7

They returned to Mon Remonda’s X-wing bays, twenty-three starfighters. Some of them now showed new battle damage. Others were flown as though their pilots were drunk or worse. Medical crews were on station in the bays to help ease pilots out of cockpits and carry them on repulsorlift stretchers to the medical ward.

Two hours later, against his doctor’s orders, with his back heavily swathed in bacta bandages underneath a white hospital shirt, Face returned to his quarters.

Solo quarters. A captain, even a brevet captain, warranted decent-sized accommodations all to himself. Face felt a tinge of the old guilt, the old feeling that he didn’t deserve any such special consideration, given the good he’d done the Empire back when he was making holodramas … but he suppressed that feeling, burying it under a surge of anger. Ton Phanan had shown him that he needed to leave such thoughts behind. If only knowing what he needed to do were the same as doing it.

A scritch-scritch-scritch noise reminded him of duties he needed to perform. He took a pasteboard box from a drawer and moved to the table where the cages rested.

Two cages, each about knee height, each contained a translucent arthropod that stood and walked on two legs. The creatures were about finger height, with well-defined mandibles and compound eyes. Storini Glass Prowlers, they were called, from the Imperial world of Storinal. Ton Phanan and Grinder Thri’ag had each secretly come away from the Wraiths’s Storinal mission with one of the creatures. Face had found Grinder’s when it had been placed in his cockpit as a prank, and had given it to Phanan. Then Phanan, too, had died, and Face had inherited them. But both creatures were male, more likely to kill one another than coexist peaceably, and Face kept them in side-by-side cages.

He used a spoon to extract some of their food from the box. It was unappetizing-looking stuff, looking like little glass beads with green flecks at their centers. But when he poured a spoonful into each cage’s feeder box, the Glass Prowlers fell upon the food as though it were the most wonderful of treats; the Prowlers’s arms snapped out to scoop up each individual bead and their mandibles chewed away at the transparent coating and green flecks within. Face smiled at their voracity.

There was a knock at his door. “Come,” he said.

It slid open and Wedge stepped in. “Am I intruding?”

“No. Just feeding my roommates. Have a seat.” Face flicked a tunic from one of the room’s chairs. He settled in the other, forgetting for a moment, flinching as his back came in contact with the chair.

Wedge said, “I just came in to see how you were doing. Well, more precisely, to see how you felt about today’s mission.”

“I figured you would. So I’ve been thinking about it.”

“And?”

“And I feel pretty good about it.”

That got him a raised eyebrow from his commander. “Can you explain that?”

“Well, I don’t feel good about the casualty total, obviously. Sithspit. Janson and Runt in bacta tanks, everyone else bandaged and drugged up to the eyebrows … I have only four pilots fit to fly.”

“So what makes you feel good about the mission?”

Face took a deep breath. “We had an objective. Get information. We succeeded, even if that information is going to be difficult to drag out of Doctor Gast. We got out of there with everyone more or less alive.

“Even more, it’s obvious that they’d geared that whole facility to kill us, which is something we hadn’t anticipated. We were channeled to the place they intended to kill us, and they threw everything they had at us—and we took it and got out anyway. That’s a tremendous thing. When my pilots realize that, it’s going to be harder than ever to stop them. To intimidate them.

“And then, again, there’s the fact that the enemy went to such lengths to wipe out the Wraiths. They spent a tremendous amount of money and effort. They may want us dead, but they’re showing us respect—which is something I need to point out to the other Wraiths.” He shrugged, then winced again at the incautious move. “We all feel as though we’ve had the stuffing kicked out of us, then been fried up for someone else’s meal—but we won this one, Commander.”

Wedge nodded and rose. “I guess I don’t have too much to tell you.”

Face stood as well. “You came here to talk me out of a depressive state.” He mimed drawing a blaster and placing it to his temple. “Good-bye, galaxy of cruelty. My pilots are all burned; I must kill myself out of shame.”

“Something like that. But you’re obviously too smart for that.”

Face shook his head. “Too experienced. A year ago, I’d have felt like bantha slobber after something like this. Maybe even a month ago. Now, I just feel pride for my pilots … and a realization that I’m going to be sleeping on my stomach for a while. By the way, I’m putting in a commendation for Kell for his initiative, and one for Lieutenant Janson for bravery.”

“Like he needs another one,”

“Maybe he can build a little fort out of them.”

Wedge smiled and departed.

There was another knock at his door.

“Come.”

Dia almost flew through the door. She wrapped her arms around his neck, high so as to avoid his bandages, and drew his face to hers for a kiss.

A long one. He held her to him, the two of them able, at long last, to be clear of the military traditions that made it inappropriate for them to embrace before the other pilots, to be able simply to appreciate that they were both still alive.

When she finally released him, it took him a moment to remember what he’d been up to recently. “I sure am glad you two arrived in the right order.”

She looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“I’d have hated to have offered you the chair and given the commander the kiss.”

She gave him a smile, the one she’d never displayed before the two of them became a couple, the smile that was only for him. “Let’s see what we can do so you’ll always remember to keep the order straight.”

Donos settled onto the stool next to Lara’s and looked across the bar. “Fruit fizz, double, no ice,” he said.

Lara looked curiously at him. “You know there’s no one tending bar.”

“Sure, but some of the old formalities have to be maintained.” Donos looked around. The two of them were the only people in the pilots’ lounge—not unusual, considering the lateness of the hour, and the way no one much felt like celebrating. “I was wondering if you’d thought about what I asked you to.”

“You, you mean.”

“Well, us, really.”

“Sure, I had plenty of time, when I wasn’t planting comm markers, shooting at stormtroopers, and tending the injured.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Lieutenant, will you give me an absolutely honest answer?”

“Call me Myn. Sure.”

“What do you want from me?”

He took a deep breath, stalling as he composed his answer. “I want to get to know you better. What I do know, what I’ve seen, suggests that we’d be good together. I want you to stop saying it can’t ever be—stop throwing that up as a theory and let us accumulate some evidence. I want to make you smile with something other than a wisecrack. I want to know who you really are.”

Her laugh, sudden and hard, startled him. “Oh, no, you don’t.”

“Try me. Lara, does anyone know who you really are?” That put a stop to her hard-edged amusement. She had to take a moment to consider. “No.”

“Even yourself?”

“Least of all me.”

“So how do you know no one can love you for what you are? Until you know, you can’t have friends, you can’t even really have family—you have to be absolutely alone in the universe.” He took a moment to settle his thoughts. “Lara, I just want you to give me a chance. But even more, even if it’s not with me, I’d really like to see you give yourself a chance.”

She looked away from him, studying the gleaming brown surface of the bar top. Real wood, protected by so many coats of clear sealant that it shone like glass. He could see thoughts maneuvering behind her eyes, could see her examining them as if measuring and weighing trade goods. But her expression wasn’t clinical; it was sad.

Finally, her voice quiet, she said, “All right.”

“All right, meaning exactly what?”

“All right, I’ll stop avoiding you. All right, let’s get to know one another.”

“All right, let’s find out if we have some chance of a future together?”

She looked back up at him. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to break your heart.”

“Well, that’s a step in the right direction. Can I break yours, too?”

She didn’t smile. “Maybe you already have.”

Normally, taking news to the warlord didn’t cause General Melvar’s stomach to host some sort of internal dogfight. But sometimes the news was bad. Such as when he’d had to tell Zsinj how much they’d lost in the Razor’s Kiss battle with General Solo’s fleet.

Such as now.

Approaching the door to the warlord’s office, he nodded at the two guards on duty, two handpicked fighting men of Coruscant, and activated one of the many comlinks he carried on his person. This one signaled a very special set of hydraulics he’d had installed in the doors to most of Zsinj’s private quarters and retreats. They opened the door at a fraction of the speed and with almost none of the noise of most door mechanisms. Silently, he stepped inside, waited for the door to slide shut behind him, then stood before his warlord.

Zsinj looked up. He hardly ever jumped anymore. So disappointing. “What is it?” he asked.

“Word from Saffalore.” He set a datapad before the warlord. “Here’s the full report.”

“From Dr. Gast?”

“Not quite.”

Warned by something in Melvar’s tone, Zsinj sat back and laced his hands together over his prominent stomach. “Give me the short version.”

“There was a raid on Binring Biomedical about thirteen hours ago. As far as we can determine, it was by the Wraiths.”

“Were they killed?”

“No.”

“Were any of them killed?”

“We don’t think so. Survivors on the site think some of them were injured.”

Zsinj’s jaw clenched, then he forced himself to relax. “Go on.”

“They killed Captain Netbers.”

Zsinj sighed. “That’s a blow. Netbers was loyal and proficient. Is that it?”

Melvar shook his head. “They had Rogue Squadron with them, apparently flying support. Early reports indicate that Wedge Antilles was back flying with the Rogues, as our man on Mon Remonda suspected, so he was never in any real danger at the Binring site. They blew up the research center and apparently strafed one of the nearby air bases for fun.”

“And what does Doctor Gast have to say for herself?”

“They took her.”

Zsinj went absolutely still. Melvar waited, watching, but the man did not blink for long moments, and Melvar knew this was going to be a bad one.

Zsinj rose, slamming his chair into the wall behind him. “They took her alive?”

“Apparently. One of three stormtroopers who survived the bombing witnessed the Gamorrean pilot capturing her. Her body hasn’t been found.”

Zsinj made an inarticulate noise of anger. He twisted and seized one of the chamber’s decorations, a flagpole bearing a banner in the Raptors’ colors, red and black and yellow, and slammed its base onto the top of the desk, obliterating the datapad. “They took her? She knows all about Chubar! She knows all too much about Minefield!”

Melvar heard the door behind him hiss open. He heard it hiss shut almost instantly. The guards outside must be peeking in, and, seeing that the warlord was in no danger—only the general was—they’d returned to their posts.

Zsinj swung the flagpole laterally, narrowly missing Melvar, and slammed its base into a trophy case full of memorabilia from his many military campaigns. The case bounced off the wall and toppled forward, crashing onto the floor beside Zsinj’s desk.

Zsinj glared at the fallen case as though it were a new enemy. He threw the flagpole aside and, from a hidden pocket at his waist, drew a small but very powerful blaster pistol. He fired at the back of the trophy case once, twice, three times, blasting a crater into the expensive wood with each shot.

The room filled with smoke from the blaster emissions. The door slid open behind Melvar and then shut again.

Zsinj stood, shaking, glaring at the damage he’d done, then tucked the blaster away and sat heavily back in his chair. Melvar let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Well, we can’t have this,” Zsinj said. His voice was raw and sweat beaded his forehead. Sweat was also beginning to stain his white grand admiral’s uniform at his armpits and chest. “Activate our man on Mon Remonda. Tell him to kill Doctor Gast if he sees her. Whether or not she’s there, tell him to kill his primary targets. We’ll need to sacrifice some units as bait for Solo’s fleet if we’re to mop up the rest of them. And put Project Funeral on full speed ahead.” He held up a hand as if to curtail an argument, though Melvar did not feel like offering one. “I know, it’s a little premature, but all these Ranats biting at my heels are going to ruin my entire plan if we don’t do something about it now.”

“Understood, sir.” Melvar saluted. “Do you want your office restored, or will you be wanting to redecorate?”

Zsinj looked at him, puzzled, then glanced around at the damage he’d wrought. He managed a bark of laughter. “I’ll redecorate. Thank you, General. Dismissed.”

On faraway Coruscant, in one of the tallest of the planet’s towers at the heart of the old Imperial governmental district—a district as large, geographically, as mighty nations on other planets—Mon Mothma rose from the chair before her makeup table.

Not that the Chief Councilor of the New Republic’s Inner Council was overly fond of makeup. She made no effort to hide the gray creeping inexorably through her brown hair. She went to no particular lengths to hide her age—she’d earned every one of those years and would not insult others of her generation by suggesting that there was some shame in the accumulation of time.

Still, she needed a little matte to make sure that her face was not too shiny when the holocams caught her under bright lights, and these days she was a little too pallid to suit herself—a bit of color, even artificial color, suggested that she possessed more vigor and health than she actually felt.

She gave herself one last look in the mirror, adjusted the hem of her white gown, and marched with simulated energy to the door of her quarters.

They opened to admit her into the hall, and there waiting, as she knew they would be, were two members of her retinue.

The smaller was Malan Tugrina, a man of Alderaan—a man who’d lost his world long before Alderaan was destroyed, as he’d attached himself to Mon Mothma’s retinue in the earliest days of her work with the Rebellion. He was of average height, with features that would have been vaguely homely if not covered by a natty black beard and mustache, and the only thing striking about him were his eyes, which suggested intelligence and deep-buried loss. There was little striking about his abilities, too, except for his unwavering loyalty to Mon Mothma and the New Republic, and his skill at memory retention—everything said to him, everything that passed before his eyes, was burned into his memory as though he had a computer between his ears. He handled many of her secretarial duties with both the efficiency and the pedantic manner of a 3PO unit. “Good morning,” he said. “In half an hour, you have—”

“Wait,” she said. “I haven’t had any caf this morning. Can you expect me to face the horrors of my schedule when I’m not fully awake?” She swept toward the nearest turbolift. “Good morning, Tolokai.”

The other individual said, “Good morning, Councilor,” in his usual monotone. He was a Gotal, a humanoid whose roundish face was adorned with a heavy beard, a broad, flattened nose, and, most dramatically, two conelike horns rising from his head. The horns, Mon Mothma well knew, were sensory apparatus that made Gotals some of the most capable hunters and reconnaissance experts in the galaxy—not to mention bodyguards. With Tolokai beside her, she knew she’d always have warning of an impending attack, no matter how well prepared. It gave her an edge she needed in these dangerous times.

Mon Mothma summoned the turbolift as her companions stepped into place behind her.

Tolokai said, “If I may, Councilor, there was something I wished to show you.”

“It’s nothing I have to remember for too long, is it?”

“No, not too long. I do this in the name of all Gotals everywhere.” From beneath his tunic, he brought out a long, curved vibroblade and drew it back.

The world seemed to shift into a sort of slow motion, like a holocomedy slowed so everyone could see each twitch, each gesture. The vibroblade darted forward. There was a roar of noise, a voice, from beside Tolokai. Then Malan, arm outstretched, moving in a bizarre sort of flight, drifted into the path of the weapon. The blade point touched his chest and drove slowly in; then Malan’s momentum carried Tolokai’s arm out of line, bearing the Gotal into the wall.

Malan, the vibroblade buried to its hilt in his chest, his face turning ashen, wrapped his arms around Tolokai’s and turned to Mon Mothma. He spoke slow words she couldn’t grasp. Tolokai yanked in slow-motion frenzy at the weapon he’d driven into his friend’s chest.

Mon Mothma turned and found herself able to move at a normal rate. Her hearing returned to normal. Malan screamed, “Run, run!” Tolokai’s words made less sense: “Stay, and accept the death you know you deserve!”

She reached the door to the nearest stairwell. She heard a thump and a gasp from behind; she hazarded a look and saw Malan sliding across the floor, Tolokai advancing menacingly toward her. She ran down the stairs as fast as she could.

Not fast enough. As she reached the first landing she felt something yank the back of her hair, and suddenly she was flying down the next flight of stairs—

Flying halfway down. She hit the stairs, pain cracking through her rib cage and chest, and rolled to a stop at the bottom of that flight.

Her wind gone, her energy gone, she could only stare up the steps to where Tolokai stood. His expression was as reasonable, as emotionless as ever—as it was with every Gotal. She tried to ask him why, but could only mouth the word; she had no breath with which to expel it.

But he understood. A Gotal would. “For my people,” he said. “To rid the universe of the scourge you call humankind. I’m sorry.” He descended the steps with meticulous care.

When he was halfway down, Malan, his tunic drenched with blood, came toppling over the rail from the first flight of steps and fell full upon Tolokai. Then the two males were falling and rolling, to the accompanying sound of cracking bones.

Mon Mothma tried to get clear, succeeded in rolling partway aside, and the two men landed across her legs, pinning her in place.

The men lay still, their eyes closed. Tolokai’s head was bent at an angle that was not survivable. Malan had frothy blood on his lips. Mon Mothma looked at them, trying to grasp what had gone so wrong in Tolokai’s mind … trying to understand how Malan had managed to surprise him with his attack. It shouldn’t have been possible.

Then Malan’s eyes opened. “Iwo,” he said. “Iwo, Iwo …” His words were mere whispers, barely audible.

Mon Mothma leaned closer to hear him.

“Iwo, I won’t be getting you that caf.” His eyes closed and his head fell back. But his chest still rose and fell, though there was a rattle in his breathing.

And once again, Mon Mothma had work to do. She brought out her personal comlink and thumbed it on. “Emergency,” she said. “Councilors’ Floors, Stairwell One. Emergency.”

Liquid rolled down her face. She wiped at it with her free hand and looked at it, expecting to see more of Malan’s blood, but her own tears glistened in her palm.

Galey was a massive man, all chest and muscle, with legs that were short enough to keep his height in the average range, though no one dared tell him he wasn’t proportioned like a holodrama idol. His hair was red and shaggy and his expression perpetually quizzical, as though he didn’t ever quite understand what was going on around him.

Which wasn’t the case. He understood his job well enough—programming menus for the cafeteria and officers’ dinners on Mon Remonda, making sure there was hot, fresh caf available at all the conferences and meetings and briefings, making special arrangements for dinners for important visitors.

This was an important job. He knew it to be at least as significant as any piloting position. A military force ran on its stomach, after all.

But the job didn’t pay well, and offered little respect, and so he was very attentive on his last leave on Coruscant when the men with intelligent eyes came to him and offered him a lot of money.

And now he was supposed to kill somebody. Somebody important. It would take precise timing and careful arrangement. It would take skill and knowledge.

So it pleased him that he had figured out just what the various requests for refreshments actually meant. They were like a code, and he had cracked it.

A request for one large pot of caf and a tray of sweet pastries for the captain’s conference room, for instance. That meant an unscheduled but routine staff meeting led by Han Solo, not by Captain Onoma. Onoma’s meetings were always smaller and didn’t call for quite so much caf.

The pilot briefings also called for caf, but if a request included both sweet pastries and meat rolls, it meant there would be a mission. So when the request came in this morning, he knew he had his opportunity to earn all that money.

He delivered the cart of refreshments to the pilots’ main briefing amphitheater and then loitered out in the hall with a datapad and a second cart of caf, offering cups to anyone who asked for them. Soon enough, the pilots of Mon Remonda’s four starfighter squadrons began filing in.

He waved at the huge Rogue, the one almost too tall to fit in his cockpit with the canopy down—Tal’dira, the Twi’lek. “Lieutenant, can I have a moment?”

Tal’dira frowned at this odd request. He glanced at the other Rogues, as though to gauge whether they, too, found it out of keeping, but they swept past him into the briefing chamber. “Well,” he said, “only a moment. The briefing is about to start. You’re Kaley, aren’t you?”

“Galey. And I have an important message for you. From someone who’s finally realized she’d like to meet you.” He beckoned Tal’dira and walked around the nearest corner.

The pilot followed, an intent expression on his face. “You don’t mean—”

“Here’s what she has to say. ‘Wedge Antilles hops on one transparisteel leg.’ ”

Tal’dira rocked back on his heels, his expression shocked. He swayed on his feet and reached out to steady himself against the wall. “No.”

“It’s true. He really does.”

The Twi’lek gripped his head as though to restrain some explosive force within it. “I hate that.”

“Me, too. We all do.”

Tal’dira stood upright again, with a new look in his eyes. “But I can put a stop to it.”

“And you should. But wait until after the meeting. Then you can do it in an X-wing.”

“You’re right.” The pilot slapped Galey on his shoulder, propelling him into the wall. “You’re a good friend.”

“As are you.” Galey thought about giving Tal’dira a return blow, then decided against it. “May the Force be with you.”

Tal’dira nodded briskly and turned back toward the briefing amphitheater.

Galey breathed out a sigh of relief and rubbed his shoulder where it still stung. He hoped the other Twi’lek wouldn’t be quite so violent.

“For the last few hours,” Wedge said, “we’ve been in hyperspace en route to the Jussafet system.”

A hologram starfield popped up to the left of the lectern where Wedge stood. It showed a cluster of stars near a fuzzy diamond-shaped nebula. One star blinked yellow in a decidedly mechanical fashion. Donos nodded; he remembered Jussafet from discussions of strategic moves into Warlord Zsinj’s territory.

Wedge continued, “Jussafet is in the nebulous border territory between Imperial and Zsinj-controlled space. Jussafet Four is a habitable planet with some mining businesses, but the system’s real wealth is in asteroid mining; they have an asteroid belt that is the remains of a large iron-core planet that broke up.

“Earlier today, Jussafet Four sent out a distress call to the Empire, talking about a full-scale invasion by Raptors, Zsinj’s elite troops. A Duros ship approaching the system to do some under-the-table trading heard the transmission and relayed it to the New Republic. We’re going in to stomp on the Raptors, and hopefully Iron Fist, as well as to do some good for the people of Jussafet.”

Donos raised a hand. “What are the odds that Imperial forces will also come in to stage a rescue? It’d be nasty to fight a three-way.”

Wedge nodded. “It would. Odds are low—the Empire’s having enough trouble with us and Zsinj that it is likely to mount a more meticulous response, determining enemy strength, assembling a precise task force, that sort of thing. But it’s possible. We’ll be taking some steps to keep them from knowing our full force strength, too. Mon Remonda is going into the system with a couple of the fleet’s frigates, but Mon Karren and the Allegiance will be waiting outside the system, ready to jump in if needed.”

Corran Horn’s hand was up next. “And what are the odds that this is another Zsinj trap?”

“Again, possible but not likely. The Duros monitoring of the battle in the asteroid belt and on Jussafet suggests that we’re looking at a large force of Raptors, fully engaged, not just the whispers and rumors we’re used to.

“We’ll launch as soon as we drop into the system. Polearm’s A-wings will take point and make the initial flyover on Jussafet Four. Rogue Squadron and Nova’s B-wings will head into the asteroid belt to begin purging it of Zsinj forces. We have four flyers of Wraith Squadron active, and they’ll escort shuttles of New Republic ground forces in to Jussafet Four.”

Face Loran, leaning forward so as to keep his injured back from making contact with the chair, spoke up. His voice emerged as an uncanny impersonation of Tal’dira’s. “This time, the Wraiths can do the baby-sitting. Now, and forever.”

The pilots laughed. All, Donos noted, except Tal’dira, who kept his attention on the desktop before him and didn’t react. Corran Horn gave Tal’dira a curious glance.

“That’s it,” Wedge said. “Your astromechs and nav computers have your navigational data. Good luck.”

As they filed out of the amphitheater, Face and Dia caught up with Donos. “I wish I were flying with you,” Face said.

“I’m glad you’re not,” Donos said. At Face’s startled expression, he relented, smiling. “I so seldom get to he in charge of anything, the change is welcome. You just get injured anytime you like.”

“Thanks,” Face said. He stopped in the hall beside the caf cart and picked up a cup. “Thanks, Galey.”

“No problem, sir.”

As they continued down toward the starfighter hangars, Donos heard Galey say, “Excuse me, Flight Officer Tualin! A moment of your time?”

It was hard for Tal’dira to run down his preflight checklist. His thoughts were far away. How could Wedge Antilles, hero of the Rebellion, of the New Republic, fall so far as to hop on one transparisteel leg? Nothing short of the Emperor’s magic could have wrought such a change in him. Rage grew within Tal’dira and he struggled, as only a true warrior could, to keep it in check.

“Rogues, announce readiness by number.”

When his time came, Tal’dira said, “Rogue Five, four lit, three at full capacity, one at ninety-nine percent.” His starboard lower engine was still not optimal. He’d have to insist that it be brought up to a reasonable level of performance.

After he killed Wedge Antilles, of course.

A hangar Klaxon warned the pilots that they were dropping out of hyperspace. The twisting, whirling morass of color outside the magnetic shield between the hangar and vacuum abruptly snapped into a simpler image: a starfield. One small planet hung, bright and round, near the upper right corner of the magcon field.

One by one, the Rogues shot through the field and formed up a kilometer from Mon Remonda. Tal’dira, leader of Two Flight, settled in beside his wingman, Gavin Darklighter. He felt his heart race as the moment crept toward him.

One bit of comm traffic caught his ear, a transmission from a fellow Twi’lek: “Polearm Two to Polearm Leader. I have a critical failure of my sublight engine. I’m down to fifty-four percent. Forty. Twenty-eight …”

“Two, this is Leader. Drop out of formation and head on in. Maybe next time …”

On Tal’dira’s sensor screen, eleven members of Polearm Squadron leaped forward, drawing away from Mon Remonda, approaching distant Jussafet Four.

Tal’dira’s astromech transmitted the unit’s course to his navigation system and he absently reviewed numbers he would never use.

“Rogue Leader to group. On my count, ten, nine, eight …”

“Wraith Four, you are out of position.”

Tyria looked up, startled. She was out of position. She should be maintaining her distance from Mon Remonda and letting her fellow Wraiths—Donos, Lara, and Elassar—plus four shuttles, form up on her.

Then why had she heeled over and goosed her thrusters, heading toward the bow of Mon Remonda? Her hands had acted without her brain being engaged.

Ahead, she could see one lonely A-wing making a torturous, slow turn back toward Mon Remonda, an obvious case of engine failure.

Obvious … but false. Adrenaline jolted through her as she saw through the A-wing’s moves, through the cockpit, through the skin and blood of its pilot to the mind beneath. “Mon Remonda,” she shouted, “bring your shields up. Polearm Two—”

“—is firing on you!”

Han Solo didn’t hesitate. “All shields up full!”

The A-wing fired. The transparisteel viewport giving him and the bridge crew an unparalleled view of space darkened as it tried to cope with the A-wing’s linked laser blasts. Then it shattered.

To Solo’s eye, the shards of viewport floated into the bridge, then immediately reversed direction and fled to space … vanguard for the atmosphere of the bridge.

•    •    •

“Four.”

Tal’dira reached up to flip the switch setting his S-foils to combat formation. They parted and his targeting computer came online.

“Three.”

Tal’dira heeled over so his weapons aimed straight at the rear end of Wedge’s X-wing. He began to swing his targeting brackets over toward the starfighter.

“Two …”

“Leader, break off!” Horn’s voice.

Tal’dira, jolted by the interruption, fired before his shot was completely lined up. Wedge, impossibly, was already reacting to Horn’s warning, breaking to starboard. But Tal’dira was rewarded by the sight of his lasers, cycling two by two, chewing through the port rear of Wedge’s X-wing, blowing one fuzial thrust engine completely off, punching deep into the rear fuselage.

The comm system was suddenly loud with many voices, most of them distressed. Wedge’s snubfighter continued banking to starboard and lost relative altitude, and Tycho was keeping pace with him as only the most experienced of wingmen could.

Tal’dira smiled. This would be a challenge. Good.

A blast of air shoved Solo from behind—shoved him nearly out of his commander’s chair and toward the hole in the forward viewport. He hung on to the chair but moved toward the hole anyway—the armature from which the chair was suspended swung inevitably in that direction. He could see, a few meters over, Captain Onoma in a similar predicament, being guided by his chair as though it were a mechanical throwing device toward the fatal exit from the bridge.

An alarm Klaxon sounded, loud even over the shrill whistle of air escaping the bridge. Solo saw the main door out of the chamber closing, an automatic safety measure.

When it closed, he’d be dead. The last of the bridge atmosphere would be out there in deep space, and he’d experience the joys of explosive decompression. So would every other crewman on the bridge.

He got one foot down to arrest the swing of his chair armature. Fortunately, artificial gravity was still working and he stopped his forward motion.

Then he drew his blaster and aimed for the control panel beside the main door. He fired, was rewarded with seeing the panel buckle inward under the blast—

The door stopped.

Now the bridge crew had a chance to make it to the door. But air was being vented from one of the ship’s main corridors. They had to get through the door past that wind blast …

And the A-wing was still out there.

“And you’re in a position to speak for the New Republic,” Dr. Gast said.

Nawara Ven, Twi’lek executive officer for Rogue Squadron, nodded. “I have been so authorized by the Inner Council. And as soon as we can come to some arrangement, you can be free of all this.” His gesture took in the tiny, plain stateroom that served as Gast’s cell. Ven sat on the room’s only chair, while Gast stretched out on the bed, leaning back against the wall.

“Well, you know what I want. A million credits, free of tax. Amnesty for all crimes, known and unknown, that I am alleged to have committed. And a new identity.”

“No,” Ven said. “We can offer amnesty for all crimes you offer all details on. If you hold something back, it remains live. And we can offer one hundred thousand credits. Enough for you to make a good start for yourself. But you’re not going to be wealthy at the expense of the New Republic. Every credit we give you could mean the life of one of our people.”

“Every detail I give you could mean the life of ten of your people,” she said. “I’ll buy into the full confession thing. But one million credits stands.” Distantly, an alarm Klaxon began to sound. “What’s this? More warfare against Zsinj? I wonder who’s going to die today?”

Ven struggled to keep his voice under control. “We certainly don’t employ torture or murder like the Empire,” he said. “On the other hand, we could keep you in custody in some free-trade port while we assemble charges, and make no secret of the fact that we have you. How long would it take Zsinj to find you, do you suppose?”

Her expression became ugly. “For that, I hold back one detail you’ll never know about, and some of your oh-so-precious people die. How about that, you subhuman nothing? Give me a human negotiator.”

There was a sound beyond the door, an unmistakable one: two blasts in quick succession, two scrapes and thuds as bodies hit the floor.

Ven stood. He grabbed the side of Gast’s bed and yanked, precipitating her to the floor. He shoved the bed over on her, then slid to stand beside the door.

“Hey!” she said. The bed rocked as she struggled to free herself.

The door slid open. A blaster gripped in a large human hand entered first. Ven grabbed the blaster, twisted it up.

He had a brief glimpse of the man he was wrestling with: big but not tall, fleshy, with red hair. Then burning liquid washed into his eye. He yelped, instinctively turned away from the pain.

A meaty fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him to the floor. He shook his head to clear it, belatedly realizing that it was hot caf in his face.

Above him, the attacker looked at the wriggling bed and fired into it—twice, three times, four. There was a female shriek in the middle of that.

Then the assassin turned to aim down at Ven.

Ven kicked out, shoving against the bed frame, and slid out partway into the hall. The assassin’s shot struck the flooring between his legs.

Ven found himself between the two door guards, both slumped, dead. He grabbed at the blaster pistol still in the hand of the one to his left. He brought it around, even as he saw the assassin aiming—

Ven didn’t bother to aim. He fired, heard the distinctive crackle of blaster beam frying flesh as his shot took the assassin in one ankle. The big man yelped, fell, his blaster aiming in straight at the Twi’lek—

Ven fired again. This shot took the assassin right in the nose, snapping his head back, filling the chamber with even more burned-flesh odor. The big man fired, whether intentionally or as a dying spasm Ven didn’t know, and his shot hit the doorjamb.

Ven rose. There was no more wiggling going on behind the bed. Knowing what he was likely to see, he pulled the bed from against the wall and looked at what lay beyond.

“Polearm Two,” Tyria said, “power down and announce your surrender or I’ll blow you out of space.” She toggled her S-foil switch and felt a hum as the foils assumed strike position.

The A-wing heeled over and accelerated, moving behind the protective bulk of Mon Remonda, out of her sight.

Tal’dira smiled as he heard the pure tone of a good targeting lock on Wedge’s X-wing, but the noise garbled as Tycho slid in between target and prey. Tal’dira dropped relative altitude, hoping for a quick shot under Tycho, but the captain mimicked his move, remaining an obstruction.

Now Tycho was an easy target, and so close—a proton torpedo would turn him into a billion fiery specks. But Tal’dira shook his head at the notion. Tycho wasn’t his enemy. Tycho wasn’t the traitor. “Captain Celchu, get out of the way,” he said. “I have a job to do.”

He spared a glance for his sensor board. The other Rogues were staying in position—all but Rogue Nine, Corran Horn, who was moving out to a position some distance from the Rogue formation but not approaching.

Tycho’s voice came back. “Rogue Five, power down all weapons systems and return to Mon Remonda immediately or we will be forced to regard you as an enemy. And destroy you.”

“I’m not the enemy! Wedge Antilles is the enemy, that one-leg-hopping maniac! Celchu, clear my field of fire!”

Wedge, his X-wing moving sluggishly, continued his loop around to starboard. Tycho kept on him, keeping stubbornly between him and Tal’dira. The Twi’lek pilot gritted his teeth, sideslipped port, then starboard, but Tycho was always there, in the way.

Solo pushed off from his chair armature and staggered toward the door. Captain Onoma, approaching from the other side of the bridge, reached him and grabbed him.

They made two steps, three, but then, as they neared the doorway, the wind increased—channeled tightly by the doorway, it was more ferocious the closer they got. Solo felt his forward motion stop; then his left leg slipped out from under him and he went on one knee. His ears popped as the air pressure continued to drop and his head felt as though it would burst.

So close, so close—he and Onoma could reach out almost to the doorframe. But the roaring air stopped them dead.

Dead.

Then light from the corridor was partially blocked off and a long, hairy arm reached from the other side of the door to grip Solo’s. It was like a fur-covered vise clamping over his wrist. It hauled and suddenly Solo and Onoma were both through the doorway, staggering into the corridor, still battered but no longer endangered by the howling wind.

“Chewie.” Solo turned back to his rescuer. He grabbed the doorframe with one arm, Chewbacca’s waist with the other, helping pin the Wookiee in place.

Chewbacca reached in again and hauled, dragging the bridge communications officer out. Then again, and again, yanking each bridge officer into the comparative safety of the corridor. There was an explosion from the bridge or from beyond it, and Chewie lurched backward, bleeding from the chest from what looked like shrapnel. The Wookiee shook off the sudden shock and looked back in. He bellowed, noises that would sound like an animal roar to most people but which Solo knew to mean “All out.”

“No, there’s one left,” Solo said. He looked around. “Golorno, sensors.”

“Dead,” Onoma said. Even with the gravelly tones of Mon Calamari speech, Solo could make out the pain, the regret in his voice. “Out the viewport.”

Solo grimaced. “Chewie, let’s get this door closed.” He heaved against the metal barrier. Chewie flexed one arm and slammed the door closed.

Tyria’s sensors weren’t much use. This close to Mon Remonda, she couldn’t even detect Polearm Two as an individual ship. He had to be hugging the hull pretty closely.

Perhaps if machinery couldn’t help her, the Force could. She concentrated on Polearm Two, on his A-wing—

No, that was wrong. She leaned back, cleared her thoughts.

Closed her eyes.

Mission, he had a mission. He was going to destroy the bridge or someone in it.

She opened her eyes and banked toward the bridge, amidships and topside …

As she cleared the horizon of the ship’s curved hull, she saw the A-wing lining up for another shot at the bridge. Her targeting computer announced a clean lock on him.

“Don’t,” she said. But there was no time for a lengthy plea, for words that might get through to reach this madman. A few more degrees of turn, and he was in line, poised, a beautiful target—

She fired. Her proton torpedo hit and detonated before she registered that it was away. Polearm Two was suddenly nothing more than a bright flash and thousands of needles of superheated metal hitting Mon Remonda’s skin and heading into outer space.

“Captain, please,” Tal’dira said. “It is not in my nature to beseech. I beg you get clear of my shot before I have to kill you, too.”

But the voice that answered was Corran Horn’s, not Tycho’s. “Tal’dira, this isn’t honorable. You shot him in the back.”

Tal’dira checked his sensor board. Wedge’s maneuver was leading him back and around toward Rogue Nine. In just a few moments, he would be forced to run a head-to-head against Horn. Tal’dira shrugged. He could take the Corellian pilot. He could take anyone.

Dishonorable. But that word burned at him. His first shot had been dishonorable. How could he have done that?

Because Wedge, that one-transparisteel-leg-hopping traitor, had to die.

But Tal’dira couldn’t betray his honor to kill him. It was impossible.

Yet he had. And he knew, deep in the portions of his mind still functioning, that he would again. He’d throw away his honor to kill Wedge Antilles. And he’d never turn away from his quest to kill his former commander.

He heard a groan, knew it to be his own. That meant he would die without honor, shaming his family, shaming his world.

No. He shook off the thought, raised his head. Honor above all.

Wedge and Tycho were now heading straight for Corran Horn, Tal’dira tucked in neatly behind them. In another few moments, he’d be within good firing range of the Corellian.

He adjusted his shields, then switched to lasers and opened fire on Tycho.

Far ahead, Rogue Nine fired.

There was a brilliant flash from behind Wedge. He glanced at his flickering sensor board.

Rogue Five was gone.

In other circumstances, he would have had words of praise for such accurate shooting. But no Rogue would accept praise for downing one of their own. Wedge felt sick. When he spoke, he was not surprised to find that his voice was raspy with his effort to keep his emotions in check. “Rogue Nine, are you fit to fly?”

There was a moment’s delay. “Fit, sir.”

“Rogue Two, take the group in. You’re in command. I’m going to swap out X-wings and rejoin you.”

“Yes, sir.” Tycho didn’t sound any less pained than Wedge.

“Thanks, Two.”

“You’re welcome, Leader. Rogues, Novas, form up on me. We’re going in.” Tycho banked away and Corran moved up in formation with him.