15

Lara was nearly jolted out of her seat by the high pitch and panic in the voice of the sensor officer, three seats down from her in the crew pit. “Contact, contact, a drop out of hyperspace, I read four, five, seven vessels cruiser size or better, total fleet size thirteen vessels. They’re already deploying starfighters.”

Boots clattered on the command walkway overhead and Lara saw Zsinj, General Melvar, and Captain Vellar, the stern-faced man who would have been master of Iron Fist had not Zsinj chosen the vessel as his flagship, running forward, toward the main bow viewports. Zsinj skidded to a sudden stop halfway there and Melvar nearly crashed into him. It was obvious that Zsinj could see the enemy with the naked eye—they were close.

Lara rolled her chair back to get a look at the sensor officer’s terminal screen. It was filled with red blips, outnumbering Zsinj’s group more than three to one.

“Return to original course,” Zsinj shouted. His face was red. “Prepare for hyperspace. Signal the group. Inform Groups Two and Three. Tell them our situation and instruct them to stand by to jump to the abort rendezvous locations.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lara rolled back into place and nudged the technician next to her, an Intelligence operative dedicated to analyzing patterns in comm traffic. “Why is he running?” she asked. “They outnumber us, but they couldn’t possibly destroy us before the rest of our fleet jumps in.”

The analyst gave her a look of scorn. “Zsinj’s doctrine,” he said. “No matter what the odds look like, if the enemy has chosen the battleground, he has more resources than we’re aware of. It becomes imperative to choose a new battlefield, one the enemy can’t have prepared. Don’t mistake that for cowardice.”

“I never would have, sir.” She returned her attention to her terminal, then typed a command, sixteen characters of gibberish, into her keyboard, and sent the command.

Somewhere under the floor beneath her, a utility droid that was spliced into the data cables should be intercepting the command, interpreting it, then switching the terminal over from its analysis duties to a direct connection with her quarters—a connection the ship’s computer was not set up to monitor.

HELLO, KIRNEY.

She donned a set of goggles and plugged it into the terminal. “Hello, Tonin,” she whispered. “Are we set to disable the hyperdrive?”

His next transmission showed up on her goggles, YES. BUT FROM THE MOMENT YOU ISSUE THE COMMAND, IT WILL TAKE A FEW MINUTES TO TAKE EFFECT.

“Understood. On my command, we pin him in place and make our run for it. Three, two, one—”

“Sir, we’re in a gravity well,” the sensor operator shouted.

“Hold it, Tonin.”

Zsinj leaned down to look into the crew pit. “We’re not even near—damn. Sensors, identify the Interdictor. Captain Vellar, that’s our primary target. Dispatch Red Gauntlet and Serpent’s Smile to annihilate that nuisance. Keep Blood Gutter in tight to us. Communications, new message for Groups Two and Three. Send them our current position—update it constantly. Tell them to hold in readiness to jump to our position on my order. If we’re not able to jump out of here before we’re likely to be disabled, we’ll just have to bring the fleet in here and fight on Solo’s preferred playground.”

“I’m disconnecting, Tonin. We may not have to reveal ourselves yet.” She typed and sent the countercommand, restoring the terminal to its proper function, and got back to work.

Wedge led his group in a wide loop around Skyhook, Crynyd, and Stellar Web, the lead ships of Solo’s fleet; around Red Gauntlet and Serpent’s Smile, the Star Destroyers coming in to eliminate the Interdictor; and then straight in toward the retreating Iron Fist.

Wedge was lead fighter in the lead squadron of twenty-four squadrons of fighters—every fighter in Solo’s fleet except those from the Skyhook and Crynyd, which were charged with the defense of Stellar Web. Several of the X-wing squadrons were light, with pilots still scattered across the solar system, awaiting word that the battle had materialized, but the group was still imposing, the largest force he’d led in quite a while.

“Rogue Leader, this is Mon Remonda. Still no sign of starfighter deployment from your target.”

“Thanks, Mon Remonda. X-wings, set your S-foils to attack position. All fighters, arm your weapons.” Wedge looped around so he was lined up more perfectly with Iron Fist’s long axis. The lack of starfighters didn’t surprise him; Zsinj was hoping to make a jump to hyperspace and didn’t want to lose time and pilots by deploying his TIEs and then summoning them back in. But that decision was about to cost him.

Ahead, the Super Star Destroyer’s turbolasers and other weapons flared into life. Space around the group was suddenly bright with laser flares and the ball-shaped detonation of concussion missiles.

“Leader to group: make a trench.” Wedge threw more power to acceleration and Rogue Squadron leaped out ahead. The X-wing squad to his starboard, the Gauntlets off the Allegiance, dropped back and sideslipped in directly behind. The Y-wing squad to his port, Lightning Squadron off Battle Dog, slid in just as neatly behind them.

In a matter of seconds, the broad wing of starfighters became a single concentrated line.

Wedge brought them down low over Iron Fist’s stern and fired down at the Star Destroyer’s top hull, his lasers striking into but being dissipated by the great ship’s shields, his proton torpedoes detonating on impact with those defensive screens rather than against the hull itself. Still, every shot he took battered away at shield integrity and drained badly needed energy resources … and more than two hundred fighters strung behind him were doing exactly the same thing. He veered from side to side, varying his altitude as he came, and turbocannon fire was so dense his cockpit interior was constantly illuminated by its brightness.

Then Iron Fist dropped away beneath him. He’d run the gauntlet. Tycho was still tucked in beside him, and his sensor board read all Rogues still accounted for. “At the end of your run,” he said, “break by squadrons and make further passes at your discretion.”

Zsinj knew from the way Iron Fist rattled that some of those detonations were taking place at the hull, not above it. The beeps and wails of damage reports began to sound. A near-constant line of starfighters flashed forward past the bridge viewports.

“What was that?” he asked of no one, then leaned over the edge of the command walkway. “Petothel! What is he doing?”

His new analyst looked up. “He’s concentrating fire on your centerline, since you don’t have a starfighter screen out to prevent such a move. But he won’t do it on his second run. He knows you’ll concentrate your gunnery crews’s attention on the centerline now, so he’ll break his group up for more standard strafing runs. Don’t be fooled.”

“I asked for your analysis, not your advice,” Zsinj said, and was surprised by the snap in his voice. He turned to Melvar. “Prepare for them to come back by way of the bow the same way. Alert the gunners on top and below for a repeat of the same tactic.”

Melvar looked uncertain. “Yes, sir.”

On the sensor screens, the deadly line of starfighters emerged from its strafing run off Iron Fist’s bow, then broke up into individual squadrons and looped back toward the ship, a broad cloud of enemies.

Lara allowed herself a small smirk of triumph. She’d thought that if she phrased her reply a certain way, suggesting that Wedge Antilles could outthink the warlord, Zsinj would respond with pride instead of with his tactical ability. And she’d been right. It didn’t make much of a difference in this situation; the gunnery crews were now receiving corrections, being told to abandon the previous orders. But Zsinj’s response meant she might be able to manipulate him again. If only she could persuade him to abandon his group, leave them behind. Then, wherever he emerged, she could shut down his hyperdrive and summon Solo’s fleet for the kill.

She sat upright. Wait a second. Maybe she could get Zsinj to abandon his fleet. It wouldn’t take persuasion, either. Just a minor course correction.

She switched her terminal over to direct communication with Tonin and plugged her goggles back in. “Has Iron Fist already transmitted its jump course to the rest of the fleet?” she asked.

YES.

“Can you enter a course correction? I don’t mean enter it as a new course—they’d notice that. I mean, like an automated minor correction, as the nav computer continues to process new data?”

YES.

“Is there a star within range of the kind of variation you can enter?”

YES. SELAGGIS. JUST WITHIN ZSINJ-CONTROLLED SPACE. A FEW LIGHT-YEARS AWAY. A YELLOW STAR, SEVEN WORLDS.

“Never mind the almanac data. Correct Iron Fist’s jump-course so that the distance is unchanged but the destination is on the far side of a direct line through Selaggis’s sun.”

COLLISION DETECTION IN THE NAVIGATIONAL SOFTWARE WILL PREVENT IT.

“Oh.” She sagged.

UNLESS I DELETE SELAGGIS FROM THE STARMAP.

“Do it!”

DONE. WE ARE NOW BOUND FOR SELAGGIS.

“Tonin, you are wonderful. Kirney out.”

Perfect. Either Iron Fist would remain here, trapped by the Interdictor, until Solo destroyed it, or it would jump to Selaggis, where Solo’s fleet could finish it off.

She didn’t switch back to normal terminal functions. Instead, she lifted her goggles and glanced right and left, making sure that the analysts on either side of her were fully occupied with their tasks. Then she began recording.

Zsinj watched in pained fascination as the battle unfolded.

Red Gauntlet, the Imperial-class Star Destroyer, and Serpent’s Smile, the Victory-class, had now dropped behind far enough to engage the Interdictor cruiser and her two escorts. His forces were somewhat overmatched; the Interdictor’s screen consisted of two Imperial-class Star Destroyers, and they had their starfighters deployed to offer additional damage to Zsinj’s ships.

But Red Gauntlet and Serpent’s Smile didn’t have to destroy the enemy. They merely had to make one ship driver flinch.

They had to do it quickly, too. Zsinj took in the broader range of the sensor data available to him. Mon Remonda, two more Mon Cal cruisers, another Imperial Star Destroyer, two frigates, and a swarm of smaller ships were converging on Iron Fist.

Already swarming with Rebel starfighters—Zsinj could see the tiny flashes of their lasers and torpedoes in the longdistance visual feed—his vessels dropped within range of the enemy capital ships’s guns. Brilliant streams of light lit up between them.

Red Gauntlet began a stately turn to starboard, bringing her main batteries to bear on the enemy ships. Her flank offered more firepower than the bows of all three Rebel vessels—and more target area, too. Zsinj bit his lip. “Bring up damage and diagnostics holos for Gauntlet and Smile,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” A starboard viewport was replaced by the giant-sized holoprojection of a data screen. It showed both his ships with shields intact, minor damage accumulating throughout their systems, especially on the older Serpent’s Smile.

But that ship had a canny captain who was a fine pilot. As Red Gauntlet rained destructive—and distracting—fire down on the enemies, Serpent’s Smile rotated ninety degrees on her long axis to narrow her approach profile and sideslipped between the Rebel Star Destroyers.

As they advanced, the Rebel ships unloaded only a portion of the full might of their flank batteries against Serpent’s Smile—any miss might continue on to hit the other Rebel ship. And, though Smile had only a few stern guns to bring to bear against the Interdictor, she had one other weapon—her considerable mass, which was decelerating right in the Interdictor’s path.

“Flinch,” Zsinj said. All the Interdictor had to do was veer away from the collision. Then Iron Fist and, ultimately, all the ships in Zsinj’s group could get enough distance from the Interdictor to jump into hyperspace.

The Interdictor came on, her own guns now firing on Serpent’s Smile.

“Flinch, damn you,” Zsinj said.

Melvar said, “We’ve identified the Interdictor. She’s Stellar Web.”

“Stellar Web? Nonsense.” Zsinj shook his head. “That’s an Imperial craft. Captained by Barr Moutil. He doesn’t have the nerve to do what that captain’s doing.”

“You were the one who said the Rebels and the Imperials were cooperating against you,” Melvar reminded him. “And Stellar Web has been observed to be part of Admiral Rogriss’s task force.”

“Rogriss.” Zsinj took a look at the sensor board. Stellar Web still came on, straight at the Victory-class destroyer decelerating into its path. “If he’s transferred his flag to the Interdictor … he has more nerve, better timing than my man. My captain will flinch first. We may have to summon the other groups and fight this one out. On their chosen battlefield.”

The communications officer called up, “Communications lost with Serpent’s Smile.”

Zsinj scowled down at him. “Nonsense. We still have data feeds.”

“Sorry, sir. I meant bridge communications.”

Zsinj looked at the enhanced view of the battle zone. The top hull of Serpent’s Smile was afire, with much of the flame concentrated around the command tower. Increasingly, the old destroyer looked like something a giant beast had chewed upon.

“We’re getting communications from their auxiliary bridge. They’re requesting orders.”

Zsinj felt a sense of loss as he realized what needed to be done. “Tell them to lock down their current course, launch all starfighters, and abandon ship.”

“They say they can save her, sir.”

“Do as I ordered.” Zsinj turned to Melvar. “It’s a heavy loss. But now they can’t flinch.”

Melvar nodded.

Solo watched as the stern of Serpent’s Smile slid ever closer to the bow of the oncoming Stellar Web. He was unconscious of the fact that he was rocking forward and back in his seat. Games of head-to-head between capital ships tended to result in disaster for both participants, and disaster was almost upon the two ships he watched.

“They’re going to hit,” Onoma said. “They cannot avoid it now.”

Stellar Web finally vectored, her bow turning slowly away from the oncoming destroyer wreckage. Solo waited for the inevitable collision between ships, but Serpent’s Smile seemed to slow as it approached the Interdictor. Stellar Web shot away from the destroyer, her course taking her dangerously close to Crynyd, then vectored away from that vessel as well. Suddenly she was headed out to space, away from the surviving Imperial Star Destroyers.

“How did she do that?” Onoma said.

“I’m not sure,” Solo said. “But if I were driving a dragship in that situation, I’d reverse the gravity-well generators so they pushed instead of pulled. That would give me extra propulsion to bounce away from any mass in the area. Must have wreaked havoc with the ship’s artificial gravity, though. She can’t be set up to do such a thing normally.” He couldn’t keep dull disappointment out of his voice. Stellar Web’s course was now at an angle to Iron Fist’s. Distance increased between the two ships. “Weapons, how soon before we overtake Iron Fist?”

“They’ll be within firing range in thirty-eight seconds,” the weapons officer said. “Within effective damage range in a minute ten.”

“Sensors, how soon, assuming optimal piloting by Stellar Web, before Iron Fist is out of her projected mass shadow?”

“Two minutes fifteen, sir.”

“Weapons, ready your guns.”

Wedge brought the Rogues around for another pass. Casualties had been high in his group owing to the sustained effort against Iron Fist; of the Rogues, Hobbie had been hit by an ion cannon and his snubfighter was out of combat, though he was undamaged, and Asyr Sei’lar had been forced to punch out when turbolaser damage sent her X-wing into a fatal spin toward Iron Fist’s hull. A shuttle off Mon Karren was now endeavoring to pick her up. Losses had been even more severe among many other squadrons, especially the slower-moving Y-wings and the Cloakshape fighter squadron off Battle Dog.

But Iron Fist was starting to look bad, portions of her deck gouting flame. Mon Remonda reported Serpent’s Smile destroyed, and Red Gauntlet sustaining heavy damage from the two Imperial-class Star Destroyers she faced.

“Rogues, stay on her bow,” Wedge ordered. “Solo’s group is coming up off her stern and we don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.” He rolled toward the Super Star Destroyer, evened out his shields, and opened fire once more.

His lasers plowed into Iron Fist’s shields and through—he saw hull plates explode out under the pressure of the atmosphere they’d once contained. As he looped around from this side-to-side strafing run, he saw the guns of Mon Remonda, Mon Karren, and Mon Delindo chewing away at Iron Fist’s stern, the destroyer’s batteries returning fire against the Mon Cal cruisers.

Then Iron Fist became a single streak of light leaping out into space. A moment later, the destroyer was gone. Only the battered-looking cruiser that had been hugging her belly remained, and a second later it disappeared as well.

Wedge set his jaw. This wasn’t the sort of victory they needed. “Rogues, form up. Let’s assess remaining threats.”

But the flaming wreckage that was Serpent’s Smile was no threat, and neither Red Gauntlet nor the three ships around her—Crynyd, Skyhook, or Stellar Web—was firing. Zsinj’s other destroyer had surrendered.

“I can’t beat him,” Solo said. His voice was duller than before, even to his own ears. He couldn’t seem to muster the energy even to pretend to be enthusiastic. “We’ve lost.”

Captain Onoma regarded him steadily; the Mon Calamari’s eyes were wide, evaluative. “We have reduced him.”

“He’ll swell up again. And there we’ll be, locked in this struggle forever.” He heaved a sigh. “All right. Recall the starfighters. Assemble the group. Secure Red Gauntlet and put a crew aboard her. Maybe we can draft her against Zsinj until Fleet Command decides to reallocate her.”

“Yes, General.”

The communications officer said, “Message from Contact M-317.”

“Put it through.”

Admiral Rogriss’s face came up on Solo’s private screen. He looked unshaken, undismayed by the events of the last few minutes. “General Solo.”

“Admiral. Let me compliment you on your flying.”

“Thank you. I think we’re done here, however. A shame.” The admiral shrugged. “It was a trap that could have succeeded.”

Solo nodded. “Let me ask you. Would you do it again?”

Rogriss froze. After a moment, he gave a slight nod. “I imagine I would. You have my frequency.”

“I do. Good luck … against the warlord, anyway.”

Rogriss laughed. Then his image vanished from the screen. A moment later, Stellar Web made the jump into hyperspace and was gone.

Solo sat, alone with his thoughts, his crew choosing not to disturb him.

In the murmur of their voices, he could pick up details of their status. How many pilots lost. How many starfighters temporarily out of combat, how many permanently. Damage tallies. Reports on reconnaissance pilots finally rejoining the group.

Then his communications officer said, “Sir, we’re receiving holocomm traffic.”

“That will be Zsinj,” Solo said. “Calling to brag.”

“No, sir.”

Long before she was supposed to, Iron Fist dropped out of hyperspace. Directly ahead, though at a sufficient distance that they were in no danger, was a yellow sun.

Zsinj leaned over to bellow down at his navigator. “What is this?”

“A star, sir,” the navigator said, then wilted as he realized how unnecessary the statement was. “Name unknown. It’s not on my charts.”

“Not on your charts?” The words escaped Zsinj in a bellow. “Just how incompetent are you? How far did we travel?”

“Less than eight light-years, sir.”

Zsinj felt himself gaping like a fish. “There are no unknown systems eight light-years from Vahaba!” He turned to Melvar, dropped the volume of his voice to a whisper. “Are there?”

“Well, if we knew,” the general said, “they wouldn’t be unknown. But to answer the question more appropriately, no yellow sun like this could exist eight light-years from Vahaba without the people of Vahaba knowing—and so it would be on our star charts.”

Zsinj returned his attention to the navigator. “Well, turn us around, get us out of this gravity well and into hyperspace, and get us to our rendezvous point.” He didn’t bother to keep anger out of his voice.

“Sir?” Another voice, the officer in charge of engineering. “New damage reports. We’re experiencing a progressive failure in our hyperdrive system.”

Zsinj felt his gut turn cold. “Define ‘progressive failure.’ ”

“Primary subsystems are shut down and secondary systems and optional reroutes are failing. But it’s not instantaneous. It’s spreading, like a disease.”

“How long before the system is inoperable?”

“One minute, maybe two.”

“Navigation, how long before we can make our next jump?”

The navigator looked up and slowly shook his head.

“Fix it,” Zsinj said. “Now. Now. Now.”

“We have a holocomm message,” called the communications officer.

“Directed to whom?” Zsinj asked.

“I don’t know, sir. It’s not to us. It’s from us.”

“I didn’t authorize—Oh, Melvar, we’re in trouble. Communications, put that message up where I can see it.”

The holoprojected status board was replaced by a face—that of Gara Petothel. She had goggles pushed up on her forehead and was leaning in close to the holocam. Her expression was somber. The view behind her was of the back wall of the crew pit. Zsinj looked down at her seat in the pit; it was empty.

“General Solo,” the woman said. “If everything has gone correctly, Iron Fist is now in the Selaggis system with her hyperdrive inoperable. Other portions of Zsinj’s fleet are continuing on to their rendezvous points and won’t be able to get to him for a little while—minutes in some cases, hours in others. I recommend you come by and take a look. Oh, bring your fleet, too. Lara Notsil out.” The image faded.

Zsinj stood there a moment, his mind a blank. For the first time in years, he couldn’t think of anything to say. He did notice the deadly quiet that had fallen on the bridge.

Finally, he turned to Melvar. “Dispatch Security. Have her found and brought to the interrogation chamber.” He took a deep breath. “I intend for her death to be so horrible that it will give me nightmares.”

Melvar nodded and brought out his comlink.

Zsinj addressed the navigator. “We’re at Selaggis. Selaggis is normally on our charts. What does that suggest to you?”

“Our charts have been tampered with, sir. I’m already restoring them from our archives.”

“Very good. You just saved your own life.”

Zsinj turned his attention to Captain Vellar. “How soon can we reassemble the fleet here?”

“If they’ve already launched for the rendezvous points,” the man said, “about six hours for the other units of Group One, four for Group Two, two and a half for Group Three. But, sir, Groups Two and Three had no urgent reason to leave Vahaba. If they’ve lingered, they’re only minutes away.”

“Communications! Direct a holocomm signal to any remaining units at Vahaba. Bring them here.” Zsinj returned his attention to Vellar. “Bring in Second Death. We may actually have to use her in her primary role. Bring in any stray vessels under my command in this region. Bring in any pirate or mercenary forces we’ve used in the past. Hire any vessel of any sort operating in or near this system. Find a good spot in this system for us to hide until our reinforcements arrive or our hyperdrive is fixed.” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “And prepare all our starfighters to launch. We’re in for a fight.”

At a half trot, Lara followed the tiny utility droid down the busy corridor, and Ensign Gatterweld followed her. “Should you be doing this?” Gatterweld asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be on station?”

“No, I’m not,” she said. “I’m tending to an emergency.”

“What’s with the droid?”

“It knows where to go.”

The droid pulled over to stop beneath a utility access hatch. Lara typed numbers into the keyboard beside it. “If this weren’t authorized, would I be able to open this?” The hatch offered up a clank of confirmation and swung open. Beyond, in the narrow access shaft, waited another utility droid. A broad box was strapped to its top.

“I suppose not. Where are we going?”

Lara reached in, opened the box partway, and fumbled within it. Her hand rested first upon a trigger housing. She grabbed the weapon’s grip and switched the weapon over from blast to stun settings. “I’m going to go get killed. If you’re not smart, you will, too.” She reached back with her free hand to give him a shove, rocking him back on his heels, then she turned and shot him.

The stun beam caught him in his midsection. He fell backwards, hitting the corridor’s metal flooring with a clang. Passersby—officers, crewmen, pilots rushing toward their launch bays—stared in momentary surprise, and some lunged toward her.

She stepped into the access shaft and yanked the hatch closed. The hammering of fists sounded against the hatch.

Lara pulled the empty package from the utility droid’s back and discarded it. Then she tapped the droid three times.

It turned obligingly and headed off into the shaft, Lara close behind it.

“But can we believe her?” Solo asked.

Captain Onoma gave him a shrug. “Your analysis team believed her before, and our engagement here at Vahaba confirmed the data she gave us.”

“True. But it could still be a plan to draw us into some trap Zsinj has set up at Selaggis. Trusting her could mean the end of the fleet.” Solo sat back, frustrated, struggling with conflicting impulses.

“Sir,” the comm officer said, “we have more holocomm traffic. A recorded message, not a live transmission.”

Solo sat up. “From Notsil again?”

“No, sir. From some sort of automated router in the Halmad system. It didn’t come straight from there, though. The route data says it went to a holocomm relay satellite in New Republic space first, then Coruscant, then to a high-security fleet satellite, then to us. It’s eyes-only for Commander Antilles or Captain Loran.”

Solo frowned. “That’s odd. And Halmad is so close the timing can’t be coincidence. Captain, is either Wedge or Loran back on board?”

Onoma nodded. “Both are.”

“Get them up to the closest conference room, right now.”

•    •    •

Solo met the two pilots in the conference room. As soon as the door was shut, he said, “Bring up the message.”

The room’s comm terminal responded in what sounded like a recorded female voice. “State your name and rank for verification purposes.”

Wedge looked at the general, who nodded, and said, “Wedge Antilles, Commander, New Republic Starfighter Command.”

“Thank you.”

The room’s holoprojector activated and a hologram swam into focus in the center of the conference table. It showed Warlord Zsinj against a neutral gray background. “General Kargin and the Hawk-bats, greetings,” the warlord said.

“It’s a recording,” Solo said. “You’re not compromised.”

“I have a proposition for you,” the warlord continued. “It’s my hope that you’re still stationed out of the Halmad system, because if you are, I can offer you a considerable sum to join me on a sort of impromptu exercise. If you’re available, please transit immediately to the Selaggis system—practically your next-door neighbor. However, our window of opportunity is very narrow—in a very few hours from this message’s time stamp, it will close. I hope to see you soon.” With a confident smile, the warlord closed down the transmission and his holo image faded.

“Notsil was telling the truth,” Solo said. “Zsinj is trapped at Selaggis.” His expression transformed from tiredness and premature age to his familiar cocky appearance.

“And he’s desperate for troops,” Face said. “He’s calling in the Hawk-bats and probably every pirate he’s dealt with within a few light-years. We’ve got him.”

“Do you want to go in as the Hawk-bats?” Solo asked.

Face shook his head. “We’d have to put on the makeup, repaint some of the interceptors. Call it half an hour to an hour’s delay. And all it would get us is proximity to Iron Fist in a half dozen TIEs.”

“Where do I know the name Selaggis from?” Wedge asked.

“Another Zsinj strike zone,” Solo said. “One of the first I looked at after I assumed command of this task force. One of the moons of Selaggis Six was colonized. I guess Zsinj decided to make a lesson of someone colonizing on his border without his permission. Iron Fist wiped out the whole colony. I think it would be very appropriate if he were wiped out in the same system.”

“Right.”

“Get back to your squadrons,” Solo said. “We’ll jump immediately.” He raced from the room, showing haste inappropriate for a general.

Wedge and Face headed back for their hangar at a trot. “Shalla is going to be so relieved,” Face said.

“How so?”

“Her assault on Netbers back in the Saffalore complex. She’s been beating herself up for a while, wondering whether she should have risked all our lives to keep the Wraith Squadron/Hawk-bats link a secret. Now she gets to know she was right.”