9
The next morning, once hangovers were shaken off and infusions of caf had taken hold, the crew of Mon Remonda moved more briskly, with weeks of frustration and bone weariness at least partially shaken loose.
At a briefing of the Rogues and Wraiths late in the day, Wedge said, “For those of you who were curious, tomorrow’s mission does not seem to have been endangered by the mass amnesia that seems to have struck my pilots—no one seems to be able to recall what he was up to yesterday.” That drew some chuckles. “Assuming our brains are working correctly again, we can probably get through a preliminary operational briefing now.”
He tapped keys on the lectern keyboard and a holoprojection sprang into existence beside him. It showed a solar system—medium-sized yellow sun and a dozen planets around it. Their orbits were indicated by glowing dotted lines. “This is the Kidriff system. It’s along what we think of as the Imperial/Zsinj border, as far coreward as Zsinj’s influence extends. Its occupied world, Kidriff Five, is a very wealthy one, a heavy trade depot that develops and exports metal alloys—several improvements in Sienar TIE fighter hulls in recent years came about because of Kidriff developments.
“Kidriff Five’s government patterned the world’s building and expansion plans very heavily on Coruscant, as a way of becoming more attractive to the Empire and the Imperial court.” Wedge activated another image, and the holoprojector displayed a city vista—a seemingly endless sea of skyscrapers that would not look out of place if dropped whole onto Coruscant. The sky, however, was not as hazy or as thick with storm clouds as Coruscant’s typically was. “It wouldn’t have been a bad site for Ysanne Isard to set up her government seat in exile—except, by the time the Rogues threw Isard off Coruscant, Kidriff had already fallen to Zsinj.
“We’ve recently received a lot of data on Kidriff and other Zsinj-occupied worlds in Imperial sectors. Analysis showed that the data had been scrubbed of certain types of information useful to the New Republic. But the scrubbing seems to have been hasty, and did not entirely eliminate the fact that there had been activity by a pro-New Republic faction in the months before Zsinj took over.” Wedge called up another image, this time of a region seemingly divided equally between stretches of skyscrapers and stretches of heavy rust-colored foliage. “Kidriff Five’s Tobaskin Sector. Seat of their rebel activity, which may or may not still exist. That’s our target.”
Janson spoke up. “And what do we do there, chief?”
“Very little, actually.” Wedge brought up the image of a Corellian YT-1300 freighter. “This is not the Millennium Falcon. It’s our simulacrum, which Chewbacca and a few unlucky mechanics have been transforming into a likeness of the Falcon. They painted false rust on good hull and put good paint on rusty hull so the blotches match up, and have made some other modifications. We’ve dubbed it the Millennium Falsehood. We’re given to understand that it’s approximately spaceworthy.”
From the back of the briefing hall, Chewbacca uttered a sustained grumble that left the pilots no doubt that the Wookiee didn’t think much of the freighter.
Wedge continued, “Chewbacca and I will pilot the Falsehood to Tobaskin Sector and land in one of those forest tracts. We’ll let off a couple of intelligence operatives who are going to try to make contact with any surviving pro–New Republic factions there. But our main job is to wait there until we’re seen, then take off for space.”
“Which accomplishes what?” Janson asked. “Actually, I know the answer. But I thought you ought to have at least one shill in the audience.”
“Good to see you’re developing a skill you can use in civilian life,” Wedge said. “This allows the apparent Millennium Falcon to be seen well within Zsinj’s territory on a world where Zsinj knows there has been pro-Rebel activity. It’s one piece of data that will pique his interest. We’re going to do this again and again. At a certain point, when the Falsehood has developed a predictable pattern of mission activity, Zsinj will, we hope, show up to destroy her.”
Lara raised a hand.
“Notsil.”
“Um, I don’t know whether this has entered your mission planning, sir, but if you go to an Imperial world, they’ll probably want to kill you. And if you do land and let yourself be noticed later, they’ll probably want to kill you then.” She gave him a look as though she were an ingenue full of pride in her sudden tactical realization. Pilots around the amphitheater laughed.
“This had occurred to us. Data on the Kidriff system suggests that their security is very lax in order to promote fast, efficient trade—they’re far more interested in making sure cargo gets taxed than in protecting government and military installations, which tend to be buried very deep and hard to hit. So our belief is that we can just fly the Falsehood in. We’ll kill our transponder stream once we’re low enough, so they won’t know where we landed. They’ll assume it’s a smuggler’s ploy and look for us. We’ll be going in with Captain Celchu’s X-wing coupled to our hull, and he’ll detach to act as our escort on the trip back out. But before we go in, the Wraiths who are assigned TIE interceptors will go in and make a preliminary landfall. If their security queries are more difficult than we suspect, they can signal us and wing out of there. Otherwise, they’ll be on hand to join Tycho for escort duty on the flight out. The rest of the Rogues and Wraiths will be orbiting the planet’s primary moon to offer additional support when they chase us off-world.”
Wedge looked among the seated pilots. “We’ll be taking out targets of opportunity, mostly enemy starfighters, on the way out. Our mission is to disengage with as little loss as possible. Does anyone see any specific flaw in this operation?”
Runt sneezed. He looked around, embarrassed. “Sorry. No flaws. Just bacta tickle in our sinus cavities.”
“Which brings up another point,” Wedge said. “The medical reports of the Wraiths who sustained burns look good. I don’t see a sign that any Wraith has not recovered sufficiently to be part of this operation. But if any of you does still feel that he’s not up to the mission, let me know privately. Believe me, no one will hold it against you.”
There was silence.
“Any more questions? No? Tomorrow morning we’ll get the final flight data, drop out of hyperspace outside the Kidriff system, and execute this thing. Until then, get some rest. Dismissed.”
As they filed out of the briefing chamber, Elassar said, “I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about this one, a bad feeling.”
“Why?” Face asked. “When we were going into the briefing, you were as happy as a bantha on a mountain of blumfruit.”
“Runt sneezed.”
Face looked the younger pilot. “Why, yes he did. I forgot about that. Doomed the whole lot of us, did he?”
“No, this is serious. He sneezed right when the commander got to the point where the commander asked about flaws in the plan. That means there is such a flaw, and we didn’t notice it, and Runt will be in trouble then.”
“No, no, no.” Face shook his head. “That’s what it would have meant had it been an accidental sneeze. But it wasn’t. It was a deliberate sneeze.”
Elassar looked at him, his expression puzzled. “Why would he sneeze deliberately?”
Lara said, “He was clearing his chamber.”
“What chamber?”
Face leaned in, his expression conspiratorial. “We’re working on a secret weapon for desperate situations on our commando raids. Runt is strengthening his lungs, his sinus cavities.”
Lara said, “Before each mission in which we go into the field, we load Runt’s nose with plasteel ball bearings.”
“Then,” Face said, “if we’re captured and end up in the hands of just a couple of guards, Runt can take in a deep, deep breath and sneeze those ball bearings out at them.”
Lara nodded, her own expression earnest. “In secret tests, we’ve clocked the ball bearings erupting from his nose at just over five hundred klicks per hour. Definitely subsonic, but still fast enough to penetrate flesh and light stormtrooper armor.”
Elassar looked back and forth between them. “Hey, wait a minute. That would never work.” The two conspirators dissolved into laughter, and he continued, his voice petulant, “I was being serious. Can’t you be serious? Someone’s going to be in trouble.”
“You just summon us up some luck,” Face said. “We’re relying on you.”
Rostat Manr was good at his job. As a Sullustan, he was supposed to be adept at piloting, at navigating, but he knew that he and his fellow Sullustan ship handlers had gotten their reputation far more through hard work than through natural inclination.
Rostat had been rewarded for his hard work, too. For four years he’d flown Y-wings for the Rebel Alliance—now known as the New Republic. Less than a year ago, sick of war, certain that he’d done his duty for the cause he believed in, he accepted a position flying tugs for a civilian firm: Event Vistas, a cruise-vessel line. Only a few months ago, he’d been promoted to chief pilot aboard Nebula Queen, one of the line’s newest and most beautiful cruise vessels.
But now, he was in danger of losing all he had gained. The thought, as he stared out the viewport at the growing circle of color that was the planet Coruscant, made him sad.
He couldn’t tell anyone. They’d laugh at him. Then they’d demote him … at best.
For no one wanted to employ a pilot with Ewoks in his nose.
He could feel them dancing, hear the faint, tinny sounds of their music and singing as they made merry in his nostrils. All the digging he’d done had failed to dislodge them. He couldn’t think about anything but the Ewoks, and what it would take to rid himself of them.
All he had to do was crash Nebula Queen down upon Coruscant’s surface. Then everything would be all right. He smiled. Soon, soon.
As the cruise ship reached the point it should have maneuvered into high Coruscant orbit, Rostat kept her headed into the atmosphere. A carefully calculated approach, the precise speed and angle needed for her to breach the planetary atmosphere without igniting. He really needed for enough of the ship to be left to hit the planet’s surface, after all.
“Rostat?” That was his captain, a human female originally from Tatooine. Other humans described her as old and leathery, but Rostat didn’t have their perspective on human features. “What are you doing?”
Rostat looked at her, trying to mask his alarm. “You know, don’t you?”
“I know you’re out of your approach plane.”
“No. I mean, about my nose.”
She gave him a look that suggested she didn’t know. But she had to be shamming. She had to be in on it. Perhaps she’d even been the one who put the Ewoks up his nose.
Seized with a sudden fear of what she was, what she might do to him next, he drew his duty blaster and fired on her. It was point-blank range; he would have had to go to some effort to miss. His shot took her in the side and she fell over.
But it wasn’t a blaster shot. He looked curiously at his issue sidearm. It was set on kill, but a stun-level beam had emerged. Curiously, he flipped the switch between blast and stun, but no sound emerged. Perhaps the mechanism was broken.
No matter. She was unconscious, and she would stay that way long enough for the ship to crash. And relief would be his.
But the Nebula Queen’s control board now showed her altitude gaining, not dropping. He stared curiously at the numbers, then took the pilot’s controls again.
They didn’t respond. The cruise liner began climbing back up into her proper orbit. He ran a quick diagnostic. It indicated that the auxiliary bridge currently had control.
He brought up the ship’s intercom and called the auxiliary bridge. When the picture swam into focus, it showed that bridge’s control seat. In the command chair was another Sullustan, a very junior officer Rostat knew. “Nurm,” he said. “What are you doing?”
Nurm looked uncomfortable and glanced off-screen. “I’ve seized control of the ship,” he said.
“Return control to the main bridge,” Rostat said. His nose was really itching. The Ewoks had to be mounting a major celebration in there.
“No,” Nurm said.
“Give me control right now,” Rostat said.
“Make me,” Nurm said.
“However you want it. Your career is at an end.” Rostat switched off.
He waited for a moment, settling his temper, and then made a sudden motion, driving his finger into his nose as fast and deep as he could.
No good. The Ewoks got away, leaping up above his probing finger, as they always did. He sighed, took up his blaster, and headed aft.
Moments later, he charged into the auxiliary bridge with his blaster at the ready.
There was no one in the control chair. But there was motion to his right. He spun—
Too late. Nurm fired first, his stun blast washing across Rostat’s chest. Rostat felt his body go numb and watched with a detached sort of interest as the floor angled up and knocked at his head.
Then he knew only blackness.
Nurm looked anxiously at the fellow officer he’d just shot. “Will he be all right?”
The man to whom he spoke, a human in the uniform of a colonel, rose from behind the communications console. He moved over to Rostat’s body and prodded it with his toe. “He should be. If we can figure out what’s wrong with him.”
“I couldn’t believe it. You showed it to me, and I still can’t believe it. He wanted to crash us.”
“I don’t think he did. There’s something very wrong going on in his head, though. But you’ve saved him from scandal, or death, or both.”
“Why did you want me to shoot him? I’ve barely qualified with blaster pistols! I’m a civilian!”
The officer gave him an enigmatic smile. “It’s important. Believe it or not, the fact that you shot him instead of me may save additional lives. Just remember the story as I’ve given it to you.”
He brought out his comlink to summon members of ship’s security to take Rostat into custody, then transmitted a few words, a mission-accomplished code, to his commander.
In an orbital station in high orbit above the far side of Coruscant, General Airen Cracken, head of New Republic Intelligence, received the officer’s signal. He responded with a few words of congratulation and signed off. He’d get the full report and offer more appropriate words of praise later.
He returned to the ancient, scarred desk that served him as a reminder of his many campaigns and years of service, and felt the first stirrings of relief. Suddenly, a picture once made up of shadows and inexplicable shapes was beginning to assume a form he could understand.
On his personal terminal, he called up a communications file, a full holo, and advanced it to a mark he’d placed earlier.
Wedge Antilles’s face and upper body appeared at one-third scale just above Cracken’s desk. The pilot seemed to be seated behind a desk of his own, and there was nothing but white bulkhead wall behind him.
“Now that the Warlord has persuaded the New Republic to institute measures that can be used as precedents when dealing with future incidents, his next step must inevitably be to make a breach between the New Republic and one of the member species that has contributed significantly to our success.
“Logic suggests that the Mon Calamari would be the best choice, since without their engineering expertise and their heavy cruisers we would have had a much harder time of this war than we’ve had. But we suspect that this brainwashing treatment may be confined for now to mammalian and near-mammalian species—it would be much, much harder to devise a treatment that was equally functional across the wide range of all sapient species types. So our prediction is that it won’t be Mon Calamari or Verpines at this time.
“Our best guess is that the next attack will come from Sullustans or Bothans. And we have some ideas about that.” Wedge typed something into the datapad before him; Cracken supposed that he was consulting notes.
“Gotals are known as expert hunters. And for the last several years, Twi’leks, who have traditionally been thought of by Imperial humans as traders, and not particularly bold beings in general, have been trying to impress on human cultures the importance of their warrior tradition. We think it’s significant that the Twi’lek and Gotal disasters have involved single warriors wreaking havoc. In our opinion, the assaults to come will correspond in some way to popular stereotypes and misconceptions about the species whose members initiate them. If the next attack is Bothan, it will involve computer slicing—such as, perhaps, falsified data transmissions that cause disasters. If the next attack is Sullustan, it’s likely to involve a piloting or navigating mishap costing hundreds or thousands of lives. Either way, if it is remotely possible, it’s important that the agents of these attacks be taken alive. Our hope is that they are under compulsion to do what they’re doing, and that the brainwashing technique leaves some consistent physiological evidence that New Republic medics can detect.”
Antilles shut his datapad. His gaze, unsettlingly enough, seemed to seek out Cracken’s. “That’s the best we have to offer, General. But if our predictions come anywhere close to the reality of the next set of mystery terrorist activities, you can rely on it being an attempt by Zsinj to create more chaos within the New Republic, and you can head off the damage his effort might otherwise cause.
“Thank you for your time, General. Antilles out.” The hologram of Wedge faded.
Cracken sat motionless for long moments. The first time he’d heard this transmission, he’d shaken his head and wished, once again, that flyboys would just keep their attention on their cockpits and out of Intelligence affairs. The second time, after Cracken had reviewed the evidence on the Twi’lek and Gotal assaults, it had made a frightening kind of sense … and Cracken had begun devoting resources to an investigation based on the possibility that the Antilles theory was correct.
Now, Cracken wished that one flyboy, Wedge Antilles, would pay less attention to his cockpit and devote some more of his thinking to Intelligence affairs.
Perhaps he could be lured out of Starfighter Command and over to Intelligence.
Cracken made an exasperated noise and shut down his terminal. No, not in this lifetime.
He turned his attention to the ongoing search for evidence of an upcoming Bothan code-slicing effort that would end in disaster.
Face Loran woke to the sound of passerby conversation out in the corridor. He stretched, enjoying the luxury that was to be his—a few minutes of lazy rest before his alarm went off.
Then he glanced at the chrono beside his bed. The time was half an hour after his alarm should have awakened him. He hadn’t set it.
He swore and threw his sheets off. He had just enough time to clean up and dress before mission briefing, if he hurried.
A portion of his terminal’s screen blinked at him—sign of new mail, not yet reviewed. He typed in a command to transfer it all to Vape, his astromech—he’d read it when nothing else was going on during the Kidriff mission.
• • •
The launch bay assigned to the Rogues and Wraiths hummed—not just with activity, but with the bone-cutting whine of X-wing repulsorlift engines being tested as pilots went through their prelaunch checklists. And it was cold, the launch door opened to space, only the magnetic-containment field keeping the atmosphere safely within … and magcon fields did an inadequate job of retaining heat.
Wedge watched the activity, looking for undue stress or worry on the part of his pilots.
Gavin Darklighter. The young Rogue would be flying without a wingmate. He’d been sobered by Tal’dira’s death, and still looked unusually serious, but showed no sign of distraction.
Corran Horn. It had been only days since he’d killed a squadmate, and the speculation that Tal’dira had been brainwashed, not a traitor, and therefore theoretically possible to save, had to be eating at him. He showed no sign of it, his real emotions safely hidden behind the mask of professional civility that CorSec and other police personnel wore when dealing with strangers.
Tyria Sarkin. She’d also been forced to kill a fellow pilot. She made no secret of her distress, and even now, as she donned her helmet and climbed into her X-wing cockpit, there was a sad look to her eyes. But, unlike Horn, she hadn’t had to kill a squadmate, a friend. And she hadn’t been as isolated as Horn; Kell had been there for her. Kell had even persuaded her to talk to Wes Janson, the man who had been obliged, many years before, to kill Kell’s own father under not dissimilar circumstances. Janson had said it had helped her. Though Tyria wore her emotions very close to the surface, Wedge felt he had little to worry about with her.
Dia Passik. She would not be flying today; the decision handed down by the Provisional Council made it impossible for her to come along. But it didn’t prevent her from participating in other ways; she was present, out of uniform, moving from starfighter to starfighter, offering a recommendation here, a wish for good luck there. And, when she thought no one was looking, a kiss for Face.
Elassar Targon. The Devaronian pilot was busily sticking figurines made of hard-baked bread on various portions of Runt’s X-wing’s hull while the Thakwaash pilot ineffectually tried to shoo him away. More charms. Wedge sighed.
“You can’t just stay here and avoid it,” Janson said.
Wedge lookechat the Wraiths’s XO. “Come again?”
“You can’t just hang around here, Commander. You have to get to the Falsehood and face your mistake.”
“What mistake is that?”
Janson grinned. “Well, of course, you’re taking Han Solo’s place in piloting the Falsehood because he really can’t keep on relinquishing command of the fleet for joyrides.”
“Correct. No mistake I can see so far. I have more experience with Corellian freighters than anyone on Mon Remonda, excepting Han Solo.”
“And you asked him if Chewbacca would be interested in coming along as copilot and mechanic. He has all that experience keeping disintegrating junk together as it flies.”
“Correct so far.”
“And the general said, sure, Chewie would be happy to come along.”
“You’re three for three.”
“Wedge, you don’t speak Wookiee.”
“I—oh, Sithspit.” Wedge felt some color rising into his face. Janson was right: In all the mission planning they’d done, he’d failed to remember that he wouldn’t be able to understand anything his copilot said, though Chewbacca could certainly understand Basic.
Janson just stood there, his expression merry.
Wedge sighed. “Check with Squeaky and Emtrey. I can’t issue orders for them to go, but if either is willing to volunteer, I’d appreciate it. Preferably Squeaky.” Though 3PO units normally had protocol skills as part of their programming, including diplomacy and instantaneous translation of a staggering number of languages, Emtrey’s programming was optimized for military functions; Squeaky’s was better suited to this mission.
“Will do.”
“You haven’t mentioned this to the pilots?”
“Well, yes, I sort of blurted it out when it occurred to me.”
“They put down bets on what you’d do. So then I had to go to all the other pilots so they could get their own bets down.”
“Who won?”
“Tyria Sarkin. She said you’d say ‘Sithspit.’ ”
“You know, you’ve finally earned my gravest revenge.”
“You don’t ever take revenge. That’s beneath Wedge Antilles, Hero of the New Republic.”
Wedge gave him a smile, one full of teeth, and Janson’s own grin faltered. Wedge said, “Dismissed.”
Kell took point, Elassar tucked in behind and beside him as wingman, and led his TIE interceptor unit in toward Kidriff Five. The other wingpair, Janson and Shalla, stayed off to their starboard at the distance prescribed by Imperial regulations.
The world called Kidriff Five gradually grew in their viewports. The planet, at least the hemisphere they could see, seemed to be dominated by three colors: blue for seas and rusty red for vegetation, and a lesser amount of gray-white where the planet’s greatest cities lay.
Comm traffic also increased as they neared the planet. First was an automated signal directing them into one of the preapproved approach vectors. As soon as that signal arrived, Kell transmitted a tight-beam signal back to the Falsehood indicating where they could expect first comm contact.
As they entered the approach vector, they could see, far ahead of them, tiny lights—at the distances shown on their sensors, these had to be massive cargo vessels approaching the planet.
When they were close enough to the planet that Kell could see nothing but its surface unless he leaned much closer to his viewport, they received the first live transmission. “Incoming flight, four Sienar Fleet Systems interceptors, this is Kidriff Primary Control. Please identify yourself and your mission.”
Kell activated his comm unit. “This is Drake Squadron, One Flight, out of the Night Terror, Captain Maristo commanding. We’re here for rec-re-a-tion.” The emphasis he put on the final word suggested a pilot who’d been away from any sort of entertainment for too long. “Inbound to Tobaskin to see how much rec-re-a-tion a cargo bay full of credits will buy.”
“Acknowledged, Drakes. Transmitting your revised approach vector. Will your ship be arriving later?”
“Negative, we’re here solo.” And that lie conveyed a second lie to the traffic controllers on Kidriff Five: that Drake Squadron consisted of hyperdrive-equipped TIEs. This suggested, in turn, that its pilots were very important people. It wasn’t uncommon for high-ranking officers to take their personal TIEs, with a lower-ranking officer as theoretical commander to act as a shield of anonymity for them, on a junket like this.
“Understood. Leave your transponders on at all times, by planetary ordinance. Enjoy yourselves, and welcome to Kidriff Five.”
Kell compressed the exchange and transmitted it, and the point in space where he’d received the opening words of the greeting, back to the Falsehood.
“I do receive combat pay, don’t I?” The speaker was Squeaky, situated behind Wedge’s seat on the Millennium Falsehood.
“If we’re fired upon, yes,” Wedge said. “Otherwise, you just get hazardous-duty pay.”
Chewbacca grumbled something. Squeaky said, “Shut up, you.”
Wedge grinned. He’d never met a 3PO unit as verbally abusive as Squeaky. Most of them, because of standard programming and because they knew themselves to be defenseless, attempted to ingratiate themselves with everyone they met—usually with so much talk they ended up aggravating those they wished to befriend. But Squeaky was a manumitted droid, owned by no one, and had a few quirks. “What did he say?”
“I don’t have to translate comments like that.”
“Translate everything. I’ll decide what’s important and what’s not.”
“He said he could guarantee I receive combat pay by pulling off my legs and hitting me with them.”
“Well, that was very generous of him. You should have said ‘Thank you, maybe later.’ ”
“Sir, I think you lack an understanding of this Wookiee’s violence-laden humor.”
As soon as they dropped to within twenty kilometers of the planetary surface over Tobaskin Sector, which was already under nightfall, Kell and his fellow Drakes began receiving transmissions from sector businesses—some data, some sight and sound, all extolling the virtues of various entertainment spots in the region. One transmission was the city government’s visitor’s package, including maps of the region with hundreds of clubs, bars, hostels, and other businesses highlighted.
As if unsure as to which of the city’s many offerings to choose, Kell led his group out over one of the sector’s deeper forest tracts. As his pilots exchanged banal comm traffic about which sites would offer the most recreation, Kell scanned the forest floor for life. And when he’d chosen a spot that included a clearing large enough for the Falsehood but was so deep within heavy forest that it seemed humans did not frequent it, he transmitted that data back as well.
They found a personal-vehicle landing zone near a district full of brilliantly lit entertainment businesses. They came to rest there and emerged from the top hatches of their interceptors.
Kell pulled his helmet free, dropped it onto his pilot’s couch, and began removing other pieces of piloting paraphernalia he wouldn’t be needing. “Drake Two, Drake Four, keep all your gear on. You’ll be staying with the interceptors.”
Shalla nodded. She slid down to the ground in full gear and stood at attention before her starfighter, a guard on duty.
“Aw, no.” Elassar sounded heartbroken. He clutched his chest as though someone had shot him. “Why me? I’m the youngest, I’m in the greatest need of fun.”
Dressed only in his black jumpsuit, Kell slid down to his wing pylon, then dropped to the ground. He clambered up Elassar’s interceptor and leaned in close to the younger pilot. “Let me ask you something, Elassar.”
“Fire away, sir.”
“You go into one of these wonderfully diverting bars.”
“Yes.”
“You put down your credits.”
“Sounds good so far, sir.”
“You take off your helmet.”
“Well, I’d certainly want to at some point. Even if I were only getting a drink.”
“What do the other patrons see?”
“Well, they see the galaxy’s best-looking—oh.”
“Devaronian pilot.”
“Right, sir, I get it.”
“How many Devaronian TIE interceptor pilots do you suppose there are in the Empire?”
“I understand, sir, I really do.”
Kell shook his head and dropped to the ground.
Wedge set the Millennium Falsehood down so gently that not even he was fully aware of the transition between repulsorlift support and the settling of the hydraulic landing skids.
Chewbacca rumbled something.
Squeaky said, “Well, of course that was a good landing. He can’t afford to set this flying trash heap down any harder. Pieces would fall off.”
Chewie’s grumbling became louder, more eloquent.
“What do you mean, this is a good ship? Just this morning you were calling her names that would peel new paint off a hull. You’re disagreeing with me just to be disagreeable.”
“Captain’s leaving the bridge,” Wedge announced. “Chewbacca, the controls are yours.”
He trotted back to the top of the loading ramp and found his passengers gearing up, ready to leave. One man and one woman, both with dark hair and unmemorable, average features, dressed in black pants and tunics decorated with dazzling bright zigzag stripes—this season’s very definition of tourist in certain portions of the Empire.
They’d never told Wedge their names. He thought of the man as Bland One, the woman as Bland Two.
Bland One turned to him, extended a hand. “Thanks for a smooth flight. Much better than some insertions we’ve been through.” Bland Two nodded; Wedge couldn’t remember her saying a word.
Wedge shook his hand, then activated the ramp control. The access ramp whined but did not budge.
“I have one pilot,” Wedge said, “who’d be certain that you jinxed it with the compliment.” He stomped down on the nearest portion of ramp. The mechanism’s whine increased in volume, then the ramp lowered. “Good luck.”
Then they were gone, and the ramp closed again with less complaint.
By the time Wedge returned to the bridge, Tycho had decoupled from the top hull and his X-wing was settling to the ground just ahead of the Falsehood’s cockpit. Then the X-wing appeared to vanish as its lights faded. Suddenly they were in darkness, the trees all around them acting as an impenetrable wall between them and the city lights. Their only illumination was the two spots of gold light marking Squeaky’s eyes.
“Well,” said Squeaky, “what shall we do now? I know many mnemonic games. Compare Storerooms is a good one.”
Chewbacca rumbled something.
“No, I don’t know Droid-Crushers.”
Rumble.
“What do you mean, you’d be happy to demonstrate? Oh, ha, ha.”
Wedge sighed. For such a short flight in, this was going to be a long mission.
It was long after the Rogues and Wraiths settled into their parking orbit around Kidriff’s moon that Face remembered his unread mail.
“Vape, put that new storage through to my comm screen. In order of reception, please.”
First was a letter, text only, from his sister, now at school on Pantolomin. It was chatty, full of details of everyday life, much as Face remembered it. A bright bit of home to distract him from the bleak lunar scape that was his sole viewing pleasure right now.
The second, and last, item was from New Republic Intelligence. He had to wade through screen after screen of standard admonishment that he was not to distribute this material, upon pain of trial and incarceration, before he got to the meat of the message and remembered what it was all about: his recent query concerning Lara Notsil and Edallia Monotheer, the name she’d been called by the old man on Coruscant.
The enclosed material was all classified secret; nothing had a higher secrecy rating. He hoped the answers he was looking for weren’t hiding behind a more stringent level of classification, a level he couldn’t access.
The file on Lara Notsil contained little information he didn’t already know. Much of it she’d told him and the other Wraiths at one time or another. Born on a farm in Aldivy. Decent grades in school. No indication of special aptitudes other than agriculture. Then, the data derived from her own accounts and a little independent verification: how her community refused to offer aid to the enemy by turning over stockpiles of grain and meats to a former Imperial admiral by the name of Trigit, how Trigit’s ship Implacable had bombarded the town out of existence. How follow-up troops had found a survivor, Lara Notsil, and taken her up to the ship. How Trigit, taken with the girl, had kept her half-comatose on a steady diet of drugs and made her his unwilling mistress. Until Wraith Squadron and allied troops had destroyed Implacable. Until Lara had escaped in Trigit’s personal evacuation pod.
A rather sparse account. But colonists like the Aldivians, given to raising their crops and children, didn’t devote a lot of time to more extensive personal records. On some colonies, they didn’t even carry identification.
Then the file on Edallia Monotheer. For all that she was born on Coruscant, a planet notable for the extent and quality of its citizen records, her account was scarcely longer than Notsil’s. It had been reconstructed from interviews; all primary sources about her appeared to have been destroyed.
Born about fifty years ago. Trained to be an actress. She’d caught the eye of Armand Isard, father of Ysanne Isard; he was the head of Intelligence throughout most of the reign of Emperor Palpatine. Monotheer had trained as an Intelligence agent and had executed many successful missions for her superiors.
Then, according to this account, she had been arrested and convicted of treason, along with her husband. Both were executed for funneling information about Imperial Intelligence to anti-Imperial factions on Chandrila. An opinion annotated by some anonymous New Republic Intelligence analyst suggested that this was a standard technique to cause the death of a subordinate who had committed some less significant offense, and that Monotheer had had nothing to do with the Rebel Alliance.
Husband. Face found the link to data on Monotheer’s immediate family and brought it up.
There was not much of interest there on her husband. He had a history similar to hers. There were rumors that the two of them had had a child, but there was no data on file about this.
But far more interesting than the husband’s history was his name.
Dalls Petothel.
Face felt his stomach sink.
“Dawn,” said Squeaky.
The one word, emerging out of blackness, jolted Wedge out of his light doze. He looked around but could still see no illumination other than the droid’s eyes. He rubbed his eyes and swung his booted feet down off the command console. “It doesn’t much look like dawn.”
“If you look straight up, you can see the sky brightening. All these trees and the buildings beyond keep the early-morning light from reaching us,” Squeaky said.
Chewbacca stretched, making loud tendon-popping noises, and rumbled something.
“Well, yes, since we don’t have any light in our eyes, I could have let you sleep a few more minutes,” Squeaky said. “But I was under the impression that the commander here wanted to know when dawn was. Because as soon as it’s day, the more likely it is we get seen. Or hadn’t that thought penetrated the mass of fur shielding your brain from outside stimulus?”
Grumble.
“Well, yes, technically, it is light rather than chronological markers for daytime that make it more likely we’ll be seen, but my point still holds—”
“Quiet,” Wedge said. “We may have something.”
On his sensor screen, a small blip had just crossed, in a straight line, a portion of this belt of forest about a kilometer to their south. It had looped around and was now crossing the same forest a hundred meters or so north of its last passage. As they watched, it completed this crossing and looped back again.
“A search grid?” Squeaky suggested.
“Yes. But it’s the only vehicle doing that in the area. So there’s not a concerted search going on.” Wedge read the text register on his sensor board. The vehicle was tentatively identified as a sort of high-altitude floater routinely used by police forces on Imperial worlds. “Probably just a routine flyover of his territory. He should be here in about fifteen minutes.” He dialed down the broadcast power of his comm unit and activated it. “Two?”
“I see it, Leader.”
“Just checking. Begin your preflight preparations. Out.” He brought the comm system up to full power and selected an encryption code, then transmitted one phrase: “In the green.”
A moment later, he received an answer, encrypted the same way. “Two lit.” Kell’s voice.
“Drake Squadron is getting ready,” Wedge said. “Now we wait for the locals to flush us.”