—Something loomed up before him and struck him across the face.

He crashed to the floor atop the body of a stormtrooper. The blow was incredible. He saw stars and his hearing failed. His body wouldn’t respond.

His attacker bent over him. It was a nonhuman, a big hairy thing burned all over its upper body, with wide, staring eyes and lips drawn back over square teeth. It grabbed him by the collar and hauled him, all 130 kilograms of him, up into the air as though he weighed nothing.

Netbers lashed out at the alien, striking at one of its burned patches, but the creature grabbed his wrist with its free hand.

Then, as casually as though it were swinging a bag of grain, it slammed him into the wall. He felt his shoulder blade break under the impact, felt something grate in his neck as his head battered into the metal of the wall.

Where are my stormtroopers? But now there were black-clad, burned commandos charging past him, running toward the stairwell by which he and his men had descended. The commandos were firing blasters, shouting—Netbers could hear no noise.

The first wave of them passed and the burned alien swung him toward the opposite wall. Netbers felt himself hit, felt his right shoulder give way, felt something in his neck explode.

Then he felt no more.

“Call it off!” Face shouted. He was at the base of the stairs. Kell and Piggy were above, ahead of him, struggling across the bodies of fallen stormtroopers. Living stormtroopers were ahead of them, running for their lives. “Let’s get out of here!”

“The woman.” That was Piggy’s mechanical voice, inflectionless in spite of the pain he must be feeling. “She is one of my creators. We need her.” He fired up the stairs and continued his awkward run over the bodies of slain enemies. A moment later, he and Kell were out of sight, around a turn in the stairs, and all Face could hear was more blaster fire. He grimaced and moved up the stairs as fast as his tired legs and burned body would let him.

One landing up, the two Wraiths awaited him. Piggy had the human civilian in his grip. Kell waited, his blaster aimed up the stairs, for a counterattack.

In spite of her situation, the woman seemed calm. Face said, “Eight, when the next wave of stormtroopers comes, use her as a human shield. I’m curious to see how long it’ll take blasters to burn through her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m too valuable for that,” she said.

“I doubt it,” Face said. “But we’ll see. If you want to live, you’ll tell us a way out of here that doesn’t involve more ambushes by your stormtroopers. If they do come at us, you’ll be our first bit of cover. Well?”

“Access tunnels,” she said. Her voice was cool.

“Show me.”

She pointed down the stairs.

They gathered where the big captain had died. Janson was on his feet, supported by Tyria, his right bicep wrapped in a thick bandage already stained through with blood, his arm hanging uselessly. There was blood spilling down his forehead, too, and a matching patch on the wall at head height. His face was already graying with shock. Shalla, too, was up. Runt was swaying and breathing hard where he stood; flecks of white spittle decorated the sides of his mouth. Seven stormtroopers and the big captain lay dead in the hall.

The female civilian, whom Piggy called Dr. Gast, led them back toward the incinerator room. Fire from the chamber had spread out into the hall. The air was becoming smoky and flames licked along the ceiling at the far end. But halfway there, Gast turned a toward blank wall and said, “Gast access override one-one-one.”

The wall section lifted like a high-speed doorway, revealing a small turbolift beyond. Gast gave Face a cool smile. “Down one level is an underground landspeeder channel with a utilities shaft running parallel to it.”

Face boarded and the others followed. “You know what this means to you if this is a trick.”

She shook her head. “No trick. Zsinj will have me killed for failure. So my survival means getting you to safety. Gast, descend to sub-five.”

The turbolift descended for a few seconds. Then the door opened onto a dimly lit duracrete shelf. Beyond it was a dropoff; a few meters beyond that, a wall.

They exited cautiously, blasters raised right and left. This was a boarding platform for a railway of some sort, the dropoff being a low roadway.

“And may I say,” she continued, “that I always enjoyed your holodramas?”

“You couldn’t say anything that would nauseate me more.”

She smiled, her expression still calm. “Though I liked Tetran Cowall more.”

“That makes me feel better. He’s a no-talent bag of bantha droppings.” Face gestured right and left. “Which way?”

As they moved, fast as their ill-treated bodies would let them, they passed hatches allowing access into upper floors, tanks where water was stored and processed, power-cabling terminals, and equipment housings that were less easily identified.

Kell stopped beside a heavy metal beam running from the duracrete ceiling above into the duracrete shelf below. He tapped it with his forearm. His hand was still charred, twitching. “Hey,” he said. “This is a main support beam, isn’t it?”

Gast nodded. “I think so. Why?”

Face said, “Five, no. We can’t bring down this whole building. There may be other innocents, other test subjects up there.”

Kell offered him a smirk. “Boss, I don’t want to blow everything up. Listen. We just passed a power station a few meters back.”

“So?”

“So if we can adapt the power from that station to boost the signal strength of Runt’s comm unit, and patch the unit’s signal through this beam—”

“Then we use the whole building as an antenna.” Face slapped his forehead and regretted it instantly as his palm encountered burned flesh. “Do it. Do it fast.”

At a dead run, Hobbie charged up to where Wedge and Tycho sat under their camouflage covers. “Signal from the Wraiths, Wedge. They need immediate air support.”

Lara and Elassar had circled around, maintaining fire against the now much more distant stormtroopers, reaching the point on the wall where their fibra-rope rig would give them access to Donos’s roof, when they saw and heard the approaching TIE fighters. “Just what we need,” she said.

She gauged the drop to the ground below. Not too far, she might land unhurt, but there was no place within a hundred meters to hide from a TIE. Likewise, the nearest roof hatch, its locks and security restored to keep guards and workers from noticing anything amiss, would take too long to open.

The pair of TIE fighters roared in from the south, decelerating as they came within easy firing range of the rooftop. They came to a complete halt, floating on repulsorlifts, when they were two hundred meters away. One was aimed directly at Lara and Elassar’s position, the other at Donos.

Lara set her blaster pistol down and raised her hands. Elassar did the same. Across the street, they could dimly see Donos following suit.

They could hear the remaining stormtroopers approaching from behind—walking up at a casual pace, joking, their voices relieved.

Then one of the TIE fighters dropped as though it were a puppet with its strings suddenly cut. The other rose a few meters and aimed over Lara’s head, off to the east—

There was a flash of blue light and the TIE fighter exploded.

The blast rained fiery bits of metal and transparisteel over the area. Lara felt a bite as a needle of glowing metal hit her forearm, then heat as the advance wave of the explosion reached her. She saw her Devaronian squadmate tumble to the ground, rolling across his dropped blaster as he did so, and come up on one knee already firing.

Lara dropped and scrambled for her blaster. As she swung it into line, she saw that one stormtrooper was already down, the other three aiming. Her shot took one of them in the knee, bringing him down flat on the roof, and her next shot hit the top of his head. He twitched for a moment.

She looked around. The other two stormtroopers were down. One had a burn mark on his gut. The other had a crater where his chest should be. And over on the roof across the street, Donos had his laser rifle in one hand and was waving with the other.

Lara heard the other TIE fighter zooming around out in the distance, but it had to be keeping nearly at street level. What had chased it off, destroyed the other? She looked to the east, but could see nothing in the darkness of the night sky.

“Good shot, Leader.”

“Thanks, Two,” Wedge said. It had, in fact, been a proficient proton torpedo shot. He’d brought up his targeting computer, gotten a targeting lock on one of the enemy TIEs, and fired, all in less than two seconds. Then he led Rogue Squadron on a dive down almost to rooftop level over Lurark, vectoring so that they weren’t aimed directly at the Binring complex. There was another TIE fighter out there, keeping buildings between it and the Rogues to stay off their sensor screens, and it didn’t pay to be predictable.

In less than a minute, they’d have more than one TIE to deal with. He took another look at his sensor board. There, at its limits, he could see a cloud of red targets tentatively identified as TIEs coming in from the south. The local Imperial air base, seeing the launch of Wedge’s X-wings, had dispatched at least a squadron to deal with them. This was going to be complicated.

“Leader, Seven.” That was Ran Kether, the new pilot from Chandrila, handling comm duties. “Signal from the Wraiths. They want us to blow up a specific location so they can get out from a tunnel they’re in. And to blow up the area bordered by the comm markers they’ve put up. They say it’s a festering pit of evil.”

Wedge laughed. “They shouldn’t let Wraith One on the comm like that. His language is too florid. All right, break by flights. One Flight, Three Flight, vector to the south and prepare to engage the incoming eyeballs. Two Flight, blow some stuff up for the Wraiths and get them safely out of there.”

He heard a groan, doubtless from Gavin Darklighter, who was part of Two Flight—and reduced to “baby-sitting,” as Gavin had feared he would be.

“Shrike Four to Shrike Leader, I read two incoming targets, class X-wing. They’re staying pretty close to building-top level. They’re searching for a lock with sensors.”

Shrike Leader, commander of the squad of TIE fighters defending Lurark, nodded. These were tactics he’d seen before. The incoming snubfighters had sent their squadmates on ahead, flanking right and left. The unseen X-wings would be coming back toward the center now, flying at street level to stay off the sensors, timing things so that just at the point the X-wings came within firing range, his TIEs would come within sight.

Shrike Leader knew better than to give them such an opportunity. “Reduce speed to two-thirds,” he said. That would throw off the enemy’s timing. The unseen X-wings would cross before them, having nothing to shoot at, and provide his TIEs with abundant shooting practice. Either that, or they’d break formation now, popping up out of the trenches of Lurark’s streets, and the Shrikes could engage them immediately in dogfights.

But no X-wings came bouncing up out of the streets, and the two known targets came implacably on. Shrike Leader frowned at that. “Fire at will,” he said.

A second later, one of the X-wings jittered within the brackets of his targeting computer—and dove, even as Shrike Leader fired. His linked laser shot superheated the air just above the enemy starfighter and hit what looked like a residential building.

His target was suddenly gone, down into the maze of streets below, as was the other oncoming X-wing—and just as suddenly, six more X-wings popped up from other streets, also on oncoming headings, and opened fire.

Shrike Leader banked hard, so sharply that his inertial compensator couldn’t quite make up for the maneuver—he was thrown sideways into the netting of his pilot’s couch.

Then he felt something like a hammerblow as his left wing was hit, penetrated—

Abruptly the world outside his viewport was spinning, starry sky, nighttime city lights, over and over, and he could see the laser-heated stump of his left wing falling mere meters away.

He felt a sickness rise in his stomach, but knew that his discomfort would last only for another fifteen hundred meters.

One thousand.

Five hundred.

Wedge checked his sensor board and smiled thinly at what he saw. The maneuver had been more successful than he’d hoped. Scotian of One Wing and Qyrgg of Three Wing had skimmed along at rooftop level, feeding their sensor data to the other Rogues, who had lined up their opening shots based solely on the transmitted data. As soon as Scotian and Qyrgg had detected targeting locks on them, they’d dived to cover among the streets, and the other six Rogues had jumped up and taken their shots. Suddenly the enemy squadron of TIEs had been reduced by five—three destroyed, two badly damaged and winging away—and the odds were now in the Rogues’ favor.

The numerical odds, he told himself. The odds were already in our favor. “Break by pairs,” he said. “Engage and eliminate. Keep your eyes open for additional incoming units.” He arced to port, Tycho tucked in tight behind him.

Lara accepted a hand from Donos and swung from the crawler to his rooftop. Elassar stood on guard, his back to them. “Thanks,” she said.

“Welcome. Any word from the others?”

She shook her head.

A shrill whine rose behind them—and, like a landspeeder, an X-wing nosed around the building corner to their north, turning their way, riding on repulsorlifts. It climbed as it came until it was at rooftop level. The cowling rose and Rogue pilot Tal’dira nodded at them, his face serious as ever.

“That’ll be the lunch I ordered,” Lara said, under her breath. She heard Donos snort, saw him struggle to keep his face straight.

“Prepare to pick up your squadmates,” Tal’dira shouted. “South face of the building complex. Don’t get too near before we blow it.”

“Understood,” Donos said. “Thanks.”

The Twi’lek grimaced, his expression speaking eloquently of how he’d prefer to be halfway across the city where starfighters were engaged in combat, rather than here chatting to ground-pounding commandos. He lowered his X-wing’s cowling and goosed the snubfighter forward.

Dia leaned in close to Face, so that only he could hear, and asked, “Who is Tetran Cowall?”

“What?”

“That Gast creature said she liked Tetran Cowall more than you.”

“Oh.” He laughed. “She can have him. He’s an actor from Coruscant. We’re the same age. We competed for everything. Both wanted to be pilots. Tested for the same roles. Chased the same girls. He had no perceivable acting skills.”

She managed a slight smile. “He was the one Ton Phanan was going to leave his money to. If you didn’t get the operation to clear the scar from your face.”

Face nodded, rueful.

“I haven’t heard of him. Is he still making holodramas?”

“No.” Face smiled. “That was one competition I definitely won. He was a good-looking kid, but as he grew up he got sort of homely and couldn’t find work. He hasn’t made a holo in years.”

The tunnel rocked and a section of it, seventy meters and more away, collapsed, sending dust and large chunks of duracrete rolling down the tunnel toward the Wraiths.

“I think,” Face said, “that our ride has arrived.”

The Wraiths rode out of Lurark in the back of Donos’s new stolen flatbed speeder, lurking beneath blankets that smelled of feathers and avian manure. They lay as comfortably as they could—not comfortably at all for most of them, given the placement and severity of their burns. The city around them was alive with noises—distant explosions, occasional siren wails.

Lara, handling the comm unit while Elassar bandaged Runt, relayed information back. “Rogue Six and Rogue Five are riding guard over us, staying below sensor level. The commander and the rest of the Rogues are strafing the military base now. They’re going to lead off pursuit from the next base out. That means we’ll probably be able to climb out of the atmosphere at a fairly easy pace.”

“Good,” Face said. “Is everybody fit to fly?” He shined a glow rod from face to face to get responses.

Dia nodded. Her broken arm was now in a cast made of fast-hardening paste from Elassar’s backpack.

Piggy said, “Ready to go home.”

Shalla and Kell gave him tired nods.

“Fit to fly,” Tyria affirmed. She wasn’t kidding; when Face had gotten a good look at her, he found that the only damage she’d suffered was burns that hadn’t quite penetrated her boot soles and some charring to the butt of her blaster rifle. When he asked how she’d gotten away unmarked, she’d merely shrugged.

Janson said, “Just try to stop me.” He hadn’t cracked a smile since the incinerator, and Face could finally see, in his grim expression and the anger deep in his eyes, the man Janson had to be when flying against an enemy.

Runt was slow to answer. Then he said, “We can fly. But we are groggy from what Eleven has given us.”

“Just tuck in behind me,” Kell said. “I’ll get you there.”

“We are your wing.”

“All right, then,” Face said. He didn’t really believe they could all fly, but their experience and determination made it possible, and he didn’t have much in the way of options. “We have one other problem. Cargo.” He shined his light into the face of their prisoner, Dr. Edda Gast. She lay on her side, her arms bound behind her, expression perfectly serene.

“Put her in with me,” Shalla said. “Beside me in my TIE. She’s not big, I’m not big. We’ll dump everything out of my cargo area to lighten up.”

“And if she gets feisty?” Face waved his glow rod at Shalla’s right side, which was decorated with bandages.

Shalla’s face set. “Then I’ll kill her.”

“You have nothing to fear from me,” Gast said. “The worst I plan to do to any of you is negotiate with you.”

“Negotiate?” Face said.

“For what I know.”

“I think I’ll let Nine kill you now.”

Gast shook her head, not apparently offended by his suggestion. “No, you won’t. The Rebels—excuse me, the New Republic—doesn’t do things that way. That’s what I’ve always liked about you. And you do want to know where Voort saBinring came from. Why he exists at all. Don’t you, Voort?” She twisted to look at the Gamorrean.

Piggy merely stared back at her, his expression unreadable.

“So start talking,” Face said.

“No. You, personally, can’t give me what I want. Elimination of any charges the New Republic might see fit to press against me. Enough money to start my life over again. Protection from Zsinj. I don’t think I’m asking too much—”

“Gag her,” Face said. He lay back against the side of the speeder’s bed and tried to quell his stomach, which threatened to rise against him.