TOO MANY TARGETS

Just as the air  thinned  to  the  point  that  the  stars  shone  with

brilliant, unblinking clarity,  the  first  laser  blast  sizzled  past  the

Corellian freighter's port side. "A long-distance shot," Wedge said.

Tycho's voice came back, "Easy to hit a flying  bathtub  like  the  one

you're driving even with a long-distance shot. Permission to engage?"

"Not yet. Wait until it gets complicated." Wedge  spared  a  moment  to

look at his sensors. The squadron of TIEs was only a kilometer back.  Kell's

Drakes were only half a klick behind them and closing fast. And a new signal

was on the board-a second full squad of TIEs from the ground  base.  It  was

going to get complicated soon. .

Moments later, a shot hit the rear shields. On the sensors,  Wedge  saw

two wingpairs of TIE fighters peel off and curve around toward Kell's group.

"That's it," Wedge said. "Rogue Two, you are free  to  engage.  Chewie,  you

have the controls." He unbelted and moved aft.

Wedge clambered into the upper  gunport  turret  and  powered  up.  His

targeting grid immediately lit up with glows, most of them red-enemies.

Acknowledgments

Thanks go to:

Bruce Harlick, Kevin Jennings, Beth Loubet,  Matt  Pinsonneault,  Susan

Pinsonneault,  Bob  Quinlan,  Roxanne  Quinlan,  Luray  Richmond,  and  Sean

Summers, my "Eagle-Eyes," whose efforts to intercept my  errors  of  thought

and deed keep me from looking quite as foolish as I otherwise might;

All the Star Wars fiction authors from whose work I have been  able  to

draw details, most especially Michael A. Stackpole and Timothy Zahn;

Drew Campbell, Troy Denning, Shane Johnson,  Paul  Murphy,  Stephen  J.

Sansweet, Peter Schweighofer, Jen Seiden, Bill Slavicsek, Bill Smith, Curtis

Smith, Eric S. Trautmann, and Dan Wallace, for the invaluable resources they

have written;

David Pipgras, for the Wraith Squadron unit patch;

The netizens of alt.fan.wedge, for their support and commentary;

Sue Rostoni and Lucy Autrey Wilson of Lucas Licensing, for their  help;

and

Denis Loubet, Mark and Luray Richmond, my roommates,  for  occasionally

reminding me to eat, sleep, and breathe.

Dramatis Persona

Commander Wedge Antilles  (Rogue  Leader,  Rogue  One,  Wraith  Leader)

(human male from Corellia)

The Wraiths

Lieutenant (Brevet Captain) Garik "Face" Loran (Wraith One) (human male

from Pantolomin)

Flight Officer Lara Notsil (Wraith Two) (human female from Aldivy)

Lieutenant Myn Donos (Wraith Three) (human male from Corellia)

Flight Officer Tyria Sarkin (Wraith Four) (human female from Toprawa)

Lieutenant Kell Tainer (Wraith Five) (human male from Sluis Van)

Flight Officer Hohass "Runt" Ekwesh (Wraith Six) (Thakwaash  male  from

Thakwaa)

Flight Officer Dia Passik (Wraith Seven) (Twi'lek female from Ryloth)

Flight Officer Voort "Piggy" saBinring (Wraith Eight)  (Gamorrean  male

from Gamorr)

Lieutenant Shalla Nelprin (Wraith Nine) (human female from Ingo)

Lieutenant Wes Janson (Wraith Ten, XO) (human male from Taanab)

Flight Officer Elassar Targon (Wraith  Eleven)  (Devaronian  male  from

Devaron)

The Rogues

Captain Tycho Celchu (Rogue Two) (human male fromAlderaan)

Lieutenant Pedna Scotian (Rogue Three) (Chev female fromVinsoth)

Lieutenant  Derek  "Hobbie"  Klivian  (Rogue  Four)  (human  male  from

Ralltiir)

Lieutenant Tal'dira (Rogue Five) (Twi'lek male from Ryloth)

Lieutenant Gavin Darklighter (Rogue Six) (human male from Tatooine)

Flight Officer Ran Kether (Rogue Seven) (human male from Chandrila)

Flight Officer Koobis "Target"  Nu  (Rogue  Eight)  (Rodian  male  from

Rodia)

Lieutenant Corran Horn (Rogue Nine) (human male from Corellia)

Lieutenant Ooryl Qyrgg (Rogue Ten) (Gand male from Gand)

Lieutenant Asyr Sei'lar (Rogue Eleven) (Bothan female from Bothawui)

Flight Officer Inyri Forge (Rogue Twelve) (human female from Kessel)

Lieutenant Nawara Ven (XO) (Twi'lek male from Ryloth)

Support Personnel Clink (Donos's R2 unit)

Cubber Daine (human male from Corellia, Wraith mechanic)

Gate (Wedge's R5 unit)

Koyi Komad (Twi'lek female from Ryloth, Rogue mechanic)

Squeaky (3PO unit, squadron quartermaster)

Tonin (Lara's R2 unit)

Vape (Face's R2 unit)

New Republic Military

General Han Solo (human male from Corellia)

Captain Onoma (Mon Calamari male from Mon Calamari)

Captain Todra Mayn (Polearm One) (human female from Commenor)

Flight Officer Nuro Tualin (Polearm Two) (Twi'lek male from Ryloth)

Flight Officer  Dorset  Konnair  (Polearm  Seven)  (human  female  from

Coruscant)

Flight Officer Tetengo Noor (Polearm Nine) (human male from Churba)

Zsinj's Forces

Warlord Zsinj (human male from Fondor)

General Melvar (human male from Kuat)

Dr. Edda Gast (human female from Saffalore)

Captain Radaf Netbers (human male from Broest)

Captain Vellar (human male from Coruscant)

I

Naval Lieutenant Jart Eyan looked rested and cheerful. The tact that he

had only twelve minutes to live would have changed his disposition,  but  he

did not possess that knowledge.

He descended the shuttle ramp to stand in the bay of the  cruiser  Home

One and look around for a moment. When last he'd seen this part of the ship,

many of the shuttles and utility vehicles within had  borne  the  grime  and

combat scoring that were inevitable in any lengthy campaign. Now  they  were

largely restored to shipshape state. The time Home  One  had  spent  in  the

repair yards of Coruscant had obviously been valuable.

Eyan was a Twi'lek, member of a humanoid species best known for the two

fleshy appendages, called lekku, that hung from their heads  where  a  human

would have hair. Many humans forgot that lekku, more commonly referred to as

brain tails, were sensory bundles,  and  often  gave  Twi'leks  an  edge  in

assessing their circumstances and possible threats being posed.

Eyan shivered. Ryloth, the Twi'lek home, was a hot world. On Home  One,

a ship engineered for a bridge crew of Mon Calamari, an aquatic species, the

ambient temperature tended to be low enough to inconvenience  him.  The  New

Republic

officer's uniform he wore was never quite sufficient to  overcome  this

discomfort.

Still, he smiled, revealing a broad stretch of  carnivore's  teeth.  It

was good to be back.

An aide, a human female, approached him  and  saluted.  "Welcome  back,

sir. I hope you enjoyed your leave."

"Oh, certainly." Eyan frowned for a moment,  trying  to  remember  just

what he'd been up to on his leave, but the moment passed. His  gesture  took

in the vehicle bay and indicated the vessel as a whole. "What sort of  shape

is she in?"

"One hundred percent, sir. All the admiral has  to  do  is  point,  and

we'll be on our way."

"Excellent."

"I wanted to let you know, you had a communication from your wife  come

in a few minutes ago. It was flagged as urgent."

"Is the captain on duty?"

"Not now, sir."

'Good. I can see to this message before I'm officially on duty  again."

Eyan nodded thanks to the aide and headed for his quarters.

What could be the trouble?  He'd  barely  left  her-as  with  many  New

Republic officers, he'd moved his family to Coruscant after  being  assigned

to the former Imperial throneworld.

Barely left her after spending his entire leave with her, too.  But  he

frowned, trying to recall just how they'd spent their)  time  together.  The

memory wasn't coming in  too  clearly.  He  had  the  nagging  feeling  that

something important was slipping by him.

At his quarters, he brought up his personal  terminal  and  opened  his

mail. In addition to numerous messages related to his duties, there was  the

priority-flagged message from his wife. He brought it up.

There she sat, in the tacky red high-backed chair that sat before their

terminal at home, and she looked distinctly unhappy,  her  greenish  skin  a

little more pallid than it should have been. She glanced over to the side as

though consulting with someone outside recording range.  "Jart,"  she  said,

"those Wookiees are dancing in the parlor again."

Eyan switched off  the  message,  not  bothering  to  hear  it  in  its

entirety, and erased it.  His  fingers  typed  commands  into  the  terminal

keyboard. He watched the process, momentarily interested in how he could  be

so swift, so sure, and yet have no idea what he was  doing.  Of  course,  he

thought. How unpleasant. Those blasted Wookiees are dancing  in  the  parlor

again. He retrieved his personal  sidearm,  a  small  but  powerful  blaster

pistol, and checked it to make sure it was fully charged. He tucked it  away

in his pocket and departed, certain in what he needed to do to  get  rid  of

those dancing Wookiees.

"In terms of pure strategy, there was nothing  of  particular  interest

between the capital ships in the Mon Remonda/Iron Fist fight."  The  speaker

was a Gamorrean, one of the pig-snouted humanoids known  for  their  warlike

dispositions, but almost nothing but his appearance characterized him  as  a

member of that species.

He was speaking Basic, which  was  beyond  the  capabilities  of  other

Gamorreans. And his voice was not a natural one; his  words  emerged  twice,

once in a throaty babble that sounded like gibberish  to  most  people,  and

once in a mechanical tone from an implant in his throat.  Too,  he  was  the

only Gamorrean known to wear a New Republic Fleet Command uniform.

On the shoulder of his orange pilot's uniform he wore a unit patch that

was much cleaner, much newer than the rest of the uniform. The main  element

of the design was a white circle, over which, in light  gray,  appeared  the

central symbol of the New Republic, a  design  like  a  stylized  bird  with

upswept wings. Over that were twelve X-wing silhouettes, as if  viewed  from

above, in black; one, in the lower left portion of the  circle,  was  large,

and the eleven arrayed around it were a third its size.  All  were  oriented

the same direction, from lower left to upper  right,  as  though  flying  in

tight, precise formation. Around the white circle  was  a  broad  blue  ring

bordered by two narrow gold rings. It was  a  brand-new  unit  patch  for  a

nearly brand-new force, Wraith Squadron.

The being  the  Gamorrean  addressed  across  the  holotable  was  also

unusual, though his kind was certainly well represented

in the ranks of the New Republic military. Admiral Ackbar was a  member

of the Mon Calamari species, humanoids with fish-like features  and  rubbery

skin. Though there were many Mon Calamari serving the New Republic, few  had

naval combat maneuvers named for him or had designed fighter craft as Ackbar

had.

"Essentially," the Gamorrean continued, "we gave Zsinj only one  course

of action to take if he were to preserve the Razor's Kiss." He  gestured  at

the replay  of  the  deep-space  naval  battle  being  projected  above  the

holotable. "You see his maneuvers to keep Iron Fist between us  and  Razor's

Kiss. You see him slow his escape pace to stay with the crippled  ship.  All

by the numbers, numbers our force dictated."

Admiral Ackbar's voice was low, gravelly, slightly more  imposing  than

the standard for his species. "So  you  find  nothing  of  interest  in  the

engagement."

"If you will forgive me, I  did  not  say  that,  sir."  The  Gamorrean

manipulated the table controls to zoom the holoprojection view very close to

the second of the two Super Star Destroyers. At this near distance,  he  and

Ackbar could see that the mighty vessel was burning at innumerable points on

the hull. They could also see  swarms  of  starfighters,  New   Republic  and

Imperial, fighting above its surface.

"Mathematically speaking," the Gamorrean continued, "there is  much  of

interest in the behavior of the One Eighty-first. In addition  to  the  fact

that a demonstrably loyal Imperial elite squadron should not be working hand

in hand with a rogue warlord like Zsinj, there is something odd in  the  way

they fight."

Ackbar's face suggested  curiosity.  "We  detected  no  oddity  in  our

analysis of the recordings. But, of course, you were there."

"If I may correct you, I actually was not. I was trapped on the hull of

the Iron Fist for most of that fight, trying to persuade my  starfighter  to

start up. No, it was after you showed me these recordings that I noticed it.

Individual fighter pairs tend to respond with  an  interesting  sameness  to

specific attack patterns. See here-" The Gamorrean pointed to a pair of  TIE

interceptors characterized by horizontal red stripes on their so-

lar wing arrays. As a pair of X-wings approached from their  rear,  the

TIEs broke off in a tight sweep to port and  relative  down,  moving  at  an

angle the X-wings couldn't match.

The Gamorrean stopped the holoprojection, scrolled the  viewpoint  over

to the Iron Fist, and settled it on another pair of 181st  interceptors.  He

advanced the recording as  the  interceptors  cruised  toward  a  pocket  of

combat, then set it to play at  a  normal  rate.  "Here,  two  A-wings  from

Polearm Squadron approach from the rear on the  same  vector.  You  see  the

interceptors break exactly the same way, the  lead  interceptor  taking  the

higher position and the slightly shallower angle, the  wingman  going  lower

and taking a harder turn."

"A coincidence."

"No. The angle of attack dictates the way they break. Only with the One

Eighty-first, however. I'm not sure what it means."

Ackbar leaned forward, his posture suggesting sudden interest. "Show me

more."

Lieutenant Eyan marched into the admiral's outer office with his broad,

meat-eating smile fixed on his face.

The admiral's aide, seated at a  desk  outside  the  door  to  Ackbar's

office, returned the smile. He was a human male  who  looked  as  though  he

thrived on naval food and could stand to thrive a little less. He stood  and

saluted. "Welcome back, sir. You look as though your leave suited you."

Eyan drew the blaster pistol from his pocket, thrust it into the  man's

stomach, and pulled the trigger. The blast slammed the  man  back  into  his

chair but was not as loud as it could have been, muffled by contact with the

victim's flesh. "It did," he said.

Eyan reached past the still-twitching corpse to press a button  on  the

underside of the desk. The door into Ackbar's office opened.

The admiral looked up as the naval  officer  entered.  "Ah,  Lieutenant

Eyan. Allow me to present Flight Officer Voort saBinring,

also called Piggy. He is a pilot of Wraith Squadron and a  mathematical

prodigy. SaBinring, this is Lieutenant Jart Eyan, security detail."

Piggy rose to salute the naval officer. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

Eyan returned the salute. "Likewise." Then he pulled his  blaster  from

behind his back, pressed it into Piggy's stomach, and pressed the trigger.

It is remarkable, Piggy thought, the  suddenness  of  it.  One  moment,

perfect health. The next moment, perfect agony. He could not see,  the  pain

in his gut was so great, like a bonfire lit upon his stomach and eating  its

way through him, and he could barely hear. He knew he lay upon his back  but

couldn't remember getting there.

I think I have only moments to live. Interesting.

But the science that had altered  him,  giving  him  control  over  his

emotions, giving him the mathematical acuity that had brought him to Admiral

Ackbar's attention, had not done away with all of the biological imperatives

that came with being Gamorrean.  Another  voice  rose  within  him,  growing

louder: Live, die, doesn't matter-kill him! Strike him until his  bones  arc

paste, rest your tusks upon the warm flesh of his throat, and tear it  free!

KILL HIM!

Piggy's eyes snapped open. The assassin stood a couple of meters  away,

his weapon aimed at Ackbar, words forming in his mouth,  words  Piggy  could

not hear.

They didn't matter. The Twi'lek  hadn't  fired  on  Ackbar  yet.  Piggy

reached beneath his left sleeve, and with a  trembling  hand  drew  forth  a

vibroblade like the ones most members of  his  squadron  carried  there.  He

thumbed its power on. Then he  roared,  a  noise  he  knew  humans  to  find

intimidating, and threw the blade.

His target jerked at the sudden noise and spun to  aim  at  Piggy.  The

vibroblade, instead of catching him in the chest, hit the  blaster  instead,

shearing into the metal where barrel met trigger guard. There was  a  bright

flash from the weapon and the assassin flung it away.

Piggy tried to stand but found that his shaky limbs were not making  it

an easy task. He saw Ackbar slam into the assassin from the side, the webbed

hands of the Mon Calamari closing around the Twi'lek's  throat  .  .  .  but

Lieutenant Eyan effortlessly wrenched Ackbar's  hands  free  and  threw  the

admiral against the wall. Then, as deliberately as a diner sitting down to a

meal, Eyan straddled Ackbar and closed his  own  hands  over  the  admiral's

throat.

Piggy forced himself to his feet. Time left... estimated ten or  twelve

seconds. Kill him kill him kill him. Hard to  see.  Tunnel  vision.  A  side

effect of shock. Tear one arm free and beat him until he shrieks for  death.

He's strong, unnaturally strong.

He walked, his feet unsteady, to Ackbar's desk, and  got  his  shoulder

under the center portion. He heaved and it came up off the floor, though  it

nearly unbalanced him. Good. 1 still have  my  strength.  Hit  him  so  hard

members of his family light-years away cry out in pain and dread.

He lurched into motion toward the assassin, lowering the  edge  of  the

desk as he built up  speed,  and  was  rewarded  with  his  victim's  sudden

perception of him, a look of surprise on the Twi'lek's face.

Then he hit.

On the other side of the joining wall, the ensign leaning  against  the

wall of the lounge, a human female, was suddenly flung forward. She  slammed

onto the floor, her cup of caf splashing as far as the boots of  the  ensign

halfway across the lounge, and she lay there unmoving.

The others in the lounge looked at the bowed-in portion of metal  plate

that had once been smooth wall. One knelt beside the injured woman. The rest

scrambled for the door.

Piggy dropped the desk so that it would not fall upon  Admiral  Ackbar.

The motion was more languid than he liked. He didn't seem to have any energy

left.

He regarded his handiwork. The Twi'lek's head was a quarter  the  width

it should have been, a smashed mess that

pleased one of the voices in Piggy's head even as it appalled the

other. "

Admiral Ackbar was struggling to rise. He was  speaking.  But  suddenly

Piggy couldn't understand the words.

The Gamorrean fell over backwards as the  heat  and  pain  in  his  gut

spread out to overwhelm him.

The two TIE interceptors banked, maneuvering in a wide circle  as  they

scanned for enemies, and the lunar surface sped by beneath them.

To someone seeing them for the first  time,  these  starfighters  might

have seemed  comical.  Their  cockpits  were  unaerodynamic-looking  spheres

taller than a human. Projecting from either side of the cockpits were  thick

posts,  the  wing  pylons,  each  about  the   length   of   the   cockpit's

circumference. At the end of either pylon was a solar wing array, a  curved,

roughly oval wing with a deep notch cut  out  of  the  leading  edge.  Where

normal TIE fighters were nicknamed eyeballs, for their  spherical  cockpits,

in New Republic fighter  slang,  interceptors,  with  their  narrower  sight

profiles, were called squints.

But no one seeing them maneuver or fight would continue to  think  them

amusing. Agile and fast, armed with four lasers  each  capable  of  punching

through starfighter armor, they  were  among  the  deadliest  tools  in  the

arsenal of the Empire.

Not that Imperial pilots flew these two.

"Rogue Two, this is Leader. Comm check."

"I read you."

"Two unknowns now showing on my sensor screen at two-eight-five. Follow

me in."

"I'm your wing."

The lead  interceptor  veered  toward  the  distant  blip,  the  second

following  hard,  their  maneuvers  tight  and  sure.  Within  moments,  the

enemy-two tiny bright spots near the horizon- came into view.

"Two, the computer  gives  a  tentative  ID  as  one  interceptor,  one

X-wing."

"I read it  that  way.  The  X-wing  is  leading.  Shall  we  get  some

separation, make them split up to cover us both?"

"Ehhh . . . not yet. Stay with standard Imperial protocols at first  to

make this a proper test."

"Right."

As the range meter numbers scrolled down to firing range, the  oncoming

starfighters opened fire. Curiously, the enemy TIE interceptor held in close

behind the X-wing, dropping just beneath  to  fire,  rising  above  to  fire

again.

The two interceptors bobbed and juked, ducking fire  as  they  returned

laser blasts. Their return shots slammed into the X-wing's forward  shields,

dissipating meters short of the X-wing fuselage.

"Hey, I get it," Two said. "You use the-"

Red  laser  fire  from  the  X-wing  hit  him  low  on   the   circular

transparisteel viewport. Two  exploded  in  a  bright  flash,  and  Leader's

interceptor rocked, hit by gases swelling from  the  detonation.  The  enemy

interceptor and X-wing sped by.

Despite his demise, Two kept  talking,  his  voice  floating  into  his

leader's comm unit like transmissions from a  land  of  the  dead.  "Whoops,

sorry, Wedge."

"No problem, Tycho." Wedge Antilles heeled  hard  to  port,  coming  up

behind the two attackers.

Instead of splitting up, with the faster interceptor trying to come  up

behind Wedge, the attackers had remained  together,  though  they'd  changed

their formation: the X-wing was  now  in  the  rear,  with  the  interceptor

bobbing around just in front of it. It was  tight,  economical  flying,  and

Wedge nodded. On their approach, the enemy interceptor had used  the  X-wing

as a barricade, staying behind its  shields  except  for  the  bare  seconds

necessary to line up a shot. The X-wing must have had most  or  all  of  its

shield  energy  forward  on  the  approach.  Now,  as  they  retreated,  the

interceptor  was  still  enjoying  the   X-wing's   protection,   and   that

starfighter's shield energy would all be concentrated to the rear.

Wedge accelerated toward the pair, rising until he was  slightly  above

their plane of flight. They knew he wouldn't  overfly  them;  he'd  tuck  in

behind and fire at their comparatively unprotected  rears  until  they  were

destroyed. So their tactic had to be to break  at  some  point.  The  X-wing

wouldn't be able to outmaneuver him, so it would be the interceptor trying

to get in behind him. That meant they'd wait until he was engaged  with

the X-wing before breaking.

The computer graphic representing the X-wing jittered within his sensor

screen, announcing a laser lock. He ignored it and  began  a  shallow  dive,

dipping down beneath the X-wing's flight plane as if to try a snap  shot  at

the interceptor. But halfway into the maneuver he drew  back  on  the  yoke,

sending him into a sudden climb.

And the enemy interceptor, rising past the X-wing's nose in  an  effort

to keep the X-wing between itself and Wedge, suddenly jittered in  the  same

sensor screen. Wedge fired and saw the green flashes of three of his  lasers

connect with the interceptor's engines. The squint blew out of the  sky  and

Wedge jerked hard to port to avoid flying through the thickest part  of  the

debris cloud.

The X-wing took advantage  of  his  sudden  dodge  by  peeling  off  to

starboard, a hard turn-an obvious attempt to set up for another head-to-head

pass. But Wedge switched his comm unit over to a general broadcast frequency

and said, "Exercise terminated."

The voice of Garik "Face" Loran, onetime boy actor for the  Empire  and

now New Republic flyer, came back. "But I'm not dead yet."

"You're protesting?"

"Not exactly. Just curious."

The vista of  the  lunar  surface  and  the  maneuvering  X-wing  faded

abruptly to blackness. Wedge reached back to open the access hatch, situated

where the twin ion engines were in a real TIE interceptor, and  climbed  out

into overhead light.

The room was a large one, crowded with tables,  chairs,  and  simulator

units. Most were narrower units,  the  better  to  conform  to  the  cockpit

interiors of the X-wing, Y-wing, and A-wing starfighters  used  by  the  New

Republic, but a few were spherical, such as the one Wedge had just  vacated.

The room was  heavily  trafficked  by  pilots,  many  of  them  in  the  New

Republic's orange pilots's jumpsuits, and technicians in more somber colors.

Most of the pilots  were  clustered  around  the  various  simulator  units,

monitoring the practicing pilots' efforts on overhead holo displays.

Across an aisle busy with human traffic, Face Loran dropped  nimbly  to

the floor and looked curiously  toward  Wedge.  Wedge  saw  a  female  pilot

trainee glance at him, do a double take, then  flutter  her  hand  over  her

heart as she  whispered  into  the  ear  of  a  confidant.  Face,  with  his

strikingly handsome features, intent green eyes, and somehow artfully mussed

black hair, often had that effect on women. Wedge waved him over.

They were joined a moment later by two  other  pilots.  Flight  Officer

Lara Notsil, a lightly built woman with downy blond hair, was possessed of a

delicate beauty that belied her intensity and skill in  starfighter  combat.

Captain Tycho Celchu, a fair-haired man with features  that  suggested  he'd

weathered a lot of turmoil in his life, spoke first. " Why'd  you  kill  the

sim, Commander?"

"We were here to test the youngsters's new combined-unit tactic," Wedge

said. '"As soon as you and Lara went out,  it  became  just  another  X-wing

versus TIE exercise. There's plenty of value in those, of course, but that's

not what we came here for." He fixed his attention on Face. "What  was  your

opinion of the effectiveness of your tactic?"

Face shrugged; he didn't look happy. "Nowhere near as effective as  I'd

hoped."

"You were presuming that experienced enemies would be so thrown off  by

the novelty of what you were doing that they'd be easy kills?"

'Presuming? No, sir. Just hoping."

"Lara, your thoughts?"

"Well, one exercise isn't statistically  significant,"  she  said.  "So

anything I had to say would be premature. Irrelevant. But I think the tactic

worked as it was supposed to. I received a lot  of  protection  from  Face's

shields on both the incoming and outbound legs of the run, in spite  of  the

fact that you flushed me out pretty easily. I'd say it was effective."

Tycho nodded. "I'd agree. But I think it's a  one-shot  tactic.  Usable

only in paired head-to-head runs or when you have an X-wing/TIE  pair  going

after a single target. It would be best used at the start of any engagement,

then abandoned."

"I'd say it's worth further practice and analysis," Wedge said.  "Face,

Lara, work up some automated exercises to give

all the Wraiths the opportunity to play around with this."  He  checked

the chrono strapped to his wrist. "Though not now. We have about ten minutes

to get to our briefing. Dismissed."

The two younger pilots saluted  and  headed  off  into  the  stream  of

traffic.

Wedge called, "Hey."

The two turned, Face curious, Lara looking guilty, as if  wondering  if

she'd forgotten to salute before leaving.

Wedge said, "Developing just this kind of tactic is one of the things I

put Wraith Squadron together for. Good work. Keep at it."

They smiled and continued toward the room's main exit.

Most of the members of Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron were in their

seats in  the  semicircular  briefing  amphitheater  when  Wedge  and  Tycho

entered.

"Commander Antilles-draw!"

Wedge turned at the sound of Wes Janson's voice. The eternally youthful

pilot, executive officer of Wraith Squadron,  was  on  his  feet,  aiming  a

datapad as though it were a blaster pistol,  thumbing  the  transmit  button

with manic intensity. Wedge sighed  and  brought  out  his  own  datapad  to

receive the transmitted file. But Janson's antics were  a  good  sign.  They

suggested that the news Wedge was waiting for had arrived- and was good.  En

route to the main dais, he glanced at the Rogue Squadron executive  officer,

Nawara  Ven,  a  distinguished-looking  Twi'lek  with  brain  tails  arrayed

artfully over his shoulders, and Wedge received a datafile from him as well.

He glanced over the two officers's transmissions as he stepped up behind the

lectern, then looked up at the pilots before him.

Two squadrons, nearly at full fighting strength,  the  best  pilots  he

could assemble and train. He felt a rush of pride at what  he'd  managed  to

accomplish with these two units, at the level at  which  they'd  managed  to

perform, but he kept it from his face. "I have mostly good news to bring  to

you today. First and foremost, Piggy saBinring is responding well  to  bacta

treatment, he has regained consciousness, and all indications are that he'll

enjoy a full recovery." That brought applause and ex-

clamations of relief from the assembly. "Unfortunately, we  still  have

no information about the assassin's motive in  attacking  Ackbar.  When  the

admiral asked him why he was doing this, the assassin said he, Ackbar,  knew

why. You know the assassin died in the attempt. His wife  and  children  are

missing, and the investigation is continuing.

"Second, the Mon Remonda is within a day of  leaving  repair  dock.  By

this time tomorrow, we'll be back in space and  taking  the  fight  back  to

Warlord Zsinj."

That brought more  applause.  Mon  Remonda,  the  mighty  Mon  Calamari

cruiser that was the flagship of the fleet commanded by Han Solo, had  taken

significant damage in its recent duel with the warlord Zsinj's own flagship,

the Super Star Destroyer Iron Fist. But  Zsinj's  forces  had  suffered  far

more.

"Third, and directly as a result of this, you all have one  last  leave

coming to you. Report to the shuttle bay at fifteen hundred  tomorrow,  with

your bags packed and all your affairs settled; until then,  you're  on  your

own. Enjoy yourselves.

"However, we can't forget that the last  time  we  had  leave  here  on

Coruscant,  a  covert  unit  probably  belonging  to  Zsinj  came  close  to

assassinating the Wraiths. So we'll follow these protocols.  Civilian  dress

only. I know you Wraiths have just gotten your unit patches, but you'll have

to stow them during this leave. The more recognizable of  you-you  know  who

you are-should make some effort to conceal your features. Stay  out  of  the

bars pilots tend to frequent.

"Fourth, I have some changes to announce. The Wraiths have a new  pilot

for their roster-Targon, please stand."

At the back of the amphitheater, a pilot  stood,  and  the  Rogues  and

Wraiths twisted to see him.

The new pilot was a  Devaronian-grayish-skinned,  with  diabolic  horns

protruding from his forehead  and  fanglike  teeth  that  would  only  cause

appreciation in the heart of a carnivorous  predator.  His  voice,  when  he

spoke, was surprisingly deep and resonant considering  his  apparent  youth.

"Flight Officer Elassar Targon reporting for duty, sir."

"Targon comes to us fresh from Fleet Command Academy;  in  addition  to

being a competent pilot, he's a medical corps-man. Once again we'll  have  a

unit medic who can do more

than put on pressure patches and make squealy noises.  And  unlike  the

rest of you, he hasn't yet had time to ruin his career or his mind."

"Then he won't do." That was Janson. "Send him  home.  Get  us  another

lunatic."

"Excuse me!" The Devaronian pilot hopped up to stand in his seat,  took

a wide stance with one foot in the adjacent chair; he threw  his  arms  back

and chest out, posing like some superhuman hero from the most ridiculous  of

Face Loran's holodramas. "Elassar Targon, master of the universe,  reporting

for. duty!"

Wedge cocked an eyebrow at him. Interesting that a, very junior officer

would be willing to perform that sort of display in his  first  few  moments

with his new unit. Either the reputation of Wraith  Squadron  had  convinced

him that it was appropriate ... or he was another complete maniac, and Fleet

Command had found another mental case for his command. Despite the  laughter

erupting from the assembled pilots, Wedge clearly heard Janson speak  again,

"I withdraw my objection."

Wedge returned his attention to the pilots. "Targon,  sit.  Pipe  down,

everyone. Fifth, and last, there's going to be a little reorganizing  to  do

within my squadrons.

"Until and unless we persuade  Starfighter  Command  that  we  need  to

participate in another prolonged field mission, we'll be with Mon Remonda on

active duty. I've been put in command of the ship's four fighter  squadrons.

I'm also transferring back to and assuming direct command of Rogue Squadron,

effective immediately. I'll still fly with the Wraiths, as well as Nova  and

Polearm, when circumstances and opportunities warrant, but I'm relinquishing

day-to-day command." He saw  the  Rogues's  good  cheer  continue,  but  the

Wraiths sobered with the realization that their very best pilot was  leaving

them. Wedge continued, "Lieutenant Loran, attention."

Face stood. Wedge saw a flicker of suspicion cross  his  face,  but  it

disappeared quickly as the actor regained control of himself.

Wedge said, "This isn't a permanent promotion-yet-so we're not going to

do anything to you that will  leave  permanent  marks.  However,  it  is  my

pleasure to confer upon you the

rank of brevet captain, which entitles you to command a  unit  such  as

Wraith  Squadron.  Congratulations,  Face."  From  a   pocket   he   dug   a

semitransparent envelope, and this he tossed to the pilot.  "Your  new  rank

insignia."

As the other pilots applauded, Wedge glanced among  the  other  ranking

pilots of Wraith Squadron, gauging reactions.

Wes Janson,  who  was  the  senior  lieutenant  in  the  squadron,  was

applauding and smiling easily. No surprise, as he had no  real  interest  in

command or, ultimately, in remaining with the Wraiths; he  preferred  to  be

just one of the gang back in Rogue Squadron, so this promotion of Face  over

his head was not threatening to him.

Kell Tainer, the biggest human in Wraith Squadron and, after Face,  the

most hologenic, also looked as though he were comfortable with  the  choice.

Perhaps he had ultimately realized that, though he was a brilliant flyer and

very capable technician, he didn't have the temperament for or real interest

in command.

The smile of Shalla Nelprin,  the  squadron's  newest  lieutenant,  was

broad and genuine.

That left Myn Donos, a lieutenant with more years and  more  experience

than Face. He looked serious and contemplative. But then, serious was merely

a step up from his usual expression, that of dour intensity. Still,  he  had

to know that this promotion reflected a lack of trust in his command skills.

Mere months ago, while wearing the rank of brevet captain himself, Donos had

commanded an X-wing unit that had been slaughtered by a Zsinj ally,  Admiral

Apwar Trigit, and had suffered serious emotional trauma resulting from  that

event. He probably thought that Wedge still held no trust in him.

Which  wasn't  true.  But   Wedge   Antilles's   units   were   largely

meritocracies. The most meritorious pilots were promoted fastest,  and  Face

had demonstrated more tactical savvy and more  command  skills  than  Donos,

even though Wedge felt Donos was probably reliable.

As the applause died, Wedge said, "That's it for now. Any questions?"

Face was first with a hand up. "If we're launching tomorrow, sir,  when

do we get Piggy back?"

"We never lose him. He has requested that  he  be  transferred  to  the

bacta treatment facility aboard Mon Remonda. General Solo has  approved  the

request. We'll haul him around until he's ready to emerge, then put him back

to work. Wes?"

The Wraiths's executive officer lowered his hand. "The usual."

"The usual answer, too. We  were  lucky  to  get  Face's  X-wing  fully

repaired. Wraith Squadron isn't  getting  any  replacement  X-wings  anytime

soon. The Wraiths will continue flying mixed X-wings and  TIE  interceptors.

Anything else? No? Dismissed."

Thirty minutes later, Wedge opened the door to leave his  quarters.  He

took an involuntary step back. There, shoulder  to  shoulder,  blocking  the

door, were Wes Janson and  Rogue  Squadron  pilot  Derek  "Hobbie"  Klivian.

Hobbie was struggling to keep his face  straight;  Janson's  expression  was

merry. Janson asked, "Going somewhere, Commander?"

Wedge shouldered his way between them. "We have leave, remember? That's

what you two should do. Leave."

They fell in beside him, one on either side. This corridor, deep in the

residential decks of Coruscant's Sivantlie Base, led toward the turbolifts.

"Would you look at him?" Janson said.  "Hair  combed,  evening  clothes

immaculate."

Hobbie, his face as long and mournful as ever,  said,  "And  he  smells

like a fresh spring morning."

"I think our commander is going on a date."

"I think you're right."

"Meaning he really needs our help. How long has it  been  since  you've

been on a date, Wedge? I don't think some of the Wraiths were born then."

"We're your escort," Hobbie said. "We'll protect you from yourself."

"So, who are you seeing?" Janson asked.

"What I'm seeing is kitchen duty in your immediate future," Wedge said.

They reached the bank of turbolifts and waited for the lift to reach them.

Janson continued, "It's Iella, isn't it?"

Wedge scowled. "What makes you think that?"

"Oh, nothing. Just the way you look whenever  her  name  is  mentioned.

Have you noticed that, Hobbie?"

"Oh, I've noticed. What do you think?"

"I haven't decided yet if she's right for our commander. And  the  rest

of the squad hasn't voted yet."

The turbolift doors opened and they entered the shallow car, turning to

face the hall. Wedge held  his  hand  against  the  side  of  the  entryway,

preventing the doors from closing. "Roof," Wedge said.

Janson looked confused. "Roof? Not the personal vehicles hangar?"

"Roof." Then Wedge took  a  deep  breath  and  bellowed,  "About  face!

Forward march!"

By reflex, the two pilots spun. Wedge stepped back out  into  the  hall

and heard Janson and Hobbie thud into the wall at the rear of the turbolift.

Then the turbolift doors closed and the car carried his pilots  up  and  far

away.

He smiled and summoned another turbolift.

Two floors down, a quartet of Wraiths approached a door as anonymous as

Wedge's.

Donos said, "He just  received  a  promotion  of  sorts.  We  shouldn't

present him with a mutiny first thing." He kept from his face the discomfort

he was feeling.

Dia Passik, the female Twi'lek,  said,  "He  insisted  that  he  wasn't

feeling well."

Lara Notsil smiled over her shoulder at them. "He lied. He lies all the

time, you know."

"1 know. But he seemed so genuine."

"He does that all the time, too. This is the right thing  to  do.  Myn,

Elassar, back me up."

The two men exchanged glances. "Absolutely," Donos said.

The Devaronian looked confused. "You change sides  pretty  fast,  don't

you, Lieutenant?  I've  barely  met  Captain  Loran.  I  shouldn't  have  an

opinion."

Lara scowled at him. "Wait a moment. A fellow Wraith says 'Back me up,'

and you say 'I don't know'?"

The  Devaronian  straightened.  His  voice  deepened.  "My   apologies.

Absolutely. You're right. In fact, we shouldn't knock. We should just  blast

the door lock and kick the door in."

"We'll knock," Lara said. She rapped on the door.

There was no answer. She knocked again, more insistently.

From within came Face's voice. "Yes?"

"May we come in?"

"I'm not decent."

"When are you ever?" Lara opened the door and looked  in.  Donos  could

see over her shoulder; Face was lying on his bed, still in uniform,  staring

at the ceiling.

Lara pushed her way in and heard the others crowd in behind her.  "What

are you doing?"

"I'm learning to play a variety of musical instruments using  only  the

power of my mind,"

"That's what I thought. Now it's time to go out and enjoy yourself."

"Maybe  you  didn't  hear  the  commander's  orders  about   the   more

recognizable members of the squads?"

She snorted. "That was for Runt's sake most of  all.  When  you're  two

meters tall, covered in  fur,  and  the  only  member  of  your  species  in

Starfighter Command, you have to lie low sometimes. But you  can  put  on  a

disguise. I've often suspected that you sometimes put on disguises  just  to

go to the refresher."

"Now, that's an idea." Face looked at her for the first time, gave  her

a smile that was meant to communicate cheer. "You go ahead. I'll be tine."

"Hey, I'm your wingman now. It's my job to keep  you  from  making  big

mistakes. And it would be a big mistake not to enjoy the last  leave  you're

likely to have for a while."

"Do I have to pull rank on you?"

"You only get to do that when it's appropriate.  That's  the  unwritten

law."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"I read it somewhere."

Face snorted. "All right. Give me five minutes to transform myself into

something inconspicuous. Where are we going?"

Lara jerked a thumb back at her companions. "Since Elas-

sar hasn't run up against Zsinj-or anyone but his  instructors-  before

now, we're going to take  him  to  the  Galactic  Museum's  new  display  on

Imperial Intelligence. Give him an idea what he's up against. Then we get  a

drink. Then you and Myn and Elassar give in to male biology and insult a bar

full of soldiers, and Dia and I haul your battered bodies back to base."

Face looked helplessly at Donos and Elassar. "You see what happens when

we don't get involved in the mission's planning stage?"

The museum's displays on Imperial Intelligence were not, Donos decided,

the one-sided history they could have been.

The first displays on the tour  gave  details  of  the  Old  Republic's

Intelligence division, the secret police who were  charged  with  protecting

the Republic from subversion and treason. One display, a holoscreen within a

container the size and approximate shape of a bacta  tank,  played  a  drama

about Republic Intelligence commandos  thwarting  an  assassination  attempt

made against members of the old Republican Senate.  Another  display  was  a

transparisteel case holding a score of weapons and  gadgets  used  by  field

agents; Donos recognized the technological ancestors of gear the Wraiths had

carried in the field.

Another holoprojection showed a man in dark commando garments.  He  was

dark-skinned, graying at the temples, intense  interest  in  his  eyes,  his

features  just  a  little  too  diabolical  to  be  beautiful.  "I  was  Vyn

Narcassan," he said. "In my twenty-year career with Republic Intelligence, I

successfully completed over a hundred covert missions.  I  couldn't  prevent

Senator Palpatine's rise to power or his subsequent reign as Emperor. But  I

could,  and  did,  engineer   my   disappearance.   And   despite   Imperial

Intelligence's burning need to silence me and extinguish all the  secrets  I

learned-" the projection leaned forward as if to impart a confidence-  "they

never found me." He drew back, his smile creating deep  dimples  beside  his

mouth, his expression one of a satisfaction so immense that it  bordered  on

arrogance.

Something about the projection jogged Donos's memory, but  he  couldn't

figure out what it was. He filed it away for future reference. Someday, when

he was trying to remember something else entirely, the answer  would  bubble

up to the surface of his mind and annoy him intensely.

Farther along the series of black,  ill-lit  museum  display  hails-the

decor an attempt, Donos thought, to edge visitors into the sort of  paranoid

mind-set appropriate to subjects such as Imperial Intelligence-the  displays

became more unsettling. As Palpatine took power, the  Intelligence  Division

became a tool of terror and retaliation. Displays chronicled assassinations,

kidnappings  of  Old   Republic   loyalists,   tortures,   subversions.   An

interrogation chamber was shown in great detail, actual holographic  footage

of a subject being questioned  about  a  rumored  insurrection.  The  replay

showed the subject, a  man  of  Chandrila,  dying  during  questioning.  The

narrator  finishing  up  commentary  on  the  event  pointed  out  that  the

insurrection was entirely imaginary.

One display showed the longtime Intelligence  head,  Armand  Isard,  an

aging man with an inhumanity to his eyes and features that were unsettlingly

real even in holographic replay. Farther down the exhibition, another showed

his daughter, Ysanne Isard, nicknamed Iceheart, a tall and elegant woman  of

formidable bearing, and told of her swift rise to power through  two  simple

tactics: turning in her own father for treasonous  thoughts  and  attracting

the eye of the Emperor.  After  Palpatine's  death,  she  had  even  managed

secretly to gain control of the Empire itself for a time.

Face, his features buried under a wooly brown  beard,  lingered  before

the projection of Ysanne Isard for a long time, and Donos saw him  shudder-a

motion too slight for any but those who knew him best to notice. The Wraiths

were aware that when Face was a boy star in holodramas,  he'd  actually  met

Iceheart, had even been invited to sit in her lap. Now  Iceheart  was  dead,

killed by Rogue Squadron's own Tycho Celchu, and Donos knew the universe was

better off without her.

To some extent, Imperial Intelligence had died with her. To be sure, an

organization with that name survived under the

coalition that had replaced Iceheart, but it was not managed  with  the

same inventive ruthlessness that had characterized Isard and her father. The

organization was still a danger ... but to fewer and  fewer  people  as  the

years went by.

Instead of going out the exit at the end of the exhibition, the Wraiths

turned about and went back the way they came, the better to  give  Targon  a

chance to view the displays again. As they  passed  the  holo  of  Iceheart,

Donos saw the Devaronian pilot pull up something held by a chain around  his

neck and press it to his forehead.

"A lucky charm?" Donos asked.

Targon nodded. "A coin of the Old Republic. It holds a lot of luck."

"How do you know?"

"My brother was never shot down while  wearing  it.  It's  better  than

anything else I have. He sent it to me when 1  joined  the  Academy.  Better

than my lucky carved bantha-bone. Better than my lucky belt  buckle.  Or  my

lucky gilding set. Or my-"

Face interrupted. "What's a gilding set?"

"Well, you know. For my horns."

"I don't know. What about your horns?"

Targon  shrugged.  "For  special  occasions,  important  festivals,  we

sometimes-Devaronians I mean-put gold leaf on our horns. For decoration."

"And this is just a device to help you do that?"

"That's right."

"What makes it lucky?"

"Well, the first time I used it, shortly before I entered the  Academy,

I attracted the eye of a certain young lady-"

"Nevermind."

Donos and Face exchanged glances. The Wraiths and Rogues were light  on

pilots who put much stock in good-luck charms, but such pilots  were  common

throughout the New Republic and the Empire. Donos saw Face's eyes light  up,

probably because of an idea for a prank.

"I  was  Vyn  Narcassan.  In  my  twenty-year  career   with   Republic

Intelligence, I successfully completed over a hundred covert  missions."  As

they reached the display honoring the last

of the Old Republic's Intelligence heroes, Donos gave the man one  last

look, took in his dimpling smile, then realized what it was the man reminded

him of.

Not what-who. The man's skin tone, his dimples,  his  unusual  physical

beauty-they were all shared by another Wraith. Shalla Nelprin.

That rocked Donos back on his heels. But the physical  resemblance  was

dramatic.

Donos smiled at the long-missing agent. "We'll just  let  that  be  our

little secret, Narcassan," he said under his breath. "But I'm going to  send

Shalla a message and tell her to come visit this  exhibit  today.  Not  why.

Just that she needs to. In case it means something to her."

"Who are you talking to?" That was Lara. Face and Dia  were  already  a

few steps ahead, arm in arm, with Targon trailing behind them.

"I'll tell you sometime."

"Edallia?" The voice, wavery and  uncertain,  came  from  behind  them.

"Edallia Monotheer, it's so good to see you!"

Donos glanced back. Approaching them was an old man, his hair  a  wispy

white, his body so sparse of flesh that he seemed skeletal,  but  there  was

nothing menacing about the smile he was turning on Lara.

Behind him a dozen meters but coming at a trot was a middle-aged woman,

overweight and matronly, her expression anxious. "Father," she  called,  and

she sounded out of breath. "Not again."

The old man reached  Lara,  seized  her  hand,  pumped  it  vigorously.

"Edallia, it's been so long. Did you ever marry that boy? Did you  graduate?

What have you been doing?"

Lara tried unsuccessfully to  extricate  her  thoroughly  shaken  hand.

"Sir, I don't-I'm not-"

"I'm so sorry." That was the daughter. Reaching her  father,  she  took

his hand, forcing him to give up his grip on Lara's. "He's . .  .  confused.

He doesn't always remember where he is. Or when."

"It's all right," Lara said, but she looked a little shaken.

The old man said, "Child, I must introduce Edallia Monotheer. One of my

best pupils."

His daughter asked, "When?"

He looked confused. "What?"

"When was she one of your best pupils?"

The old man looked back at Lara, his eyes wavery, uncertain. "Why, it's

been thirty, thirty-five years."

"Look at her, father. She's not thirty years old."

The old man leaned in close to Lara's face and peered. "Edallia?"

Lara shook her head, and though she maintained a cheerful smile,  Donos

decided that it was forced. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm Lara."

"Oh." The old man drew back and looked around. "Where is she, then?"

"Maybe farther up the exhibition, Father. You go look. I'll be along."

With a courteous, if distracted, nod to the Wraiths, the old man  began

to walk back the way he'd come.

"I'm so sorry,"  the  woman  said.  "He  was  once  with  Old  Republic

Intelligence, so he likes to come here day after  day.  He  was  shot  on  a

mission shortly after the Emperor came to power." She indicated a place just

in front of her temple. "He hasn't been the same since."

"It's not a problem," Lara said. "He was very nice."

"Thank you for understanding." The woman turned and  trotted  along  in

her father's wake.

Lara turned and bumped into Face and Dia, who had returned  during  the

conversation. "Oops."

Face looked at her intently. "Gerwa Patunkin?"

"No."

"Totovia Lampray?"

"No." She smiled. "Stop it."

"Dipligonai Phreet?"

"Shut up." She pushed past him, laughing,  and  headed  for  the  exit.

"Let's get that drink. I need it."

"Moploogy Starco?"

"Face, I'm going to shoot you."

"Glad to oblige. Give us vectors for twenty search pairs and we'll  get

on it."

2

Starfighters swarmed from the sides of the  Mon  Calamari  cruiser  Mon

Remonda like insects  from  a  deep-space  nest.  They  formed  up  in  four

groups-two X-wing, one A-wing, one B-wing-and descended toward  Levian  Two,

the world Mon Remonda now orbited. From this altitude, it seemed  stony  and

orange and impossibly inhospitable, but the comm  chatter  the  pilots  were

picking up suggested otherwise.

"Entering Delta Sector. More of the same. I'll  map-flag  locations  of

survivors." "Ravine Six here. Repulsorlift is out.  I'm  going  to  have  to

attempt a high-speed landing." "Ravine Six, switch to  ten-oh-three.  You've

got your own controller standing by." "Beta Sector Base, this is Beta Ten. I

read unknowns descending, four groups." "Beta Ten, this is Base.  There  are

some TIEs in the unknowns but they're mostly friendlies."

Wedge sighed and activated his comm unit. "Beta Sector  Base,  this  is

Rogue Leader. You've got Rogue, Wraith,  Pole-arm,  and  Nova  Squadrons  in

descent to your position. Looks like we're a little late to the party."

"'Fraid so, Rogue Leader. You've missed a Raptor raid. They blasted out

of here half an hour ago. We've got settlements and facilities hit all  over

this hemisphere. Could we interest you in some search-and-rescue action?"

"Ships dropping  out  of  hyperspace!"  It  was  Mon  Remonda's  sensor

officer, Golorno, a human young enough not to be  able  to  keep  his  voice

level in times of stress. "I count four, five, six capital ships!"

Han Solo abandoned his armature-mounted chair and moved to stand behind

Golorno. He turned to his communications officer. "Recall  the  starfighters

now." Then he leaned over Golorno's shoulder. "Details, I need details,"  he

said.

"Uh, uh, two Star Destroyers, one  Imperial-class,  one  Victory-class.

One heavy cruiser, a Dreadnaught, I think. Two light cruisers-telemetry says

probably Carrack-class.  At  the  back  of  the  formation  ..."  The  young

officer's voice dropped. "One Super-class Star Destroyer."

"Iron Fist." Solo straightened and slapped his  hands  together.  "He's

finally decided to come in for a scrap."

He calculated unit strengths. His flagship was Mon Remonda, one of  the

most powerful of the Mon Calamari cruisers, and its pilot complement, led by

Wedge Antilles, couldn't be better. Also in this portion of his  fleet  were

Mon Karren, a Mon Cal cruiser of more normal strength, Tedevium,  a  frigate

recently-converted from a  training  ship  back  to  a  combat  vessel,  and

Etherhawk, a Marauder-class corvette that was just one restoration job ahead

of being dilapidated. Not nearly enough strength to handle the  fleet  Zsinj

had assembled against him . . . but Zsinj didn't know that  Solo's  Group  2

was standing by outside the Levian system.  One  holocomm  call  and  Solo's

strength would be doubled, making this more of a fair slugging match.  "Call

in Group Two," he ordered. "How long before Zsinj's force reaches us?"

"Three minutes, sir."

"How long before the starfighters return?"

"They're grouping. Four or five minutes, sir."

Solo sighed. "Slugging match" was to be the correct phrase for it.

An impulse caused him to turn back to the door out of the

bridge. As he'd suspected, Chewbacca was there, just outside,  standing

by. The Wookiee, who chose to have no official role in the anti-Zsinj group,

but preferred to stay near the bridge and Solo, had come up as soon  as  the

tenor of voices from the bridge sounded different. Solo gave him a confident

grin.

"A second group is dropping out of hyperspace, sir!"

Solo whipped around to  stare  at  the  sensor  screen  again.  It  was

broadening, updating-the data stream at the bottom indicated that the sensor

screen was being supplemented by information from Tedevium.

It showed another force of capital ships appearing on the far  side  of

Levian Two. Telemetry  indicated  that  the  new  force  included  two  Star

Destroyers, two Dreadnaughts, a light cruiser, and a Lancer-class  frigate-a

vessel designed especially to assault swarms of starfighters.

"We're in trouble," Solo said.

Golorno turned to look up at Solo. He wasn't able to mask his fear.

Solo gave him a reassuring half grin. "Don't worry. I know when to dump

my cargo and run." He turned to the navigator. "Set us a course out of here.

What's the closest path to get us out of Levian Two's gravity well?"

The Mon Calamari navigator consulted his board. "Directly  through  the

Super Star Destroyer's force, sir."

"Figures. Make that our primary course. Pass it on to our group."

"Done, sir."

"Communications, revise my order to Group  Two.  Tell  them  to  be  on

course and ready for a jump at any second, but to stand by."

"Yes, sir."

He turned to Captain Onoma, a Mon  Calamari  male  with  salmon-colored

skin. "Captain, take us out."

"Yes, sir."

"Third hostile group dropping out of hyperspace!"

Solo turned to look, disbelieving, at Golorno.  "You  have  got  to  be

kidding."

Wedge Antilles stood his X-wing on its tail and blasted toward the sky.

He'd sent Polearm Squadron, the A-wing unit commanded by Captain  Todra

Mayn, on ahead. There was little tactical sense in keeping the faster  craft

back with the X-wings and B-wings. Now Wedge led Rogue Squadron  and  Wraith

Squadron in escorting Nova Squadron, the B-wing unit.

Sensor data arriving from  Mon  Remonda  showed  Solo's  group  closing

slowly on a unit of six capital ships.  The  Mon  Cal  cruiser  was  already

swarming  with  enemy  starfighters,  and  defenders  from  Mon  Karren  and

Tedevium.

Wedge added up the numbers on that. Those two ships  could  field  five

squadrons of starfighters between them. The enemy force  ahead  could  field

nearly twenty-two squadrons. And then there  were  enemies  coming  up  from

behind-as Wedge's squadrons cleared the atmosphere, his  sensors  picked  up

two additional groups of capital ships chasing Solo's force.

This was not going to be good.

Wedge wondered if Baron Fel was among the starfighter pilots assaulting

Mon Remonda. Soontir Fel was one of the greatest pilots ever to emerge  from

the Imperial  Academy,  one  of  the  greatest  to  have  flown  with  Rogue

Squadron-and a man who shared a secret with Wedge Antilles.

They were brothers-in-law. Only they and a very few  others  knew  that

famous Imperial actress  Wynssa  Starflare  was  also  Wedge's  sister  Syal

Antilles. Since the disappearance of Fel and Syal several years  ago,  Wedge

had had no news whatsoever of his sister. Now Fel was back, but  flying  for

the wrong side, and there was still no word of Syal. It was a  secret  Wedge

kept very close. One of his own pilots, Face Loran, had even  starred  in  a

holodrama with Wynssa Starflare, but Wedge had never confided the secret  to

him, even to obtain Face's reminiscences about his sister.

And now, once again, Wedge was rushing into battle with  a  force  that

might include Fel, leading to the grim possibility that  he  might  have  to

shoot down his own brother-in-law . . . and perhaps lose any clue Fel  might

offer to Syal's fate.

Sensors showed that the Iron Fist force had, since the last

communication from Mon Remonda, turned about  and  was  now  retreating

before Han Solo's force. Wedge nodded. If Zsinj maintained a  course  toward

the planet, his force and Solo's would blast past one another in a matter of

split seconds, exchanging one low-accuracy barrage,  and  then  Zsinj  would

have to turn his force around to pursue. By retreating before  Solo  on  the

shortest course to an area of space  where  the  New  Republic  fleet  could

engage their hyperdrives, he prolonged the engagement.

Wedge's squadrons caught up to Mon Remonda, but circled around  several

kilometers from the Mon Cal cruiser. At this distance, the swarming dogfight

between starfighters near the cruiser looked like twinkling  stars.  A  grim

simile-Wedge reminded himself that some of those  twinkles  were  explosions

that had once been friends and allies.

"S-foils to attack position," he ordered, and suited action to words by

toggling the appropriate switch above his line of sight. His  S-foils  split

and locked into  the  familiar  profile  that  gave  the  X-wing  its  name.

"B-wings, you may arm your weapons."

His sensors showed Zsinj's force spread out before the approaching  Mon

Remonda. Straightforward tactics; it meant Mon Remonda  couldn't  expect  to

make a minor course change to elude a tight group of ships even temporarily.

Any minor course change would still send Mon Remonda into  the  umbrella  of

enemy ships; any major course change would allow the pursuit ships to  catch

up.

But this tactic was about to work in Wedge's favor.

They dove in toward Iron Fist's stern. Sensors  showed  no  starfighter

response from the Super Star Destroyer-either the remaining  squadrons  were

being slow to scramble, or all squadrons were engaged with Mon Remonda.

Then flashes of light emerged from the destroyer's stern,  congregating

on Wedge's force, and the ball-like detonations of concussion missiles began

to fill the space around them. Wedge was  rocked  by  a  near  miss.  "Begin

evasive maneuvers," he  said.  "X-wings,  ready  torpedoes.  Remember,  port

engines only."

Pair by pair, his X-wings began a dance, juking and  jinking  to  throw

off the aim of the Imperial gunners they so rapidly ap-

proached. The B-wings hung back,  allowing  the  X-wings  to  draw  the

initial fire.

Wedge's range meter scrolled down below  two  kilometers,  the  maximum

effective range for his targeting computer. Enemy turbolaser fire  increased

in intensity-and proximity.

At fifteen hundred meters, he said, "Launch one, launch two." He fired,

sending paired proton torpedoes toward one of  Iron  Fist's  stern  engines.

More blue streaks than he could count emerged from  his  X-wings,  instantly

crossing the distance to the destroyer, which was suddenly  and  brilliantly

illuminated by their detonations against the port side of the stern.

He looped to port. "Novas, your turn."

"Acknowledged, and thanks, Rogue Leader." That was the  voice  of  Nova

One. "Novas, launch one and begin ion fire."

Blue streaks leaped from the B-wings. Then the  ungainly-looking  craft

continued  their  dive  toward  Iron  Fist's  engines,  their  ion   cannons

sustaining fire against the destroyer's stern.

Wedge wished them success. They were designed to  hurt  capital  ships;

their pilots knew what they were doing. But if Iron  Fist  called  back  its

starfighters and the Novas didn't notice in time, the entire squad could  be

lost.

Now it was time to meet the weak link  of  this  force:  Zsinj's  light

cruisers.

Mon  Remonda  rattled  under  blast  after  blast  from  the  attacking

starfighters. Solo ignored the vibrations. Shield integrity  was  good,  the

hull was holding up-they still had a chance.

His communications officer said,  "Nova  One  reports  damage  to  Iron

Fist's engines."

"How extensive?" Solo asked.

"Unknown."

Golorno spoke up, his voice now more  nearly  normal.  "A  lot  of  the

starfighters on us are in retreat. They just broke  off  to  head  for  Iron

Fist."

"How many?"

"About half."

"Ah, good. Now they outnumber ours only two to one."

Solo absently hammered the arm of his captain's chair. If only he  were

out there, in the Millennium Falcon, making a direct assault  on  the  enemy

... here, all he could do was issue orders and hope they were so  good  that

not many of his people died.

They were never so good that none of his people died. Never.

"Message for General Solo," the comm officer announced.  "From  Warlord

Zsinj!"

"Ignore it," Solo said. "I'll bet you a hundred  Corellian  credits  he

hates that. No, wait." He stood. "Chewie, get in here."

The Wookiee squeezed in through the bridge door, looking quizzical.

"Here, take my chair." Han helped his friend into the seat,  which  was

far too small for him. "All right, put that message through."

The comm unit on the command chair lit up. Even from his angle  off  to

the side, Solo could make  out  Zsinj's  florid  features,  bald  head,  and

exaggerated handlebar mustache. "General Solo," Zsinj said, "I'm calling  to

offer you an honorable-what is this?"

Chewbacca reached down and tilted the screen up so its built-in holocam

would broadcast his face instead of just his chest. He grumbled something at

the screen.

"It's, ah, Chewbacca, isn't it? Please put your owner on."

Chewbacca  offered   him   an   extended   speech,   nearly   subsonic,

bone-rattling. Solo smiled. It was an eloquent discourse on the  ingredients

that made up Zsinj, and not one of the ingredients was the sort that  should

be mentioned in polite company or during any meal.

"Wookiee is not among my many languages, you extruded fur thing.  Where

is Solo?"

Chewbacca returned to his discourse and  Solo  moved  to  stand  beside

Captain Onoma, taking in the officer's sensor readings, his mind once  again

fully engaged by the battle.

"This is Leader. Break by squadrons."

"Wraith One acknowledges," Face said. "Good luck, Rogues." He  began  a

long curve relative up and to starboard,

taking him and the Wraiths toward one of the two Carrack-class cruisers

in Zsinj's group.

The Carracks were 350 meters long, looking like stubby metal bars  with

swells at bow and stern. Face knew  them  to  be  formidable  opponents  for

capital ships; their batteries of ion cannons made it possible for  them  to

disable  much  larger  vessels.  But  the  comparatively  light  number   of

turbolasers they carried gave the starfighters a chance at them.

The Wraiths approached their target from the stern. At Face's  command,

they split into two units, Wraiths One through Six going to starboard, Seven

through Eleven going to port. Stern  turbolasers  opened  up  on  them  even

before they were within range.

"Fire at will," Face said, "but make 'em count."

Runt and Donos were the first of his  half  squad  to  fire,  the  blue

streaks of proton torpedoes drawing an instantaneous line from  the  X-wings

to the flanks of the cruiser. Face watched their explosions balloon  against

the cruiser's side. He ignored  the  pure  tone  of  his  own  target  lock,

twitched his pilot's yoke over so his targeting  brackets  fell  within  the

center of one of the torpedo detonation clouds, and fired his own  remaining

torpedoes. Then he looped away from  the  cruiser's  side,  Lara  tucked  in

behind him and to port. "Report," he said.

"One, this is Seven." It was Dia's voice, barely  recognizable  through

the usual comm distortion. "We have port-side penetration."

"Ten is hit! Ten is hit!"

Face felt his gut go cold, and a  quick  check  of  his  sensor  screen

showed that Janson, Wraith Ten, was no longer present. "Calm  down,  Eleven.

Detail damage to Wraith Ten."

"He's not destroyed, One. An ion cannon hit him.  He's  got  no  power,

he's ballistic."

Face sagged in relief. "Ballistic toward or away from the cruiser?"

"Away, One."

"Keep clear of him, Eleven. You're active, you'll draw fire toward him.

Squad, continue report."

"One, Five." That was Kell; the sensor board showed him lurking  closer

to the cruiser than the rest of the squad. Face

supposed  that  Kell,  maneuvering  in  a  captured  TIE   interceptor,

considered himself harder to hit than the X-wings . . . and  he  was  right.

Too, the TIEs had no proton torpedoes, so Kell had probably chosen the  role

of close observer in order to contribute to this battle. "Starboard  impacts

damaged the hull but did not, repeat, did not penetrate."

"All Wraith X-wings," Face said, "form up for a run on  the  starboard.

TIEs, strafe the port side to keep their shields divided. Keep them honest."

He toggled his comm unit to the fleet frequency. "Mon Remonda,  Wraith  One.

Please  dispatch  a  shuttle  with  a  tractor  for   pickup   of   disabled

snubfighter."

Face brought his X-wing around slowly, allowing the other  pilots  with

functional X-wings to form up on him. Kell, Shalla, and  Elassar,  in  their

interceptors, were already beginning their strafing  run  against  the  port

side. "Once more into the gauntlet, Wraiths," he said, and nudged  his  yoke

forward.

They dove toward the cruiser in loose  formation,  X-wings  spread  far

enough apart that their evasive  juking  didn't  bring  them  in  danger  of

collision. Streams of turbolasers and concussion missiles sought  them,  and

Face heard a cry of surprise or pain from someone on his squadron channel.

Their proton torpedoes spent, at a half kilometer they opened fire with

quad-linked lasers and continued firing and diving until the cruiser's flank

was  almost  all  of  the  sky.  Face  hauled  up  on  his  yoke,  felt  the

high-performance turn drag him  deeper  into  his  chair  despite  the  best

efforts of the acceleration compensator to protect him from the consequences

of his maneuver. He saw the cruiser's hull flash beneath him, saw columns of

laser fire on either side-then he was clear and headed out to space again.

He spared a look at his sensor board. Ten Wraiths  were  still  on  the

board. He breathed a sigh of relief-no additional  losses.  "Wraith  One  to

squadron. Report damage. Ours and theirs."

"One, Five. Starboard side also breached. I  think  we've  gotten  both

power generators and I think some of the reserve cells. Parts  of  the  ship

are going dark. They're not maneuvering."

"Thanks, Five. Now get your rear end away from that

hulk before some gunner with  a  little  power  left  decides  to  make

fireworks out of you."

"Acknowledged, One."

"One, this  is  Four."  Tyria's  voice,  level  and  calm.  "I  took  a

turbolaser hit, I think at maximum range. I have some wing damage."

Face checked her position on  the  sensor  board,  then  maneuvered  to

sideslip past her. She was correct;  her  port  S-foils  both  showed  laser

scoring on their trailing edges. "Any system failures, Four?"

"Not so far, chief."

"Keep me updated." He toggled over to fleet frequency. "Wraith  One  to

Rogue Leader. Target secure."

Wedge's voice came back instantly. "Good work,  Wraiths.  Rogue  target

destroyed. Iron Fist showing difficulty maneuvering. Stand by."

"Acknowledged." He switched back to squadron frequency. "Wraiths,  form

up on me. We'll stay near Ten for the time being."

On the bridge of Iron Fist, the Warlord  Zsinj  stood  on  the  command

walkway above the crew pit. He did not  stare  out  the  forward  viewports,

which showed only starfield along his enemy's exit vector, but down into the

screens of his bridge crew.

He was not a tall man, nor was he  physically  impressive.  He  was  as

round as any merchant gourmand, and his exaggerated bandit-style  mustachios

suggested that  his  self-image  was  quite  different  from  the  image  he

projected. The white grand admiral's uniform he wore suggested a  rank  he'd

never earned in service to the Empire, and those who knew  that  fact  could

not help but attribute to him the sins of pride and self-deception.

Only he knew how many of  these  attributes  were  affectations.  False

clues to persuade his enemies-and superiors,  and  subordinates-to  come  to

incorrect  conclusions  about  him.  To  underestimate  him.  Sometimes   to

overestimate him-that could, on occasion, be as useful.

Beside him stood the man in charge of his ground troops

and starfighter support, General Melvar. Zsinj was lucky to have  found

a kindred spirit in Melvar, a man who painted on the  face  of  a  dedicated

sadist when confronting the outer  world  and  then  removed  it,  revealing

features extraordinary only in their blandness, in  the  warlord's  company.

Melvar could blend with any crowd on any world with  his  natural  features,

and probably had many more alternative identities tucked away than the score

or so Zsinj knew about.

"Mon Remonda and the rest of his fleet are  still  coming  on  at  full

speed," Melvar said. "But even with the two Carrack  cruisers  out  and  our

maneuverability impaired,  we  should  be  able  to  give  her  a  sustained

broadside. If we concentrate on her power and engines, we'll trap her  here.

She'll never get far enough away from Levian Two to make hyperspace."

Zsinj nodded absently. "Time until Mon Remonda is under our guns?"

A crewman shouted up, "Ships appearing ahead, a drop out of hyperspace.

Three vessels, sir-a Mon Calamari cruiser, an Imperial-class Star Destroyer,

and a Quasar Fire-class bulk cruiser."

Zsinj sighed, vexed. He  looked  forward  through  the  viewports,  but

couldn't make out the new enemies. "I didn't realize Solo had  more  of  his

fleet within range. Not that it matters. Enhance the view."

A hologram appeared before a portion of the main viewport. On  it  were

the three vessels his crewman had  described.  All  three  were  turning  to

Zsinj's port, exposing their sides, ready to fire on the oncoming Super Star

Destroyer.

"They're angling toward the escape vector Mon Remonda will take," Zsinj

said. "Toward our weak flank, where the  Carrack-class  cruisers  have  been

knocked out. They're going to line up so that we'll walk into the  worst  of

their damage if we adjust to continue our prosecution of  Mon  Remonda.  But

we're not going to play their game."

Melvar smiled. "I somehow doubted we were."

Zsinj called down to his communications officer,  "Send  Red  Gauntlet,

Serpent's Smile and Reprisal on ahead. Punch a hole in the defensive  screen

they're throwing up, Bring the starfighters back to Iron Fist to act as  our

own screen." He

turned to his weapons specialist. "Ready all guns. Tell them to fire on

Mon Remonda as they bear."

"Yes, sir."

Zsinj straightened, smiling. "Solo really should have taken my call. He

might even have survived for a while."

Face saw the shuttle towing Janson's X-wing disappear into one  of  Mon

Remonda's bays. The Wraiths's three TIE interceptor pilots followed him  in.

He knew from comm traffic that the group's A-wings were already aboard.

Then the leading edge of Mon Remonda came within gunnery range of  Iron

Fist. Turbolaser flashes by the hundreds lit space between the  two  capital

ships. Far ahead, similar flashes illuminated the void between Solo's  Group

2 and Zsinj's advance force.

Like a younger sea mammal sidling up beneath  its  mother,  Mon  Karren

moved up below Mon Remonda, moving into the sea of turbolaser fire with  her

sister ship, her back to the larger vessel's belly.

Zsinj felt his shoulders sag as he  witnessed  Mon  Karren's  maneuver.

"We've lost Mon Remonda," he said.

Melvar offered one of his rare frowns. "They've just barely moved  into

our range."

"Correct. But they're collaborating to  absorb  our  battery  assaults,

dividing the damage between them. And since I was foolish  enough  to  bring

back our starfighters to protect our engines-"

"They can concentrate their shields against  us.  We  have  nothing  to

batter their topsides with to keep them honest."

"Correct." Zsinj shook his head. "This isn't going to go  down  in  the

history annals as a loss for me, Melvar,  but  it  is  a  loss.  One  little

mistake and Solo slips through my fingers."

"Still, you haven't lost anything but the ammunition and  power  you've

expended."

"True." He leaned down to face his weapons officer. "Continue with  the

barrage until they make the jump  to  hyperspace.  Not  your  fault,  Major.

Mine."

"Thank you, sir."

Still pensive, Zsinj turned away and headed out of the bridge. The rest

of this battle was going to be mop-up; his subordinates could  handle  that.

He needed to rest and prepare for the next engagement.

Solo's fleet dropped out of hyperspace mere light-years from the Levian

system  and  stayed  in  realspace  just  long  enough  to   pick   up   the

hyperspace-equipped starfighters and coordinate their next jump.  Then  they

fled back into the comparative safety of faster-than-light speeds.

3

Tired  but  all  present  and  accounted  for-a  rarity  in  full-scale

space-navy engagements-the pilots of Wedge's command gradually collected  in

the pilot's lounge of Mon Remonda.

It was  a  large  chamber  with  rounded  corners,  all  the  walls  in

antiseptic glossy white, all the furniture in white  or  blue  or  green.  A

fully stocked bar dominated one wall of the chamber, but its cabinets  were,

while the ship  remained  on  alert  status,  all  locked  down,  with  only

nonalcoholic drinks available to the pilots. The air was drier here than  in

the rest of the ship; none of the  pilots  of  Mon  Remonda's  four  fighter

squadrons was a Mon Calamari or  Quarren,  so  they  tended  to  adjust  the

environment to be more comfortable to land dwellers.

Donos took a comfortable chair in one of the  curves  that  served  the

lounge as corners and watched the other pilots  with  interest.  The  Wraith

Squadron pilots were jubilant,  especially  with  the  scare  involving  Wes

Janson, but those of the other squadrons exhibited less cheer.

One of the Rogues-a woman with long brown hair, a trim  build,  and  an

intense manner-sat in one of what the pilots called egg-chairs. These  seats

were shaped like white eggs a meter and a half tall, with one  side  scooped

away so someone could sit within, mounted on a post next to a terminal niche

in

the wall so the pilot could turn his back to the room and  do  terminal

work. Donos took a moment to recall her name: Inyri Forge.

The woman cupped her chin in her hand. Her brown eyes were glum. "Pie's

changed the rules on us," she said. "We should have expected it."

Tyria said, "I'm not sure what you mean."

Forge gave her a look of evaluation,  as  though  deciding  whether  to

offer sarcasm or simple information,  and  settled  on  the  latter  course.

"While you Wraiths were running around in  disguise  or  doing  your  ground

missions, we've been  following  Zsinj  all  over  space.  Into  regions  he

controls, into New Republic regions he's assaulting, wherever  we  can  find

signs of his passage. We find little hints we can't afford  to  investigate,

because many of them are false clues he's leaving to lead us into a trap  or

waste our time and  resources.  We  also  find  the  remains  of  full-scale

assaults, where we always arrive too late-he's in  and  out  before  we  can

mount a response.

"But today, we get number two, and not only  had  he  figured  out  our

pattern of response times, but he was waiting  around  to  hit  us  when  we

arrived."

"And," Hobbie said, "his fleet was huge. Something like twenty  capital

ships. More than we thought he could field. Our intelligence hasn't kept  up

with him."

"So," Forge concluded, "we have to change our tactics. To suit him. And

that's not good."

Face Loran, from the little table he shared with Dia, said,  "We  don't

need to alter our tactics. We need to alter bis. It  looks  like  he  hasn't

been bringing Iron Fist into gravity wells, probably because of the  beating

we gave him the last time he did, until today-when he  had  an  overwhelming

force. If he can keep doing that, he's going to beat us."

Elassar Targon stood at the bar, drumming  on  the  bar  top  with  his

knuckles. "We need to follow all the leads we've been getting. Even if  some

of them are traps. What  about  the  rumor  of  the  bacta  hijacking  being

planned?"

Shalla reached an oversized couch and twirled as she fell  onto  it  so

she lay faceup. "Too obvious," she said. "Odds are a

hundred to one that was one of Zsinj's planted leads.  We  follow  that

and we get ambushed again."

Elassar gave her a scornful look. "You've been doing all that  analysis

of leads, even before the Wraiths were back with Mon Remonda. Is  that  what

you told the mission-planning staff?"

"It is."

"So you're the one who's keeping General Solo running scared."

Conversations subsided all over the pilot's lounge as fliers turned  to

follow this exchange.

Shalla pulled herself back and upright so that she leaned back  against

one of the couch arms. She did not look happy. "You know, you're wrong in so

many ways it may take me a couple of days to straighten you out. First,  I'm

not the only one providing intelligence analysis to General Solo. I'm one of

about thirty, and I'm a very distant link in that chain.  Second,  he's  not

running scared. He just has responsibilities to keep his subordinates  alive

long enough for them to get the job done, a concept that  may  be  a  little

lofty for a school-aged thrillseeker like you."

Elassar's face set. "Are we still no decor?"

Pilot's parlance ... by custom,  only  pilots  were  admitted  to  this

lounge, and once  inside,  designations  of  rank,  sometimes  disparagingly

referred to as "decor," were largely ignored. Even so, it  was  sometimes  a

strain to maintain this custom when the most senior officers  were  present,

which is why their visits to this lounge were infrequent and short.

Shalla nodded.

Elassar took a deep breath, apparently considering his words. When they

emerged, they were more reasoned than the Wraiths and Rogues  were  used  to

hearing from him. "I'm not going to pretend I know more about Zsinj or about

intelligence operations than you. I don't. What I do know is that a  pilot's

job is to fly and to vape the enemy. The  advice  you  and  the  others  are

giving to our superiors is keeping us from doing that."

"You're right," Shalla said. "But pilots have other jobs. Such  as  not

flying straight into the ground, straight into a star,

or straight into a battle situation chosen and lovingly set  up  by  an

enemy. I don't question that you're brave, Elassar. But  are  you  so  brave

that you're happy to die pointlessly?"

"So what do we do?" That was Dorset Konnair, an A-wing pilot of Polearm

Squadron. She was a small woman of very pale skin and very dark hair, with a

blue star-flare tattoo around her right eye. Her flight suit  concealed  her

other tattoos, all of them in shades of blue. She was also very  limber,  as

evidenced by the ease with which she sat, legs folded tailor-style,  in  her

chair. Donos knew she was from Coruscant, which probably explained  why  she

was quiet so often in pilot gatherings; Donos knew  the  kind  of  suspicion

with which some New Republic veterans viewed Coruscant natives.  "Either  we

keep running around gathering Zsinj's crumbs and getting nowhere, or we bite

on the bait he's deliberately leaving and let him draw us in."

Forge said, "We have to regain the initiative. Bait our own trap. Offer

him something he can't afford to refuse."

Donos snorted. "Such as  what?  Mon  Remonda?  Have  her  limp  through

Zsinj-controlled space like a wounded avian and hope he comes swooping in to

finish her off?"

"No," Elassar said. He struck another swashbuckling  pose.  "Offer  him

Elassar Targon, master of the uni-"

"Sithspit, you're  obnoxious."  Forge  fixed  Elassar  with  an  amused

glance. "But you're on the right track. I was thinking we ought to offer him

General Han Solo."

"Don't do that," said Hobbie from his stool at the bar. His  voice  was

more mournful than ever. "If Zsinj kills Solo, Wedge might be  appointed  to

fill the vacancy."

"Good point," Forge said. "But bear with me a minute. Kell, didn't  you

say that General Solo had gone gallivanting around in the Millennium  Falcon

two, three months ago, delivering some high-security messages for the  Inner

Council?"

Kell, sharing a couch with Tyria, nodded. "That's right."

"There was no secret to the fact that he was moving about. And you used

his trip to pull a fast one on Admiral Trigit.  To  distract  him  from  his

primary objective over Commenor's moon. You made him think  Solo  was  still

around, a viable target."

"Show  due  respect,"  said  Runt.  A  member  of   a   species   whose

representatives were usually too tall to fit in a starfighter

cockpit, Runt was, by their standards, a midget,  though  he  and  Kell

were the tallest of the Wraiths. His hairy body,  his  elongated  face  with

flaring nostrils and  large,  square  teeth,  and  his  wide-eyed  look  all

suggested that his kind were closer to being draft animals than  intelligent

humanoids, but his squadmates had found him to be a wise and capable being.

And somewhat odd. "You speak," he continued, "of  the  only  flight  of

Dinner Squadron. The one X-wing squadron with an undefeated  record  and  no

losses."

"Oh, I forgot." Forge smiled. "But what I'm saying is that  we  have  a

track record of General Solo occasionally embarking on special missions even

while commanding the Zsinj task force, and if  there's  anyone  Zsinj  might

change his plans to nab, it's Han Solo. A chance for revenge is  a  powerful

motivator."

"I like it." The voice came from another of the egg-chairs against  the

wall. It was turned away from the room, so  the  other  pilots  present  had

presumed it was unoccupied  or  that  anyone  there  was  engrossed  in  his

terminal.

Now the chair turned around to face the  room.  Its  occupant  was  Han

Solo-not decked out in the uncomfortable-looking uniform that was apparently

his bane, but wearing the comfortable trousers, shirt, and  vest  that  were

his preferred dress. His clothes were spotted with sweat  stains;  obviously

he hadn't changed since his recent time on the bridge.  But  his  expression

was amused. "But there are two problems with this plan."

Forge cleared her throat, concealing any surprise she might have  felt.

"And what are they, sir?"

"No  'sir.'  No  decor,  remember?  Problem  number  one  is  that  the

Millennium Falcon is currently stowed on Princess Leia's flagship, the Rebel

Dream, and there's no telling when I'll see her again."

Donos privately wondered which "her" he was referring to.

"Problem number two," Solo continued, "is that we still don't know what

Zsinj is up to. And you Wraiths are largely to blame for that."

The pilots under his command looked around for someone bearing  a  mark

of guilt.

"By which I mean," Solo said, "since you figured out that

he was planning to steal a second Super Star Destroyer,  Razor's  Kiss,

from Kuat, and since you figured out how to determine where it would  be  so

we could all blow it up, you've forced Zsinj to revert to his  backup  plan.

Which is what?"

Forge shook her head. "We don't know."

Face said, "Though we have one lead. Saffalore."

That was an Imperial-held world in the  Corporate  Sector,  home  to  a

large corporation called Binring Biomedical. It was  there  that  Piggy  had

been altered-had, in a sense, been created. A manufacturing  facility  owned

by Zsinj on another world had fabricated the exact  sort  of  transparisteel

cages Piggy had been reared within, suggesting that Binring, too, might have

a surreptitious relationship with the warlord.

"I'm as tired as you are of chasing down vague hints and leads and only

dropping in after Zsinj is long gone," Solo said. "So Mon Remonda is leaving

the fleet for a while. Saffalore is our next port  of  call."  He  rose  and

walked toward the lounge's exit. "Still, I sort of like your idea of  luring

Zsinj out to come after me. I wouldn't mind personally  leading  to  Zsinj's

downfall." He offered a smile, almost sinister, back  toward  the  assembled

pilots. "Give that plan some more thought, too." Then he was gone.

"Never can tell when a Corellian will pop up," Donos said.

The pilots were diverted by a banging sound-Elassar hammering his  head

and horns against the top of the  bar.  His  face  a  mask  of  tragedy,  he

suspended hammering to look at his fellow pilots. "Now I am done," he  said.

"I have performed the unluckiest  deed  possible.  I've  suggested  that  my

commanding officer runs away from  combat,  and  I've  done  so  within  his

hearing."

"True," Shalla said. "To make it worse, you did it when we're still  on

alert status. Meaning you can't even blot out the memory with drink."

"Don't remind me. Shalla? Dear friend, kind lieutenant?"

"Yes?"

"Will you kill me? Please?"

"I don't think so."

"Runt. With your great strength, you could tear one of my arms off  and

say it was a handshaking accident."

Runt shook his head and offered up a human-style smile.

"Kell! You hate me, don't you? Well, I have an offer for you..."

"Not now, Elassar. We have more important people to kill."

Face perked up. "You know, Inyri, we could do what Kell  and  Runt  did

back in the raid on Folor Base."

Forge  snorted.  "Run  a  couple  of  X-wings   along   together   with

malfunctioning shields and just pretend we're the Millennium Falcon}"

"I didn't mean that specifically. But in a  general  sense,  yes.  What

they did was to fake up  a  Millennium  Falcon.  With  more  time  and  more

resources, we could do a better job."

Forge considered and looked among the other pilots. Theirs were a mixed

lot of dubious and approving expressions. "Maybe."

Face  continued,  "Don't  you   Rogues   have   the   universe's   best

quartermaster?"

"Emtrey, yes." Forge nodded. M-3PO, called Emtrey, was a protocol droid

attached to Rogue Squadron. He had a reputation  for  phenomenal  skills  at

scrounging. "But he's not as good as he used to be. We had to throttle  back

some of his programming."

"Still..."

"Still,  it's  worth  thinking  about."  Forge  stood.  "Let's  find  a

conference room with a holotable and fire some ideas around."

The doors rose to admit Corran Horn. The  former  CorSec  agent  looked

suspiciously at the pilots rising to their feet. "What did I miss?"

Some of the pilots laughed. In the months Rogue Squadron  had  been  on

Mon Remonda, Corran Horn and Han Solo had never been seen at the same  place

and time. It had spawned a running joke among the  other  pilots-the  notion

that, despite their disparate ages and personalities,  they  were  the  same

person in disguise.

"We'll tell you in the conference room," Forge said. "You're  late,  so

you get to take the notes."

Elassar fixed Horn with an imploring expression. "Lieutenant! With your

skills, you could kill me and make it look like an accident. Please ..."

Han Solo poked his head into Wedge's office. "Got a minute?"

Wedge turned from his terminal and the report he was composing  on  the

day's aborted mission. "Come on in. Distract me. Please."

The general seated himself with characteristic casualness and  grimaced

at the work Wedge was doing. "I thought  you  ought  to  be  aware  of  some

scuttlebutt. I tried to catch you  at  the  pilot's  lounge,  but  you  were

hiding."

Wedge  snorted.  "I  had  to  have  some  words  in  private  with  the

squadrons's executive officers. About pilot morale. What is it?"

Solo's face lost its usual cocky expression. Suddenly,  alarmingly,  he

looked older and more tired. "It has nothing to do  with  Levian.  This  was

relayed to me by some friends on Coruscant. The  Intelligence  investigation

into the assassin who tried to kill Ackbar is looking into  the  possibility

of a widespread Twi'lek conspiracy."

"Conspiracy to do what?"

"They have no idea. The Twi'lek planet Ryloth has  always  traded  with

anyone who had credits. Intelligence says there's a large warrior caste that

resents the way the planet was dominated by humans for so  long,  and  hates

the way Ryloth is regarded as a merchant world-"

"That last part is true."

"Well, Intelligence  wonders  whether  this  action  is  part  of  some

fanatical conspiracy designed to strike against humans. There's even talk of

a conspiracy including several humanoid species, not just Twi'leks. And  how

such a group might want to eliminate Ackbar, who's known to be  friendly  to

humans.

"Also"-Solo leaned closer and dropped his voice- "Cracken's  people  in

Intelligence have  tracked  some  interesting  behavior  among  Twi'leks  on

Coruscant. Specifically, mid-levei New Republic officers  and  advisors  who

have access to the powerful and the famous. Like the assassin, Jart Eyan. He

was on leave just before his attempt to kill Ackbar. But apparently  he  and

his family weren't on leave where they were

supposed to be. They were out of sight for several days leading  up  to

the murder attempt, though they'd set  things  up  so  their  friends  would

believe they were at a resort. Where they were, what they were doing, nobody

knows."

"You're leading up to something."

"You have several Twi'leks among your pilots."

"That's right. Tal'dira with the Rogues, Dia Passik with  the  Wraiths,

Nuro Tualin with Polearm. My executive officer with the Rogues  is  Twi'lek,

as is one of my mechanics, Koyi Komad, for the squadron."

"How sure are you of them?"

Wedge thought back. Tal'dira was a pride-filled warrior of the world of

Ryloth. His word was his bond, and deception seemed like a talent beyond his

capabilities. Dia was another matter; brought, like many Twi'lek females, as

a slave off Ryloth, trained to be a dancer, she'd  escaped  and  killed  her

owner. Or so her story went; it was true that  elements  of  her  background

could not be confirmed. Nuro was a recent graduate  of  the  New  Republic's

Fleet Command Academy and had trained with General  Crespin  in  A-wings  on

Folor Base, as had several of his squadmates;  he  was  largely  an  unknown

factor. Wedge had known Nawara Ven since he re-formed  Rogue  Squadron,  and

Koyi Komad for years.

None of these Twi'leks had ever made him edgy when looking at him. None

ever gave him the evaluative look that said, "I wonder what it would take to

kill him?" His gut told him that they were dedicated pilots and technicians,

not ringers for some power seeker. "I'm sure of them."

Solo's smile returned and the tiredness disappeared from his  features.

"Good." He rose. "I just wanted you to be aware of what was going  on.  Keep

it to yourself, though, will you?"

"Certainly." As Solo opened the door to leave, Wedge  said,  "You  know

something? In spite of the way you seem to hate it, you're  pretty  good  at

this management stuff."

Solo lost his smile. "Don't ever,  ever  say  that.  Someone  important

might hear you. And then I'd be stuck with it." Then he was gone.

The man with the impossibly  bland  features  appeared  before  Warlord

Zsinj's desk as though he were a holoprojection turned into flesh. "I have a

present for you," said Melvar.

Zsinj managed to keep himself from jumping.  Melvar,  he  knew,  prided

himself on his silent comings and goings, and the nervousness  this  induced

in his subordinates-and even superiors-though he claimed that this  was  not

the case. But Zsinj had recently spent considerable effort to train  himself

not to start. To cover for his  momentary  lapse,  he  twirled  one  of  his

mustachios in rakish fashion.

"How delightful," Zsinj said. "Have we instituted a  new  holiday,  for

which a gift is appropriate?" He waved his  hands  around  to  take  in  the

lavish appointments of his office  aboard  his  flagship,  Iron  Fist.  "And

wherever will I display your present?"

"I'm sure you'll find a place." Melvar smiled, the innocuous smile of a

blameless financial officer, and snapped  his  fingers,  A  mere  diversion;

Zsinj knew that the man must have secretly thumbed the button  on  his  comm

unit with his other hand.

The door into Zsinj's office opened and a pair of  guards  escorted  in

two people. One was a man, lean, aging, graying-in fact, the man appeared to

be  growing  older  as  Zsinj  watched  him,  so  great  was  the   fellow's

nervousness. The second was a woman, her companion's  junior  by  twenty  or

thirty years; her hair and eyes were dark, her  expression  poised,  perhaps

resigned. Both were in civilian dress.

Melvar gave Zsinj a little theatrical bow. "Allow me to present Doctors

Novin Bress and Edda Gast, from our special operations division  of  Binring

Biomedical on Saffalore. After due investigation I decided to bring them  to

speak to you personally."

Zsinj folded his hands over the imposing swell of his stomach. He noted

with satisfaction  that  his  white  Imperial  grand  admiral's  jacket  was

spotless, nearly gleaming; it would be  inappropriate  to  lead  two  doomed

people before a shabby warlord. "Doctor, Doctor, delighted to meet you."  He

was charmed to see the first flicker of hope appear in the older man's eyes;

this one would be fun to play with.

"Ask them," Melvar said, "about missing test subjects."

Zsinj gave him a blank look, as if struggling to recall some-

thing of little consequence, then said,  "Oh,  yes.  Doctors,  tell  me

where a  Gamorrean  and  an  Ewok  might  obtain  the  necessary  skills-and

temperament-to fly starfighters."

Dr. Bress, the male, tried to catch the eye of his  younger  colleague.

Dr. Gast ignored his attempt; she kept her gaze on Zsinj.

"Well," Bress said, "they might have escaped from our facility."

"Ah," Zsinj said. He picked up a  datapad  and  brought  up  his  day's

schedule. He'd have a massage in an hour, then sit  down  to  a  stimulating

meal an hour after that. "It says here that I sent out a  memorandum  asking

about possible test-subject escapes some time ago, and that you  replied  in

the negative. Correct?"

Dr. Bress flinched. "Correct."

Zsinj slammed the datapad down on the edge of his  desk,  snapping  the

device in two. Bress jumped. Interestingly, Gast didn't. Zsinj modulated his

voice to a snarl and allowed some color to creep into his face. "May  I  ask

why didn't you tell me then, when I sent out the memorandum? Why do I  learn

about it now?"

"Because we weren't sure," Bress said. "We're not sure now."

Zsinj stared at him a long moment, then turned his attention  to  Gast.

"I'm not sure I understand this man. Perhaps you could explain a little more

clearly."

"I believe I can," she said. "Might I have  a  chair?  We  walked  some

considerable distance to get to your office."

Zsinj forced himself to mask the genuine surprise he felt.  It  took  a

lot of nerve to make such a request when she should have been wondering  how

best to preserve her life. He took his first really good look at her.  Adult

human female in the prime of life, not beautiful but  with  cheekbones  that

made her striking and would do so throughout her  life  ...  and  her  eyes,

dark, calm, unapologetic, were unsettling.

He forced a smile. "Of course. General Melvar, where are your  manners?

Give the doctor a chair."

Bress spoke up, his voice wavering: "I, too, uh, could

use-"

"Do be quiet, Doctor Bress." Zsinj waited until Melvar

situated a chair behind Cast. He gave her a moment to compose  herself.

"Now, you were saying?"

"My uncle, Doctor Tuzin Gast, was also on this project," she said.  "He

was the real pioneer on the cognitive-stimulation side  of  things.  But  he

wasn't really suited to the project emotionally. He became rather too  close

to his test subjects. He developed real affection for them. Not a good idea,

considering their intended use."

Zsinj nodded and gestured for her to continue.

"One day, a couple of years ago, there was a  tremendous  explosion  in

Epsilon Wing. My uncle and several test subjects were killed. Some  were  so

close that their bodies were incinerated."

"I remember," Zsinj said. "It promised to be a  tremendous  loss  until

Doctor Bress told me that the dead doctor's assistant- and niece-was at  the

very least his intellectual peer and would be able  to  continue  his  work,

without much loss of time. And he turned out to be right."

Gast nodded, acknowledging the compliment without smiling. "We reported

the losses and continued as scheduled," she said.  "Although  we  discovered

some interesting things about the accident."

"Such as?"

She began counting items off on her fingers. "First, it was suicide. My

uncle mixed some volatile chemicals in a purification tank and set them off.

His guilt apparently had eaten away at him until he could not stand to  live

any longer. Second, most of the test subjects that had died were  those  who

were  exhibiting  the  greatest  aggressive  reactions  under  our   trigger

treatments. In other words, they were the subjects who were most changed  by

our treatments, the most violent-"

"The most promising," Zsinj said.

"Yes. The most promising. He deliberately brought them together so they

would die with him."

"You said most of the test subjects ..."

"There was  one  exception.  A  Gamorrean.  It  had  been  through  the

intelligence series but not the aggression series."

"Its name?"

She shrugged. "I never met it. It  was  officially  logged  as  Subject

Gamma-Nine-One-Oh-Four."

"And this subject was supposed to have died in the explosion."

"Yes," she said. "But the only cellular material we  found  of  it  was

blood plasma."

"Which  your  uncle  could  have  extracted  from  the   creature   and

distributed prior to the explosion."

"Yes."

"Was there only blood plasma found of your uncle?"

She shook her head. "We found his head and several other parts."

"How about Ewoks?"

"Two of the test subjects theoretically destroyed  in  the  blast  were

Ewoks. They'd both been through intelligence and aggression  treatments.  We

found body parts of two different Ewoks, so we had reason  to  believe  both

had perished."

Zsinj took a long  breath.  "Well.  There's  little  doubt  that  Voort

saBinring, a Rebel pilot of Wraith Squadron, is your uncle's pet  Gamorrean.

There is also reason to believe that  Lieutenant  Kettch,  a  pilot  with  a

pirate group called the Hawk-bats, is a similarly  enhanced  Ewok  from  the

program. Tell me, why would both of them become pilots?"

Gast said, "We found fragmentary records indicating that my  uncle  had

tested the Gamorrean  on  flight  simulators  as  one  way  to  measure  his

temperament and intelligence. He could have done so with  an  Ewok,  too.  I

just don't see how an Ewok could have escaped . . . unless  it  was  a  test

subject that he had never entered into the records."

He fixed her with an angry stare. "You could have told me all this back

when I circulated  my  first  query.  It  would  have  saved  me  a  lot  of

difficulty."

"No, I couldn't." She returned his stare calmly,  unapologetically.  "I

never saw your query. I have done my job satisfactorily."

"That's for me to decide."

"With apologies, warlord, but  you're  not  qualified  to  evaluate  my

performance."

Zsinj stared at her a moment, then barked out a laugh. "Very good  last

words, Doctor Gast. But, now, it's time for a reckoning. Your  division  has

failed me and blood must be shed if I'm to feel better."

He held out both hands and the guards leaned  in  to  place  a  blaster

pistol in each hand. These Zsinj set before the two doctors. "I'd  be  happy

for you two to accomplish the task  yourselves.  That  would  save  me  some

mental anguish, I assure you."

Bress looked with genuine  fright  at  the  weapons.  "Sir,  everything

you've asked me I've done-"

"Yes. And now I'm asking you to do one final thing."

Gast picked up her pistol and checked its settings to make sure it  was

charged. Zsinj watched her with real interest. She was very cool  and  might

decide to remove him from the universe to avenge her own death.

Bress, his voice climbing into a wail, said, "Please, sir, so  much  of

the project's success is my doing, my mistakes have been so few-"

Gast set the barrel of her pistol against Bress's ribs and  pulled  the

trigger. The sound of the blast filled the room, followed by  the  smell  of

seared flesh. Bress staggered sideways and fell against the office wall.

Gast held up her pistol and allowed Melvar to take it from her.  "Now,"

she said, "will someone be killing me?"

Zsinj looked at her, forcing his expression into one of  reasonability.

"Shouldn't we? You've been part of a  team  that  has  covered  up  critical

errors  in  judgment.  Coming  before  me  as  a   penitent,   you've   been

insubordinate, even arrogant. You couldn't even carry out a  simple  request

to kill yourself."

She shook her head. "Nobody asked me  to  kill  myself.  Your  unstated

request could have been that we kill one another."

"Nor did you show enough courage to try to kill me  when  you  had  the

chance."

At last, she smiled-a lopsided smile full of sarcastic  cheer.  "Please

don't insult me if you're going to kill me, too. I'll  bet  every  credit  I

own, every one I've hidden away, that if I'd pointed that blaster at you and

pulled the trigger, it would not have gone off." She leaned forward and  her

smile evened out, became more genuine. "Well?"

He regarded her steadily. "Well, you're  correct  in  assuming  that  I

didn't ask you to kill yourself. Why would  I?  You're  blameless.  Had  you

killed yourself, or allowed Doctor Bress to kill you, you would have  proven

yourself to be stupid and

blameless, but fortunately that's not the case. How would you  like  to

do me a favor?"

"I'd like that."

"Return  to  Saffalore.  Dismantle  the   operation   without   letting

anyone-and that means anyone at Binring-know you've done so. Send everything

to Iron Fist; we'll consolidate the two laboratories.  Set  up  the  Binring

facilities to detect and then annihilate anyone breaking in. Because at some

point Voort saBinring's squadron mates are going to get permission to return

to the land of his birth . . . and that will be a  good  time  to  eliminate

them. Setting all this up guarantees your  continued  employment  within  my

organization; each dead Wraith brings you a sizable bonus. Deal?"

"Deal." With her characteristic insolence, she extended him her hand to

shake.

When she, the guards, and the  still-smoking  body  were  gone,  Melvar

returned to stand before his warlord. He looked curious.

"What?" Zsinj asked.

"You've instructed her to kill all the Wraiths. One of the  Wraiths  is

an unknown quantity. Gara Petothel."

"I know. But since the mission to Aldivy went  to  pieces,  she  hasn't

communicated. Our agent dead, her ersatz brother dead, and no word from  her

since then ... I'd be happy to arrange for her protection. She has  to  give

me a reason first."

"Understood."

"And how goes Blunted Razor?"

"The operation continues moving. Every day, we retrieve more tonnage of

the wreck of Razor's Kiss." Melvar didn't add, "And only you know why  we're

wasting all this energy gathering up the wreckage of a destroyed Super  Star

Destroyer." He didn't have to. Both men knew he wanted to say it.  Both  men

knew he wouldn't.

Zsinj smiled. "Dismissed."

4

Flight Officer Lara Notsil leaned in close to hear every  word  of  the

briefing, to see everything that floated on the holoprojection.

She hadn't always been Lara Notsil. She'd been born with the name  Gara

Petothel, and had worn many others since her adolescent years.

She hadn't always had downy blond hair cut short,  or  a  near-flawless

complexion. Nature had provided her with dark hair and a beauty mark on  her

cheek. Makeup and trivial surgery performed  when  she'd  created  the  Lara

Notsil identity had rid her of them. The delicacy of her features and  build

remained from her true identity, but little else did.

She hadn't always been a pilot with the New Republic's  Fleet  Command.

Since her earliest years, child of two of the  Empire's  loyal  Intelligence

officers, she'd been groomed to be an officer of Imperial  Intelligence.  In

that role, she'd infiltrated the lower ranks of New Republic Fleet  Command,

had transmitted vital data back to her  Imperial  controllers  and  then  to

Admiral Apwar Trigit. She'd provided Trigit with information he'd later used

to destroy Talon Squadron, an X-wing unit led by Myn Donos.

And now she fought beside the Rebel pilots who'd once been her enemies.

It had originally been a deception, another

infiltration, but was so no longer; it was where she wanted to be, what

she wanted to do. But she also fought against  the  growing  certainty  that

someday her fellows would learn her true identity, learn what she  had  done

before she'd come to accept their outlook on the way  the  galaxy's  sapient

species should determine their destinies. When they  learned  who  she  was,

they would reject her, and they would probably kill her.

Until then, she'd do whatever she could to keep  them  alive.  To  help

them win. Soon, she'd confess all to her commander, Wedge Antilles, and he'd

use her knowledge to help bring Zsinj to ruin.

Soon.

She shook away these distracting thoughts and forced herself to  listen

to her commander's words.

"Wraith Squadron," Wedge said, "has an admirable history  of  executing

missions on its own, with minimal support... or no  support  at  all.  Let's

assume that Zsinj has come to this realization. What we're going  to  do  is

change the rules on him. The Wraiths will  be  going  in  with  their  usual

tactics . . . but they'll have a little support standing ready. By  which  I

mean Rogue Squadron."

Several  of  the  Wraiths  made  appreciative   comments,   but   Gavin

Darklighter of the Rogues made a face. "Now we're baby-sitters," he said.

Face shot him an amused look. "What if we light up  a  target  for  you

baby-sitters to hit?"

"A real target," Gavin said. "Not just some defenseless motor  pool  or

repair facility."

"A real target," Face said. "Something that shoots back."

Gavin schooled his face into an expression  resembling  dignity.  "Then

I'll be content to baby-sit. This time."

"Are you through?" Wedge asked. There was no censure in his voice,  but

side conversations quieted. Gavin nodded.

"Good," Wedge said. "Now, the Wraiths have a  general  agenda.  Acquire

information on what Zsinj might be doing at Binring Biomedical. We suspect a

connection because his facility on Xartun was constructing the exact sort of

cell Piggy essentially grew up in  on  Saffalore,  at  Binring.  When  Face,

acting as Kargin of the Hawk-bats, had dinner with Zsinj, the

warlord expressed considerable interest  in  the  story  of  Lieutenant

Kettch, a fictitious Ewok pilot with a story identical to Piggy's. This also

suggests that the warlord has ties to facilities that perform  modifications

on humanoids. The  Wraiths  are  to  find  out  what  they  can  about  this

modification program and Zsinj's ties to it.

"Piggy  hasn't  bothered  to  hide  his  background.  Once  he   joined

Starfighter Command, he became the most conspicuous  Gamorrean  serving  the

New Republic, and it became futile to  hide  where  he  came  from.  So  our

enemies may know we're coming. They probably don't  know  when.  If  there's

anything left to find, it will probably be protected  by  standing  defenses

that have been geared for Piggy's squadmates. Which is one  more  reason  to

change tactics when appropriate. I'll hand this over to Wraith One."

He sat and Face stood. The younger pilot looked very  sure  of  himself

these days, Lara decided. Not arrogant, but at ease with what he  was  being

called on to do. That was a good sign.

"We're going to take our mission in stages," Face  said.  "Mon  Remonda

support crews are going to make a visit to an asteroid belt  around  one  of

the planets in the Saffalore system and divert several waves  of  small  and

mid-sized asteroids toward  Saffalore.  These  will  simulate  a  series  of

natural  meteor  showers.  The  Rogues  and  Wraiths,  in   our   respective

starfighters, will be accompanying  the  third,  largest,  shower  into  the

planet's atmosphere, which will hit-if our mathematicians get their  numbers

right-in their polar ice cap, where  their  sensors  are  less  substantial.

We'll fly in ground-following mode from our arrival point  to  a  site  near

Lurark, the center of their planetary government. There the Rogues will  set

up base camp and the Wraiths will head on in to Lurark.

"Our initial goal is to find out where on  Saffalore  is  the  facility

where Piggy was altered. The way Piggy has explained it,  the  circumstances

under which he was smuggled out prevented him from knowing where  he'd  been

held, though he suspected that it was within a  few  hundred  kilometers  of

Lurark, if not in the city itself. A good guess would be  the  main  Binring

Bio-medical facility in the city. But our first step there will be to try

to find out what name Zsinj is using at the business  end  of  Bin-ring

Biomedical. A simple check on their planetary net or  a  visit  to  whatever

they use for a central business registry office ought to do it."

"No," Lara said.

Face looked at her expectantly.

"I mean, no, sir," she said, and was annoyed  to  feel  herself  blush.

Genuine embarrassment-how long had it been since she'd felt that?

"Don't worry about it. Why no?"

She said, "You've suggested that we need to operate  on  principles  of

maximum paranoia. Well, you don't just march in to their  records  center-or

access it via a terminal-and say, 'Who  owns  this  company?'  Let's  assume

they're as paranoid as we are. They might have set things up to flag queries

like that."

'Well, I was thinking more about an anonymous check, or something using

an intermediary. Are you recommending that we slice the network and  try  to

steal the information?"

Lara shook her head. "No, save that tactic  for  critical  information.

What I'm suggesting is that we  find  out  whether  the  information  you're

talking about is flagged; that fact itself would be  valuable  to  know.  We

just lead with a safe question- from a different  questioner-so  we  have  a

standard of comparison for behavior. For  instance,  let's  say  you,  Face,

decide to make the Binring query. Before you do, I go in, find out the  name

of a corporation we think is completely straight and above  board,  and  ask

the same question about ft. I note what they do and how long it  takes  them

to answer that question, and report that back to you. Then, when you go in-"

"I have a standard of comparison." Face  nodded.  "I  get  what  you're

saying. If they take a lot of extra time  or  vary  their  routine  in  some

substantial way, we know they've been alerted."

"We also tail you on your exit, in case they  decide  to  do  the  same

thing. We can slip their tail or take him out, but we don't let  him  follow

you."

"Right. You make a lot of sense. Anyone tell you you're a  natural  for

intelligence work?"

Lara shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. "All  right,"  Face

continued. "If we get that piece of information, we pursue it  to  see  what

else Zsinj might own on Saffalore-"

"No," Lara said. Then heads turned her way again and she  felt  herself

flush red once more.

Face's voice remained calm. "Why not?"

"Well... on the Wraiths's other missions, we often found the name Zsinj

was using on-planet, but never found any other  major  business  enterprises

owned by those names. Either he's investing in one business per  planet,  or

he's using multiple  names  for  multiple  businesses.  If  history  is  any

indication, there's no use in running down those names-not yet. If  we  ever

want to try to mess with his accounts, his assets, using that name is  good.

For what we're doing with this mission, though,  it's  just  a  distraction.

Something to cost us time his people may be using to hunt us down. In  fact,

I don't recommend that first bit, about finding the name he's using  in  his

association with Bin-ring, until after we've done our major raid,  or  maybe

simultaneously. It may not be an important enough piece  of  information  to

risk anything on acquiring it."

Face considered. "Maybe you're right. Very well. Lara's right. We  will

be staging a raid on their major fabrications facility,  in  the  hope  that

he's following true to form and has a special Zsinj facility tucked away  in

there somewhere-or at the very least in the hope  that  we  can  figure  out

where the secret facility is from data in  the  public  facility.  So  we'll

follow our standard member assignments and protocols-"

"No," Lara said. Several Wraiths and Rogues laughed outright

Face put his head down for a moment, then raised it, his expression one

of long suffering, and turned to Wedge. "Is this what it's like for you?"

Wedge smiled. "You have no idea."

"From the bottom of my heart, I apologize, most  sincerely,  for  every

time I spoke up in a mission briefing. I mean it."

Wedge nodded. "I appreciate that, but I have to tell you:  you've  only

just started to suffer."

"I believe you." Face turned back to Lara. "No, what?"

She gave him an apologetic look. "We've changed  protocol  already.  We

have Rogue Squadron on hand to look out for us. If we don't  integrate  this

resource-this very, very dangerous and capable resource-"

Impassive, Tycho gestured, waving  for  her  to  keep  the  compliments

coming.

"-from the very beginning, then there's no reason to have  them  along.

We'd have to improvise their participation."

"She's right," Tycho said. "And I've had some thoughts about  this.  We

could have the Wraiths, before or during their intrusion, get to certain key

spots on the Binring buildings and plant targets  there.  Infrared  markers,

comm tracers, anything to give us an edge. Then if they needed  to  call  an

air strike, they could give us very precise data on where we needed  to  put

our damage. 'Thirty-seven meters on heading two-five-five from Marker Number

Three'  is  very  precise,  and  our  astromechs   could   integrate   those

instructions onto our heads-up displays on the fly."

"Good point," Wedge said.  "Face,  you  haven't  done  enough  work  in

figuring out how to exploit all your resources."

"I'm not used to having resources."

Wedge nodded. "Welcome to the real Starfighter Command. And  having  to

think like a soldier instead of a pirate. Ail right, people, let's hear  the

rest of Face's plan. We're going  to  dissect  it  and  reassemble  it  into

something more likely to keep us all alive."

Brightness-illumination piercing  the  pinkness  around  him-  awakened

Piggy.

He could hear nothing, feel almost nothing-only the respirator adhering

to his face, supplying him with air to breathe. It took him a  split  second

to recall where he was, why most of his senses seemed  to  be  failing  him.

Then he opened his eyes.

As with the last couple of times he'd awakened, he floated,  suspended,

in a bacta tank taller than a Wookiee. The bacta medium  colored  everything

pink. He could see, beyond the confines of the tank, the antiseptic wardroom

that was his temporary home.  A  medical  technician,  a  dark-haired  human

female,

waved at him, offering a smile that humans called "perky." He knew that

human males could not help but be cheered by it. Nor was he entirely  immune

to it; the fact that she made the effort  to  reach  him  still  lifted  his

spirits a notch. He waved in return, his motion slowed by the thick liquid.

Something was different. He ran through his checklist of  surroundings,

events, and circumstances to see what had been added. Nothing.  He  reversed

it to look for what had been removed.

Pain. Ah, that was it. He didn't hurt anymore. He looked  down  at  his

stomach, which had not so long ago featured an injury  that  looked  like  a

smoking crater, and saw only new flesh and some scar tissue.

Good. He would be leaving soon. He wasn't  bored,  was  never  bored-he

could always work up problems of math,  of  navigation,  of  logic  to  keep

himself occupied. But the lack of contact with others, the lack of  activity

that was useful, was beginning to annoy him.

There was motion outside his tank. He focused on several people walking

with purpose into the wardroom, toward him, surrounding his tank-his  fellow

Wraiths. Their expressions were cheerful, and it was not  the  forced  cheer

that several had exhibited during previous visits.

The perky technician was waving at him, and when she had his attention,

she gestured upward. He glanced up to see the top hatch opening.  He  kicked

himself upward and moments later emerged into real air for the first time in

many days.

When he once again had his feet on the ground, had a  robe  around  him

and a towel to mop away the remaining traces of bacta medium, he could begin

to take in the words of his comrades.

Face said, "Forgive the intrusion, but we heard that the new vintage of

Piggy was being decanted."

Lara said, "But it looks like it's turned to vinegar."

Dia said, "And it's corked."

A young Devaronian he did not know said, "I am pleased to meet  you.  I

need you to kill me. Nobody else will."

The perky technician said, "You'll need as much as  possible  to  avoid

activities that put a strain on your stomach muscles."

Janson said, "To make sure you remember this little  event,  we've  had

some special things made up for you.  Bacta-flavored  candy.  Bacta-flavored

brandy. Bacta-flavored cheese."

Shalla said, "Kell and I worked up an  instructional  manual  for  you.

It's called, How to Dodge."

Piggy mopped away at his damp skin and allowed himself a slight  smile.

It was good to be home.

The third meteor shower in as many  days  peppered  the  frozen  arctic

regions of Saffalore's northern hemisphere. Few of the meteors survived long

enough to hammer the planet's surface; most burned up from the  friction  of

their descent through the atmosphere, often leaving behind  long  trails  to

mark the fiery ends to their travels. A few had enough mass left  to  strike

the  ground  as  meteorites,  often  leaving  deep  craters  in  the   hard,

uncultivated ground.

And  then  there  were  the  fabricated   objects   in   their   midst.

Starfighters, almost two dozen, maneuvered away from the true meteorites and

pulled up sharply from their descent, missing  collisions  with  the  ground

sometimes by only a few dozen meters.

There were no rebukes for too-chancy flying over the comm waves.  These

pilots were keeping comm silence, staying in visual range of one another.

Three  of  the  vehicles  were  TIE  interceptors,  the   most   lethal

starfighters of the Empire. The remainder were X-wings, heavily  laden  with

extra fuel pods under their S-foils.

The danger with an intrusion like this, Donos  decided,  is  that  it's

boring enough that you become distracted,  and  still  dangerous  enough  to

leave you dead. Terrain-following flying was a tricky skill.  Most  of  what

they would be crossing tonight was tundra, hard-frozen  ground  and  an  ice

sheet over it, offering little to endanger them. But there  were  occasional

hilly regions and one mountain range to  cross  before  they  reached  their

objective. Under a comm blackout, each pilot had to keep a close eye on  the

sensors; he couldn't rely on the sharp sight of his fellows.

Donos kept his focus on the sensors. Focus was no problem

for him. As a sniper for the Corellian armed forces,  he'd  learned  to

keep his attention unwavering on his  target.  Lives  had  depended  on  his

ability to do so. He'd been good at it.

Of course, at a certain point, the suspicion that there  was  something

wrong, something unfair, with what he was doing had begun  to  eat  away  at

him. Yes, every target he had taken down as a sniper had been on  the  verge

of killing an innocent... or many innocents. But  the  fact  that  he  could

never afford to give them a chance still nagged at him.

Enlistment in Starfighter Command had seemed the  answer.  He'd  proven

that he had the reflexes, the technical  grounding  necessary  to  become  a

pilot. There was never any moral quandary-everyone  he  brought  down  as  a

pilot had a chance to shoot back. He'd risen quickly and surely through  the

ranks, earning his lieutenancy within a year, being  granted  the  temporary

rank of brevet captain soon afterward.

His own command, Talon Squadron. Every member except  Donos  killed  in

the ambush on an uninhabited world no one wanted. Leaving him with a blot on

his career he might never be able to erase. A blot on his mind he might  not

ever be able to heal.

He raised the visor on his helmet and pressed his hands  to  his  eyes.

His inclination was to steer away from these thoughts. He couldn't afford to

do that. The emotions that rose-threatening  to  overwhelm  him-whenever  he

sent his mind down this course were enemies he had  to  defeat.  He  had  to

hammer away at them until they left him alone forever. And he  had  to  keep

control of himself while doing it, so others would not see his weakness.

He'd lost eleven subordinates, fellow pilots,  some  of  them  friends.

He'd lost his command; Talon Squadron had  been  decommissioned.  He'd  even

lost his mind, or at least misplaced it, turning  into  an  emotional  wreck

sometime later, when the loss of his astromech plunged him back  into  vivid

memories of the destruction of Talon Squadron.

His new squadmates had lured him back to reality.  Had  forced  him  to

look once again at life. To begin thinking again about  his  present,  about

his future.

He returned his attention to his sensors. There would be no  future  if

he plowed into a hillside.

All right, then. There were two paths  open  to  him  ...  assuming  he

didn't get killed before he could begin to follow them.

First was the one that had dominated  his  thinking  ever  since  Talon

Squadron had died. For months, he'd considered putting in for a transfer  to

Intelligence, or resigning his commission altogether, so he could devote his

life to tracking down the individuals who had destroyed Talon Squadron.

Inyri Forge had been right. Revenge was a powerful motivator. A  desire

for revenge, for justice, was always with Donos. It welcomed him to each new

day when he awoke, lurked at the back of his mind as he did his  work,  made

soothing promises to him every night when  he  drifted  off  to  sleep.  And

sometimes it occupied his dreams. He knew, deep down, that if he  were  able

to find the responsible parties under his snubfighter guns or in  the  sight

of his laser rifle, he'd pull the trigger without hesitation, without  qualm

... regardless of what it cost him.

Of  course,  two  of  the  most  important  conspirators   behind   the

destruction of his squadron were already  dead.  Admiral  Apwar  Trigit  had

planned the ambush. Lieutenant Gara Petothel had provided  Trigit  with  the

data he needed for that  operation.  Petothel  had  died  on  Trigit's  Star

Destroyer, Implacable, and Trigit had died soon after, trying to escape in a

TIE interceptor, brought down by Donos himself.

But others had to have been involved. Imperial Intelligence  operatives

had gotten Lieutenant Petothel her false identity and her posting with Fleet

Command.  They'd  smuggled  her  from  New  Republic-controlled   space   to

Implacable. Elements of the 181st Imperial Fighter  Group  now  inexplicably

helping Warlord Zsinj had participated in the ambush. There were plenty more

conspirators who needed to die.

But part of him no longer wanted to be the instrument of that death. An

ever-growing part of him wanted to live a normal life. And that led  to  his

second choice, the one he'd been toying with ever  since  he  had  recovered

from his collapse: stay in  Starfighter  Command  and  try  to  rebuild  his

career, regain his respectability ... renew his life.

A woman named Falynn Sandskimmer had loved him. He didn't know  whether

he'd loved her in return, whether he'd even been able to at  the  time.  But

he'd had affection for her,

and what she'd felt for him had reminded him of what it was like to  be

a normal human. She, too, had died aboard Implacable, before he'd  ever  had

the chance to sort out his feelings for her.

And now ... he checked his sensor board for Wraith Two. There she  was,

toward the head of their formation, tucked in neatly behind Wraith One. Lara

Notsil.

He'd exchanged so little with Notsil. Some advice. One  ground  mission

in which he'd saved her from  kidnapping  at  the  hands  of  Zsinj  agents.

Conversation in pilots' lounges and during leave time.

But for the little amount of time they'd shared, she did occupy  a  lot

of his thinking. Her intelligence and her beauty drew him. And her  secrecy:

she seemed to have no affection for the life she'd lost, the life of a  farm

girl from the world 6f Aldivy, and yet so much of her  was  private,  locked

behind doors that obviously led to her childhood.

And one other thing seemed so familiar  to  him:  the  way  she  seemed

adrift, cut off from her past, yet having no apparent idea how  to  navigate

toward her future. He understood that part of her, felt tremendous  sympathy

for her. They were so alike.

Yet that would mean nothing if neither one of them did  anything  about

it. She might not even be aware of how he felt, of what he was thinking.

She isn't aware, an inner voice told him. And she's not  going  to  be.

Don't foul up her life the way you've  fouled  up  your  own.  Do  something

conclusive with your life. Resign your commission. Hunt down  your  enemies.

Settle the accounts of your pilots.

True. He shouldn't force his way into her life,  only  to  abandon  her

when he went off on some justified spree of revenge.  Better  to  leave  her

alone.

But what if he could offer her as much life, as much of a future, as he

thought she could offer him?

Now you 're using that misfiring hunk of erratic machinery you refer to

as a brain.

That startled him. The words were in the voice of Ton Phanan, a  fellow

Wraith; they were typical of his ordinary con-

versation. Ton, who'd died mere weeks ago. Ton, who  had  also  decided

that he had no future, and  perhaps  had  died  because  he  couldn't  bring

himself to struggle for his life as hard as he should.

And there it was. Donos did have a future, as Ton did not. Donos  could

choose to abandon it and pursue his life of revenge, and then maybe  .  .  .

maybe . . . come back from it if he lived. Or he could just choose to  live.

Which meant doing something harder than he'd ever done before.

He might just have to forgive himself for letting his pilots die.

He might just have to initiate a conversation with a  young  woman  who

was suddenly important to him.

It was a spot where the hillside leveled out in a treeless  glade  some

seventy meters in diameter. Without repulsorlifts, they could never have all

landed upon it, but Rogue Squadron and Wraith  Squadron  arrayed  themselves

precisely, in neat rows and columns.

As the pilots scrambled out of their cockpits under  the  sliver  of  a

moon, Wedge said, "Get  those  camouflage  covers  out.  Transfer  any  fuel

remaining from the auxiliary tanks into the interceptors. Snap it up. I want

us blanketed down and out of sight in ten minutes. We have dawn in less than

an hour. Hobbie, Corran, Asyr, Tal'dira, I want  you  out  on  first  watch.

Everyone else, four hours' sleep. Face?" He crooked a finger.

He and Face took a few steps aside to be out of  the  bustle  of  pilot

preparations. The ground underneath was covered by  shin-high  grasses  that

were too pale a green to be healthy-looking  in  Wedge's  eyes.  "We  had  a

pretty good look at the northeast approaches to Lurark. Did you see anything

to give us new problems?"

Face shook his head. "I don't think so. The  big  question  is  how  to

acquire transport-the  city  doesn't  seem  to  be  set  up  for  pedestrian

traffic."

"That's up to you. Sleep on it."

Face managed a rueful grin Wedge could barely  see  in  the  moonlight.

"Oh, sure. As though I could sleep."

Once he had the camo covers tied down over his X-wing and had made sure

that his astromech, Clink, was settled in, Donos sought out Lara.  He  found

her under her own camouflage cover, kneeling on the starboard S-foils of her

snubfighter, whispering to her own R2, Tonin. Fie waited patiently until she

emerged and extended a hand to help her down. "Could  I  have  a  word  with

you?" he asked, and was immediately annoyed with himself, at  the  formality

of his voice.

"Of course."

He led her into the deeper shadow between her  X-wing  and  Kell's  TIE

interceptor. "There's something I wanted you to think  about."  There,  that

was better-a more normal tone to his voice, in spite of the  way  his  chest

suddenly felt compressed. He was in full control again.

"What's that?"

"Me."

She looked at him, and one eyebrow went  up,  a  mocking  look.  "Rebel

pilots have the biggest egos in all the known universe..."

"Well, it's not like that. I'm asking out of a sense of fairness. Since

I'm spending all this time thinking about you."

Her smile faded. "Myn, I'm not amused."

"Good. I'm not trying to amuse you. Look, I  just  spent  a  long  time

working up the nerve to bring this up with you at all. It  was  harder  than

almost anything I've done. So don't be amused. Take it seriously."

She took a step back from him, bringing her up against the  wing  array

of Kell's interceptor. "No, no, no. Just turn around  and  go  find  someone

else to be interested in. I'm not right for you."

He couldn't keep the smile from coming to his face. "Oh, that's a  very

good sign."

"What is?"

"You didn't say, 'Go away, I don't like you.'  You  started  suggesting

reasons that are theoretically in my best interest."

She wrapped her arms around herself, as though to protect herself  from

a chill, and glared. "I don't like you."

"Now you're lying. You do that a lot, just like Face. I'm

getting better at figuring out when you're doing  it."  He  stepped  in

close. "You can't get rid of me by lying to me."

"I'm a mess. I'm barely fit to fly."

"Me, too. We make a perfect couple."

"If I don't get killed, I'm sure my career  is  going  to  crater.  I'm

going to be a tremendous embarrassment to the Wraiths."

"How about that-me, too! Another thing we have in common."

"Stop it!" She looked surprised by the volume of her voice  and  looked

around to see if anyone had noticed.

Donos looked, too, but the camp was still bustling  with  activity.  No

one stopped to peer at the source of the cry.

When he looked at Lara's face again,  though,  something  had  changed.

There was a stillness to her, a watchfulness that was almost  reptilian.  He

suppressed an urge to step away from her.

"I could say twelve words," Lara said, "and when I was done,  the  very

least you'd do is turn away and leave me alone forever."

He could tell that she was speaking the truth, and the  fact  that  she

had the power to do this, to send him away, dismayed him.  "Then  don't  say

them."

Donos had really only meant to let her know of his interest, perhaps to

rattle her, but she now looked so distant and lost that he couldn't just let

her be. He put his arms around her and drew her to him.

When her lips met his, they were clenched tight and  she  was  shaking.

But then she relaxed into the kiss. Her arms snaked up around his neck.  She

made a noise that was part wail, and only he could hear it.

There she was, suddenly part of him, and  he  wondered  how  he'd  ever

lived so long without her being there.

Then she drew back her head, her  remoteness  gone,  her  expression  a

little curious, a little anxious.

"That's more like it," he said. And realized immediately  that  it  was

the wrong thing to say.

She gave him a look he could only  imagine  her  normally  offering  to

someone pouring paint into her X-wing's engines. "Thanks,"  she  said.  "For

reminding me what a gasbag of ego

you are." She turned him around, trading places with him, and gave  him

a hard shove.

His head banged into the interceptor wing. "Ow," he said.

She spun and walked away from him at a fast stride. "Stay away from me,

Lieutenant," she said. "Just keep away."

Oh, well. Considering how badly he usually did with people, that hadn't

gone poorly at all.  Donos  sighed  and  headed  back  to  his  snubfighter,

resisting the urge to whistle.

5

The landspeeder Seteem Ervic drove along the old country road  was  old

and slow, but it was still powerful enough to haul  a  several-ton  load  of

grain cakes from his family business to his customers in Lurark.

He ran a hand through what was left of his hair. He could buy a  newer,

sportier speeder, of course. But he hadn't inherited  the  family's  failing

concern and then built it into a flourishing business by throwing money away

on nonessentials. He was almost rich. He'd never be rich if he loaded up  on

luxuries.

True, it had taken him years. Cost him his first wife, who said he  was

boring, that they never had anything to talk about. Cost him his hair, which

had fallen away as the seasons had passed. At least his hair  was  something

to talk about. And, true, nothing ever really happened to him.  But  he  was

almost rich, and that was what counted. If his brightest daughter turned out

the way he expected her to,  she'd  take  his  solid  business  and  make  a

worldwide concern out of it. And she'd be rich for real.

He rounded a bend in the dusty road and something happened to him.

There, a hundred meters up, something  lay  in  the  road.  As  he  got

closer, in spite of the glare from the sun, he could see  it  was  a  body-a

human body. He slowed, and when he was a mere handful of meters away, locked

the landspeeder down in hover mode and hopped out to take a look.

Human female, dark-skinned, eyes closed, lying in the  dust  as  though

she'd been thrown-from what? A speeder? There was no recent sign of repulsor

traffic on this road. A riding animal? No hoof marks. In fact, there were no

footprints around her.

She was wearing a black jumpsuit like a TIE fighter  pilot's,  and  her

pose-lying on her back, one arm behind her head- suggested she was  sleeping

rather than injured. There was no sign of  gross  injury.  She  wasn't  even

dusty.

He leaned closer. Maybe she wasn't hurt.  Maybe  he  wouldn't  have  to

interrupt his trip to the city. "Young lady?"

Her eyes popped  open.  She  smiled,  showing  deep  dimples,  becoming

insufferably cute. "Yes?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Oh, no. Just resting."

He straightened. "Ah. Well, good. Can I offer you a ride?"

She brought her hand from behind her  head.  In  it  was  a  snub-nosed

blaster pistol. "Sure. In fact, you can offer me your whole landspeeder."

He turned to look back  at  his  vehicle.  A  half  dozen  people  were

clustered around it,  looking  at  the  control  board,  peering  under  the

reflective sheets tied down over the cargo bay. He hadn't heard them arrive;

they might have materialized out of thin air.

He turned back to the young woman, who was on her feet. He offered  her

a weak smile and raised his hands. Well, at least this would be something to

talk about.

By midafternoon, the human members  of  the  Wraiths  had  been  around

Binring Biomedical several times and had  spent  long  hours  surveying  the

facility.

It was huge, easily two kilometers wide by one deep, most of that  area

taken up by fabrication plants. There were staging  and  loading  areas  for

landspeeders and other transports. The place had its own light-rail depot.

Face, Lara, Donos, Tyria, Kell, Shalla, and  Wes  sat  around  a  large

circular  table  at  an  open-air  cafe  separated  from  the  main  Binring

Biomedical entrance by a broad traffic  thoroughfare.  Speeder  traffic  was

constant. Everyone on this world seemed to own a personal speeder,  and  the

city was huge and sprawling, though not densely built up or  occupied.  Face

estimated that he hadn't seen more than a half  dozen  buildings  more  than

three stories in height. "All right, people," he said.  "We  have  too  much

factory over there to search in one night. We need to have a good idea where

Zsinj's special facilities are, or where we can find out  that  information,

before we go in tonight. If the special  facilities  aren't  at  this  site,

we'll definitely need to get into their computer center. Any ideas?"

Lara said, "I see  six  likely  places  for  a  special  facility,  all

connected  to  exterior  docking  areas.  West  Sixteen,  Northwest   Seven,

Northwest  Two,  Northeast  One,  East  Thirty,  or  East  Thirty-One."  Her

designations referred to  loading  and  unloading  areas-West  Sixteen,  for

instance, meant Western Quadrant, Loading Area Sixteen.

Wes said, "Just Northwest Two or East Thirty-One. We can eliminate  the

others."

Shalla said, "Just Northwest Two."

Tyria looked unhappy, but nodded. "Northwest Two."

Face sighed. He hadn't seen anything to suggest likely  prospects,  and

their assessment baffled him. "Let's take that again,  in  the  same  order.

Lara?"

"The places I noted lack power meters on the roof. Everywhere  else  in

that complex, you get external power meters  under  lockdown  cases.  Backup

meters for the city power managers  to  get  their  data,  probably  if  the

standard meter transmitters fail. I bet they're analog rather  than  digital

and retain data even if their own power fails. Anyway,  they're  at  regular

intervals . . . except in those six places. This suggests that  those  zones

have separate generators and don't depend on the city grid."

Face gave her a close look. "Lara, are you all right?  You  don't  look

too good."

He was right; she seemed paler than usual, with dark half circles under

her eyes. She gave him a wan smile. "You always

know the right thing to say. No, I just didn't sleep well. I'll be  fit

to go tonight."

"Ail right... Wes?"

The baby-faced lieutenant took a final sip of  his  caf  and  grimaced.

"Cold. Um, it has to do with privacy and defensibility.  Northwest  Two  and

East Thirty-One have advantages that way. The loading-dock  areas  are  down

recessed alley accesses that can be closed, remotely or directly, by  gates.

Both have roof access for flying vehicles but mesh screens  can  be  dragged

across them, as well, to limit  access.  The  alleys  don't  have  doors  or

viewports, so the traffic down them can be private."

"Right. Shalla?"

She waved toward the east facing of the complex, which was  around  the

corner to their right. "East Thirty-One had some  vehicle  traffic  when  we

were looking at it. Really expensive landspeeder with reflective  viewports.

One of them was large enough to put a swimming tank in. I think  that's  the

private entrance for corporate executives, board members,  and  so  on.  The

really  wealthy.  Also,  East  Thirty-One  opens  onto  one  of   the   busy

thoroughfares, while Northwest Two opens onto a back street with nothing but

warehouse buildings facing it. Like Wes said, privacy issues."

"That makes sense. Tyria?"

She didn't meet his gaze. "I just know it." She seemed huddled  in  her

chair. Kell reached over to take her hand, but she barely acknowledged him.

Face said, "That's not good enough, Tyria. What do you know? How do you

know it?"

She shook her head hard, sending her blond ponytail flip- , ping across

the features of Donos beside her, and finally looked at  Face  directly.  "I

felt it. When we cruised past. There's  something  there.  A  residue  of...

pain. Of things so badly hurt that they desperately wanted to die. Not  test

animals, either. There was awareness there."

Face suppressed a shudder.

Kell said, "You felt something from the Force."

Tyria nodded. "I've been working so hard, to learn to  relax  into  it,

not to push at it... not to force the Force, as it were. Sometimes,  now,  I

can put myself into a flow state where I'm

almost not myself. I'm just reacting to what I'm feeling.  I'd  managed

to do that when we cruised past. I almost wish I hadn't. I  almost  lost  my

last meal."

"Well, that's a good thing," Kell  said.  When  Tyria  looked  at  him,

confused, he amended, "Not the throwing-up part. The flow-state  part.  That

sounds like an improvement."

She managed a faint smile for him.

"Northwest Two," Face said. "That's our best entry."

"No," Lara said.

Face held up a hand. "Wait a second. Next to Northwest  Two.  Northwest

One or Three. Where the security is likely to be less substantial."

"Yes," Lara said.

Face sagged in relief. "She said yes," he said. "You have no  idea  how

long I've been waiting to hear her say yes."

Donos murmured something under his breath and Lara flushed red.

Under cover  of  darkness,  they  emerged  from  beneath  the  sheeting

covering the speeder's cargo bed. The  speeder  was  parked  between  refuse

containers in the parking area of a warehouse; across the  thoroughfare  was

Binring's northwestern quadrant. This was the last the Wraiths would see  of

the speeder; at some point during the day its loss, and the disappearance of

its owner, had to have been reported, and  there  was  too  much  danger  in

piloting it around avenues of Lurark  left  almost  deserted  at  nightfall.

They'd acquire other transportation for their departure from the city.

Shalla, kneeling in the shadow of one of the refuse containers, scanned

the empty street and darkened Binring  buildings  below  through  a  set  of

holorecording macrobinoculars. "Downward-facing  holocams  with  overlapping

coverage," she said. "Standard placement.  For  Imperial  forces,  that  is.

Overkill for a pharmaceutical-fabrications plant. Wait a second."

Face knelt beside her. The second turned into several, then finally she

spoke. "There's a gap in the coverage. The  most  northern  holocam  on  the

western wall is positioned so it can't really see  around  the  corner.  The

most western holocam on the

northern wall isn't far enough west to make up  the  gap  ...  I  don't

think." She lowered the goggles and brought out a glow rod so she could look

at the hand-drawn map they'd assembled that afternoon. "That's right. If  we

come in from the north, along this narrow approach, the holocams can't  pick

us up."

"It's a lie," Tyria said. Her voice was a whisper, a sad whisper.

Shalla shot her a look. "What do you mean?"

Tyria started as if out of some reverie and gave her a  nervous  smile.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way.  It's  not  your  lie,  Shalla.  It's

theirs." Her wave indicated the Binring building.  "There's  a  big  .  .  .

watchfulness over there waiting for us. It's laughing."

Shalla said, "You're getting weird, Tyria."

"Yes, but let's take her at her word," Face said. "Shalla,  could  they

have set up the mistake in coverage deliberately, as a lure?"

"Yes."

"What would they be doing?"

"They'd have a secondary set of holocams in a less-obvious place."  She

brought up the macrobinoculars again. "I'd put  them  in  those  overhanging

spotlights. There'd be no way to see them without getting right up  to  them

... and turning the lights out, of course."

There was a whine of machinery behind them  and  their  stolen  speeder

moved off into the avenue, Donos at the controls. His job was  to  pilot  it

some distance away, acquire another one, and return, then set himself up  in

a position to snipe if the Wraiths experienced pursuit when  they  departed.

Face noted Lara staring after Donos long after  the  speeder  was  gone  and

wondered what was going on between them. Something cheerful, he hoped.

"All right," Face said. "We're going in by the high road."

Minutes later, the entire crew of black-clad  Wraiths  stood  atop  the

near warehouse, one that was, mercifully, far less thoroughly defended  than

their target. It was also one story taller than the Binring building,  which

would work in their favor.

Kell spent a few minutes mounting a device at the edge of the roof.  It

looked something like a small projectile cannon on a swivel mount,  but  the

repulsorlift-based clamping system at

the base of the mount was like nothing seen on a normal  cannon.  "This

had better work," Kell murmured.

"It'll work," Shalla said.

"How do you know?"

"My sister and I had one  when  we  were  little  girls.  They're  very

reliable. Proven technology."

"You and your sister come from an odd family, Shalla."

She smiled at him, teeth gleaming. "Don't be jealous."

Kell made a final adjustment to  the  weapon  and  peered  through  its

scope. "Ready, Captain."

Face said, "Numbers only from now on, people. Five, fire at will."

Kell slowly squeezed the trigger.  The  device  made  a  noise  like  a

protracted sneeze and launched a missile  across  the  street;  the  missile

dragged a length of black fibra-rope behind it. There was the faintest sound

of a metallic clank atop the Binring building; then a motor  started  up  in

the gun and drew the fibra-rope taut.

Shalla  clipped  two  devices  to  the  cable:  sleeve  housings   with

handlebars hanging from them. "Crawler ready to go."

"Go. Ten, cover her."

Janson drew his blaster pistol and aimed in at the far roof.  For  most

people this would be considered a tricky shot with a  pistol-thirty-five  or

more meters in darkness. But the other Wraiths knew Janson to be  an  expert

pistol shot.

Shalla carefully gripped the handlebars of the lead crawler device  and

swung herself out over empty space. Nimbly, she brought her legs up  so  her

knees were over the bars of the second device. Then she thumbed a control on

the handles she gripped ... and the crawler sped out along  the  fibra-rope,

carrying her to the roof of the  far  building.  A  moment  later,  the  two

devices came back, the hand device pushing the knee device before it.

One after another, they took the crawler across, each  Wraith  settling

in a crouch on the far roof. By the time Face arrived, halfway  through  the

pack  of  Wraiths,  Lara,  Shalla,  and  Kell  had  already  examined  their

surroundings for accesses and other sensors.

And found some. "Standard roof hatches at intervals,"

Kell said. "And infrared beams just over there." He  pointed.  "On  the

roof over Northwest Two."

"I find myself shocked," Face said. "No, really."

"We'll need to leave L-Two-one of the sets of infra-goggles so she  can

get through the beams."

"Give her yours. We'll rely on Four and her set when we're in."

Once they were assembled, Face directed Kell to disable security on the

nearest roof access  adjacent  to  Northwest  Two.  Within  moments  he  had

bypassed the basic security system there. Tyria  led  the  descent  down  an

access ladder, Face and Shalla close behind her.

And that was already a problem. Ever since Tyria had indicated that her

fleeting control over the Force had given her some insight into what went on

at Binring, Face knew he had to put her on the  intrusion  team.  But  she'd

originally been assigned to planting tracers on the roof. Face had  switched

her duties with Lara's. But  that  cost  the  intrusion  team  some  of  its

technical proficiency, Lara being more mechanically adept than Tyria.  Kell,

their demolitions expert, and Shalla, their intelligence expert, now had  to

share much of the security work Lara would have been handling.

The change also cost them some faith in their tracer team. Tyria was an

old enough hand to have managed her temporary partner, Elassar,  but  Lara's

abilities to handle an unknown quantity like the new pilot were unproven.

Face shrugged. It was done, it would do him no good to worry.

Lara placed the fourth transmitter-marker against the knee-high barrier

that served as inadequate warning to people that they should not go over the

edge and fall off the roof. She activated it and watched it run through  its

self-test. Then she pulled back away from it in a  crouch,  making  it  more

difficult for people at street level to see her.

Elassar was already four meters back from  the  edge,  seated,  popping

something that looked suspiciously like candy into his mouth. "All done?" he

asked.

"Not quite. I'm going to take a holo of  the  rooftop  and  surrounding

area, then show on it where the markers are and transmit that to the Rogues.

That'll give them a visual reference to go with their sensor  readings.  Why

don't you make yourself useful? Or is that unlucky?"

He smiled at her, showing his fangs. "Not unlucky. I've done everything

I can for this mission in the field of luck. I've  cast  all  the  charms  I

could manage, and unlike the rest of you, I've refrained from doing anything

unlucky. And I've made myself useful, too. I found something out."

Lara readied her holocam, held it steady before her eye,  and  began  a

slow, careful 360-degree turn. Once this special surveyor's  holocam  caught

the panoramic image she wanted, she would be able  to  mark  points  on  the

image and type in numeric values related  to  their  relative  altitude  and

distance from  one  another.  Then  the  gadget's  internal  computer  would

generate a proportionally correct image that any navigational computer, such

as an astromech, could look at from any relative  altitude.  "What  did  you

find out?"

"Well, that whole network of  infrared  beams  over  Northwest  Two.  I

looked at it through your infra-goggles. The posts that the beams are coming

out of are years old. They're well kept-up, but there's corrosion  on  them,

and I can see where one  of  the  posts  has  had  to  be  straightened  and

realigned when it was knocked over or something."

"So?" Lara finished her  turn  and  knelt  with  the  holocam.  On  its

built-in screen, she brought up the image  she'd  just  taken.  She  slid  a

stylus from the side of the device and began marking her reference points.

"So the roof surface over there is brand-new. It's not  brand-new  here

or on any of the places we've been walking, but it's brand-new there."

Lara looked up, suddenly disturbed. "Show me."

There was no marker to indicate the border between  Northwest  Two  and

Northwest Three, but they stopped a meter short of the first post that  they

knew held the infrared devices. Elassar knelt and Lara followed suit.

"See, here," Elassar said. He stretched a finger up almost to the point

protected by the infrared. "A seam."

Lara couldn't see, so she risked a moment's illumination with her  glow

rod. Elassar was right: there was a score, straight as a laser beam, running

along the roof between the two building sections. It was so thin  as  to  be

nearly invisible even in good light.

She switched the rod off. "So  the  roof  material  was  laid  down  in

sections. It looks just the same as the roof here."

"Yes, it does. It has been walked on and scuffed a lot, just  like  the

roofing here. But it smells different. Much sharper. It's new."

Lara sighed. This had to be some new-pilot prank. But, obligingly,  she

leaned back and sniffed at the roofing they'd been walking  on.  It  smelled

faintly of industrial chemicals. Then she leaned forward and  sniffed  again

at the other section.

The smell was stronger, crisper.

From her wrist sheath she pulled her vibroblade. She did not  power  it

on. She dug at the seam between  the  two  roof  sections,  prying  the  new

section up. It was a gummy mass perhaps two centimeters  deep  and  resisted

her efforts, but finally she was able to turn up a  flap  of  the  material.

Elassar obligingly pulled at the edge until half a square meter  or  so  was

revealed.

The underside of the material was thick with tiny circular devices made

of shiny metal. They were spaced at  about  eight-centimeter  intervals  and

connected by thin silvery wires. "Pressure sensors," she said.

"Not a problem," said Elassar. "None of  us  walked  on  them.  And  we

didn't apply pressure to pull them up."

"That's not the point. They've added a  layer  of  security  under  the

substantial security already in place, and it's a different type. If they've

done that throughout the complex, the Wraiths might be dismantling one layer

but not the new stuff."

"So give them a call."

"Which will probably give our presence away."  She  sighed  and  looked

over the boulevard at the rooftop where Donos was. She couldn't see him, but

she'd heard his return with a new speeder a few minutes before.  It  was  so

hard, working with people; on her missions for Imperial Intelligence,  she'd

always been alone. No one else to be responsible for.

She brought up her comlink and thumbed on its scrambler

mode. "Two to Six. Do not  acknowledge.  Additional  security  on  roof

suggests this site is prepared for your arrival. Check for new modifications

to your surroundings. Two out." She grabbed up her holocam and rose.  "Let's

move out."

"Comm signal," a technician said. His voice was unnaturally shrill.

Dr. Gast blinked and  looked  around.  She'd  actually  fallen  asleep.

Boredom and lack of any decent occupation will do that to you, she  thought,

her voice cranky even when expressed only in her own mind.

The control room was antiseptically white, except where the  floor  and

walls were marked by black marks and scores resulting from  the  haste  with

which some of this  equipment  had  been  assembled.  The  four  walls  were

occupied by banks of terminals,  each  dedicated  to  a  different  area  of

coverage or function. Six per wall, twenty-four in all, occupied every  hour

of the day, and never anything to report  except  the  occasional  repairman

working on an adjacent roof section or an avian landing on the roof  of  the

protected zone.

Until now, maybe.

Gast's own console was  a  nearly  complete  circle  of  terminals  and

controls, her chair in the center. She lazily swiveled until she could  look

at the back of the technician who'd spoken. "Let's hear it," she said.

"It's encrypted, Doctor."

"Decrypt it. Where's it coming from?"

"I have that." Another technician's voice. He didn't bother to wait for

permission; he patched through his holocam view to one of Gast's  terminals.

She liked that. Initiative. Which one was this? It was Drufeys, the lean one

with the lazy eye.

The holocam was an infrared unit., It was a static view  of  the  roof,

and showed two blurry red figures, one male and one female,  creeping  along

the roof.

Away from the protected zone. Gast frowned. That was disappointing. Had

they recognized the first line of security and decided to run away?

She turned to the console where her new intelligence specialist, a  man

on loan from Warlord Zsinj, sat. "Captain Netbers, what are they doing?"

Netbers rose and approached her. He was a huge man, easily  two  meters

tall, with a musculature that suggested he spent more time improving it than

he did sleeping. A pity he was so ugly- obviously a fighter,  he  looked  as

though he had fallen asleep in an automatic door and it had slammed shut  on

his face for an afternoon. But the eyes underneath  his  shaggy  brown  hair

were dark and intelligent. When he spoke, his  voice  was  deep  and  raspy.

"They've seen the security perimeter."

"And it scared them off?"

He smiled. His teeth  were  regular.  She  somehow  doubted  they  were

original  equipment.  "No,"  he  said.  "That  comm  transmission  was  them

informing the other members of their team. They're getting clear in case  we

caught the signal."

"We haven't seen any sign of other intruders."

"We will."

She turned back to  Drufeys.  "Monitor  their  progress.  When  they've

settled in, have a squad of stormtroopers stand by within striking  distance

of them."

"Yes, Doctor."

She quelled an excitement rising within her and turned back to Netbers.

"I have a feeling this is going to be fun, Captain. Is it usually fun?"

He nodded.

Kell swore and pushed his head deeper into the  access  hatch.  He  was

hanging from sturdy metal rungs in the  turbolift  shaft,  one  floor  below

street level, illuminated only by the glow rod held by Shalla, who stood  on

the same rung he did and helped brace him  as  he  worked.  The  panel  Kell

investigated opened into a maze of wires and circuitry,  and  his  head  was

missing in that forest of equipment. "Give me more light."

Shalla leaned in closer to oblige, poking her hand and glow rod through

the curtain of wiring. She could see his neck flex as he looked around.

Finally Kell withdrew-slowly, so as not to knock  Shalla  free  of  her

perch. He twisted to look over his shoulder at the other Wraiths,  clustered

in the open turbolift door behind him. "Two was right.  There's  new  wiring

throughout. If we'd gone down and disabled the monitors on the panel between

lift shafts, we would have set off another alarm."

Face asked, "Can you disable that alarm?"

Kell considered. Shalla knew this really wasn't  his  speciality.  He'd

said he was lucky to have done as well as he had on this  mission.  "Maybe,"

he said. "But I can't be sure I've identified all the security at that entry

point. I think instead we need to go through a non-entry point."

"Like where?"

"Like here."  He  gestured  at  the  curtain  of  wires.  "Beyond  this

monkey-lizard nest, we have a riveted panel of  metal  between  us  and  the

Northwest Two lift shaft. But it's not armor quality. I  vote  we  just  cut

through and descend."

"Doit."

Kell brought out his vibroblade and powered it on.

They were within three meters of the bottom  of  the  shaft  when  Kell

spotted the access hatch they would have used had they  not  changed  plans.

"Nine, the gauge again?"

He felt Shalla rummage around in the  top  pocket  of  his  demolitions

pack. Then she handed him the sensor device he'd had to use  so  many  times

tonight. It read electrical currents and was of vital use to  mechanics  and

demolitions experts, two categories into which Kell fit.

He aimed the device at the panel and swept it all around the bottom  of

the shaft. It registered a considerable amount of  electrical  current  flow

beyond the panel, no surprise, and along the recessed slot used by turbolift

cars of this sort to acquire their power.

There was also a suspicious spike of activity on the wall opposite  the

panel, just above the door out of the lift shaft. It took him a few  moments

to identify the hemispherical depression, not larger than  the  end  of  his

thumb, in the metal just

above the door. "Holocam recess," he said. "But it's set  up  to  watch

the panel. If we get across  to  the  door  side  and  drop  beside  it,  it

shouldn't spot us."

Face said, "There are no rungs over there, Five."

"Oh, well. Guess we go home instead." Kell had Shalla  tuck  the  gauge

back in his pack. He checked to make sure that his pack and other gear  were

secure.

Then he let go of the rung he was holding on to and leaped  across  the

turbolift shaft, slapping into the far wall like a slapstick character  from

a holocomedy. He dropped the final three meters to the duracrete  bottom  of

the shaft, his large frame easily handling the shock of landing. He gestured

up at his comrades as though to say, "Simple."

He saw Face shake his head ruefully.

One by one they followed  his  lead.  He  half  caught  each  of  them,

fractionally slowing their  descents,  then  got  to  work  on  the  minimal

security on the turbolift door.

The halls were empty, sanitary, still  smelling  faintly  of  something

antiseptic. The lights were on at half intensity, making even the  whiteness

of the walls and floor seem dim. All the Wraiths could hear was the  distant

hum of air-moving machinery and their own faint footsteps.

Face didn't like it. It felt abandoned, and an empty facility would not

yield them any secrets. It also felt somehow wrong. He glanced at  Tyria  to

gauge her response-perhaps her abilities with the Force,  however  faint  or

erratic, would tell her something. But he could not read her  face;  at  his

own command, all the Wraiths, now that they were moving in what should  have

been populated areas, were wearing black cloth masks covering everything but

their eyes and mouths.

All the Wraiths but Piggy, that is. No mask could conceal his  species,

and only one member of his species would travel with a  commando  unit  this

way.

"I know this floor," Piggy said. Both his real voice and his mechanical

one were modulated so low that Face could barely hear them.  "This  was  the

third of four floors. We came down here only when we were injured. The bacta

ward was right

down-" He pointed his finger at a blank section of wall  to  his  right

and stopped.

Face asked, "Right down where, Eight?"

"Down this hall."

"That's a wall."

"I know." Piggy stepped up to the wall and looked at it very carefully.

Then he bent to look at the flooring beneath it. When he turned to Kell, his

expression, to the extent that Face could read  Gamorrean  expressions,  was

confused.

Kell obligingly aimed his electrical current detector at  that  section

of wall, waving it about slowly.  "Nothing  to  suggest  any  sort  of  door

mechanism.  There's  some  faint  electrical  activity   beyond,   but   not

immediately beyond.  Several  meters,  I  think,  and  no  heavy  electrical

currents."

Tyria said, "The wear on the  floor  doesn't  show  that  anything  has

turned down a hall here, Eight. And the floor  looks  as  though  it's  been

through several years of wear."

"Yes," Piggy said. But he still stared at the wall as if accusing it of

lying. "They've taken up the floor from somewhere else and moved it here  to

conceal the deception."

"All right," Face said. "But even so, the only thing down this hall  of

yours was a bacta ward-correct?"

"Correct."

"We'll check it out if we don't find anything elsewhere. Let's look  at

what you never got to see before. All right?"

Piggy nodded.

They continued up the main hall, the only hall, to its end. On the left

was a large  double  door  leading  into  a  circular  chamber  filled  with

equipment-panels, consoles, and terminals arrayed in a  circle  around  some

sort of large chair. The chair was obviously intended for medical usage;  it

featured brackets to fit around wrist and  ankle,  and  was  festooned  with

equipment on armatures-injectors, viewscreens, racks filled with bottles.

"I know that chair,"  Piggy  said.  "You  got  your  shots  there.  And

performed tests. But it was one floor up."

"Door's clear," Kell said. "No undue security. Do I open it up?"

Face said, "You said three of four. This was the third floor  of  four.

You meant two above this one and one below?"

Piggy nodded.

"How did you get to the fourth floor?"

"By the turbolift." Then Piggy frowned and looked back down the hallway

toward the distant turbolift door.

"But the  turbolift  ended  at  this  floor,"  Face  said.  "There  was

duracrete below.'"

Shalla said, "It was very clean duracrete. No  oil  stains.  I  thought

that was odd. But everything here has been so clean  it  seemed  in  keeping

with the rest."

"Obviously, it was new," Face said. "They've blocked off the  fourth

floor. I wonder why?"

The    others    shrugged.    Tyria     merely     gave     him     her

I-have-a-bad-feeiing-about-this look.

"We can leave now," Shalla said.

"There is no data without risk," Face said, "as one of  my  instructors

used to say. We always wanted to shoot him for it. All right, Five, let's go

in."

Kelt triggered the door control. The double doors  slid  open  and  the

Wraiths entered, blasters up, fanning to either side.

"Doctor?" said another technician. "They're in the First  Chamber."  He

put through the holocam feed to one of her terminals.

Gast looked at the screen and frowned.  "They  got  through  our  outer

perimeter."

Netbers leaned over her shoulder. "They're  pretty  good.  But  they're

here. So they're dead."

"Alert your stormtroopers," Gast said,  then  issued  commands  to  the

others. "Prepare the Second Chamber. Activate comm jamming as  soon  as  the

door to the Second Chamber is opened. No, wait:  Alert  the  other  team  of

stormtroopers to take the intruders  on  the  rooftop,  then  activate  comm

jamming as soon as the Second Chamber is opened." She  frowned,  angry  with

herself for her mistake.

"You're getting the hang of it," Netbers said.

Kell waved an all-clear signal to the others.  The  walls  and  ceiling

offered no circuitry suggesting additional security.

Dia and Shalla covered the door with their blasters. The others  looked

at the equipment in the room.

"I was never in here," Piggy said. "I don't know what the  chamber  was

for. The chair wasn't here. The chair was one floor up, where they did a lot

of testing. I solved math problems in that  chair  while  drugged  or  while

being electrocuted."

"Charming," Face said.

"There's something awful about this room," Tyria said. "Not in the room

itself. Nearby."

"This is a game-table unit," Kell said. He was  on  one  knee,  looking

intently at one of the pieces of equipment  around  the  chair.  "The  table

itself has been taken off and the unit repainted."

"So it broadcasts to the screen on the chair?" Face asked.

"Maybe." Kell looked over the unit, puzzled. "It  doesn't  seem  to  be

fastened down, but it's powered."

"This  machine  washes  clothes,"   Runt   was   staring   with   equal

concentration at a silver-gray metal cube two-thirds the height of a  human.

"They had one like it on the ship Sungrass."

Kell waved his current detector at Runt's device,  then  at  the  floor

around it. "It's self-powered. Like the game table. It's battery-powered  or

something."

"Why?" Face asked. He looked at Piggy, but the Gamorrean looked blankly

back at him.

"Transfer control to my terminal," Gast said.

Then she caught the hurt look on the face of Drufeys and she  relented.

"Oh, very well, you do it."

Drufeys brightened and pressed a button on his console.

Face felt the floor give way beneath him. All around him,  Wraiths  and

equipment dropped. There was blackness and heat beneath him. When  his  feet

hit he tried to roll and absorb some of the shock of impact, but  he  did  a

bad job of it and landed on his chest, the wind knocked out of him. He  felt

something heavy and sharp slam into his back and he grunted from  the  blow.

There were cries and sounds of crashing all around him.

Awkwardly, he rolled to his back. The floor of the room above had split

down the middle. Hinges to either side had allowed it to open like  a  door,

dropping them what looked like a fall of six or seven meters.

And now stormtroopers were lining up at the edges of  the  room  above.

They aimed their blasters down at the Wraiths. One  called  out,  "Throw  up

your demolitions gear or we open fire."

Face looked around. The Wraiths were in no  position  to  resist.  Only

Kell and Shalla were already on their feet. Beyond Kell, Runt was  unmoving,

apparently unconscious. Beside him, a piece of machinery on  her  back,  was

another fallen Wraith-

"Dia!" Face was suddenly on his feet despite the pain. He knelt  beside

Dia, saw at once that she was unconscious, that her left arm lay at an angle

that was not right. She was still breathing.

"Demolitions bag," the stormtrooper repeated. "Or you're all dead."

Face caught Kell's attention and nodded.

But Kell turned to Shalla, and said, "Do what they say, Demolitions."

Shalla didn't hesitate. She shucked off her own pack,  which  contained

her infra-goggles, spare glow rods, and preserved food. She swung it  around

at the end of its straps and hurled it up to the stormtroopers above.

The speaker caught the bag. He and the others  retreated.  The  ceiling

began to close.

"What are you doing?" Face asked. "In thirty seconds they'll know we've

lied. They'll open it up and start shooting."

"In thirty seconds we're supposed to be dead," Kell said. He pulled off

his own pack and rummaged around in its contents. "Take a look around,  One.

You know what this place is?"

Face forced himself to look away from Dia.

The floor was some sort of grating. It seemed  to  be  continuous,  not

made up in sections, and was sturdy enough not to flex beneath the weight of

the Wraiths and all the equipment from the chamber  above.  The  walls  were

heavy, dark metal with a tight grid of nozzles protruding from them.

As he looked, the floor grating beside the walls began glowing red. The

redness spread toward the center of the room

at a quick rate. Heat from the glowing  portions  of  the  grate  swept

across Face and the other Wraiths.

"They burn organic material here," Piggy  said.  He  struggled  to  his

feet, holding his side. "It's an incinerator."

Lara knelt and fretted. Still no communication of  any  sort  from  the

team. Of course, they were supposed to keep comm transmissions to a minimum.

But she wanted to know what was happening down below.

It didn't help that Elassar was so calm. The  Devaronian  junior  pilot

lay on his back, admiring  the  stars.  "A  shooting  star!"  he  whispered.

"That's good luck."

"Is it still lucky if it's one  of  the  asteroids  we  shot  into  the

atmosphere as cover?" Lara asked.

He frowned, considering. "I don't know."

Sixty meters away, there was a terrific  metal  crash  and  two  hinged

pieces of roof slammed open. An open-sided turbolift  rose  into  view.  The

dozen stormtroopers within it jumped out, turning toward Lara and Elassar.

"I guess not," Elassar amended.

Face lifted Dia, as mindful as he could be of her broken arm. "Sorry  I

said anything, Five. Blow us out of here."

Kell slipped his bag back over one shoulder. He held two  charges,  one

in each hand. He tucked one charge into a pocket and tapped  something  into

the keypad of the other.

Tyria hopped up on a boxy piece of metal equipment as  the  redness  of

the floor neared her feet. She peeled off her face mask. The  other  Wraiths

began following suit.  Face  could  see  that  they  were  already  sweating

heavily. So was he, but burdened as he was, he couldn't  do  anything  about

it. Tyria said, "What if the chamber is magnetically sealed?"

"It's not," Face said. "If it were,  they  wouldn't  have  bothered  to

demand our demolitions."

Kell said, "One?"

"What?"

"Where do I place this?"

"Your best guess. You're the demolitions expert. But this deep down, we

may have stone and dirt on ail sides."

"Imperial architecture is kind of conservative," Kell said. "One  floor

is often like another. Meaning that the main hail above may have a  parallel

on this floor. Which was-where?" He looked around blankly. In the  fall  and

the Wraiths's subsequent disorientation, he'd lost track of directions.

Piggy pointed at one wall, then yanked Runt up before the heat  in  the

floor grid reached him. The Thakwaash pilot looked groggy, but mobile.

Flame erupted from every nozzle along the  chamber  walls.  The  flames

were no more than half a meter in length, but the temperature  in  the  room

rose instantly. Several Wraiths swore and all flinched  away  from  the  new

heat.

"Three seconds," Kell said. "Find cover." He threw his package  against

the wall and moved to crouch behind one of the ruined metal cases  of  false

lab equipment.

Face followed suit. He felt the floor grating begin  to  burn  its  way

through his shoes the moment they made contact. He crouched and leaned  back

against the experiment chair, keeping  it  between  him  and  the  explosive

charge, trying to keep Dia's limbs from trailing against the floor.

One floor up, a stormtrooper opened Shalla's pack and extracted a  tube

of processed nutrients. He pawed through the other  contents  of  the  pack,

then held out the nutrient tube to his commander for inspection.

The commander said, "Uh-oh."

6

"I wasn't too sure about this crematorium idea," Netbers said.  "But  I

must admit it seems to have come off rather well. Though the  warlord  might

have preferred a better souvenir than several kilograms of ashes."

Dr. Gast nodded. "But I think he'll be pleased that  they  didn't  just

die-that they died very, very painfully."

"True."

The building rocked and the sound of a muffled detonation reached them.

Technicians jumped up and  looked  around  as  though  deciding  whether  to

situate themselves in doorways.

Netbers  sighed.  "Not  good,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to   lead   the

stormtroopers down to the crematorium level."

Gast stood. "I'm going with you. You'll  need  me  for  access  to  all

levels.".

"Come along."

The explosion hit before Face heard it, before he comprehended it.  All

he knew is that something hard, the frame of the experiment chair,  hit  his

back and propelled him forward- launching Dia toward the burning floor,  the

burning wall. He rolled with the impact, tumbling, trying to keep  Dia  from

contacting the glowing floor grid.

He succeeded. His shoulder hit the grid and he felt the  flooring  burn

through his light tunic, branding him. He continued the roll and the burning

sensation tore down his back, across his buttocks.

There was a burning in his throat, too. It had to have  been  from  his

scream. He felt as though his back had been torn completely free,  revealing

bones and blood for all the world to see. He almost gave  up  then,  as  the

pain told his body to tighten up into a tight ball and lie  there  until  he

died, but he felt his  heels  hit  the  floor  and  he  rose,  instinct  and

adrenaline giving him the energy to keep moving.

He turned back toward the source of the explosion. The  flames  on  the

walls were now growing, extending toward him, but  in  the  center  of  them

there was a different sort of light-  whiteness,  not  redness.  He  lurched

toward it, gaining speed.

There it was in his mind, an absurd image-his  childhood  visit  to  an

arena on Coruscant where animals from all the  planets  of  the  galaxy  did

tricks for the entertainment of men. One of those tricks was leaping through

fiery hoops and frameworks. Now he was doing it.

The floor grating disappeared two steps ahead, ending in a broken  edge

of red-glowing metal. He leaped over the edge into the white void beyond-

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

on his back.

And there the pain from his burns hit  him.  His  back  arched  and  he

shrieked. His body would not obey him,  would  do  nothing  but  writhe  and

shout.

He could not even look down to see if Dia was still with him,  if  he'd

managed to carry the woman he loved out of that inferno.

Lara drew her blaster pistol and  fired.  Her  first  shot  missed  the

leading wave of stormtroopers but  checked  their  progress-  most  of  them

dropped to skid  behind  antennae,  air-conditioning  equipment,  and  other

rooftop gear. The first of them returned

fire and Lara realized rather belatedly that she had  no  cover  before

her.

Elassar had his blaster out in a two-handed  grip.  He  fired,  tearing

uselessly into the side of the metal housing between  him  and  his  target.

Lara grabbed his tunic at the shoulder and tugged him toward  another  metal

housing.

They ducked down behind the landskimmer-sized equipment case and  heard

blaster shots hammer into the far side. "We're in trouble," Lara said.

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

"Oh, if you think you could, that'd be  really  decent  of  you."  Lara

popped up, took a quick shot, was rewarded with  the  image  of  a  pair  of

stormtroopers ducking behind cover. "I'll help too," she  said.  "I'll  call

the troops."

"Deal."

Lara brought out her comlink. "Wraith Two to Rogue  Leader.  Emergency.

Emergency. Do you read?"

The only answer was a hiss of static.

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

There, to his right, lay Dia.  She  was  moving,  her  eyes  half-open.

Beyond her was a jagged hole in a once-pristine white wall. It was three  or

four meters in diameter, starting at knee height and continuing up into  the

ceiling and beyond, and it was lined in flames. Heat rolled  out  of  it,  a

steady wind from a manmade hell.

Out from the fire shot Wes Janson, crashing into  the  same  wall  Face

must have hit, but he kept his feet when he landed. His right  shoulder  and

back were on fire. He dropped to the  floor  and  rolled,  swatting  at  the

flame.

Then came Tyria. She landed short of the wall,  her  blaster  rifle  in

hand. Poised as a heroine from an action holodrama, she swept  up  and  down

the hall with the rifle. There was no sign of fire, even of burn upon her.

Four out. Four to go. Face heaved himself  to  his  feet,  leaving  Dia

where she lay for the moment. There was blood all over  the  flooring  where

he'd fallen. He decided not to think about that for the moment. Or about the

pain-he swore and

brought out his blaster pistol, then reached down  and  began  dragging

Dia out of the path of oncoming Wraiths.

Seconds later, Kell landed where  she  had  just  been.  His  hair  was

charred and his eyebrows were gone, singed away. There were burn stripes  on

his chest, stripes identical to the flooring in the crematorium-and not only

on his chest. His palms and fingers were also black and red with the  marks,

and shook uncontrollably.

Piggy came flying out of the inferno and  crashed  into  the  wall.  He

bounced off and slammed to the floor atop Face's blood slick. A fraction  of

a second later, Shalla landed atop him. She was on fire and had burn stripes

along her right side from armpit to knee, and she shrieked as she rolled  to

extinguish the flames. Piggy slapped at her, trying to help.

Seven of eight. The Wraiths looked at one another as, in  their  pained

and distracted states, they tried to calculate who was missing.

"Oh, no," Kell said. "Runt-"

Then Runt was among them, his chest and  left  side  fully  engaged  in

flame, his fur blackening away as it fed the fire. He landed  on  his  knees

atop Piggy, howling in pain, swinging arms as though  to  strike  the  enemy

burning away at him.

Kell leaped at  Runt,  a  body  check  that  took  him  from  atop  the

Gamorrean. Piggy got up to his feet and fell atop Runt,  hammering  away  at

patches of flame his corpulent body didn't smother.

They just stood there breathing for a moment. Then  Face  straightened,

despite what it cost him in agony to his back. When he spoke, he found  that

his voice cracked with pain and  exertion.  "We're  moving  out,"  he  said.

"There have to be access panels or stairs near where the turbolift  used  to

be. First, open communications with our other team and the Rogues."

Janson took the scorched comm pack from Runt's  back.  Fortunately  the

unit within, though blackened along one side, was functional.

Maybe.

Janson looked up from it. "I'm getting nothing but hiss. Some of it may

be because we're too deep, but I think we're being jammed."

Face nodded. "That figures. All right, we  go.  Ten,  you  take  point.

Four, rear guard."

Janson and Tyria nodded to accept their respective tasks.

Shalla got Dia up to her feet and quickly rigged a sling for  her  arm.

Dia still looked groggy, but she managed to catch Face's eye and gave him  a

look that said she was there, she was functional. There was no time for them

to exchange anything else.

Piggy tried to haul Runt up to his feet, but the Thakwaash pilot  shook

off his hand and stood. He was a mess, much of  his  upper  body  marked  by

flame-blackened fur, and his eyes were wide, vibrating.

Face knew how he felt. It wasn't just pain. Anger blossomed within  him

like the explosive cloud from a proton  torpedo.  "Wraiths,"  he  said,  "no

rules. No mercy. Take out anything that gets between us and home."

From the looks in their faces he knew they'd  have  accepted  no  other

order.

Lara hazarded another look over  her  shoulder.  The  nearest  path  to

escape was the edge of the roof, some thirty meters back. But she was behind

the last cover between this point and the edge. If she and Elassar got up to

run, they'd be cut down. "I think we're done for," she said.

Elassar shook his head. "No. Today's  a  lucky  day.  I  calculated  it

before we started on this mission."

"Ah. Did you remember to invite your luck? Or is it in its bunk on  Mon

Remonda?" Lara popped up to try another shot.

A laser blast, brilliant red, flashed out of the  distance.  It  struck

behind the equipment housing Lara had been firing at- and  hit  one  of  the

stormtroopers there, blasting him sideways, leaving his charred and  smoking

body lying in plain sight on the rooftop.

Elassar gave her an infuriating  grin.  "My  luck  is  your  boyfriend.

Excuse me." He leaned out to the right of the housing protecting him.

Lara and Elassar had enemies dead ahead,  and  Donos  with  his  sniper

rifle across the street to their left. That meant that

stormtroopers close to the Wraiths could be  protected  from  Lara  and

Elassar, or from Donos, but not both. Lara saw stormtroopers scramble to get

their cover between them and Donos's more potent weapon . . . and as soon as

they got around the side of their cover, Elassar opened  fire,  taking  down

one, two, three of them before the remainder realized  the  full  extent  of

their predicament.

Lara  prepared  to  pop  up  for  another  exchange   of   shots.   The

stormtroopers, she knew, had only a couple of options.  They  could  retreat

until they could get cover between them and both sets of  Wraiths,  or  they

could take out one of the directions of enemy fire ... which probably  meant

charging her and Elassar.

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

fire.

The technician Drufeys, now in the command chair of the  control  room,

watched events unfold on the rooftop. Of the eight stormtroopers who'd risen

to charge the two visible Wraiths, four were now down, two felled by blaster

pistols, two more by the laser sniper. The other four were in fast  retreat.

"This isn't going well," he said. "Call  Argenhald  Base  and  ask  them  to

scramble a couple of TIE fighters. Give them the approximate position of the

sniper."

The technician he had addressed, the communications  specialist,  said,

"We're still jamming."

"Use a land line, stupid."

"You don't have to call me stupid."

"Yes, I actually do have to. Get to it." Drufeys settled back into  the

chair. He liked the feel of it. Too bad this facility was being  shut  down.

But perhaps, if he displayed enough competence, he'd  find  some  task  with

Warlord Zsinj. He smiled. He liked that idea.

The Wraiths were within sight of the old turbolift doors,  were  within

thirty meters and could see how the doors had been laser-welded shut, when a

side door slammed open and storm-

troopers began pouring  into  the  hall.  Stormtroopers,  an  unarmored

officer, a civilian woman.

"Get back!" Face shouted. "We have to-"

He was going to say "retreat." They had to get back  and  away  from  a

numerically superior-and uninjured-enemy force.

But then it happened. Face recognized  the  big  man  in  the  Imperial

captain's  outfit.  Weeks  before,  disguised  as  General  Kargin  of   the

Hawk-bats, Face had watched Shalla, in her own  disguise  of  Qatya  Nassin,

bruise the big man in a test of martial arts skills.

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

The captain  couldn't  have  recognized  him;  Face  had  been  wearing

burn-victim makeup designed to make stomachs turn. He must instead have seen

Qatya Nassin in Shalla, recognizing her in spite of the makeup she'd worn at

the time.

Shalla charged the big man and the dozen  and  more  stormtroopers  now

crowding into the hall. Her intention was all  too  obvious:  kill  the  big

captain so he couldn't report that a member of Wraith Squadron was also with

the Hawk-bats.

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

And us too.

He finished his command. "Charge!"

Wes Janson lurched into motion, charging in Shalla's wake,  taking  the

left side of the hall where she ran along the right.

He had no wisecracks to offer now. He could only offer one of his other

skills, one that might make him unfit for a normal life when  this  war  was

finally done. The skill that made him proficient at killing people.

In full stride, he raised his blaster pistol and  fired,  catching  the

lead stormtrooper in the chest. The man was thrown back into the arms of one

of his companions, his armor now blackened and penetrated.

Janson didn't sight in-he aimed by instinct, by the  natural  point  of

his weapon, and fired again. The second stormtrooper took the  shot  in  the

dark visor material over his right eye.

Shalla wasn't firing-why not? Janson traversed right and

shot at the lead stormtrooper on that side of the hall, catching him in

the gut. Behind him was the big captain, now raising his own blaster. Janson

fired again. His shot caught the man in the elbow, spinning  him  back  into

the wall, causing him to drop his weapon.

Janson traversed  leftward  again,  targeting  a  stormtrooper  with  a

blaster rifle, his shot catching the man in the throat.

Five steps. Five shots. Five  hits.  But  the  hallway  was  a  natural

channel for blaster bolts. Its straight lines would angle stray  shots  back

into play. He'd never reach them-

He didn't. He felt fire again and  suddenly  the  world  was  spinning,

slamming into his head-

Dark.

Netbers saw the dark-skinned woman charge  and  for  a  moment  was  so

surprised by this tactical insanity that he couldn't react. Then he shouted,

"Fire!" and drew his own blaster pistol.

The woman's gaze was fixed on him. He knew he was her target.  He  knew

why, too. And he couldn't get his blaster in line before she had hers aimed,

before she pulled her trigger-

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

laughed. He aimed.

The stormtrooper in front of him was thrown back into him, jarring  his

aim. He shoved the man, probably already dead, aside.

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

pain flashed through him.

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

When he looked up again, the dark woman was upon him, lashing out  with

a side kick meant to shatter his  knee,  to  bring  him  to  the  floor.  He

twisted, took it as a graze against the side of his knee.

She was hurt. Burn marks all along her right side. Netbers swung at her

flank, a left-handed slap that hit bare, burned flesh. The blow knocked  her

to the floor and she lay there, curled up, helpless.

Conditioning is a big part of it, Qatya, he thought. He

reached down and took a  blaster  pistol  from  the  dead  stormtrooper

beside him. You might beat me once, but never twice-

Something loomed up before him and struck him across the face.

He crashed to the floor atop the body of a stormtrooper. The  blow  was

incredible. He saw stars and his hearing failed. His body wouldn't respond.

His attacker bent over him. It was a nonhuman, a big hairy thing burned

all over its upper body, with wide, staring eyes and lips  drawn  back  over

square teeth. It grabbed him by the collar and hauled him, all 130 kilograms

of him, up into the air as though he weighed nothing.

Netbers lashed out at the alien, striking at one of its burned patches,

but the creature grabbed his wrist with its free hand.

Then, as casually as though it were swinging a bag of grain, it slammed

him into the wall. He felt his shoulder blade break under the  impact,  felt

something grate in his neck as his head battered into the metal of the wall.

Where are my stormtroopers?  But  now  there  were  black-clad,  burned

commandos charging past him, running toward the stairwell by  which  he  and

his men had descended. The commandos were firing blasters,  shouting-Netbers

could hear no noise.

The first wave of them passed and the burned alien swung him toward the

opposite wall. Netbers felt himself hit, felt his right shoulder  give  way,

felt something in his neck explode.

Then he felt no more.

"Call it off!" Face shouted. He was at the base of the stairs. Kell and

Piggy were above, ahead of him,  struggling  across  the  bodies  of  fallen

stormtroopers. Living stormtroopers were ahead of them,  running  for  their

lives. "Let's get out of here!"

"The woman." That was Piggy's mechanical voice, inflectionless in spite

of the pain he must be feeling. "She is one of my creators. We need her." He

fired up the stairs and continued his awkward run over the bodies  of  slain

enemies. A moment later, he and Kell were out of sight, around a turn in the

stairs,

and all Face could hear was more blaster fire. He grimaced and moved up

the stairs as fast as his; tired legs and burned body would let him.

One landing up, the two  Wraiths  awaited  him.  Piggy  had  the  human

civilian in his grip. Kell waited, his blaster aimed up the  stairs,  for  a

counterattack.

In spite of her situation, the woman seemed calm.  Face  said,  "Eight,

when the next wave of stormtroopers comes, use her as a  human  shield.  I'm

curious to see how long it'll take blasters to burn through her."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm too valuable for that," she said.

"I doubt it," Face said. "But we'll see. If you want  to  live,  you'll

tell us a way out of  here  that  doesn't  involve  more  ambushes  by  your

stormtroopers. If they do come at us, you'll be  our  first  bit  of  cover.

Well?"

"Access tunnels," she said. Her voice was cool.

"Show me."

She pointed down the stairs.

"Down one level is an underground landspeeder channel with a  utilities

shaft running parallel to it."

Face boarded and the others followed. "You know what this means to  you

if this is a trick."

She shook her head. "No trick. Zsinj will have me killed  for  failure.

So my survival means getting you to safety. Gast, descend to sub-five."

The turbolift descended for a few seconds. Then the door opened onto  a

dimly lit duracrete shelf. Beyond it was a  dropoff;  a  few  meters  beyond

that, a wall.

They exited cautiously, blasters raised right  and  left.  This  was  a

boarding platform for a railway of  some  sort,  the  dropoff  being  a  low

roadway.

"And  may  I  say,"  she  continued,  "that  1  always   enjoyed   your

holodramas?"

"You couldn't say anything that would nauseate me more."

She smiled, her expression still calm. "Though I  liked  Tetran  Cowall

more."

"That makes me feel better. He's a no-talent bag of bantha  droppings."

Face gestured right and left. "Which way?"

They gathered where the big captain had died. Janson was on  his  feet,

supported by Tyria, his right bicep  wrapped  in  a  thick  bandage  already

stained through with blood, his  arm  hanging  uselessly.  There  was  blood

spilling down his forehead, too, and a matching patch on the  wall  at  head

height. His face was already graying with shock. Shalla, too, was  up.  Runt

was swaying and breathing hard where  he  stood;  flecks  of  white  spittle

decorated the sides of his mouth. Seven stormtroopers and  the  big  captain

lay dead in the hall.

The female civilian, whom Piggy called Dr. Gast, led them  back  toward

the incinerator room. Fire from the chamber had spread out  into  the  hall.

The air was becoming smoky and flames licked along the ceiling  at  the  far

end. But halfway there, Gast turned a toward  blank  wall  and  said,  "Gast

access override one-one-one."

The wall section lifted like a high-speed doorway,  revealing  a  small

turbolift beyond. Gast gave Face a cool smile.

As they moved, fast as their ill-treated bodies would  let  them,  they

passed hatches allowing access into upper  floors,  tanks  where  water  was

stored and processed, power-cabling terminals, and equipment  housings  that

were less easily identified.

Kell stopped beside a heavy  metal  beam  running  from  the  duracrete

ceiling above into the duracrete shelf below. He tapped it with his forearm.

His hand was still charred, twitching. "Hey,"  he  said.  "This  is  a  main

support beam, isn't it?"

Gast,nodded. "I think so. Why?"

Face said, "Five, no. We can't bring down this  whole  building.  There

may be other innocents, other test subjects up there."

Kell offered him a smirk. "Boss, I don't want to  blow  everything  up.

Listen. We just passed a power station a few meters back."

"So?"

"So if we can adapt the power from that station  to  boost  the  signal

strength of Runt's comm unit, and  patch  the  unit's  signal  through  this

beam-"

"Then we use the whole  building  as  an  antenna."  Face  slapped  his

forehead and regretted it instantly as his palm  encountered  burned  flesh.

"Do it. Do it fast."

At a dead run, Hobbie charged up to where Wedge  and  Tycho  sat  under

their  camouflage  covers.  "Signal  from  the  Wraiths,  Wedge.  They  need

immediate air support."

Lara and Elassar had circled around, maintaining fire against  the  now

much more distant stormtroopers, reaching the point on the wall where  their

fibra-rope rig would give them access to Donos's roof,  when  they  saw  and

heard the approaching TIE fighters. "Just what we need," she said.

She gauged the drop to the ground below. Not too far,  she  might  land

unhurt, but there was no place within a hundred meters to hide from  a  TIE.

Likewise, the nearest roof hatch, its locks and security  restored  to  keep

guards and workers from noticing anything amiss,  would  take  too  long  to

open.

The pair of TIE fighters roared in from the south, decelerating as they

came within easy firing range of the rooftop. They came to a complete  halt,

floating on repulsorlifts, when they were two hundred meters away.  One  was

aimed directly at Lara and Elassar's position, the other at Donos.

Lara set her blaster pistol down and raised her hands. Elassar did  the

same. Across the street, they could dimly see Donos following suit.

They  could  hear  the   remaining   stormtroopers   approaching   from

behind-walking up at a casual pace, joking, their voices relieved.

Then one of the TIE fighters dropped as though it were  a  puppet  with

its strings suddenly cut. The other rose a few meters and aimed over  Lara's

head, off to the east-

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

The blast rained fiery bits of metal and transparisteel over

the area. Lara felt a bite  as  a  needle  of  glowing  metal  hit  her

forearm, then heat as the advance wave of the explosion reached her. She saw

her Devaronian squadmate tumble to the ground, rolling  across  his  dropped

blaster as he did so, and come up on one knee already firing.

Lara dropped and scrambled for her blaster. As she swung it into  line,

she saw that one stormtrooper was already down, the other three aiming.  Her

shot took one of them in the knee, bringing him down flat on the  roof,  and

her next shot hit the top of his head. He twitched for a moment.

She looked around. The other two stormtroopers were  down.  One  had  a

burn mark on his gut. The other had a crater where his chest should be.  And

over on the roof across the street, Donos had his laser rifle  in  one  hand

and was waving with the other.

Lara heard the other TIE fighter zooming around out  in  the  distance,

but it had to be keeping nearly at street level. What  had  chased  it  off,

destroyed the other? She looked to the east, but could see  nothing  in  the

darkness of the night sky.

"Good shot, Leader."

"Thanks, Two," Wedge said. It had, in fact, been  a  proficient  proton

torpedo shot. He'd brought up his targeting  computer,  gotten  a  targeting

lock on one of the enemy TIEs, and fired, all in less than two seconds. Then

he led Rogue Squadron on a dive down almost to rooftop  level  over  Lurark,

vectoring so that they weren't aimed directly at the Binring complex.  There

was another TIE fighter out there, keeping  buildings  between  it  and  the

Rogues  to  stay  off  their  sensor  screens,  and  it  didn't  pay  to  be

predictable.

In less than a minute, they'd have more than one TIE to deal  with.  He

took another look at his sensor board. There, at its limits, he could see  a

cloud of red targets tentatively identified  as  TIEs  coming  in  from  the

south. The local Imperial air base, seeing the launch  of  Wedge's  X-wings,

had dispatched at least a squadron to deal with them. This was going  to  be

complicated.

"Leader, Seven." That was Ran Kether, the  new  pilot  from  Chandrila,

handling comm duties. "Signal from the Wraiths.

They want us to blow up a specific location so they can get out from  a

tunnel they're in. And to blow up the area  bordered  by  the  comm  markers

they've put up. They say it's a festering pit of evil."

Wedge laughed. "They shouldn't let Wraith One on the  comm  like  that.

His language is too florid. All right, break by flights. One  Flight,  Three

Flight, vector to the south and prepare to engage the incoming eyeballs. Two

Flight, blow some stuff up for the  Wraiths  and  get  them  safely  out  of

there."

He heard a groan, doubtless from Gavin Darklighter, who was part of Two

Flight-and reduced to "baby-sitting," as Gavin had feared he would be.

"Shrike Four to Shrike Leader,  I  read  two  incoming  targets,  class

X-wing.  They're  staying  pretty  close  to  building-top  level.   They're

searching for a lock with sensors."

Shrike Leader, commander of the squad of TIE fighters defending Lurark,

nodded. These were tactics he'd seen before. The incoming  snubfighters  had

sent their squadmates on ahead, flanking right and left. The unseen  X-wings

would be coming back toward the center now, flying at street level  to  stay

off the sensors, timing things so that just at the point  the  X-wings  came

within firing range, his TIEs would come within sight.

Shrike Leader knew better  than  to  give  them  such  an  opportunity.

"Reduce speed to two-thirds," he said. That  would  throw  off  the  enemy's

timing. The unseen X-wings would cross before them, having nothing to  shoot

at, and provide his TIEs with abundant shooting practice.  Either  that,  or

they'd break formation now, popping up  out  of  the  trenches  of  Lurark's

streets, and the Shrikes could engage them immediately in dogfights.

But no X-wings came bouncing up out of the streets, and the  two  known

targets came implacably on. Shrike Leader frowned at that. "Fire  at  will,"

he said.

A second later; one of the X-wings jittered within the brackets of  his

targeting computer-and dove, even as Shrike Leader fired. His  linked  laser

shot superheated the air just above  the  enemy  starfighter  and  hit  what

looked like a residential building.

His target was suddenly gone, down into the maze of streets

below, as was the other oncoming X-wing-and just as suddenly, six  more

X-wings popped up from other streets, also on oncoming headings, and  opened

fire.

Shrike Leader banked hard, so sharply  that  his  inertial  compensator

couldn't quite make up for the maneuver-he  was  thrown  sideways  into  the

netting of his pilot's couch.

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

penetrated-

Abruptly the world outside  his  viewport  was  spinning,  starry  sky,

nighttime city lights, over and over, and  he  could  see  the  laser-heated

stump of his left wing falling mere meters away.

He felt a sickness rise in his stomach, but knew  that  his  discomfort

would last only for another fifteen hundred meters.

One thousand.

Five hundred.

Wedge checked his sensor board and smiled thinly at what  he  saw.  The

maneuver had been more successful than he'd hoped. Scotian of One  Wing  and

Qyrgg of Three Wing had skimmed along at rooftop level, feeding their sensor

data to the other Rogues, who had lined up their opening shots based  solely

on the transmitted data. As soon as Scotian and Qyrgg had detected targeting

locks on them, they'd dived to cover among the streets, and  the  other  six

Rogues had jumped up and taken their shots. Suddenly the enemy  squadron  of

TIEs had been reduced by five-three destroyed, two badly damaged and winging

away-and the odds were now in the Rogues' favor.

The numerical odds, he told himself.  The  odds  were  already  in  our

favor. "Break by pairs," he said. "Engage and eliminate. Keep your eyes open

for additional incoming units." He arced to  port,  Tycho  tucked  in  tight

behind him.

Lara accepted a hand from Donos and  swung  from  the  crawler  to  his

rooftop. Elassar stood on guard, his back to them. "Thanks," she said.

"Welcome. Any word from the others?"

She shook her head.

A shrill whine rose behind them-and,  like  a  landspeeder,  an  X-wing

nosed around the building corner to their north, turning their  way,  riding

on repulsorlifts. It-climbed as it came until it was at rooftop  level.  The

cowling rose and Rogue pilot Tal'dira nodded at them, his  face  serious  as

ever.

"That'll be the lunch I ordered," Lara  said,  under  her  breath.  She

heard Donos snort, saw him struggle to keep his face straight.

"Prepare to pick up your squadmates," Tal'dira shouted. "South face  of

the building complex. Don't get too near before we blow it."

"Understood," Donos said. "Thanks."

The Twi'lek grimaced, his expression speaking eloquently  of  how  he'd

prefer to be halfway across the city  where  starfighters  were  engaged  in

combat, rather than here chatting to ground-pounding commandos.  He  lowered

his X-wing's cowling and goosed the snubfighter forward.

Dia leaned in close to Face, so that only he  could  hear,  and  asked,

"Who is Tetran Cowall?"

"What?"

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

"Oh." He laughed. "She can have him.  He's  an  actor  from  Coruscant.

We're the same age. We competed for everything. Doth wanted  to  be  pilots.

Tested for the same roles. Chased the same  girls.  He  had  no  perceivable

acting skills."

She managed a slight smile. "He was the one Ton  Phanan  was  going  to

leave his money to. If you didn't get the operation to clear the  scar  from

your face."

Face nodded, rueful.

"I haven't heard of him. Is he still making holodramas?"

"No." Face smiled. "That was one competition I definitely won. He was a

good-looking kid, but as he grew up he got sort of homely and couldn't  find

work. He hasn't made a holo in years."

The tunnel rocked and a section of it, seventy meters and

more away, collapsed,  sending  dust  and  large  chunks  of  duracrete

rolling down the tunnel toward the Wraiths. "I think," Face said, "that  our

ride has arrived."

The Wraiths rode out of Lurark  in  the  back  of  Donos's  new  stolen

flatbed speeder, lurking beneath blankets that smelled of feathers and avian

manure. They lay as comfortably as they could-not  comfortably  at  all  for

most of them, given the placement and severity  of  their  burns.  The  city

around them was  alive  with  noises-distant  explosions,  occasional  siren

wails.

Lara, handling the comm  unit  while  Elassar  bandaged  Runt,  relayed

information back. "Rogue Six and  Rogue  Five  are  riding  guard  over  us,

staying below sensor level. The commander and the rest  of  the  Rogues  are

strafing the military base now. They're going to lead off pursuit  from  the

next base out. That means we'll  probably  be  able  to  climb  out  of  the

atmosphere at a fairly easy pace."

"Good," Face said. "Is everybody fit to fly?" He shined a glow rod from

face to face to get responses.

Dia nodded. Her broken arm was now in a  cast  made  of  fast-hardening

paste from Elassar's backpack.

Piggy said, "Ready to go home."

Shalla and Kell gave him tired nods.

"Fit to fly," Tyria affirmed. She wasn't kidding; when Face had  gotten

a good look at her, he found that the only damage she'd suffered  was  burns

that hadn't quite penetrated her boot soles and some charring to the butt of

her blaster rifle. When he asked  how  she'd  gotten  away  unmarked,  she'd

merely shrugged.

Janson said, "Just try to stop me." He hadn't cracked a smile since the

incinerator, and Face could finally see, in  his  grim  expression  and  the

anger deep in his eyes, the man Janson had to  be  when  flying  against  an

enemy.

Runt was slow to answer. Then he said, "We can fly. But we  are  groggy

from what Eleven has given us."

"Just tuck in behind me," Kell said. "I'll get you there."

"We are your wing."

"All right, then," Face said. He didn't really believe they

could all fly, but their experience and determination made it possible,

and he didn't have much in the way of options. "We have one  other  problem.

Cargo." He shined his light into the face of their prisoner, Dr. Edda  Gast.

She lay on her side, her arms bound behind her, expression perfectly serene.

"Put her in with me," Shalla said. "Beside me in my TIE. She's not big,

I'm not big. We'll dump everything out of my cargo area to lighten up."

"And if she gets feisty?" Face waved his glow  rod  at  Shalla's  right

side, which was decorated with bandages.

Shalla's face set. "Then I'll kill her."

"You have nothing to fear from me," Gast said. "The worst I plan to  do

to any of you is negotiate with you."

"Negotiate?" Face said.

"For what I know."

"I think I'll let Nine kill you now."

Gast shook her head, not apparently offended by  his  suggestion.  "No,

you won't. The Rebels-excuse me, the New  Republic-doesn't  do  things  that

way. That's what I've always liked about you. And you do want to know  where

Voort saBinring came from. Why he exists at  all.  Don't  you,  Voort?"  She

twisted to look at the Gamorrean.

Piggy merely stared back at her, his expression unreadable.

"So start talking," Face said.

"No. You, personally, can't give me what I  want.  Elimination  of  any

charges the New Republic might see fit to press against me. Enough money  to

start my life over again. Protection from Zsinj. I don't  think  I'm  asking

too much-"

"Gag her," Face said. He lay back against the side of the speeder's bed

and tried to quell his stomach, which threatened to rise against him.

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. "Goon."

"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.  Pole-arm'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 ex-

pression, he relented, smiling. "I so seldom get to  be  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 cer-

tainly 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 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.

8

The mission, which had begun in disaster, ended in  disaster,  but  not

for Solo's forces.

The A-wings of Polearm Squadron identified and strafed  numerous  sites

of Raptor activity on the ground at  Jussafet  Four.  Raptor  shuttles  were

caught on the ground and shot to pieces, their occupants  scattered,  easier

prey for the Jussafet ground forces. Soldiers deposited  by  shuttles,  with

air support provided by Wraith Squadron, overran and took  the  Raptor  base

camp near the Jussafet capital.

Rogue and Nova Squadrons, led initially  by  Captain  Celchu,  then  by

Wedge Antilles once the commander returned to the  combat  in  Wes  Janson's

X-wing, cruised through the asteroid belt,  wreaking  havoc  on  the  sparse

units of TIE fighters and single corvette Zsinj's forces had deployed.

By monitoring the escape vectors of the smaller vessels chased  off  by

Rogue Squadron, the crew of Mon Remonda, working from the vessel's auxiliary

bridge, was able to determine the position of the  assault  fleet  and  give

chase. The fleet consisted  of  two  sturdy  Carrack-class  cruisers  and  a

heavily modified cargo vessel... and as these  three  vessels  detected  the

approach of the Mon Calamari cruiser,  they  turned  spaceward  and  entered

hyperspace.

No words of thanks came via  comm  from  the  Jussafet  defenders-small

wonder, since this was an Imperial world, its defenders doubtless looking on

their liberators with  as  much  suspicion  as  gratitude-but  most  of  the

starfighters picked up anonymous transmissions expressing thanks,  sometimes

wrapped in profanity directed against the New Republic.

Han Solo directed the soldiers on  Jussafet  Four  to  appropriate  any

Raptor vehicles and prisoners they could, leaving the rest for the planetary

defenders.

Wedge, bone-weary-and not from the hours he'd spent in the  cockpit-had

the Rogues lined up for final approach to Mon Remonda when  the  word  came.

"Sensors show an Imperial Star Destroyer leaving hyperspace and entering the

Jussafet system. It's still outside the system's mass shadow  and  can  turn

and run at any time. It's approaching slowly."

"Thanks,  bridge.  Rogues,  form  up  on  me.  We'll  cruise  out  that

direction." Cruise was about right-the Rogues didn't have enough  fuel  left

for another protracted trip and dogfight. The Rogues took  up  position  and

headed out at a pace that, for them, was quite leisurely.

A few minutes later, a new voice took the comm, Solo's. "Rogues, return

to Mon Remonda. Star Destroyer Agonizer is communicating. They want to  have

a face-to-face with you, Rogue Leader."

Wedge raised an eyebrow. "Is Agonizer a Zsinj unit or Imperial?"

"According to our latest records on this ship, about a year old,  she's

Imperial."

"Interesting. I guess I'd better go over and see what they want."

"Negative, negative. You're too likely a  prospect  for  assassination.

Me, too. I've transmitted a  recommendation  that  Captain  Onoma  make  the

visit. Wait a second." The delay was nearly a minute. "They didn't like that

idea. Probably because he's Mon Calamari. They're willing to accept  someone

out of your squadrons."

Wedge ran a roster review in his mind. His Rogues were

bone-tired, and he really needed to gauge their reaction to  Tal'dira's

death ... and find out what had led up to it. "Ask Face Loran to  volunteer.

I think he'll satisfy their requirements." "Done. Come on back in."

Face had been part of a mission that had landed aboard a Star Destroyer

before-in his case, the Super Star Destroyer Iron Fist-but then he'd been in

disguise, an apparent ally of the people he was visiting. This time he  came

as an enemy under temporary truce, and he could feel his heart rate increase

as his X-wing rose into the hangar bay in  the  underside  of  the  gigantic

vessel. On repulsorlifts, he drifted laterally toward the  Imperial  officer

waving the glow rods, and set down where the man directed, between two  half

squadrons of TIE fighters.

As he climbed down the ladder  from  his  cockpit,  an  Imperial  naval

lieutenant bowed to him. "Captain Loran? The admiral is waiting."

"Good." Face returned the bow. Then he looked up at his R2 unit. "Vape,

if anyone comes within three meters, activate self-destruct."

His astromech gave him a happy beep in the affirmative. With luck, none

of these Imperials would actually risk such an approach to  determine  that,

in fact, this X-wing had no self-destruct mechanism.

Two halls and two turbolifts later, the  lieutenant  led  Face  into  a

conference room.  The  oval  table  overflowed  with  food-  cooked  dishes,

platters of fresh fruit,  containers  of  wine,  vases  stuffed  with  fresh

flowering plants. Struck by the ostentatious-ness of it, Face laughed before

he could check himself.

The room's sole occupant, a lean man, clean-shaven, of  graying  middle

age, smiled from his chair behind one of the flower arrangements. "It  is  a

bit pretentious, isn't it?" He rose, revealing that  he  wore  an  admiral's

uniform,  and  approached,  his  hand  out.  "Still,  appearances  must   be

maintained. Admiral Teren Rogriss."

"Garik Loran, Captain, New Republic Starfighter  Command."  Face  shook

his hand.

"And let me say I thought your holodramas and comedies

were  puerile,  badly  written  things-though  you  rose   above   your

material."

"Of course they were puerile. They were Imperial productions. But thank

you."

The admiral barked a laugh. His amusement seemed genuine.  He  gestured

for Face to sit. "Please, help yourself. Protocol demands I put it  out,  so

we should eat it. But I won't keep you long. Time presses for me as I'm sure

it does for you." Following Face's lead,  he  sat,  and  immediately  helped

himself to what looked like a plate of small boiled eggs  drenched  in  some

sort of syrup. "What I'm going to tell  you  is  entirely  unofficial.  Make

announcements about it, transmit queries to us  along  official  lines,  and

we'll denounce it as typical Rebel lies. On the other  hand,  it  does  come

down from the highest levels."

"Go ahead." Face tried one of the eggs. The fluid dressing was tart and

not sweet at all; the yolk had been replaced by some sort of  meat  filling,

though he had not seen a seam on the boiled surface of the egg. It  had  the

rich taste of something that took a fair amount of preparation  and  cost  a

lot, so only the wealthy forced themselves to think they liked it.

"Our differences, Imperial and Rebel, are not going to go  away.  We'll

be enemies until we die."

"Probably."

"But we both have a mutual enemy. It would profit us both to be rid  of

him. I am, in a sense, the counterpart of your General Solo."

"You lead a task force whose goal is to get rid of Zsinj."

Rogriss nodded. "Once we're done with him, we can go back to  our  very

personal ideological differences, without having to invite  anyone  else  to

play."

Face snorted. "You're not like  most  of  the  Imperial  officers  I've

talked to."

"True. What do you think?"

"I think it's a grand idea. But 1 can't speak, even  unofficially,  for

the New Republic. Or even for this  fleet.  All  I'm  authorized  to  do  is

listen, and to report what I hear to my commanders."

The admiral smiled. From a pocket, he produced a datacard and  slid  it

to Face. "Once we're out of system, you can

reach me via HoloNet on the  frequency  and  at  the  times  this  file

indicates.  If  I  receive  a  transmission  from  General  Solo,   directed

personally to me, conveying any message whatsoever, then I will take it that

you agree." "And then what?"

"And then I transmit to you every piece of recorded  data  we  have  on

Zsinj's campaigns. His strategic and tactical moves against worlds, what  we

understand of his overall strategy, what we know about his forces.  And  I'd

expect a similar transmission from you. Each of us may know something  about

our mutual enemy that the other can exploit."

Face nodded. "An interesting notion. And if it became officially known,

you'd be executed for collaboration with the enemy."

Rogriss nodded. He  seemed  so  cheerful  that  Face  might  have  been

suggesting that his crew visit Coruscant for a bombardment raid.  "As  might

your General Solo. But that's a worst-case possibility.  Best-case  is  that

Zsinj dies."

"True." Face pocketed the datacard. "One last question before I  leave.

Why are Baron Fel and the One Eighty-first working with Zsinj ?"

The admiral's face lost most of its good cheer. "I  can't  guess  about

Fel's motives. He defected to your side, then was gone for some  years.  Now

he's defected from the Rebels to someone new. He's a compulsive traitor, I'd

say. But I'll tell you this: He's not in charge of  the  One  Eighty-first."

"How is that?"

"The real One Eighty-first is still serving the Empire with loyalty and

skill, under Turr Phennir. Fel has assembled new pilots, called them the One

Eighty-first,  and  slapped  some  red  stripes  on  their  starfighters  to

duplicate the fighter group's colors. Perhaps he thinks that he is  the  One

Eighty-first, so wherever he goes, the  group  follows;  that  would  be  in

keeping with the sort of colossal ego you see in  fighter-group  commanders.

But it's not the truth."

"Interesting. Thank you for your candor." Face stood.  Rogriss  nodded.

He gestured at the tabletop. "Would you care to pack a lunch before you go?"

Face laughed.

In the hours of what would have been night on Coruscant-the  timing  by

which Mon Remonda's activities were scheduled- Solo and  Wedge  met  in  the

general's office.

Solo looked as tired and dispirited as Wedge felt.  And,  Wedge  noted,

not for the first time, when Solo  decided  to  drop  his  mask  of  roguish

irresponsibility-as he had now-he could look angrier than any man Wedge  had

ever met. That's how it was now; while they'd been reviewing the attacks  by

the two Twi'leks, the general's face had set in lines that would strike fear

in the heart of a subordinate or an enemy.

"Are you going to accept Rogriss's offer?" Wedge asked.

Solo's features softened. He nodded.

"Pending confirmation by Fleet Command?"

"No. I have very broad powers regarding the search for Zsinj. 1 can  do

this without anyone's say-so." Solo quirked a self-deprecating smile. "Until

they decide that I've completely failed, I'm still a very important man.

"Which reminds me. Since I still seem to be  important  to  Zsinj,  I'm

going to go forward with this plan by your pilots to mock  up  a  Millennium

Falcon and see if we can lure Zsinj to us with it."

"I'm glad to hear it. It has a chance."

Solo's smile faded. "Whatever this Twi'lek madness is, it's spreading,"

Solo said. "A little before the assassination attempts against  the  two  of

us, Councilor Mon Mothma was nearly killed by her bodyguard, a Gotal.  She's

badly injured. In the hours after that, there were two incidents of shooting

sprees by Gotal soldiers, one  in  a  barracks  hall  frequented  mostly  by

humans, one in a holotheater. Dozens died. One of the killers was  cut  down

by soldiers; the other turned his blaster on himself."

"Just as Tal'dira did," Wedge said.

"Huh? Corran Horn killed Tal'dira."

Wedge shook his head. "I saw this when I  correlated  all  the  sensory

data from Tal'dira's attack.  In  the  instant  before  Corran  Horn  fired,

Tal'dira shifted  all  his  shield  power  to  rear  shields.  His  bow  was

unprotected. In a sense, he committed suicide."

"That doesn't make any sense. I can see a  fanatical  assassin  killing

himself after his objective is achieved-but not before."

"I don't understand it either. Do you have anything  on  the  cafeteria

worker, Galey?"

Solo grimaced. "No known motivation . . . which means  probably  money.

No sign of contact with insurgents or enemies. He's  spent  a  lot  of  time

since we left Coruscant on shuttle simulators. He might have  been  able  to

fly one of our Lambda-class shuttles out of here after he finished his job."

"But he's the key. The fact that he was sent to kill Gast means that he

was working for Zsinj. The fact that he was seen speaking to  both  Tal'dira

and Nuro Tualin means that he was involved with them, and therefore with the

whole supposed Twi'lek conspiracy, which makes it a certainty that Zsinj  is

behind that."

Solo took a deep breath. "Unfortunately, our knowing that doesn't  mean

that everybody understands it. I have one more piece  of  news.  Very,  very

unfortunate news."

He told Wedge.

It was a few hours later, a few minutes after most of  the  pilots  and

civilian crewmen began their day shifts. In his own office, Wedge looked  at

the three good people he'd assembled and prepared to give  them  what  might

have been the grossest insult he could offer.

Nawara Ven gave him a close, evaluative look. It was obvious  to  Wedge

that he knew something bad was up.  It  was  harder  for  him  to  read  Dia

Passik's face. His chief mechanic, Koyi Komad, looked unsure.

"I have orders from the Provisional Council," Wedge said.  "The  effect

on our immediate group is that I'm obliged to take you three temporarily off

active duty."

Koyi registered shock. Dia's  eyes  narrowed.  Nawara  Ven  nodded,  as

though this were what he expected. "It's because we're Twi'leks," he said.

"I'm afraid so."

Koyi's voice climbed a register in indignation. "I don't believe this."

"Believe it," Dia said. "It's fleetwide, isn't it, Commander?"

Wedge nodded.

"So much for the human promises of equality among  the  species,"  Koyi

said. Her voice was bitter. "I don't have to stand by and  be  treated  this

way. You know how many jobs, civilian jobs for a lot of money,  I've  turned

down? But no, I transferred back to the Rogues.  I  stayed  with  you  after

Zsinj blew down Noquivzor Base on top of us and  killed  almost  everyone  I

worked with. I did this because the Rogues were the spearhead of this  cause

I wanted to support. A galaxy where species didn't matter. Now that's gone."

"It's not gone," Wedge said. "It's taken a  body  blow,  but  it's  not

dead."

Koyi gave him a smile, but there was neither amusement nor friendliness

in it. "So I'm off duty. I have some reading to do. May I be excused, sir?"

Wedge nodded. "For what it's worth, Koyi, I'm sorry."

"I'm sure it's worth something, sir." On her way out, she said, "Ask me

in a year and maybe I'll know what."

"I think I should go too, sir." Dia rose.

"How are you doing, Passik?"

"The Provisional Council has just announced to  all  the  New  Republic

that I'm not worthy." Her red eyes flashed for a moment. Then she managed  a

smile. It wasn't, like Koyi's,  a  bitter  smile.  Wedge  recognized  it  as

mockery.  "Fortunately,  their  opinion  is  worth  nothing   next   to   my

squadmates'. I think I'll go keep company with them. I'd  do  that  any  day

rather than slum with the Provisional Council." She saluted and left.

Nawara Ven said, "That was a lot of insolence for you not to dress  her

down."

"I feel almost the same way she does. I'm not sure when the  last  time

was I felt this low. I just can't believe Tal'dira turning  against  us  the

way he did." A memory jogged at him. "Can you tell me  something?  Does  the

phrase  'one-leg-hopping  maniac'  have  any  special  meaning  in   Twi'lek

culture?"

Ven smiled. "You're asking me?" He gestured down to the  lower  portion

of his right leg, the one that had been amputated in Ven's last mission as a

Rogue Squadron pilot.

"I'm sorry. I forgot about that. But, yes, I'm  asking.  It's  serious.

It's what Tal'dira called me just before he died."

"Oh." Ven's eyes lost focus as he stared back into his memory. "I can't

think of one."

"Odd. What would cause him-" Wedge's eyes opened wider. "Cause. Effect.

What's the cause and what's the effect?"

"I'm not following you-"

"It didn't matter whether Admiral Ackbar died.  Or  Mon  Mothma.  Their

assassins were successful."

"What? No, they weren't."

"Yes, they were. Koyi Komad was their first victim."

Ven's expression suggested that he was within seconds of calling in the

medics to deal with his commander.

"Get the Wraiths together," Wedge said. "We're going to conduct one  of

their insane speculation and planning sessions. Pilots' lounge.  And  invite

any Rogues who want to attend. As usual, with Zsinj,  we  have  to  dig  one

level farther down." Wedge was in the corridor before Ven had  a  chance  to

rise to his feet.

All the Wraiths were there, except Runt and Janson, whose injuries kept

them in bacta-tank treatment for the time being, and so were Tycho,  Hobbie,

and Corran Horn of the Rogues. Donos decided  that  Tyria  and  Horn  looked

unusually glum, and couldn't blame them. At least Tyria had someone to offer

her support; Kell stayed next to her.  The  others  were  keeping  a  little

distance between themselves and Horn; whether it was out of respect for  his

feelings or because of their own unease at being in the presence of  someone

who had just killed one of his squadmates, Donos couldn't tell.

Wedge walked in, his bootheels clattering. "So we know about  a  sudden

rise in terrorist activity by Twi'leks," he said  without  preamble.  "We've

determined to our own satisfaction that Zsinj is behind them."

Ven said, "Though we lack evidence  to  prove  it  conclusively."  "Not

important for our discussion. Why is Zsinj doing this?"

"To hurt the New Republic," Kell said. "Losing Admiral Ackbar  and  Mon

Mothma would be a serious blow."

Wedge took a seat and nodded. "Sure, it would. And they'd  be  replaced

by people who probably aren't quite as good as they are at their  tasks.  If

everyone on the Inner Council were murdered, we'd have an Inner Council that

was just a little less adept at doing what it does.  Not  exactly  a  master

stroke on Zsinj's part."  He  leaned  forward,  still  oddly  intent.  "This

morning at six hundred hours I was obliged to relieve every  Twi'lek  aboard

Mon Remonda of active duty. And that, I think, is what Zsinj wanted."

"To be rid of our Twi'leks?" Kell asked.

Wedge shook his head, but it was  Horn  who  spoke  up.  "Suddenly  the

Twi'leks are second-class citizens. Rumor has it that Gotals  will  be  next

because of the attempt on Mon Mothma's life and the follow-up shootings."

Lara said, "Twi'leks and Gotals don't make up much of a  percentage  of

the New Republic armed forces. They're  not  even  signatories  to  the  New

Republic; there are just a fair number of them in  service.  I  mean,  their

loss is important, sure ,.. but it's not going to cripple the fleet."

"It'll cripple the entire New Republic," Wedge said. "Right  now,  it's

one species making up  a  fraction  of  one  percent  of  the  New  Republic

population. But we suddenly have a precedent that divides them from the  New

Republic. In their eyes, it casts humans as villains.  To  human  eyes,  the

Twi'leks and Gotals are already starting to look  like  villains.  What  if,

tomorrow, it's a species that has been with the Alliance since the start  of

the Rebellion? An important contributor to the New Republic cause?"

Donos saw the Wraiths and Rogues looking among themselves as  the  idea

took root. He drew a breath. "Until this three-pronged attack on  you,  sir,

and on General Solo and Dr. Gast, we had no real reason to believe  that  it

was Zsinj's work."

"Correct," Wedge said. "It could  have  been  an  Imperial  project,  a

criminal action, or an actual species-based conspiracy.  But  in  trying  to

kill us under the same umbrella of this false conspiracy story,  he's  shown

his hand."

"Which does us no good," Donos said. "We're not going  to  he  able  to

convince the Provisional Council of this theory."

"Why  not?"  Wedge  looked  challenged,  rather  than  angry,  at   the

statement.

"Who's going to convince them of it? Ackbar? He trusted the Twi'lek who

almost killed him. Mon Mothma? She's injured, not capable of  leadership  at

the moment. Princess Leia? Off on some diplomatic mission.  Han  Solo?  He'd

have to leave the fleet, and abandoning his task is not the way to make  the

Provisional Council confident in him. You?" Donos repressed a wince  at  the

words he'd have to say. "You, sir,  also  trusted  the  Twi'lek  who  almost

killed you."

Wedge nodded. "Correct. But here's the  answer  to  your  question.  To

convince the Provisional Council, we're ail going to become geniuses."

"I vote we start with Elassar," Lara said. "He has the farthest to go."

The Devaronian pilot winced. "No more. I surrender." ù

"What kind of geniuses?" asked Ven.

"Prophetic ones. The kind who can tell  the  Provisional  Council  just

what's going to happen next. What's Zsinj's next step? If we can predict it,

we can convince the powers that be that they're dealing  with  a  methodical

plan of Zsinj's . . not a conspiracy of terror against humankind." He looked

among them. "Otherwise, in six months, a year, the New Republic consists  of

humans  on  one  side,  nonhumans  on  the  other,  no  possible  trust   or

interdependence between them . . . and Zsinj can march in and take  whatever

he wants."

"I have a thought." That was Piggy. "A theory. About where I  fit  into

Zsinj's plan."

"Go ahead."

"We know for a certainty that Zsinj has for some time  been  trying  to

create  very  intelligent  examples  of  humanoids  not  known   for   their

intelligence," Piggy said. "The question, especially as it relates  to  your

other theory, is why?"

"Obviously,"  Tycho  said,  "to  have  intelligent  agents  who   could

infiltrate those species, and therefore not look out of place  in  locations

where those species are found."

"Correct." Piggy nodded in the  exaggerated  way  of  Gamorreans.  "But

that's only part of the equation. What does a leader require in an agent  in

addition to intelligence? More important than intelligence?"

"Loyalty," Lara said. Her voice seemed a little sad. Donos gave  her  a

close look. She saw his sudden interest, shook her head to suggest that  her

momentary disquiet was nothing.

"Correct," Piggy said. "Yet I am not loyal to  Zsinj.  I  underwent  no

indoctrination from youth,  nothing  like  the  teaching  the  stormtroopers

receive. Why not? Was I just a laboratory test specimen? Was I to be  purged

when tests on me were complete?"

Nawara Ven nodded. "Possibly so."

"Yes. But consider. Zsinj would not have embarked on a process like the

creation of me and the other hyperintelligent humanoids without making  some

provision for loyalty. What if he found a way to instill it by force  rather

than through training?"

"Like brainwashing." Tycho's voice was flat, hard. Donos  noticed  that

the captain now sat absolutely still. Small wonder: Tycho had  at  one  time

been suspected of being a brainwashed agent of Ysanne Isard, the former head

of Imperial Intelligence. "You think the assassins were brainwashed by  this

technique."

"Yes," Piggy said. "But we know we're not  facing  brainwashing  as  we

have experienced it before. The Twi'lek who attacked me and  Admiral  Ackbar

might have been brainwashed, but he was missing only for a week-a  possible,

but very short- amount of time to do such a thing. From the time  he  joined

Rogue Squadron, what was the longest time Tal'dira was out of sight  of  the

other members? His longest leave?"

Tycho and Wedge conferred, and Tycho said, "About  a  day  at  a  time.

Various leaves on Coruscant."

"One day." Piggy nodded. "If we assume that Tal'dira was a  victim  and

not a conspirator, then he was brainwashed in less than a day. Surely such a

treatment must leave evidence on the body of the victim.  Signs  of  probes.

Blood chemical imbalances  from  drug  treatments.  Neurological  disorders.

Something."

"Unfortunately," Wedge said, "we don't have Tal'dira's body to examine.

Or Flight Officer Tualin's. We might be able

to put in a request  to  Admiral  Ackbar  to  see  if  he  can  perform

autopsies on his attacker and Mon Mothma's. And the two Gotal shooters."

"If only Doctor Gast had survived," Piggy said. "I  feel  no  sense  of

loss at her passing; in fact, I am met with relief.  But  in  retrospect,  I

wish we had the knowledge she possessed."

Wedge and Nawara Ven exchanged a glance. "We'll have  to  do  without,"

Wedge said. "All right, let's get to work on these theories of ours ...  and

see whether we can have successful careers as prophets as well as pilots."

It drifted off the bow of Mon Remonda,  a  saucerlike  shape  with  two

forward prongs signifying the bow and a small cockpit  projecting  from  the

starboard side to give the ship an off-balance look.

To Wedge's eye, it looked just like the Millennium Falcon, except  that

its top-hull dish antenna was much smaller. A  shuttle  occupied  by  Donos,

Corran Horn, and the Wraiths's chief mechanic Cubber Daine, Corellians  all,

plus Emtrey, the Rogues's quartermaster, had escorted  the  battered-looking

freighter from a scrapyard in the Corellian system, where  such  craft  were

most common ... and cheapest to acquire.

"Ugliest ship I think I've ever seen," said Solo.

Captain Onoma, standing on the other side of Solo at the  bridge's  new

forward viewport, wrinkled his forehead in a fair approximation of  a  human

frown. "It looks like the Falcon to me."

"Nothing could look less like the Falcon," Solo said. "You could slap a

paint job on a desert skiff and it'd look more like the Falcon." He  sighed.

"Still, with Chewie in charge of dressing her up, she might be able to  fool

Zsinj for a couple of minutes. What did our crew of Corellians pay for her?"

"They traded that hyperspace-enabled  TIE  interceptor  Shalla  Nelprin

took off Razor's Kiss."

Solo looked  at  him,  eyes  wide.  "That's  crazy.  Trade  a  valuable

combat-ready starfighter for that hunk of junk?"

"No. They traded a valuable combat-ready starfighter for  a  chance  to

blow Zsinj up."

Solo's features settled into  calmer  lines,  though  he  still  looked

tired, stressed. "Oh. Well, that makes sense. She'll never have the Falcon's

speed. Without a few years's head start, Chewie won't be able  to  make  her

insides work like the real thing."

"We don't want him to," Wedge said.

"How so?"

"Because if  they  count  on  this  new  ship  being  the  Falcon,  our

modifications can trip them up. For example, the Falcon  isn't  packed  with

high explosives."

Solo shuddered. "There's a very good reason for that."

"Right. But since the Falcon isn't packed with explosives, you'd  never

send her into a crash dive into the side of a  Super  Star  Destroyer.  With

this hunk of junk, you wouldn't feel any such compunctions."

"Except for not wanting to die."

"Well, that's what escape pods are for. You know what I mean."

"Yeah. Yeah." Solo returned his  attention  to  the  Corellian  YT-1300

transport hanging  off  the  bow.  "All  right.  Secure  Bay  Gamma  One  to

authorized personnel only and direct this  flying  trash  receptacle  there.

Let's get to work."

It drifted off the bow of Iron Fist, a nightmare vessel. Her  bulk  was

an irregular oval of wreckage more than three kilometers long held  together

by  thousands  of  kilometers  of  cabling.  Around  the  wreckage   was   a

superstructure-a cluster of engines at one end, a wedge-shaped  bow  at  the

other, a gigantic spar of metal connecting them and acting as  a  frame  for

the envelope of wreckage to hang upon. The name, barely visible on the  bow,

was Second Death.

"Ugliest ship I think I've ever seen," said Zsinj. His face shone  with

admiration. "Melvar, you have done a magnificent job."

The general gave him a little bow. "There are a dozen explosive pockets

within the body of the wreckage; they will send the  components  of  Razor's

Kiss out in all directions. There are more explosives  in  the  engines  and

bridge, sufficient to remove most evidence that these extra components  ever

existed. It

should be convincing. Unfortunately, she's slow. She can't be  expected

to keep up with Iron Fist or other elements of our fleet."

"Pity. Still, we'll do what we can. How does the crew escape?"

"Both bow and stern are equipped with a Sentinel-class  landing  craft.

The crew has a chance not only to evacuate, but to fight their  way  out  of

pursuit." Melvar offered a little sigh. "The crew doesn't  know  that  if  a

capital ship approaches  within  a  kilometer  before  they've  engaged  the

hyperdrive, they, too, will detonate. The crew will not  be  captured,  will

not be able to betray your secret to the Rebels."

"Excellent. Fine work, as usual. Give  her  a  station  in  the  fleet,

outside of visual range of any of the other vessels. I am so pleased." Zsinj

smiled. He hoped he'd never be forced to utilize  the  hideous  amalgamation

that had earned his approval and praise.  Using  it  meant  failure  on  his

part-meant he'd been beaten and needed to hide to lick his  wounds.  But  he

liked to keep his options open. "Oh. What about the Night-cloak function?"

"Working ... mostly. Would you like a demonstration?"

"Please."

Melvar held up his comlink. "Second  Death,  this  is  General  Melvar.

Activate and initiate Nightcloak."

"Yes,  sir,"  came  the  tinny  voice  from  the  comlink.   "Deploying

satellites."

Tiny flares erupted from Second Death, four from the bow and four  from

the stern, deploying at precise angles so they suggested the  corners  of  a

wire-frame box surrounding the junkyard  vessel.  After  a  few  moments  of

flight, the satellites ceased their acceleration; their burn trails vanished

and they became all but invisible in the starfield.

"Nightcloak engaging," said the comlink.

And Second Death was suddenly gone.

Where she had been, where the space around her had been, was blackness.

Not starfield-not even the stars were visible through it.

Zsinj offered a little exhalation of happiness.  "Sensors,  give  me  a

reading on Second Death."

The sensor officer in the crew pit below examined his screen.  He  took

on a stricken look as he raised his head to face the warlord. "Nothing, sir.

We don't even get a return on the active sensors. It's a sensor anomaly."

"Fine, fine."

Out in space, stars briefly flickered through the darkness, then  shone

brilliantly again, and Second Death once more floated before them.

Melvar frowned. "Second Death, I didn't order an end to the test."

"Sorry, sir. System failure. It's still not entirely reliable."

"Well, bring in the satellites and get back to  work.  Until  it's  one

hundred percent, it's not adequate. Until it's one  hundred  percent,  we're

not happy with you. Melvar out." The general pocketed the comlink and turned

to his warlord. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't be." Zsinj waved his apology away. "It's a fine demonstration. A

wonderful adaptation of what we're accomplishing  at  Rancor  Base.  They'll

have it done in time. Or else." He smiled.

In Mon Remonda's pilots's lounge, in stuffed chairs dragged against the

viewports to suggest thrones, sat Wes Janson and Runt Ekwesh.

Standing before them, Face said, "For intercepting great quantities  of

damage so the rest of us didn't have to, your crowns,  o  mighty  ones."  He

took circlets made of flimsy material and placed one on each  pilot's  head.

"For enduring medical treatments without  whining,  for  surviving  days  of

bacta bath without crying, for emerging from your treatment  without  asking

for extra cake and sweetening, your royal  scepters."  He  placed  a  wooden

dowel, its end decorated with tassels and ribbons, into  the  hand  of  each

pilot. "And now, receive the accolades of your subjects."

He stood aside, and the gathered Wraiths  and  Rogues  hurled  confetti

upon them, a rain of color and rubbish.

Janson blinked against the atmospheric  assault  and  turned  to  Runt.

"This is the last time, positively the last time, that

I  suggest  to  Face  that  the  squad  doesn't  always   show   enough

appreciation."

Runt nodded. "We agree. Do all kings have to suffer this?"

"Well, any king with Face Loran as his majordomo."

"And now," Face said, "the two kings fight one another  to  the  death,

and we space the loser."

"Whoa, there." Janson stood and shook  confetti  from  his  hair.  "Try

again."

"We space the winner?"

"One more."

"We buy you a drink."

"That's more like it."

As the pilots drifted back to their seats, Shalla dropped gracefully in

a chair beside Piggy's. "Tell me something," she said.

"Yes?"

"The other day, you said that you were relieved when Doctor Gast  died.

Why relieved?"

Piggy took a few moments to answer.  Shalla  wondered  whether  he  was

considering his response, or debating whether to tell her  to  go  to  hell.

Finally he said, "It takes pressure off me. Pressure of decisions."

"I don't understand."

"As far as I know, I am the only one of my kind. I am  not  fit  to  be

among normal Gamorreans; I make them nervous and  I  am  dismayed  by  their

presence. Their violence, their simplicity. So I will never find a  mate,  a

Gamorrean female, to my liking. I had sometimes wondered if Gast had created

one . . . or if she might do so,  if  I  compelled  her.  Even  so,  such  a

relationship would endure in frustration and sadness.  If  I  understand  it

correctly, the changes made to me are not genetic; I could not pass them  on

to offspring. So I could not have children  with  my  mental  and  emotional

characteristics." He raised his hand, studying the  Churban  brandy  in  the

glass he held. "In that sense, I am alone . . . and should be alone.  Doctor

Cast's continued existence led me to hopes I should  not  have  entertained.

Now that she is dead, I can be more responsible."

"I'm sorry." On impulse, she reached out and took his other hand.  "But

in one sense, you're wrong."

He sipped at the brandy before replying. "How so?"

"You're not just flesh and bone. You don't just pass along your  genes.

If you had children, you'd be giving them your ideas, the  example  of  your

courage and commitment, all the things that come from the way you relate  to

the culture you've chosen. And those things you can pass along to others who

aren't your children. Intellectually, emotionally, your parents and children

aren't  related  to  you  by  blood  at  all.  I  know  that  may  be  small

consolation."

He downed the rest of the brandy, and after a moment his lips curled up

in a near-human smile. "Well, it is some consolation."

"Would you like to dance?"

"Would you like to have your toes smashed flat?"

"I have fast feet."

"True. Well, the risk is all yours." He heaved himself up, then  helped

her to her feet.

Other dancers were already in motion on the portion of the  lounge  the

pilots had cleared of furniture. Face and Dia had center stage, moving to  a

classical theme of ancient Coruscant, and Donos and Lara were now moving  to

join them.

"They're not really together," Dia said.

Face glanced over at Donos and Lara. "How do you figure?"

"She's tense. Keeping a little separation between them. Her  expression

keeps softening, she keeps smiling, as if  she's  really  enjoying  herself.

Then she tenses and  withdraws.  It's  a  little  cycle  she  keeps  running

through."

"Oh, you're good at this game. But you missed when  she  gave  him  the

opportunity for a kiss. A deliberate invitation."

"No, she didn't."

"She did." He gave her a superior little smile.

"When?"

"A moment ago. Did you see her lower her eyes, then raise them and make

that little twirling motion with her finger?"

"Yes. I assumed she was describing something. She was talking."

"She was describing something. That's what makes it so subtle, the  way

she blended the cue in, the way you're sup-

posed to. It's-" Then Face stiffened, nearly losing the rhythm  of  the

dance, and looked back at the other couple.

"It's what?"

"Coruscant charm signing."

"I don't know what that is."

"It's something like the language of flowers.  You  know  how  on  some

worlds the precise flower you give someone, the number, the arrangement, all

has specific meaning."

Dia nodded. "It's a human custom. A new way to  miscommunicate  so  you

can find reason to kill one another."

"That's an interesting interpretation . . . anyway,  charm  signing  is

sort of like that. It's confined to the social  class  of  Imperial  officer

trainees from wealthy families and their circles. It came out  of  Coruscant

long before the rise of the Empire, but it's mostly confined to  the  Empire

these days; most of the  former  Imperial  officers  serving  with  the  New

Republic weren't of that social order. Anyway, she gave him the correct sign

for 'I'd accept a kiss.' He just didn't know what it meant."

"Is that a reason for you to be so startled?"

"Well, yes. Lara keeps saying 'Coruscant' to me,  without  meaning  to.

When she's distracted, when she's upset . . . not  when  she's  in  control.

Sometimes she'll walk like a  native  throneworlder-you  know  the  sort  of

hunched-in, 'don't touch me' body language?"

She nodded.

Face thought back. "And then, things she knew about Coruscant commerce.

Pretty elaborate for someone who'd been employed there only for a few weeks.

And that incident at the Galactic  Museum.  The  old  man  who  thought  she

was-what was the name he called her?"

"Edallia Monotheer."

Face looked at her with real surprise. "How did you remember that?"

"A trick of the trade. When you're a slave  dancer,  you  remember  the

name of everyone you are introduced to by your owner. If  you  fail,  you're

beaten ... or worse."

"I'm sorry." He pulled her to him, an embrace  of  apology.  "I  always

seem to do something to remind you of those times."

"It's not your fault." Her voice was a whisper. "I can't

seem to give up on it. Sometimes I think I  say  things  like  that  to

remind other people of what I used to be-when I'm the only one who needs  to

remember." She sighed, as if releasing some sorrow into the air.  "What  are

you going to do about Lara? Ask her how she knows this charm signing?"

He shook his head, brushing his cheek against hers. "I'm going  to  put

in a request for information. To New Republic Intelligence."

"But later," she said.

"Later."

A couple of hundred meters away, Wedge trotted up the  access  ramp  to

the YT-1300 freighter hidden away in  one  of  Mon  Remonda's  hangar  bays.

Crashing and clanking noises drifted down from the freighter's  upper  hull,

accompanied by the deep rumbling of Chewbacca's  complaints.  But  no  human

words accompanied the rumbling.

He found Han  Solo  in  the  vessel's  cockpit.  He  dropped  into  the

copilot's seat beside the general.

"I thought you'd be at your pilots's welcome-back party," Solo said. He

didn't turn his attention from the forward viewport. Across the floor of the

hangar, cluttered with tools and repair carts, was the rectangle  of  lights

outlining the hangar's magnetic containment field. Beyond that, dim  because

of the hangar's light, were stars.

"I stopped in," Wedge said. "I didn't stay too long. It tends  to  make

the children nervous."

Solo managed a faint smile. "I know what you mean. I used to be one  of

the guys. Now I walk into a  room  and  all  conversation  stops.  I  didn't

imagine, when I accepted this job, that I'd  become  some  other  thing.  An

outsider."

"Sometimes that's what an officer is. Someone who's 'one of  the  guys'

can't maintain discipline."

"I suppose."

A furious hail of metallic banging made conversation impossible  for  a

moment. It was followed by an unusually lengthy and  articulate  stretch  of

grumbling from Chewbacca.

Solo said, "He hates this wreck almost as much as I do."

"Why do you hate it more?"

"Because, despite everything I said, it's just enough like  the  Falcon

to make me homesick."

"For the Falcon} Or for Leia?"

Solo rubbed his face, easing away  some  of  the  lines  of  tiredness.

"Yeah."

"I never really understood why you left the Falcon on Rebel Dream  when

she went on her mission. You could have stored her on Mon Remonda."

"It's just... I'm not sure." Solo  stared  off  into  the  distance  of

space. "The Falcon is the thing I value most. Not the person I  value  most,

but the thing. I think I left her with Leia so Leia would know."

"That you trusted her with what you valued most."

"Something like that. And I wanted her to remember me."

"As if she'd forget."

"Sometimes I think she should." Solo was silent a long moment, and when

he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "I don't  deserve  her.  And  someday

she'll realize that. When she's away from me, I think,  'Maybe  today's  the

day. Maybe today she'll figure if out and get on with her life.'"

Wedge shook his head. "That's ridiculous."

"No, it's not. She's the one with the goal,  the  plan  for  her  life.

She's a driving force in the New Republic.  Without  her,  I  don't  have  a

place. I'm just a drifter with an irresistible dose of  roguish  charm.  And

someday she'll get tired of the charm and there won't be anything  else  for

me to offer her."

"You know," Wedge said, "I  can't  do  it  myself,  because  you're  my

superior officer. But I could call Chewie  down  here,  and  tell  him  what

you've  just  said,  and  then  he'd  beat  you  nearly  to  death  with   a

hydrospanner. Maybe then you'd figure out how wrong you are."

Solo managed a smile. "I think maybe that's why 1 volunteered for  this

Zsinj assignment. I thought it was because of how I felt when I heard  about

his bombardments. His assaults on  defenseless  worlds.  I  could  just  see

myself as a child on the streets, looking up to see  the  turbolaser  blasts

coming down to destroy the little bit of world I could  call  my  own.  But,

really, it might have been just to show Leia, 'Here I am, see, I

can function in your world.' But after months of it, I just get tireder

and crazier. I find myself wishing I could leave Zsinj be,  and  Leia  could

come home right now, with her mission unfinished, so things could go back to

the way they were. And if she knew that, she'd be ashamed of me."

"It's a natural human emotion. And I have a three-stage plan to let you

get back to the way things used to be."

That caught Solo's attention; he looked at Wedge  for  the  first  time

since he'd boarded the freighter. "How?"

"Stage One." Wedge opened a  comm  channel  on  the  copilot's  control

board. "YT-1300 to bridge. This is Commander Antilles. Please cut all lights

in Bay Gamma One."

A few moments later, the overhead lights  darkened.  Chewbacca  made  a

noise of complaint.

Wedge said, "Including the magcon shield indicator, please, bridge." -

The rectangle of light around the magcon field faded. Now they  sat  in

near-perfect darkness, illuminated only by the stars outside the field. They

hung there, perfect, not blinking because there was insufficient  atmosphere

to make them twinkle, a perfect space vista.

Solo fell silent, just staring at the view for a long  moment.  "That's

nice," he said. "I think you're right. I could  use  more  of  that.  What's

Stage Two?"

"Well, you're not the only member of the crew who  could  benefit  from

some  blissful  irresponsibility  right  now.  So  I'm  going  to  stage  an

insurrection and seize control of Mon Remonda."

Solo gave a curt laugh. "Wedge Antilles, mutineer. That I have to see."

"Bring your Wookiee and I'll show you."

Donos and Lara walked into the officers's cafeteria and stopped  short.

It didn't look the way it was supposed to.

Tables, normally arrayed in neat rows, had been  dragged  out  of  line

into zigzags, into four-table rectangles. Though the  chamber  was  sparsely

occupied, even that was different; normally the diners  would  be  scattered

across the chamber, but now they were concentrated at three or four tables.

Donos and Lara approached  the  closest  table.  The  one  where  their

commander sat with General Solo and Chewbacca. Sabacc cards were laid out on

the table before them.

"Excuse me, sir," Donos said, "I hate to interrupt-"

Wedge looked up. "What did you call me?".

"Uh, sir."

"Who do you think I am?"

Donos glanced at Lara, but she seemed  as  puzzled  as  he.  "Commander

Wedge Antilles, New Republic Starfighter-"

Wedge shook his head. "No, no, no. I just look  like  him.  If  I  were

Antilles, wouldn't I be wearing appropriate rank insignia?"

It was true; he wore none. For that matter, neither did General Solo.

"In fact,"  Wedge  said,  "what's  that  you're  wearing?  Lieutenant's

insignia ?"

"Uh, yes-"

"Off," Wedge said.

"Off," Solo repeated.

"Off off off off," Wedge said.

Donos pulled the rank insignia from his jacket. Lara followed suit with

hers.

Wedge visibly calmed. "That's better," he  said.  "Wait.  Where's  your

astromech?"

Donos's mouth worked for a moment as he considered responses. "I  don't

think I have an answer that will please you. Sir. Or  Not-Sir.  Whoever  you

are."

"You certainly don't. The astromechs are the  backbone  of  Starfighter

Command. Hardest-working beings in the  galaxy.  They  need  some  rest  and

recreation, too. Don't you agree?"

"I, uh,I do."

"Good. Get  out.  Don't  come  back  without  your  astromechs."  Wedge

gathered up the sabacc cards. "New hand. Who's in?"

When Face wandered in, his R2 unit Vape wheeling along behind him,  the

cafeteria was more than half-full. It was also

loud; card games and conversations dominated most of the  tables.  Some

of the kitchen staff appeared to be on duty, bringing out drinks and various

sorts of snacks, but they cheerfully exchanged sharp words with the officers

present in a way they'd never do under ordinary circumstances. Officers  sat

with enlisted men and women, and, though uniforms suggested which was  which

and the services being represented, there were no rank insignia to be seen.

Chewbacca waved him over. Face and Vape moved up to his table.

Over his hand of cards, Wedge gave him a cool appraisal. "It's the  one

who looks like Captain Loran. But he has his astromech and  no  rank.  He'll

pass."

"Thank you, uh, one who looks like Commander Antilles."

"He catches on quickly," Wedge said. "One second. Vape, cold one."

A trapezoid-shaped plate at the top of  Vape's  ball  head  slid  open.

There was a chuff of compressed air, and a condensation-dewed bottle  leaped

up into the air. Wedge caught it with his free hand and set it down  on  the

table before him. "Thanks, Vape. Thanks, one-who-looks-like-Face. That'll be

all." He turned back to his game.

Face said, "You weren't supposed to know about that. And  it  certainly

shouldn't have worked for you."

"I look just like the group leader. That gives me special privileges."

"Besides, it was my last one."

"Well, come back when you're fully stocked."

The others at the table-men and women who  looked  like  General  Solo,

Chewbacca, Captain Todra Mayn of Polearm  Squadron,  Gavin  Darklighter  and

Asyr Sei'lar of Rogue Squadron, laughed.

Face turned away. "Run along and play," he told Vape. "This is going to

be an interesting evening."

Wedge's mutiny of anonymity spread through the  ship  with  a  sort  of

quiet persistence. No officers on duty abandoned their

tasks to join it,  but  crewmen  coming  off  duty  gravitated  to  the

officers's cafeterias  and,  when  the  mutiny  became  too  populous,  into

adjoining noncommissioned crew cafeterias, briefing halls,  and  auditoriums

as well.

And nowhere in the mutineers's sections of Mon Remonda were  name  tags

or rank designations to be  found.  Donos,  walking  the  perimeter  of  the

mutineers's sections with Lara in a state of baffled good humor,  saw  Rogue

mechanic Koyi Komad win a week's wages from Captain Onoma in a card game  as

bloodthirsty as any TIE fighter vs.  X-wing  engagement.  He  saw  Chewbacca

simultaneously arm wrestle a naval lieutenant and  a  civilian  hand-to-hand

combat trainer so vigorously that both humans were thrown to the floor; they

arose laughing and massaging wrenched arms.

Astromechs huddled in corners, exchanging chirps and  trills  that  few

organisms could interpret but that apparently kept them highly amused. Donos

and Lara had to stop short of  a  portion  of  floor  bounded  by  lines  of

observers; a group of R2 and R5  units  sped  through  a  twisting,  winding

course marked by colored tape on the floor. Corran Horn's  Whistler  was  in

the lead, Wedge's Gate was in second place, and both units were tweetling in

the excitement of the moment.

Whistler and Gate maintained their one-two standings across the  finish

line and a crowd of bettors erupted in  cheers  and  catcalls.  Donos  heard

Horn's voice rise above the crowd noise: "I told you, I told you. Next time,

make it an obstacle course with security measures. Whistler will still smoke

them all."

"If I weren't sure I was only half-crazy," Donos said, "I'd be  certain

I was hallucinating."

"Your logic is faulty," Lara said. "If you  were  zero  percent  crazy,

you'd be certain you weren't hallucinating. If you were one hundred  percent

crazy, you'd be equally certain this was real. Only at your current state of

fifty percent insane do you doubt what you see."

"No fair. If I take you back to the pilots's lounge and dance with  you

again, will you stop picking at my flaws in logic?"

"Sure," she said. "That was my motive in the first place."

The mutiny endured from early evening  to  late  evening  of  the  next

calendar date, with a pair of sabacc games the last to break up, and  galley

workers grumbling only halfheartedly as they swept up the trash left  behind

by a day of blissful, if intermittent, irresponsibility.

Solo and Wedge were among those who abandoned the last  surviving  card

game. Solo rubbed tired eyes and said, "Not  bad,  man-who-looks-like-Wedge.

What's Stage Three?"

Wedge gave him a smile he might have learned from a toothy Bothan.  "In

Stage Three, we track down Zsinj and blow him up."

"Good plan. I like it."

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 hack 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 Kid-riff system, and  execute  this

thing. Until then, get some rest. Dismissed."

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."

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?"

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 looked at 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. 1 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."

"And what did they say?"

"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, arid 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?" ù

"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."

10

In the graying hour of dawn, the police floater heeled over so far that

Wedge was certain that its pilot would tumble out of his  seat  if  not  for

strap restraints and the vehicle's bubble top. The pilot looked down at  the

Millennium Falsehood, reached for his control board as if  to  activate  his

comm system, then spotted Tycho's X-wing.

Even with the distance between them, Wedge could read the shock on  the

pilot's face. "Let's go," he said.

Rogue Two's nose elevated until the X-wing was pointed almost  straight

up, and then Tycho kicked in his main thrusters,  shooting  the  snubfighter

into the air straight past the police floater. He missed the smaller vehicle

by less than two meters. The police pilot unnecessarily slid sideways to get

clear of the X-wing's passage.

Wedge duplicated Tycho's maneuver, putting the Falsehood into  a  steep

climb. Above, he could see the glow of Tycho's engines.  "Chewie,  the  comm

system is yours," he said.

Chewbacca activated the comm unit.  He  grumbled  and  roared  into  it

across an open channel. By agreement with Wedge, these would be insults  and

curses in the Wookiee's language.

The Falsehood reached the altitude of the top of this sector's  highest

buildings. Wedge leveled off, still traveling in Tycho's

wake, a sharp maneuver that brought a startled exclamation from Squeaky

... followed by a clatter of metal on metal.

"Forget to strap in?" Wedge asked.

"I never forget anything, sir," the 3PO  unit  said,  his  tone  a  bit

miffed. "I merely failed to add 'strapping in' to my list of things  to  do.

Could you hold her level for a moment?"

"No." Wedge sideslipped to go around an aggressively  tall  skyscraper.

There was another clash and scrape of  metal  from  behind.  Tycho  rejoined

Wedge from the other side of the skyscraper, his X-wing dancing  around  the

Corellian freighter with the nimbleness only a starfighter could manage.

Chewbacca grumbled something and  indicated  the  sensor  board.  Wedge

spared it a glance. It showed a lot of air traffic, most  of  it  moving  in

what appeared to be patterns unrelated to the Falsehood's flight. One  group

of signals, their number indeterminate because of  their  proximity  to  one

another, followed in their wake at a distance of more than  two  kilometers;

they faded in and out of the picture as they dipped down below the level  of

ground clutter and emerged at intervals. "That's Kell and the Drakes," Wedge

said. "We still need to be sure we've been spotted by the world authority-"

A strong signal, a blur representing six or more starfighters, appeared

to the north, closing fast.

"There we go," Wedge said. "Let's bounce out."

Tycho said, "Consider it bounced." His  X-wing  vectored  straight  for

space.

"Oh, no," Squeaky said.

Wedge hauled back on the controls and the Falsehood followed.

Kell saw Tycho and the Falsehood's sudden flight  for  space,  and  the

signals from the distant pursuers just as abruptly showed altitude gains. He

put his interceptor in an upward course-a near-intercept course aimed  at  a

point not far behind the pursuers of the Falsehood.

As they climbed, he  got  a  clearer  look  at  the  group  behind  the

Falsehood. It was a full squadron, identified by the sensors

as TIE fighters. They'd be on the top of Wedge and Tycho  pretty  soon,

certainly before the Falsehood left the atmosphere.

"Drake Squadron, this is  Kidriff  Primary  Control.  Please  disengage

pursuit of official government forces. This is an internal matter."

"Kay Pee See, this is Drake One. We've been  hoping  to  evaluate  your

pilots. Rumor rates them pretty high. Shall I go back and tell  the  admiral

that you wouldn't let us?"

"That's affirmative, Drake One. Break off pursuit now or we'll have  to

view your action as a hostile one.  We'll  apologize  very  sweetly  to  the

admiral and your survivors."

Kell cursed. Not every aspect of Kidriff security was  sloppy.  He  put

all discretionary power to thrust and gained even faster on the  Falsehood's

pursuers.

Just as the air  thinned  to  the  point  that  the  stars  shone  with

brilliant, unblinking clarity,  the  first  laser  blast  sizzled  past  the

Corellian freighter's port side. "A long-distance shot," Wedge said.

Tycho's voice came back, "Easy to hit a flying  bathtub  like  the  one

you're driving even with a long-distance shot. Permission to engage?"

"Not yet. Wait until it gets complicated." Wedge  spared  a  moment  to

look at his sensors. The squadron of TIEs was only a kilometer back.  Kell's

Drakes were only half a klick behind them and closing fast. And a new signal

was on the board-a second full squad of TIEs from the ground  base.  It  was

going to get complicated soon.

Moments later, a shot hit the rear shields. On the sensors,  Wedge  saw

two wingpairs of TIE fighters peel off and curve around toward Kell's group.

"That's it," Wedge said. "Rogue Two, you are free  to  engage.  Chewie,  you

have the controls." He unbelted and moved aft.

"Sir?" said Squeaky. "You're not leaving this disagreeable ball of hair

in charge of a whole ship? Sir?"

Wedge clambered into the upper  gunport  turret  and  powered  up.  His

targeting grid immediately lit up with glows, most

of them red-enemies. Two were out ahead of the others, firing  as  they

came, probably aiming to overtake the freighter, turn, and fire from  ahead,

forcing Chewbacca to adjust the ship's shields on a constant basis.

The first of the lead TIE fighters  shot  past,  firing;  a  laser  hit

rocked the ship. Wedge let that one go, but timed its passage, then sent his

gun turret swinging in its wake even before the second TIE reached him. That

TIE flashed through his crosshairs and he fired.

The TIE erupted in a ball of expanding gases. And  abruptly  Rogue  Two

was darting out from beneath  the  freighter,  tucking  into  the  lead  TIE

fighter's wake, firing quad-linked lasers. The TIE pilot, having lost  sight

of the X-wing on his sensor board, having assumed he was too  far  laterally

for the Falsehood's guns to track him, wasn't  maneuvering.  Tycho's  lasers

chewed through his port solar wing and he tumbled-an uncontrolled roll that,

if he were not rescued soon, might never end.

Two down. Twenty-two to go. Wedge reset and waited.

"Keep it slow," Kell said,  "and  keep  it  sluggish  until  we  break.

Remember,    we're    supposed    to    be     hyperspace-equipped,     less

maneuverable-they'll already have been told what they're  facing."  He  sent

his TIE interceptor into a comparatively gentle westward curve, drawing  two

of the fighters above  into  his  wake,  and  was  pleased  to  see  Elassar

mimicking his move. Janson and Shalla curved off eastward equally lazily.

His sensor system shrilled, indicating an  enemy  laser  lock,  and  he

shouted "Now!" and cut hard to starboard. A green  laser  blast  illuminated

space where he'd been just a moment before, and two  TIE  fighters  followed

the blast, caught off guard. They began their turn, but Kell  continued  his

ferocious maneuver, feeling his chest compress as the interceptor's inertial

compensator failed to keep up entirely with the g-forces he was generating.

His targets swung into view from the right side of his viewport.  They,

too, were now curving to starboard, but he'd caught them off guard, and  had

the advantage of a few seconds

of controlled  maneuvering.  The  leftmost  of  them  jittered  in  his

targeting brackets. He let it go-that was the easier target,  and  that  was

for his wingman. The second TIE now crossed into his targeting  bracket  and

jittered, sign of a laser lock.

He fired. His green lasers bit into the TIE's fuselage where it  glowed

brightest.

Suddenly the TIE's engines  glowed  much  brighter.  Smoke  and  sparks

emerged. The fighter banked to port and down, toward the  planet's  surface.

As more and more sparks emerged, it  looked  like  nothing  so  much  as  an

artificial comet heading for its final resting place.

The second TIE  was  still  intact.  It  continued  looping  around  to

starboard, cutting its maneuver more tightly than Kell could,  and  was  now

well out of his targeting brackets.

Then a barrage of lasers struck the fighter from Kell's left. The shots

tore through its left solar wing array, turning the  wing  into  a  mess  of

shrapnel, then marching across  to  the  fuselage.  The  fighter  detonated,

hurling speeder bike-sized pieces of itself in Kelt's path. He juked  around

the closest of them and reswallowed his stomach.

Who'd fired that shot? He checked his sensors. "Drake Two?  Where  were

you?"

"Sorry, Drake One." Elassar's voice was sheepish. "When  you  broke  to

starboard, I made a mistake and broke to port.  I  had  to  loop  around  to

rejoin you."

Kell shuddered. His wingman had been gone for those long  seconds,  and

his rear had been unprotected. He'd talk to Elassar about  it  later.  "Nice

shooting, Drake Two. Let's rejoin General Solo," he added for the benefit of

the planetary listeners who would someday soon crack this set  of  broadcast

encryptions.

"Yes, sir." Sensors showed Drake Two coming up in his wake,  and  Drake

Three and Drake Four returning to the primary course with their targets  now

off the screen. But the second group of TIEs was much closer.

That -trick, pretending to be heavily laden with hyperdrives,  wouldn't

work a second time, Kell knew. But it had helped even  the  odds.  That  was

good enough for now.

Another TIE had fallen victim to Wedge's guns by the time the leader of

the first TIE squadron got smart. The five remaining TIEs drifted out of the

engagement zone and dropped back toward the intact squadron that was rapidly

catching up.

Wedge deployed the Drakes behind  him  in  two  pairs  and  kept  Tycho

between them, giving him a five-pointed shield of fighters to his aft.  They

were well clear of the atmosphere now, outbound toward the planet's  primary

moon, but the remain-ing squad and a  half  of  TIEs  was  gaining  rapidly.

"Chewie? How are we doing?"

He received a long set of rumbling commentary in reply.

"Squeaky?"

"He says, in his  almost  proverbial  fashion,  that  the  shields  are

holding, but the relays that permit adjustment of the  shields  are,  as  he

puts it, 'twitchy.' He thinks some of them may fail if he continues shunting

power between them."

"Wonderful. All right, Chewbacca, put them in their de-fault  settings.

We go with fixed shields for now."

Another long-range shot struck the Falsehood,  rocking  the  freighter.

Wedge heard mechanical crashes as something was jarred loose from a corridor

housing. "Break and fire at will," he said, and saw his escort move out  and

prepare to engage the enemy again.

Then there was a sensor signal  from  ahead  of  the  Falsehood-a  big,

complicated signal. And red  lasers  flashed  from  ahead,  all  around  the

freighter, into the ranks of the pursuing TIE fighters.

Chewbacca rumbled something.

"He knows that,  you  walking  dirt  trap.  It's  the  Rogues  and  the

Wraiths."

Wraiths, and they might cry. S-foils to attack position. Break by pairs

and fire at will."

Face immediately rose relative to the plane of their flight, heading up

and away from the centerline of the conflict to come. He  also  decelerated,

dropping behind the rest of the  group.  Confused,  Lara  stayed  tucked  in

behind his starboard. "Wraith One? Two. What's our tactic?"

Face was a moment in replying. "You'll see," he said.

The other Rogues and Wraiths fired, a column of red lasers that  passed

harmlessly around the Falsehood  and  her  escort  but  with  less  delicacy

through the oncoming TIEs. Lara saw one fighter ignite and blow apart.

But Face held his fire and so did she.

A moment later, she thought she understood. The  screens  of  TIEs  and

X-wings crossed, with pairs of starfighters maneuvering wildly to get behind

one another. A pair of X-wings shot out of the flurry  of  activity  with  a

pair of TIEs in close pursuit. Face  angled  toward  them  and  accelerated,

diving opportunistically toward them, and opened fire. His shots caused  the

TIE fighter to spook and pull away from its prey, but Lara's laser fire  was

more accurate-her concentrated fire punched through the  TIE  fighter's  top

hatch. There was no explosion, but the thin atmosphere in the fighter vented

and the starfighter went into straight-line flight, out and  away  from  the

engagement zone.

"Nice shooting, Wraith Two.  Thanks."  The  comm  unit  identified  the

speaker as Ran Kether.

"Happy to oblige, Rogue Seven."

Surely Face would now dive into the main body of the fight.

But he didn't. He circled around the periphery of the battle. Frowning,

Lara followed. She knew her duty, even when she didn't understand it.

On Lara's sensor screen, the cloud  of  TIE  fighters  suddenly  became

bigger, more diffuse, then resolved itself into  seven  wing-pairs  and  one

trio of starfighters.

"Group, this is Rogue Nine." She could almost recognize  Corran  Horn's

vocal characteristics in the comm-distorted words. "Remember not to fire  on

the interceptors. They're

Tyria was in the flow of the moment. Even when she  wasn't  looking  at

her sensor board, she had  a  grasp,  a  comprehension  she'd  never  really

enjoyed before, of where the fighters around her were in relation to her and

to  one  another.  She  knew  what  they  intended.  A  moment  before  they

maneuvered, she knew which way they would turn.

Three pairs of starfighters-Corran Horn and Ooryl Qyrgg  in  the  lead,

two Kidriff TIE fighters behind them, gaining  to  optimal  distance  for  a

shot, and behind them, Donos and Tyria, unable to gain on the lead Rogues.

Ooryl fell a little behind and Horn swung ahead and slightly below him.

The maneuver gave Horn a split  second  of  advantage,  since  his  pursuers

couldn't see the first signs of his next  action.  Suddenly  he  was  behind

Ooryl, losing ground to the TIEs so quickly that they overshot him. One  TIE

fighter, its pilot obviously experienced, banked to  port.  The  other  hung

there in place for a moment, and Horn took his  shot,  a  quad-linked  laser

barrage. Tyria couldn't tell where it hit the  TIE;  the  enemy  starfighter

blew so suddenly that she wasn't able to register the impact.

Both Horn and Ooryl banked in the wake of the escaping TIE.

"How'd they do that?" Tyria asked, surprised. She hadn't felt the trick

maneuver coming, hadn't predicted it. "That was too fast for  them  to  have

said anything."

"Experience," Donos said. "Less chatter, Wraith Four."

"Sorry."

"I'm hit!" The voice was young, a little panicky. "Losing shield power.

Smoke in my cockpit. Lasers indicate malfunction."

Lara checked her board. The transmission was from Rogue Eight, "Target"

Nu, the Rodian. He was separated from his wingmate and had a pair of TIEs on

his tail.

"I'm coming." That was his wingmate, Kether. "I'm-I'm hung up here."

"Rogue  Eight,  this  is  Wraith   One."   Face's   voice.   "Come   to

one-nine-four. I'll head  in  straight  toward  you  and  head-to-head  your

pursuit. You pair up with  Wraith  Two  out  here  and  stay  clear  of  the

engagement."

"Thanks, Wraith One." The blip that was Rogue Eight vectored toward her

and Face. Face headed straight toward it, leaving Lara hanging  out  in  the

void.

She didn't object. She  didn't  ask  for  orders.  She  knew  what  was

required of her.

But she wondered, and her confusion gradually turned to cold  worry  in

her stomach.

Seven fighters of the combined TIE pursuit  force,  including  the  one

Face vaped on his head-to-head run into the center of the  engagement  zone,

were destroyed before the pursuing squad leader ordered an evacuation. Donos

decided that the man had to have been assuming the TIE  fighters';,  greater

speed and maneuverability would give him all the advantage he needed against

a numerically superior mixed force. But against the Rogues and  Wraiths,  he

was wrong.

The surviving TIEs fled planetward,  doubtless  to  form  up  with  yet

another flight group and come once again after the Rogues and  Wraiths.  But

this time they wouldn't catch up.

Donos responded to  Wedge's  order  that  the  group  form  up  on  the

Millennium Falsehood. But on his sensor board, Wraith  One  and  Wraith  Two

maintained their distance, paralleling  the  main  group's  course  a  dozen

kilometers out.

Lara could still hear a little  high-pitched  alarm  in  Rogue  Eight's

voice, but that situation seemed to be under control. "I'm  getting  regular

power fluxes but no serious drops. I've  had  to  shut  down  one  starboard

engine but I can limp in on three."

"Group, this is Leader. As soon as we have a little bit of moon horizon

between us and the planet, the Drakes are going to separate and head on  out

to Rendezvous Point Beta. The rest of us will vector  back  into  space  the

planetary sensors can scan, and will then make the jump to Rendezvous  Point

Alpha. Rogue Two, I want you to delay your jump thirty seconds to make  sure

all our damaged snubfighters make the transition to hyperspace."

"Leader, Two. Understood."

"Wraith One, Wraith Two, rejoin the group and prepare for jump."

Face's voice was next. "Leader, this is Wraith One.  We  need  to  jump

from here and follow you in."

"Explain that, Wraith One."

"On a private channel, if you please, Leader."

The worry in Lara's stomach turned into fear. There were only  so  many

reasons Face would refuse to let them return to  the  group.  Most  of  them

involved one or the other of them being a danger to the group,  such  as  if

one of their X-wings were threatening to blow up.

Face was protecting the group, Or someone in the group.  And  Lara  was

certain she knew who. He was protecting Wedge.

From her.

Face's voice was off the comm waves for a couple of  minutes.  Then  he

returned. "Wraith Two, have you double-checked your nav course?"

"No," she said. "You know, don't you, Face?" Her  voice  emerged  as  a

choked whisper and she wondered if the comm unit would even pick it up.

"I know that you're Gara Petothel," he said.  His  voice  was  quieter,

more gentle than she expected it to be.

She felt a snapping sensation in her chest, as  though  her  breastbone

had broken. And then there was the sensation of loss-of the sudden departure

from her life of everything she considered important.

But it didn't feel quite the way she expected it to.  Pain  there  was,

certainly, but she also felt a sudden relief, an absence of the weight she'd

been carrying around since first she decided she no longer wanted  to  serve

Zsinj, since she decided that her alliance with the Wraiths  was  fact,  not

fiction.

Like an animal in a hunter's steel-jaw trap, she'd  finally  lost  that

part of her the trap held. The pain was indescribable. But there was freedom

as well. And she knew that she didn't need to cry anymore.

"I never betrayed you," Lara said. She was surprised at  how  calm  her

voice sounded.

"I'm glad."

"I tried so hard just to be Lara. But they wouldn't let me.  The  whole

universe wouldn't let me."

"Lara, I'm sorry," Face said. "I have to place you under arrest pending

investigation of this whole mess. Power your weapons systems down. Set  your

S-foils to cruise position. Don't attempt any sudden maneuvers."

"Understood, sir. I'm complying with your orders."

Face felt sick to his stomach. He had wished, futilely, that he'd  been

wrong. But Lara had confirmed it.

A sudden fear struck him. He  had  been  on  a  private  communications

channel with Lara, had switched to squadron channel to handle the Target  Nu

situation and then to respond to Wedge's order that  he  move  back  to  the

formation, had switched to  a  private  channel  for  his  quick  talk  with

Wedge-and then had gone back to his private channel with Lara. Hadn't he?

He looked at his comm board. He was now set to  squad  frequency.  He'd

spoken last to Lara on an open channel.

His stomach suddenly got worse.

Donos heard the words but didn't understand them. "I know  that  you're

Gara Petothel." He knew that the name Gara Petothel meant something  to  him

but he still couldn't force his mind around the meaning of those words.

Ah, that was it. Naval officer  Chyan  Mezzine,  a  communications  and

intelligence specialist, had betrayed the New Republic by  sending  critical

information to Admiral Apwar  Trigit,  a  minion  of  Zsinj.  Some  of  that

information was what Trigit used to  annihilate  Talon  Squadron-the  X-wing

unit commanded by Donos. Only he had survived. Then, later, the New Republic

had put out a bulletin on her,  indicating  that  her  real  name  was  Gara

Petothel,  that  she  was  actually  a   deep-cover   agent   for   Imperial

Intelligence. Later, she had been  declared  dead,  another  victim  of  the

destruction of Trigit's Star Destroyer, Implacable.

But Lara Notsil was Gara Petothel.

Lara Notsil had destroyed his command. Had killed eleven pilots he  had

bound together.

Suddenly he was back there, in the smoky skies above the  volcanoes  of

Gravan Seven, as ally after ally was ripped from the sky by Trigit's  pilots

and their ambush. Again he felt the pain of their deaths. It was  a  selfish

pain,  part  loss,  part  realization  that  he  had   failed   them,   part

understanding that his life had changed in a way he could never set right.

The howl that escaped him was no animal noise. It was the wail of a man

who'd just lost everything dear to him .  .  .  and  who  suddenly  had  the

destroyer of his happiness in his sights.

In spite of comm distortion, the howl made Face's skin crawl.  He  knew

who it had to be, and a glance at  his  sensor  board  showed  Wraith  Three

turning away from his course to the rendezvous point on an intercept  course

with Face and Lara.

Wedge's voice did not sound amused.  "Wraith  Three,  this  is  Leader.

Return to your original heading."

Donos did not deviate from his new course.

Face said, "Wraith Two, come to three-three-two and accelerate to  full

speed." He himself did as he'd ordered, turning away from Donos and  running

before him. Lara stayed with him.

It's happening again.

The words were a wail of anguish inside Tyria's mind.

Once again a fellow pilot was making an assault on a friendly target.

She turned in Donos's wake and returned her S-foils to attack position.

Once again she had to put a fellow pilot in her weapon sights.

But this time her  target  was  not  just  an  ally  but  a  friend.  A

squadmate. "Myn," she said, "please don't do this."

Wraith Three came on inexorably but could not gain on Face's and Lara's

X-wings. But he could fire a proton torpedo, which would cross the  distance

between them in seconds and could achieve a lock on Lara.

Face neatly sideslipped his X-wing behind Lara's. "Wraith  Three,  hold

your fire. If you fire, I'm your primary target."

"Wraith Three, power down or I'll be forced to fire."  The  words  were

being choked out, the voice identifiable as Tyria's.

"Wraith Four, this is Wraith One. Do not fire, whatever  happens.  This

is not the same as the Jussafet situation. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledged, sir."

Lara, her voice raspy with pain, said, "Maybe  you  ought  to  let  him

shoot me, sir. Get out of the way."

"Shut up, Two."

Face's sensor board howled, a new noise-the distinctive wail signifying

a proton-torpedo launch. Donos had fired.

"Wraith Three, detonate your torp now." Face made  no  effort  to  keep

alarm  out  of  his  voice;  that  would  have  required  concentration.  He

maintained his  position  immediately  behind  Lara's  X-wing  and  put  all

available power to his rear shields. He kept his free hand on  his  ejection

lever. "Three, blow the torp, I'm your target." From the moment of launch he

had only a few seconds before the torpedo hit, and most  of  that  time  was

already gone. "Detonate, dammit!"

The universe behind Face  filled  with  bright  blue  fire.  His  stern

shuddered as though he'd been rammed and his  cockpit  was  suddenly  filled

with smoke, the howl of damage alert sirens, Vape's  mechanical  shrieks  of

dismay, and the rumble and tremble of failing vehicle systems.

But he was still alive. Either the proton torpedo had detonated at  the

very  outer  edges  of  his  rear  shields,  or  Donos  had   detonated   it

prematurely-barely prematurely.

Bitter anger swelled within him. "Congratulations, Three," he said.  "I

may be your newest kill."

Donos jerked upright in his cockpit, confusion clearing from  his  mind

like smoke sucked into hard vacuum. On his sensor  screen.  Wraith  One  was

maneuvering erratically as Two continued on the straight-line  course  she'd

been assigned. "Face- One. I'm sorry-" He tried to  regain  control  of  his

voice, his thoughts. "Hold tight. I'm coming in for a  flyover.  I'll  check

external damage."

His astromech, Clink, shrieked at him and the shrill tone of  an  enemy

targeting lock assailed his ears. That, and Tycho's voice, hard and cold  as

Donos had ever heard it. "Abort that maneuver, Wraith Three."

"But Captain, I'm closest, I have to see-"

"Deviate from your current course and 1 will blow you out

of space." There was no questioning the deadly seriousness  of  Tycho's

tone. "Wraith Four, do a flyby on Wraith One and  report  signs  of  damage.

Wraith One, do you copy?"

Face's voice was nearly as cold as Tycho's, but his words  were  harder

to understand, drowned by the cockpit alarms from his  damaged  snubfighter.

"I read, Rogue Two. My fighter's holding together for the moment."

"Good. Wraith Two, swing back around and form up with the group."

There was a perceptible delay. Then Lara's voice came  back,  strained,

but not racked with pain as it had been moments  ago.  "I  don't  think  so,

Rogue Two."

"That's an order, Wraith Two, a direct order."

"I've already surrendered once," she said, "and have subsequently  been

fired on by an officer of this group. I no longer have any faith  that  I'll

survive long enough to meet a court-martial."

"Wraith Two, this is Rogue Leader. You know you'll  make  it  now.  The

situation is under control."

It was true; Donos was maintaining straight-line flight  under  Tycho's

guns. He wasn't sure he was capable of doing anything but following  orders.

It wasn't fear of death at Tycho's hands that kept him in line-it was  shock

at what he was certain he'd just done.

"What I know is that you don't  believe  me,"  Lara  said.  "You  don't

believe that I'm a loyal Wraith. You don't  believe  that  I've  never  done

anything to compromise this unit."

Wedge abandoned the formality of call numbers. "Lara,  if  what  you're

saying is the truth, the court will bear you out. I  can  confidently  state

that Nawara Ven will take your case. He's the best."

"But that's it for me with the Wraiths. I'll never be able to fly  with

you again. I'll never be able to help you. To get you out of a  jam.  I  can

never undo what I've done. Never."

"You're probably right, Lara. That's the way it is. Now come around."

When her voice returned, it was not Wedge she addressed.  "Wraith  One?

Can you hear me?"

Face's voice was still strong, and this time  was  not  accompanied  by

alarms-he'd obviously taken steps to quiet the sirens  in  his  cockpit.  "I

read you, Two."

"I want you to understand something. I don't care if you understand  it

now. I want you to understand it later. I have never betrayed the Wraiths. I

will never, ever betray the Wraiths. Do you read me?"

"I... hear what you say."

A moment later, she said, "Myn?"

Donos jolted. He opened his mouth to answer, but he  didn't  know  whom

he'd be talking to. Lara, the woman he'd wanted to come to  love,  or  Gara,

the woman he'd sworn-and now attempted-to kill.

"Myn?"

He sat there, paralyzed by indecision, and did not answer.

Lara's X-wing leaped out of sight and off the sensors as  it  made  the

jump into hyperspace.

In the Rogue and Wraith squadrons's landing bay, Donos climbed down out

of his cockpit. His back was so straight it hurt. He needed  that  pain.  He

needed the constant reminder that he had to get himself back under control.

He'd lost control. He'd lost Lara. He'd lost everything.

Wedge waited for him at the foot of the ladder. Donos  turned  to  face

him and took a step back without intending to. Wedge's body was as still  as

if carved from ice, but there was nothing cold about  his  eyes.  They  were

full of anger, more intense anger than Donos had ever seen in them.

"One reason," Wedge said. "I'd like to hear one reason why I  shouldn't

ship  you  off  to  Coruscant  and  put  you  up   on   charges   of   gross

insubordination."

Donos stood at attention, every muscle he  was  aware  of  locked  into

place. He kept his gaze fixed above Wedge's head and took a deep  breath  as

he got his thoughts in order, "Logically speaking, 1 should not be tried for

insubordination, sir, because insubordination is generally a deliberate act.

I do not believe I was in my right mind when I  fired  upon  Flight  Officer

Notsil. 1

can't even remember doing that." He couldn't bring himself to refer  to

her as Gara Petothel, even in his own mind. His hard-won control might  slip

again.

"Temporary insanity?" The tone of Wedge's  voice  suggested  the  frown

Donos could see only in his peripheral vision. "That sounds like a dodge  to

me, Lieutenant."

"I'm not sure it's  temporary,  Commander."  Donos  couldn't  keep  the

dejection out of his own voice. "You and Face, Captain  Loran  I  mean,  are

aware of my ... earlier difficulty."

"Difficulty" was  something  of  an  understatement.  Weeks  after  the

destruction of Talon Squadron, when Donos's R2 unit, Shiner, the only  other

survivor of the Gravan mission, had been destroyed, Donos had lapsed into  a

near-catatonic state. Only the  intervention  of  Kell,  Tyria,  and  Falynn

Sandskimmer- herself now dead for many weeks-had brought  him  out  of  that

withdrawal. "I submit," Donos continued, "that I was not in  my  right  mind

when I fired on her, and I no longer have any  confidence  that  I'm  in  my

right mind at other times. With respect, sir, I tender the resignation of my

commission and of my place in Wraith Squadron."

Wedge didn't answer immediately. Donos could see the top of his head as

the commander looked right and left, communicating  with  the  other  senior

officers by what might have been a  combination  of  shared  experience  and

telepathy.

"I'll consider  your  request,"  Wedge  said,  "while  you  consider  a

question I may oblige you to answer at some later time. If we encounter Lara

Notsil in the future, in a combat situation, which of the Wraiths would  you

prefer to vape her in your place?"

The question was like a blade of ice thrust straight into Donos's  gut.

He opened his mouth to respond, but Wedge said, "Quiet. I don't require your

answer yet. Dismissed."

Donos turned away, past the eyes of the Rogues and his fellow Wraiths.

He saw anger in some of them, confusion in others. A sort of sick  pain

in Tyria's. What he'd almost made her do-kill a second fellow pilot.

She'd never forgive him.

It didn't matter much. He'd never forgive himself.

Behind him, he heard Wedge directing his anger against another  target.

"Captain Loran. You and I need to talk. My office. Right now."

Lara's first jump had just taken her clear of the Kidriff  system.  Her

second, initiated after she'd had a chance to consult her astromech  Tonin's

memory, would take a while to complete. It  would  bring  her  back  to  the

Halmad system, where she and the other Wraiths had once pretended  to  be  a

band of pirates called the Hawk-bats.

In abandoned Hawk-bat Station, she'd be able to refuel, to  initiate  a

new communication, to make some modifications to Tonin.

But for now, she was left with her thoughts.

Her one thought.

Lara Notsil is dead.

Lara had been a temporary identity. Something to keep her  out  of  the

hands of the New Republic while she  figured  out  a  way  to  persuade  the

warlord Zsinj to employ her. Then it had been  a  convenience,  a  means  to

infiltrate the Wraiths in order to improve her worth in Zsinj's eyes.  Then,

when she'd come to realize the  depths  to  which  her  early  teaching  had

programmed her to accept Imperial ideas of rule as  infallible,  when  she'd

realized that she could never serve Zsinj or the Empire again,  Lara  Notsil

had become a gradually eroding shield between her and the  day  the  Wraiths

would turn against her.

That day had come. Lara Notsil was no more.

Who was she, then? Not Gara Petothel. That was the name she'd been born

under, but Gara had been such an unhappy creature,  a  servant  of  Imperial

Intelligence, a young woman with no goals of her own. With no future.

No one, no family member or friend, who'd known  her  under  that  name

still lived. So Gara Petothel was dead, too.

But Kirney Slane-an identity she'd  worn  for  a  few  weeks  when  she

learned many of the techniques of the intelligence agent. Kirney was nothing

but a young woman wandering through the wealthy-officer stratum of  Imperial

culture  on  Coruscant.  She'd  attended  dances,   flirted   with   officer

candidates, shopped.

She had been worthless. But she had been happy.

Lara wondered if she could take that long-abandoned identity  and  give

her some worth. And even, perhaps, retain  some  of  her  naive  cheer,  her

certainty that life was worth living.

Gara Petothel is dead. Lara Notsil is dead.  I  will  answer  to  those

names. But they are no longer mine.

I am Kirney Slane,

I have no life yet.

I will make one, or die in the attempt.

She thought about Donos. He, too, had attempted to kill Gara,  with  at

least as much reason as she had.

He'd been right. They were more alike than she had realized.

"You don't think," Wedge said, "it could have waited until we  returned

to Mon Remonda."

"No, sir," Face said.

"She had plenty of opportunities to vape me or any of the  rest  of  us

prior to today. That ranks her pretty low as a threat."

"With all due respect, sir, I thought about that. If we think that way,

we have to presume that Lara was  not  working  for  Zsinj  or  the  Empire.

Because if she was an agent, she could have been following  her  employers's

plan or schedule. I mean, Galey the cook also had plenty of opportunities to

stick a vibroblade in you or the general. So, if we follow your  logic,  the

fact that he didn't attack someone between the day Mon Remonda  returned  to

space and the day he killed Doctor Cast means he was trustworthy  all  those

days." He offered Wedge an expression of regret. "Sir, I did what I  thought

was right for the unit."

"What does your gut tell you?"

Face looked away for a long moment,  then  returned  his  attention  to

Wedge. "My gut says she was telling the truth. That she was a loyal Wraith."

"But you didn't believe your gut instinct."

"Yes, sir, 1 did. But I didn't rely on it.  If  1  had,  and  I'd  been

wrong, whatever she did would have been my fault."

Wedge nodded. "All right. Face, off the record, I think you fouled  up,

and this situation could have been resolved in a less  catastrophic  fashion

if you hadn't."

Face nodded, his expression glum.

"But there's nothing wrong with your logic. It wasn't  entirely  a  bad

call. Just one made on incomplete data. I need you  to  understand  that  an

officer who can't rely on his own gut instinct is an officer  who  shouldn't

be commanding others." Face considered that. "I imagine you're right,  sir."

"So work on it. Now get back to your unit and see if you can patch  them  up

emotionally."

Face had been gone only a moment when someone knocked. Wedge shook  his

head. This was not going to be a good afternoon. "Come in."

Donos entered his office and stood at attention. Wedge let  him  remain

that way. It had been a. very few months ago that Donos had entered  one  of

his offices for the very first time, remaining  stiffly  at  attention  just

like this. Now, as then, the pilot's features were expressionless; his  gaze

was carefully fixed on the wall over Wedge's head. "Yes?" Wedge said.

"After due reflection, I have concluded that my earlier  intention  was

the correct one. I have come to formally resign my commission. It's my  only

possible course of action." Wedge waited, but Donos didn't elaborate. "Why?"

"I have performed acts that are an embarrassment to this unit and that  will

inevitably result in the end of my flying career. I feel that it is best  to

end it myself, without further inconvenience to you or to the unit."

Wedge regarded him steadily. Yes, this was just like  the  first  time,

with Donos's true thoughts hidden behind the mask of his face, kept  rigidly

at bay by his personal discipline. And his words had been so  precise.  "I'm

sorry," Wedge said, "I didn't catch all of your last statement. 'To  end  it

myself-'" "Without further inconvenience to you or to the unit. Sir."  Wedge

sighed. He rose, unfastened his right  boot,  drew  it  off,  and  stood  it

upright on his desktop. "You, too, Donos. Your right boot. Put it there."

Confusion struggled with the imperturbability on Donos's face. "Sir,  I

don't understand." "Do it."

When Donos complied, setting his boot beside Wedge's,

the commander sat, putting his feet up on the  desk.  "Lieutenant,  sit

down. Put your feet up. That's an order."

They sat, two officers each with one boot off, their  feet  up  on  the

desk, for long moments of silence. Finally Donos said, "Sir, I  don't  think

you're taking my request seriously."

"You'd be surprised at how seriously I'm taking  it.  Now,  start  that

little speech again, Lieutenant. Come on, you know  it.  It  goes,  'I  have

performed acts that are an embarrassment to this unit...'"

"You're mocking me."

"No, I'm testing a theory. I think that in this  ridiculous  pose,  you

won't be able to convincingly recite the  speech  you  have  so  laboriously

written for yourself.

"Let me guess," Wedge continued, and began counting off  items  on  his

fingers. "In your resignation speech, you take full responsibility for  your

actions. You throw yourself into the path of the oncoming  investigation  so

that the unit will not suffer.  You  apologize  eloquently.  And  with  your

words, you anaesthetize yourself so you don't have  to  feel  anything  when

your fellow pilots look at you or when your superior officers tell you  what

they think of you."

Donos's face flushed. He rose. "I didn't come here for you to make  fun

of me-"

"Sit!" Wedge made a bellow of the word, and Donos flinched. "  And  get

your feet back on top of the desk. Right now."

Donos complied. His face did not fade to a normal color.

"That's better. Now, let's have it without the speech. In not just your

own words but your real voice. Start."

Donos looked as though he were silently practicing swear words. Then he

said, "I'm here to resign my commission in Starfighter Command."

"Because you want to, or because you feel you ought to?"

"Because it's better to punch out  before  the  oncoming  missile  hits

you."

"Well, that's an ironic turn of phrase, in light of today's events. Who

is the incoming missile?"

"Whatever board investigates the events at Kidriff Five. And, if I  may

say so, sir, you."

"I'm going to drum you out of Starfighter Command?"

"Yes, sir. You'll have to."

"I do not invite you to speak for me, Lieutenant. But let's assume that

I don't have to do this, that the investigating board will do it.  Why  will

they do it?"

"Because I deliberately shot at  a  fellow  pilot,  or  a  surrendering

enemy, or whatever she was-" Donos's voice was suddenly hoarse "-in the face

of a superior's orders not to do so."

"When we landed, you said that you didn't remember  having  fired.  You

didn't remember anything about the critical  seconds  in  which  you  turned

toward your target and shot off a proton  torpedo.  Do  you  remember  those

events now?"

"No, sir."

"So how do you know you fired deliberately?"

Donos frowned. "I-I-Can I put my feet down? I feel silly."

"You may not. You're supposed to feel silly. It makes it much harder to

baffle me with elegantly designed speeches. What you may  do  is  take  your

time in answering."

Donos did. He took several long breaths and  his  face  returned  to  a

normal color. Finally, he said, "My assumption  that  I  fired  deliberately

comes because such an act is completely in  keeping  with  my  mental  state

whenever I thought about what I'd do if I ever had  the  betrayer  of  Talon

Squadron under my guns."

"Very good. That's a real answer. Now, tell me, based on your memories,

not what's consistent with your  feelings  prior  to  this  event:  Did  you

deliberately fire on Lara Notsil?"

"I don't know."

"Did you deliberately disobey the orders of a superior officer?"

"I don't know."

"Very well. I'm going to put the incident down as 'accidental discharge

of a weapons system' for the time being. That's  the  way  it  goes  in  the

record until an investigation determines otherwise."

"And when the  investigation  determines  otherwise,  I  go  through  a

court-martial."

"Possibly, But they might not determine otherwise. We may  never  know.

And if they're obliged to accept the 'accidental-discharge'  theory  because

nothing else can be determined, your career will probably survive it.  There

will come a time, in the far future, when a  peacetime  Starfighter  Command

has too many pilots, and a blemish much less significant than this one  will

torpedo a career . .. but that'll be a long  time  in  coming."  Wedge  gave

Donos a frank and evaluative stare, one he knew to be intimidating.  "Donos,

do you know what I think happened?"'

"No, sir."

"I think that when you realized  that  Notsil  had  been  partially  or

completely responsible for the deaths of your fellow Talon Squadron  pilots,

you lost all control and tried to kill her,  in  spite  of  danger  to  your

fellow pilots and in spite of orders from a superior officer."

Donos's face registered shock. "That's what I've been  trying  to  tell

you. That's what I've been trying to accept responsibility for."

Wedge  shook  his  head.   "You   haven't   been   trying   to   accept

responsibility. You've been trying  to  avoid  it.  Responsibility  involves

owning up to what you've done wrong and trying to make up for it."

"I... don't understand. Once again, I have no idea what you're saying."

"Why did you lose control? More specifically, why were  no  members  of

your squadron aware that you might lose control?"

"Obviously, there's something still wrong in my head."

"And obviously, you've discussed this problem with the medics."

"No, sir."

"You've discussed it with your wingmate."

"No, sir."

"Whom have you discussed it with in order to improve the situation?"

Donos looked away, struggling to keep distress off his face.  "No  one,

sir."

"Donos, that's the responsibility you've dodged. Now, either you're fit

to fly or you're not. How do we find out?"

"I guess I talk to the medics."

"Talk to one of your squadmates first. One or  more  of  them.  Venting

whatever pressure is in you is easier to survive if it's done in  atmosphere

rather than in vacuum. And then talk to the medics."

Donos didn't meet his gaze, but nodded.

"You're off the active flying roster until someone can tell me  whether

you're fit to fly. And you're not the person to tell me."

Finally Donos looked at him and nodded again. "Understood, sir."

"You did one thing right today, Donos. You probably don't even know it.

Your flight recorder and your astromech both  indicate  that  you  detonated

your torpedo before it hit Captain Loran."

"I don't remember that, either."

"But it's the one  reason  that  stands  between  you  and  my  instant

acceptance of your resignation. Dismissed."

Donos took his feet from the desk. "Before I go, may I ask something?"

"Go ahead."

"In the bay, you asked me something. You asked if we  met  Lara  again,

which Wraith I'd want to kill her instead of me. I  still  don't  understand

why you asked. What the question even means."

"Well, answer the question. Then I'll explain why I asked."

"I'm not sure I can. I don't want to kill her,  not  anymore.  I  don't

want her to be dead. I'm not even sure I want her punished. She was an enemy

when she gave Admiral Trigit the  data  on  my  squadron,  then  she  became

something that wasn't an enemy." His shrug suggested helplessness. "I  don't

know what I want."

"That's what I thought. One reason I asked was to gauge  your  reaction

to the thought of somebody killing Lara. You didn't like that  idea.  And  I

also asked so you'd think about this:  If  we  run  up  against  her  in  an

adversarial situation, and-in the faint likelihood that you'll  be  piloting

by that time-you lose control again and assault her,  you  may  provoke  her

into fighting back. Correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"If your squadmates see you having trouble with an enemy, they may come

in to help you. Correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Which puts them in the position of possibly having to kill her.  Which

also puts her in the position of possibly having to kill one  of  them.  The

other half of that question was, which of your squadmates are you willing to

sacrifice?"

"None, sir."

"Then get your head fixed. Or I will accept your resignation."

Donos rose and saluted. The expression on his face was a glum one. But,

Wedge reflected, at least it was an expression.

When Donos and his boot were gone, Wedge let out a sigh  and  tried  to

relax. He'd had too many years of command not to  have  some  experience  at

taking the attention and thoughts of a pilot and redirecting  them,  but  it

was still an effort, one that filled his gut with acid.

Donos was on the edge. Wedge recognized that. One step  the  wrong  way

and  he'd  be  lost  as  a  pilot,  too  erratic  and  undisciplined  to  be

trustworthy.

But he hadn't quite taken that step, and if Wedge could keep  him  from

taking it, he'd save the New Republic the staggering number of credits  that

had been spent on Donos's pilot training. He might even  save  a  man  whose

warlike skills and impulses would not translate well to civilian life.

There was another rap at the door.

"Come."

Wes Janson strolled in, datapad in hand, and stopped short.  He  stared

at Wedge's bootless foot. He said, "Should I ask?"

"Not unless you'd like me to decide on a new place for my boot to go."

11

She was drifting, in pain, and knew she did not  want  to  awaken.  But

something would not let her sleep. Not just the pain in her back. She opened

her eyes.

Pink, she was floating in a sea of pink. No, nothing so poetic-she  was

suspended within a bacta tank, and the pain she felt suggested she was going

to be here for some time to come.

But a female technician with a perky smile was outside,  gesturing  for

her to rise to the top, so she gave  a  few  feeble  kicks  and  floated  up

through the cloying liquid.

When she broke the surface, a hand, a male hand, reached down  to  help

disengage the breather unit from her face.  When  her  vision  cleared,  she

recognized the individual leaning across the top of the bacta tank, reaching

in to assist her: it was that Twi'lek lawyer, Nawara Ven.

"Doctor Gast," he said, "I have an offer for you. One  half  a  million

credits. Amnesty for all crimes to which you  provide  confession  and  full

details. And a new  identity-quite  easy  to  manage,  as  you  are  already

officially dead; only a couple of medics  and  three  officers  know  you're

still alive. But this offer is only valid if you can tell  us,  among  other

things, the biological signs and markers that indicate when someone has been

subjected to Zsinj's brainwashing techniques."

Gast let a slow smile spread across her features. "My,  you  have  been

doing your research."

"We'll keep today's meeting short," Wedge said. He looked out over  his

audience of pilots, trying to gauge their mood.

They  were  quiet.  Few  wisecracks.  Little  banter.  They  were  even

refraining from badgering Elassar Targon. A bad sign; morale was low.

"A recent attempt by a Sullustan pilot to crash  a  luxury  liner  onto

Coruscant was thwarted by a fellow Sullustan officer. An  attempt,  also  on

Coruscant, by a Bothan civil services employee to cause an  explosion  at  a

power center was  thwarted  by  his  supervisor.  Though,  officially,  both

incidents  were  prevented  by  fellow  workers,  unofficially,  they   were

prevented by New Republic Intelligence-who were following the  blueprint  we

sent them  for  Zsinj's  operations.  General  Cracken  sends  his  personal

congratulations to the members of Wraith Squadron  and  Rogue  Squadron  who

participated in our prediction sessions. Yes, Face?"

"Does this mean that the order keeping the Twi'lek crewmen  off  active

duty is rescinded?"

"No. Officially, it's not." He nodded toward Dia Passik. "Unofficially,

it is, pending an upcoming vote by the Provisional Council. Dia, you're back

on duty."

"That's not good enough," Face said.

"I know," Wedge said. "Zsinj has still wounded the New Republic.  We're

going to have to bear up under it until the wounds close, and be happy  that

we prevented similar measures from being handed down against Sullustans  and

Bothans. But, Dia, it's up to you. Do you want to fly?"

"I'll fly," she said. "I want my shot at Zsinj."

"Good, because we have a heavy schedule ahead of us."  Wedge  activated

the holoprojector. The image of a broad belt of stars appeared  beside  him,

with numerous points of  light  blinking  within  it.  "We're  going  to  be

bouncing in and out of Zsinj-controlled space, hitting  his  territories  in

some places, showing up in our ersatz Millennium Falcon in others. We'll

also be moving through the borders between New Republic  territory  and

Zsinj's, performing some routine assaults. Horn?"

The Rogue pilot lowered his hand. "Sir, Lara Notsil  isn't  just  gone,

she has to have defected. She really has nowhere to go  but  the  Empire  or

Zsinj, and that's a fifty percent chance that the Falsehood scheme has  been

compromised.".

"That's a very good point. It all boils down to the question of whether

or not we believe her last transmissions. That she still considers herself a

loyal Wraith. That she never betrayed us. Do you believe her?"

"No," Horn said. "She may have believed what she was saying. But  after

talking to some of the Wraiths about her  behavior,  reviewing  her  conduct

before Kidriff Five, I tend to think she's a situational conformist  with  a

few bolts loose in her skull. If  she  ends  up  in  Zsinj's  hands,  she'll

probably end up being a loyal officer of Zsinj's."

"That's a  reasonable  interpretation,"  Wedge  said.  "Don't  think  I

haven't considered it. But I don't believe it. I think  that  the  Falsehood

plan will remain secure, just as the Hawk-bats plan did. However, since I'll

be staking my life on this conclusion, and those of my pilots, I'll  accept,

without prejudice, any request for transfer any of you has to offer me. Make

them through routine channels after this briefing.

"More good news. We are now in the possession of information about  the

blood markers that indicate Zsinj brainwashing  in  a  variety  of  humanoid

species. All members of this task force,  from  General  Solo  to  the  most

junior civilian crewmen, will be tested, and anyone returning from  a  shore

leave or unmonitored departure from the fleet will be retested. We will  not

face the tragedy of Tal'dira and Nuro Tualin a second  time."  He  saw  some

expressions brighten.

"All right. Among our new weapons is a lot of data about the way  Zsinj

moves into a system  currently  in  enemy  hands  and  acquires  control  of

businesses there." That had been another benefit of the first interview with

Dr. Gast; her uncle had helped him acquire his  majority  share  in  Binring

Biomedical on Saffalore, and had told her of the precise techniques  he  had

used. "On Zsinj-held worlds, we'll be making strikes against

the businesses that have to be providing him with the greatest  amounts

of money or necessary materiel, and we'll be escorting more  appearances  by

the Millennium Falsehood-both to lure him into an  attack  on  General  Solo

and, we hope, to make him paranoid about treason on worlds he holds."

There was more to it than that, details Wedge couldn't give his pilots.

There were no Imperial-held worlds on the task  force's  hit  list,  because

General Solo was forwarding to Admiral Teren Rogriss that  same  information

about  Zsinj's  business  dealings.  New  Republic  Intelligence  would   be

ferreting out Zsinj-held businesses in New Republic territories,  hoping  to

use some to lure Zsinj into a trap, cutting off Zsinj's  precious  pipelines

of money and materiel from others . . . and Imperial Intelligence  would  be

doing exactly the same thing in Imperial-controlled territories.

General  Solo  and  Admiral  Rogriss,  senior  officers  of  two  enemy

governments making agreements that would be easy to interpret as  treasonous

. . . Wedge had to shake his head over that. It took a menace like Zsinj  to

make temporary allies of two men who would otherwise be bitter opponents.

"So. Mission One." He shifted the holoprojector image to a single solar

system,  that  of  a  red  gas  giant.  "This  is  the  Belsmuth  system  in

Zsinj-controlled space. On the second planet in the system is what  used  to

be one of the Empire's finest technical universities. Now  it's  an  academy

for Zsinj's pilots and officers. Two days from  now,  it's  going  to  be  a

series of craters. Rogue Squadron will escort Nova Squadron in from north of

the facility ..."

"Lieutenant Petothel. Delighted to meet you."

At the foot of the ladder to  her  X-wing  cockpit,  Lara  shucked  her

helmet and turned to face the speaker. The man  advancing  toward  Lara  was

tall and lean, with the cruelest features she'd ever seen on a human  being.

The nails on the hand he offered gleamed like mirrors.  She  suspected  that

they were as sharp as a vibroblade.

She put on a broad smile that masked the sudden churning

in her stomach. "I recognize your voice. General Melvar?" She took  his

hand.

"Correct. Welcome to Iron Fist. And thank  you  for  dressing  for  the

occasion."

Lara smiled. She'd left her New Republic flight suit at  Hawk-bat  Base

and was now dressed in a TIE fighter's black jumpsuit, though it was adorned

with the standard X-wing flight gear. "I can't tell you how happy I am to be

here at last."

Melvar's gesture took in her X-wing and her astromech,  which  was  now

being extracted from its berth by a hangar electromagnet. "Are you making  a

presentation to us of this vehicle?"

"No." She laughed. "This Rebel starfighter and its  astromech  are  all

the property I have in the galaxy. If the warlord doesn't choose  to  employ

me, I'll need them to continue on. To find someplace to call home."

"Oh, I think the least you can  count  on  is  a  medium-term  civilian

contract. You're far more likely to receive an  officer's  posting  on  Iron

Fist. But let's find  out."  Melvar  led  Lara  out  of  the  hangar,  which

otherwise was occupied by Imperial-style vehicles and  personnel.  From  the

number of TIE interceptors and Lambda-class  shuttles,  she  suspected  that

this was the senior officers' hangar.

She was sure of it a minute later-its  proximity  to  Zsinj's  personal

office made it a certainty. She was led into the  presence  of  the  warlord

like an honored guest. Zsinj actually rose as she entered the office, giving

her a little formal bow. "Gara Petothel. So happy to meet you at last."

"You're the warlord," she said, keeping her voice pert. "I won't try to

compete with you in degrees of happiness."

Zsinj's smile broadened. "Very good. She gives me my due, yet steals it

back by making her presence the one that induces more happiness. Did you see

that, General?"

"I saw." The general hovered, standing a meter behind Lara's chair,  to

the left. She forced herself to stay relaxed. She couldn't let him know  how

tense his presence made her.

"Lieutenant Petothel-may I call  you  Gara,  at  least  until  we  have

questions of your employment settled?"

"Please do."

"Gara, we  must  know."  The  general's  mobile  features  took  on  an

expression of sympathy, of worry. "We dispatched a team to make arrangements

for your employ, and possibly your extraction, to Aldivy. We  received  word

from their contacts several days later that our agents  had  been  found-or,

rather, their bodies, badly decomposed. What happened?"

Lara offered a little sigh of vexation. "I traveled to  Aldivy  in  the

company of an officer of Wraith Squadron. I'd intended to make  an  offering

of him and his X-wing to the contact team. He was the final member of  Talon

Squadron, which I helped Admiral  Trigit  destroy.  I  thought  he  was  one

lingering detail I ought to deal with. But what I didn't know until later is

that the idiot had fallen in love with me. He was supposed to stay with  the

X-wings; instead, he followed me. Well, in my opening negotiations with your

captain, my brother-that is, the real Lara Notsil's brother-got testy,  drew

a blaster, just a show of intimidation . . . and Lieutenant Donos fired upon

him, killing him. Then he finished up by killing  your  captain.  I  had  to

cover up my tracks after that, not attempt any further  communications  with

you for a while, as I was under some scrutiny during the review."

Zsinj nodded. "But, obviously, you came away clean."

"Oh, yes. For a while. Unfortunately, on Coruscant, one of the  Wraiths

stumbled across some information on my  mother,  who'd  been  with  Imperial

Intelligence. He noticed a resemblance,  did  some  research  ...  and  then

confronted me during a mission. With my cover blown, with it now  impossible

for me to uncover any more information to offer you, I fled."

"How did you manage to contact us?"

Though Zsinj's expression was open, innocent, Lara knew he  had  to  be

aware of every fact of the story. Still, she was playing  his  game  by  his

rules. "When my so-called brother contacted me  initially,  he  mentioned  a

company that might want to employ me-that is, Lara, his real sister. After I

was forced to flee Mon Remonda, I decided to look into that firm, in case it

was a front for your operations. And it was, one you'd set up only a  couple

of weeks prior to the first contact I received."

"Well, excellent." Zsinj reviewed a screen full of data on

his terminal, data Lara  could  not  see.  "I  am,  unfortunately,  too

pressed for time to give you all the attention I should like, so let's  jump

straight into the dogfight, shall we? I can offer you a  commission  at  the

rank of naval lieutenant. You'd be an analyst aboard Iron Fist. While you go

through your first few weeks of orientation, we'd like to pry from you every

bit of knowledge you can give us on Mon  Remonda,  General  Solo,  Commander

Antilles, and Antilies's squadrons. Does that suit you?"

Lara made her voice a purr. "It suits me  very  well.  May  I  keep  my

X-wing and R2?"

Zsinj's face registered mild surprise. "Why would you want to?  We  can

give you something far better."

"Well, they're souvenirs. Of my victory over a  rather  vehement  idiot

named Atton Repness, They used to belong to him."

Zsinj exchanged a blank look with Melvar, then shrugged, "Of course. We

have a deal, then? Excellent. Welcome to Iron Fist, Lieutenant Petothel."

Lara shot to her feet, schooling her features  to  absolute  blankness,

and saluted.

Zsinj looked startled for a moment, then chuckled. "I  admire  the  way

you switch gears, Lieutenant. You're off duty  until  we  come  up  with  an

itinerary for you. One of those pasty-faced ensigns out there will take  you

to your new quarters and act as your guide for your first few  days.  Wander

as you will. And welcome." At last, he returned her salute.

"Thank you, sir." With military precision, she spun  on  her  heel  and

exited the office.

The "pasty-faced ensign" awaiting her outside was anything  but.  Tall,

dark-haired, and solemn, he had the hard look of a front-line soldier  who'd

received a field promotion. He identified himself as Ensign  Gatterweld  and

led her first back to the hangar where her X-wing waited-so that  she  might

pick up her R2 unit, Tonin-and then to her quarters. He spoke little.

It was a long walk, and the finality of what  she'd  done  finally  hit

Lara.

She was surrounded by countless tons of machinery whose

sole purpose was to rain death down on people she had ultimately chosen

to protect.

Except for one R2 unit, she was alone, a secret enemy of those who  now

employed her, a public enemy of those to  whom  she  desperately  wanted  to

return.

She saw a trapezoidal little utility  droid  zipping  along  the  hall,

steering like a frightened animal out of the path of officers walking  along

the corridor, and imagined herself the human equivalent of such a machine-so

small and inconsequential that she posed  no  threat,  that  she  could  not

determine even the smallest detail of her own fate.

Then, five steps later, she realized how she was  going  to  ù  destroy

Iron Fist.

"What do you think?" Zsinj asked.

Melvar let his features go slack. All the menace and  cruelty  in  them

vanished. "Certainly, some of what she was saying was the truth. I just have

difficulty trusting Intelligence types."

"Such as yourself."

"I was never with Imperial Intelligence. I just saw them  as  a  likely

enemy and schooled myself in their skills  and  tactics."  Melvar  shrugged.

"I've received early word from the technicians examining her astromech. It's

a new-model R2, very much state-of-the-art, and has received a recent memory

scrub. It remembers the jump  from  Aldivy  to  our  rendezvous  point,  but

nothing else. It had a restraining bolt on it when she arrived."

Zsinj smiled. "Very appropriate. Innocuously appropriate. Keep a  close

eye on her. Extract every possible bit of information out  of  her.  If  she

remains loyal, reward her. If she proves to be disloyal-"

"I can guess the rest."

"Why me?" Janson asked.

He lay on his bunk, hands behind his head,  looking  dubiously  at  his

visitor.

"I can't go to a friend," said Donos. He sat in Janson's

chair, leaning back on its rear legs so his  shoulders  rested  on  the

wall. "I don't have any."

"Not since you shot at the last one."

Donos managed a mirthless smile. "I can't go to a subordinate  officer.

I'd just feel uncomfortable. Or to a superior."

"Which leaves the rest of us lucky lieutenants."

"Pretty much."

"So talk. I'm game. It's been years since I ruined the life of a fellow

lieutenant. Well, weeks, anyway."

"I'm not sure where to begin. I don't know whether I'm crazy or not.  I

just know that before Talon Squadron was destroyed, I was a  different  man.

Self-control, self-composure were easy. Afterward, I had to work so hard  to

manage everything. If I didn't.. ."

"If you didn't, what?"

"I don't know. I never found out. I was so good at managing everything.

Except for that collapse. And the other day, with Lara."

"How many times did Lara slap you?"

"Slap me? Never."

"Why not?"

"I never gave her reason to."

"Right. Since you became a pilot, how many times have you  been  picked

up by military police for being drunk and belligerent?"

"Never."

"But you drink."

"In moderation."

Janson sighed. "You see, I was  operating  under  the  assumption  that

you'd actually died with Talon Squadron but had failed to notice. But I  was

wrong! You've been dead since you joined Starfighter Command. Maybe  longer,

maybe since you were with the Corellian armed forces."

Donos frowned. "I'd appreciate it if you'd explain that."

With a single, fluid move, Janson sat upright, spun ninety  degrees  to

his right, and set his heels on the floor. "Sure," he  said.  "It's  simple.

You're dead. I'm not. Let me demonstrate." He stood  up  on  his  bed,  then

began bouncing up and down. "Did you ever do this as a kid?"

"Of course."

"Did you ever do it as a grown-up?"

"Of course not."

"You say 'of course' a lot, and it's always wrong. Tell me, Myn. How do

I look?"

"Well, stupid."

"Exactly!" With an exuberant bound, Janson leaped off his cot,  smacked

his head on the ceiling, and swore as he  landed  on  the  floor  again.  He

rubbed his head and glared at the treacherous ceiling. "When  was  the  last

time you looked stupid?"

"I don't know."

Janson leaned in close to him. "Try to understand  this.  I'll  say  it

slowly. I want you to remember it for the rest of your life.

"You can't look dignified when you 're having fun."

"Assuming that's true-so what?"

"If you're not having fun, you're not enjoying your life. If you're not

enjoying your life-why even bother being alive?"  Janson  gave  an  eloquent

shrug. "Myn, I'm living on borrowed time. I've nearly been killed more times

than, than, well, more times than you've been slapped, certainly. If I  wait

until some imaginary distant point in my life to start enjoying it, I'll  be

dead before I get there. But if I get killed tomorrow, at  least  I  can  be

pretty sure that I enjoyed  myself  more  than  whoever's  killing  me.  You

understand?"

"Not really."

Suddenly deflated, Janson sat  on  his  bed  again.  "Let's  try  it  a

different way. You want to be in control so you don't foul up some  horrible

way. But you're so in control that you're  basically  a  walking  dead  man.

Since you're dead, you had nothing to offer Lara. You have nothing to  offer

Wedge-he's got plenty of dead pilots, doesn't need another one. Most of them

are smart enough to stay where we plant them, though."

"So what do you recommend?"

"Get drunk. Get slapped. Do something you always  wanted  to  do  as  a

child, especially if it's something  that  would  humiliate  you  today.  If

you're going to get kicked out of Starfighter Command, make it for something

you can be proud of." Some-

thing beeped in one of Janson's pockets. He pulled it out,  a  comlink,

and held it up to his ear to listen. He brightened. "Automatic  signal.  The

Rogues and the Millennium Falsehood are back. No losses. Sorry,  I  have  to

run, have to figure out what to razz Wedge about." He darted  for  the  door

and was gone.

Donos shook his head. "I'm asking career advice from a nine-year-old."

The door to the Falsehood's hangar slid open before Janson reached  it.

Out came  a  repulsorlift  cargo  sled,  pushed  by  a  single  Mon  Remonda

technician. On the sled was a crate, two meters long by one wide  and  high.

The crate rocked on the sled and odd noises, like a faint and garbled voice,

emerged from it.

Wedge walked out behind the technician and stopped short  when  he  saw

Janson. He made a noise of exasperation and slapped the  gloves  he  carried

into his open palm. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"See what?" Janson stared after the  departing  technician  and  cargo.

"What was that?"

"That was Lieutenant Kettch."

Janson gave Wedge a close look. Wedge certainly didn't look crazy. "Um,

please correct me if I'm wrong, but Lieutenant Kettch is fictitious. An Ewok

pilot who doesn't exist. 1 should know. I made him up."

"He's not fictitious anymore."

"Now he's real?"

Wedge stepped out so the  hangar  door  could  close  behind  him.  "On

planetside, while we were waiting for the Falsehood  to  be  spotted,  Tycho

found a store where they sold exotic animals to wealthy Zsinj supporters who

enjoy that sort of thing. One of the 'animals' was a  full-grown  Ewok  male

named Chulku. When we were preparing to blast off and do our usual number on

the pursuit, Tycho staged a jailbreak and we brought Chulku along. While  we

were flying back, I  had  an  idea-if  Zsinj  ever  does  need  to  see  the

Hawk-bats, we could have an actual Lieutenant Kettch  for  him."  He  nodded

after the sled. "Chulku is pretty bright, and we  think  we  can  teach  him

which

TIE interceptor controls to touch and which not to-I doubt we can teach

him to fly without years of education, but we can make him look authentic in

a cockpit."

"That's crazy."

"Now  we  just  need  to  build  him  those   prosthetic   hand-and-leg

attachments Kettch is supposed to have so he can manipulate a  starfighter's

controls."

"Still crazy."

Wedge smiled. "And since you had the bad luck to witness  his  arrival,

you get to be  part  of  the  crew  who  takes  him  food.  Welcome  to  the

conspiracy, Wes."

Janson shook his head. "Now I'm crazy."

The TIE interceptor hurtling toward Lara in a  head-to-head  run  juked

and jinked in what seemed like a random pattern, but the maneuvers  did  not

seem to throw the pilot off. His linked  laser  fire  angled  in  ever  more

accurately toward Lara's interceptor.

She, too, threw her starfighter back and forth,  up  and  down,  in  an

effort to keep the enemy laser fire from hitting her. She was successful-the

two fighters passed with no damage to her craft. But she hadn't gotten off a

single accurate shot at her enemy.

The second she flashed passed the enemy TIE, she  hauled  back  on  the

flight stick, gaining relative altitude with such a sharp maneuver that  she

felt the g-forces pull her down into her pilot's couch  despite  the  ship's

inertial compensator. A moment later she was upside down and headed back the

way she had come-

Straight into the path of her opponent.

The enemy pilot fired a split second before she could bring her  lasers

in line. Her TIE shuddered under the impact and slewed to port.

But it held together. There was no shriek of hull breach, no warning of

imminent detonation. She'd been grazed.

"I'm hit!" she said. "I'm done for." She jerked  her  control  yoke  to

send her spinning in the direction she was already headed.

She counted to two, then snapped her interceptor back  around  to  face

her opponent. The enemy TIE jittered in her targeting computer-

But he was much closer than she would  have  guessed,  a  mere  quarter

kilometer away, and was already lined up for a shot. Before  she  could  hit

her laser trigger, the sensor system shrieked a recognition of  her  enemy's

targeting lock-

Then her viewport went dead.

The artificial gravity, which simulated  zero  gravity  and  high-angle

maneuvers, turned off and she dropped at full weight into her pilot's couch.

She sighed.

A voice crackled over her comm unit. It was deep, with a trace  of  the

Corellian accent that occasionally crept into the speech  of  Han  Solo  and

Wedge Antilles. "That was very good flying. And the last  trick,  pretending

to be out of control, almost fooled me. I commend you."

"Who am I talking to?"

"My name is Fel. Baron Soontir Fel."

Lara's insides went cold. When she was  a  crewman  aboard  Implacable,

she'd never even been aware of the presence of Fel and the 181st  there,  so

secret had their mission been. Now, at last, she'd be able to meet the  most

dangerous pilot who served her enemies.

With her fear, there was a rush of elation. With Wraith Squadron,  Lara

had flown in simulators against Wedge Antilles, the best  the  New  Republic

had to offer. Now she had flown against Baron Fel.  She'd  competed  against

the very best pilots two governments had to offer.

Too bad she lost most of the time.

"A pleasure to meet you," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't offer you  more

competition."

"Don't be," he said. "You're very good. More work, and you might  train

up to the standards of the One Eighty-first. Shall I keep you in my  records

as a candidate for the group?"

"I'd be honored. Can I buy the victor a drink?"

"Unfortunately, I have more simulations to fly-and it appears that  you

don't. Some other time, though."

The hatch behind Lara opened and Ensign Gatterweld thrust his face  in.

"Need any help?"

"No, thank you." She was getting sick  of  the  ubiquitous  Gatterweld.

Except when she was in her quarters, in the tiny office where she wrote  her

commentary on her time with Wraith Squadron, and in  simulators,  Gatterweld

was there. Her shadow.

She unclipped the netting that, in a real TIE interceptor,  would  have

kept her bound in place on the pilot's couch, and threw it to one side, then

hauled herself backward and out of  the  open  hatch  at  the  rear  of  the

ball-shaped simulator. Outside, the air was cooler and the  omnipresent  hum

of Iron Fist's engines was in her ears again.

Gatterweld handed her the pack in which she  carried  her  datapad  and

other equipment. He looked at the control board  where  her  standings  were

displayed. "You did pretty well."

"Do you fly?"

"I can pilot shuttles now. I don't have the reflexes for  starfighters.

Hand to hand is my game. Where to now? The cafeteria?"

Lara checked her chrono. "No, it's late. I think I'll just turn in."

As they walked past the banks of control stations set up to monitor the

simulators, she saw what she needed-a device she would kill for.  A  set  of

monitor goggles and attached microphone. They lay unguarded on  one  of  the

control stations, their owner away, perhaps on break.

As she and Gatterweld passed the station, she contrived to get her left

foot tangled in his legs. He tripped forward, swearing, while  she  stumbled

and fell sideways-snatching up the set of goggles and tucking them into  her

pack as she hit the floor.

He scrambled to his feet. "I'm sorry. Are you hurt?"

She took the hand he offered and let him half haul her to her feet. She

winced as she put her weight on her left leg. "A  bruise,  maybe.  Not  your

fault. I think I had a cramp from all the time in the simulator."

"Can you walk? I can summon a stretcher-"

"No, I'd better walk it off. Thank you."

She maintained the pretense of her limp all the way to the door to  her

quarters, and inside as well-though she hadn't spotted

the holocam, she knew there had to be one. Or two, or three. She wasn't

trusted, and with Zsinj in charge, that meant there were holocams on her  in

her quarters.

She set her pack down inside the closet and took a look  around.  She'd

been given sizable quarters, appropriate to a naval lieutenant on  track  to

promotion. She actually had a decent-sized bedroom with a full terminal  and

a closet, a small office, and a  separate  refresher  chamber.  Much  better

accommodations than she'd enjoyed on Mon Remonda.

Tonin, her R2, sat in the middle of the bedroom. He came alive when she

entered, offering up whistles and clicks that she interpreted  as  a  polite

interrogative. He was almost a stranger to her now, had been so since  she'd

wiped his memory on Aldivy.

But that would change soon.

"I'm fine, Tonin. Just tired."

Once in bed, she deliberately  changed  position  every  two  or  three

minutes, tossing and turning, a show of insomnia for whoever was  monitoring

her holocams. She did this for an hour. Then she  sat  up  and  ran  a  hand

through her catastrophically tousled hair.

Tonin beeped another question.

"Sorry, but I'm going to need the patch of metal where you're  resting.

Scoot into the closet, would you?"

With a series of musical tones suggesting  that  he  was  hurt  by  her

suggestion, Tonin rolled into the closet. He turned his head around  so  his

main holocam eye could still observe her.

Lara rose and pulled the mattress from her bed  onto  the  floor,  then

redistributed pillows and sheets on it. She made sure that one of the sheets

reached as far as Tonin's wheels.

"She reached into the bag  in  her  closet  and  hunted  around  .  for

something within it with her left hand. With her right,  she  extracted  the

monitoring goggles and scooted them under the  edge  of  the  sheet  on  the

floor, then  plugged  the  goggles'  cord  into  a  jack  in  Tonin's  side,

hoping-nearly certain-that her body shielded the action from  the  viewpoint

of most of the places holocams might be situated in her room.

Finally she grasped the object that she'd pretended not to be  able  to

find. She stood and stared at it, turning so the

holocams could get a good look at it. A bottle  of  tuber  liquor  from

Aldivy, nasty stuff the locals there adored.

She stared at it for long moments, as if  contemplating  its  medicinal

qualities, then shook her head and placed it on the top shelf of her closet.

A moment later, she slipped under  the  sheets  over  her  mattress,  rolled

around a moment to find the most comfortable spot, pulled the sheets up over

her head, and lay still.

The very  junior  intelligence  officer  watching  this  display  began

typing, ever so tentatively, into  his  terminal.  24:00  hours,  he  typed.

Subject situated herself on mattress on floor. Entered  sleep  state  almost

immediately. First considered alcohol as  soporific,  but  decided  against.

Cause of sleeplessness unknown. Bed too soft? Guilt?

"Don't forget simple stress."

The voice sounded right in his ear and he jumped  two  handspans.  He'd

thought he was alone in the room. He looked up  into  the  face  of  General

Melvar. "Uhh, thank  you,  sir.  We'd  call  that  occupational  anxiety  or

excitement from lifestyle transition."

"Do you get paid more for using more words?"

"No, sir, but the medics like them."

Melvar snorted. "Well, add it any way you want to."

"Yes, sir."

Melvar spared one last look at the overhead view of Lara's  still  bed,

then left as quietly as he'd arrived.

With movements almost imperceptibly  slow,  Lara  drew  the  monitoring

goggles onto her head and turned them on. The goggles,  drawing  power  from

the link with Tonin, activated with a faint hum.

She  whispered,  "Tonin.  Aldivian  colloquialism.  Definition:  Little

Atton."

Then she waited.

If she was right, if she'd done her work correctly, the passwords she'd

just spoken would be causing events to transpire deep within  her  R2  unit.

The extra hardware she had buried

within his power  unit  would  be  activating.  The  memory  backup  it

contained would be pouring  out  across  the  droid's  circuitry,  appending

itself to and overwhelming Tonin's current programming.

And in a few moments, once again, she would  have  a-  A  single  word,

ready, appeared before her eyes. It looked as though it were sculpted out of

metal and floating in darkness a meter from her, but she knew  that  it  was

merely being projected onto the goggles she wore.

"Don't communicate audibly," she whispered, though Tonin's transmission

of his first query as  text  suggested  that  he  understood  the  need  for

secrecy. The fact that all data being transmitted  between  them  was  going

across a direct wire connection made it very  unlikely  that  her  observers

would be able to detect their communication. "Before we do anything, I  want

to apologize."

FOR WHAT?

"For being selfish," she whispered. "I shouldn't have brought you. I've

put you in danger. I may get myself killed here, and if I do, the same  will

probably happen to you."

i'm glad i'm here.

"Me, too. You're my only friend, Tonin." She  closed  her  eyes  for  a

moment, all too aware of how pathetic that sounded.  Then  she  forced  them

open. "I also have to apologize for what I've done to you. I wiped your main

memory on Aldivy. Anytime anyone but me puts a restraining bolt  on  you  or

opens you up, your memory will wipe. Anytime I say  the  right  words,  your

backup memory will reload. So you  may  experience  some  memory  gaps.  I'm

sorry. It's the only way to keep you safe."

I UNDERSTAND, LARA.

"I had an idea as to how we can destroy Iron Fist. You'll  have  to  do

most of the work. But if we succeed, you may become the most famous R2  unit

ever. Well, maybe second, after Artoo-Detoo."

THAT WOULD BE NICE. WOULD THE WRAITHS LIKE YOU AGAIN?

"No. They'll never like me again. So I have to do this  for  myself.  I

have to do this because it's right. I have to do this because I have nothing

else to do."

WHAT DO I DO?

"Well, Zsinj, except when he's paying for  really  good  employees  and

mercenaries, is notoriously cheap. Which means he  probably  won't  have  my

quarters monitored when I'm not in them. If I stay away from my quarters all

day long, that gives you plenty of time to work. I'll tell you what you need

to do. But first . . . when we're alone like this . . . could  you  call  me

Kirney?"

YES, KIRNEY.

12

Half an hour after Lara's departure from her quarters the next morning,

Tonin became active. He rolled out of the closet to the door,  deployed  and

extended his fine-work grasper arm, and got to work on  the  door  controls.

Within minutes, he had rewired the controls and mechanism so he  could  open

the door and close it fractionally as well as fully.

He opened the door a bare three  centimeters  and  extended  his  video

sensor through it nearly at floor level, giving him a 360-degree view of the

corridor. A passerby was not likely to notice the slight gap in the  doorway

or the protrusion from it.

He waited.

It was nearly an hour before his first opportunity arose. Certainly, in

that time, many of the trapezoidal MSE-6 utility droids passed his  doorway,

but always under the eye  of  a  passerby.  This  time,  one  little  droid,

rodentlike in its scurrying motion and nervousness, was alone, unobserved.

Tonin signaled it, a chirp that  constituted  a  come-here  order.  The

droid stopped its forward progress,  turned  toward  the  doorway,  ran  the

request through its very simple processor,  and  determined  that  accepting

this new order was not likely to delay accomplishment of its standing orders

significantly. It approached the door.

Tonin snapped his heavy grasper arm out through the gap and snared  the

little droid. It gave a squeal of alarm and spun its  wheels  into  reverse,

but he hauled it up off its wheels. Tonin opened the  door  wide  enough  to

accommodate his prey, then dragged the little droid through and  closed  the

door.

Then he got to work.

He laid the utility droid on its back.  Its  wheels  spun  in  helpless

panic. With his fine-work arm, he  popped  open  the  access  hatch  on  the

droid's underside and extended his scomplink into the opening.

As new programming flooded its tiny brain, the utility

droid quieted.

By day's end, Tonin was in command of three of the utility droids,  and

one had managed to bring him some of the components-magnetic track strips to

replace wheels-he needed to begin their modifications.

Wedge's four  squadrons-Rogue,  Wraith,  Polearm,  and  Nova-  executed

mission after mission, one after another, sometimes two  in  a  single  day.

Most missions involved only one squadron.  In  others,  one  squadron  would

escort and protect the B-wings of Nova, or Wraith Squadron would be inserted

at ground level and then ground-guide the precise bombing runs of one or two

of the other starfighter units. Some missions  involved  nothing  more  than

carefully inserting the Falsehood, then very publicly  escorting  the  ship,

usually with Wedge and Chewbacca at the controls, out into space and safety.

By the end of one week, the fighter pilots of Mon Remonda began to lose

track of what day of the calendar it was, and had little time left  to  them

for anything but mission briefings, the missions themselves, and sleep.

By the end of one week, between Wedge's missions and those an  Imperial

admiral was executing in another part of the galaxy, the Warlord  Zsinj  had

lost more millions of credits than any New Republic fighter pilot could ever

hope to accumulate.

Melvar entered the warlord's office as silently as ever. Zsinj,  turned

to stare into his terminal, didn't react. Melvar took the chair  before  his

desk, no longer bothering to keep his movement quiet, and still there was no

reaction. Finally, Melvar coughed.

"They're killing me." Zsinj shook his head sorrowfully as he stared  at

the data on the terminal  screen  beside  his  desk.  "They  want  me  dead,

Melvar."

"Of course they do," the general said. "You're their greatest enemy. It

is to your considerable credit that they want you dead."

"Look at this. My businesses are being  seized  up  and  down  Imperial

space-and Rebel space. The Counterpunch puts in at Vispil and is  blown  out

of space by planetary authorities who refused to stay bribed. A  half  dozen

of my best earners bombed out of existence on worlds within my own  borders.

Eight percent of my  income  eliminated  in  a  week.  And  everywhere,  the

Millennium Falcon flitting around, fomenting  more  rebellion."  He  sighed.

"And  my  Funeral  Project  crews  around  Coruscant?  Suddenly,  completely

ineffectual. A half dozen acts of terrorism or sedition closed  down  almost

before they're enacted. The rifts between humans and nonhumans in the  Rebel

government are healing. All my work, years of work, coming undone."

"Mere setbacks, sir."

"No. Can't you feel it? The hordes of my enemies  are  drawing  closer,

their claws outstretched, reaching for me." Zsinj heaved a sigh. "I think, I

really think, they are poised to undo me. I think Doctor Gast talked  before

she died. I think the Rebels and Imperials are cooperating."

"Impossible."

"Not impossible. You yourself said I was  their  greatest  enemy.  What

else could give them the incentive to cooperate?"

Melvar was silent for long moments. In all the years he'd  worked  with

the warlord, this was not the saddest he'd seen him, but  it  was  the  most

resigned, the most fatalistic. It was a startling change.  The  warlord  had

always been an unstoppable force of optimism and will. Now, despite the fact

that his girth had not diminished, he seemed somehow reduced.

"Do you think they'll win?" Melvar asked.

Zsinj took a deep breath, then nodded.  "I  think,  in  a  sense,  they

already have. They've stopped my processes. They've set their own in motion.

Theirs are replacing mine, and I can't seem to do anything about it."

"So what will it take to pull a  victory  out  of  this?  Tell  me  the

minimum you need. We'll achieve that, and more."

Zsinj  switched  off  his  terminal  screen  and  thought.   He   swung

ponderously around to face Melvar and began counting  off  on  his  fingers.

"'One. We retain Iron Fist."

"Count on it."

"Two. We retain enough businesses to start again."

'"That will be harder. As much as we've done to  keep  your  businesses

isolated from  one  another,  some  leakage  of  information  has  obviously

occurred. The more they capture, the more they seem to be able  to  capture.

But, statistically, they can't find everything.  We'll  have  a  solid  core

left."

"Three. We have time to rebuild, repair, recover."

"For that, we'll definitely have  to  use  the  Second  Death  for  her

intended purpose. But we can do that."

"Four. We come up with our next plan for the  elimination  of  the  New

Republic."

"I think that means Rancor Base and the Force-witches. We have to learn

what they do and how they do it. Another  path  we  can  take,  weapons  the

Rebels and the Empire can't cope with."

"And Five. Which actually takes place before Three. We kill General Han

Solo and as many of his friends and aides as is humanly possible."

"That,"  Melvar  said,  "will  be  the  most  enjoyable  part  of   the

operation."

Zsinj showed up at Lara's new  work  station  in  the  bridge  pit,  as

apparently cheerful as usual. "Lieutenant Petothel.  How  are  you  settling

in?"

"Very well," she said. "I can't describe how good it  is  to  be  doing

this kind of work again."

"Good, good. But the first few days you looked, if I may be indelicate,

a little tired. Rings under the eyes. A general malaise."

She nodded. "It took me a while to get used to ship's routine. I had to

make some adjustments to my sleeping patterns." Not surprising,  as  it  had

proved difficult to get any sleep when she was talking and programming  with

Tonin all night long. "But I'm over it."

"Have you had a chance to look over the data package I  transmitted  to

you this morning?"

"Yes."

"Your conclusions?"

Lara became aware that the operatives at the consoles on either side of

her, though they were continuing to do their work, were  listening  intently

to  this  exchange.  She  smiled.  Intelligence  operatives  were  the  same

everywhere. "Well, first, whoever compiled that data did an  inadequate  job

of making the events  anonymous.  I  recognize  the  first  mission  as  the

Millennium Falcon escort to Kidriff Five. I  was  there,  after  all.  Which

means that Prime Target is the Falcon, and  Secondary  Target  is,  roughly,

Commander Antilles's entire command of Rebel starfighters."

Zsinj nodded, his expression glum. "So much for secrecy.  What  do  you

conclude from their behavior?"

"General Solo is trying to separate you from the income  that  sustains

your fleet, and is personally rabble-rousing while he's at it."

"Why?"

Lara gave him a smile that suggested contempt for their subject matter.

It was easy; she only had to let her contempt for Zsinj rise to the surface.

"He thinks he's an important man. That his presence is the only  thing  that

can  inspire  Rebel  sympathies  in  the  population.  Based  on  what  I've

personally observed of the man, I'd say he's desperate. He  hasn't  had  any

real success in his mission against you. If he fails, he gets re-placed;  if

he gets replaced, he loses all his status."

"I never had the impression that he cares about status."

"He doesn't." She almost hesitated on the enormity of the

lie she'd  concocted,  the  one  that  Zsinj,  in  all  his  ego,  must

inevitably accept. "But the woman he loves does."

"Ahhh."

"He knows that as a dirt-poor smuggler,  he  can't  keep  a  princess's

affection. But as a Rebel general, he can."

"But only if he's successful."

"Correct."

"Interesting interpretation."

"There's more." Lara pressed on, hoping  Zsinj  would  not  detect  the

queasiness she was feeling.

She had an idea, based on the  pattern  the  Millennium  Falsehood  was

demonstrating, as to which world or worlds the ersatz Han Solo  would  visit

next. But was this a conclusion that Zsinj and his intelligence people  were

supposed to have drawn, or had  she  come  to  a  conclusion  based  on  her

superior knowledge of the Wraiths, a  conclusion  that  would  endanger  her

former squadmates? She didn't know, and the uncertainty ate at her. She  had

to trust her instincts, though, and her instincts said that the  Falsehood's

mission, profiles  came  about  from  meticulous  planning  that  Zsinj  was

eventually supposed to interpret.

"They're progressing from world to world in your territories based on a

number of factors. The degree to which a world is known outside the  borders

you control. Estimated planetary production that  can  be  applied  to  your

fleet funding. Proximity to New  Republic  space  so  they  can  make  quick

escapes. Comparative morale value of  hitting  specific  targets.  Suspected

presence of pro-Rebel factions."

"I know that. Unfortunately considering how many worlds I control, that

still doesn't give us a pattern."

"Yes, it does. There's one more factor. Former trade relations,  direct

or indirect, with the planet Alderaan."

Zsinj rocked back on his heels. "That would make sense."

"Yes, sir. On such worlds, there's a higher likelihood that there  will

be people who sympathize with Princess Leia and the other  Alderaanians  who

were off-world when the first Death Star destroyed that planet. Also, in  my

opinion, they're more likely to be planets  that  Princess  Leia  will  have

heard of,

thereby increasing her recognition of Solo's deeds when he tells her of

them."

"Very good, very good." Zsinj's eyes lost focus as he considered Lara's

words. "What does that suggest Solo's next target will be?"

"I give a very high probability to Comkin Five, and just slightly  less

high  a  likelihood  to  the   Vahaba   Asteroid   Belt."   Comkin   was   a

Zsinj-controlled world known for its candies  and  medicines-two  industries

inextricably tied together on that world-and Vahaba was known not  only  for

its asteroid-mining operations but for the skill of its  metal  fabricators.

She knew a little about Vahaba; it was in a well-populated cluster of stars,

not far from Halmad, where the Wraiths had acted as pirates not long ago.

"Well.  Interesting  speculation.   Thank   you.   Lieutenant."   Still

distracted, Zsinj turned to  depart  the  bridge,  not  even  seeing  Lara's

salute.

General Melvar caught up with Zsinj in the corridor  just  outside  the

bridge. "Well?"

"There's a proper query to give a superior officer.  It's  not  'Well?'

Something more like, 'Sir, a moment of your time, I wished to inquire  about

your recent interview with the subject under observation.' "

Melvar said, "I can phrase all such requests so as to waste  a  maximum

amount of your time, of course."

Zsinj smiled. "Never mind." He told him of  Lara's  speculations,  then

said, "What I don't know is whether she. came to this  conclusion  honestly,

or whether she was privy to some of their mission profile  before  she  left

Mon Remonda and is now presenting it as a sudden realization on her part."

"Either way, the information is valuable  ...  so  long  as  she's  not

leading us into a trap."

"We'll find out. Dispatch half the  ready  fleet  to  lie  in  wait  at

Vahaba, and we'll take the other half personally to Comkin."

Donos lay waiting on the craft he had fabricated from rubbish.

Portions of the thing had begun their existence  as  the  gravitational

unit in a TIE fighter  simulator.  When  coordinated  with  the  simulator's

computer, they would exert artificial gravity around the pilot, drawing  him

left, right, down, up, all in artful mimicry of the  sort  of  g-forces  the

pilot would experience in sharp turns and other maneuvers.

But the simulator had grown old, had become  too  unreliable  even  for

recreational use, and it had been dragged to a  corridor  outside  a  refuse

chamber. There Donos, doing a tour  of  the  unfrequented  portions  of  Mon

Remonda, a habit that had recently become part of his regular  routine,  had

found it.

He'd liberated still-functioning portions of  the  gravitational  unit.

He'd installed computer gear to ensure that the unit would exert appropriate

force downward even when the unit was tilting, would detect obstacles, would

exert repulsorlift power against obstacles. To this he had  added  a  padded

layer that was part of the simulator's pilot's couch and a battery to supply

power.

Now, in one of the ship's lonely cargo areas, he  lay  on  his  stomach

atop the junk he had assembled. It hovered a half  meter  above  the  floor,

humming, motionless.

Of course it was motionless. It had no engine, no motivation.

Except for him. And to set it into motion, to make it do  what  it  was

designed to do, would be to look stupid.

His legs extended off the back of his jury-rigged vehicle.  He  brought

them down to gain purchase with the floor and kicked off, setting his  craft

into motion. He kicked again and again, building  up  speed  as  he  floated

between shelves of stored materials toward a distant bulkhead. Halfway down,

he kicked once more, sideways, setting his  craft  into  a  spin,  and  drew

himself into a ball atop it.

His floating sled spun haphazardly, coming within half  a  meter  of  a

shelving unit before the sled's repulsor unit reacted to  the  proximity  of

the thing and bounced him back the other way. Like a ball, he careened  from

shelf to shelf across the open space in between, coming within handspans  of

impact but never quite hitting, while he floated toward the bulkhead wall.

Eventually, forward momentum almost spent, he floated to within a  half

meter of the bulkhead arid came to a stop.

"Well, that looked good."

Donos rolled onto his side to get a look at  the  speaker.  Wes  Janson

stood a few meters away. He must have approached up  the  walkway  that  ran

along the bulkhead wall.

"I'm amazed it held together," Donos said.  "I  expected  to  have  the

whole thing fail halfway through and toss me into a stack of crates."

"Is it fun?"

Donos nodded. "Pretty much."

"You don't look too amused."

"I imagine I did a moment ago." Donos rose to  his  feet,  gripped  his

craft by its one handle, and depressed what had once  been  a  pilot's  yoke

trigger. The craft dropped as it depowered; he hauled it upright. "But  even

fun isn't much fun. I keep wishing Lara were here."

Janson nodded, sympathy plain on his features. "Yeah. But you're  about

to get more people here than you probably want. We're doing  some  inventory

here in a few minutes. You probably ought to try the main corridor  down  in

Engineering.  It's  long  enough,  and  I'm  sure  the  engineers  would  be

interested in seeing your kludge."

"Probably." Donos checked his chrono. "A little later, though.  I  have

somewhere to be."

The  moment  Donos  was  out  of  sight,  Wedge  slipped  out  from   a

second-level shelf full of foodstuff packages. "Well, that was interesting."

"Wedge! Why don't you scare the other half of my life out  of  me?  How

long were you waiting there?"

"About fifteen minutes. During most of which,  Donos  just  sat  there,

waiting to decide whether or not to play his game."

"Well, he did. A good sign."

"I hope so." Wedge reached behind the first row of stacked food  crates

and dragged another one up front. This one, like  the  others,  was  labeled

bantha steak, dehydrated, 250 grams restored, individually packaged. But the

top was ajar and the smell wafting from the crate, something like fruit  and

leaf compost, was not reminiscent of bantha meat. Wedge

reached into the crate's top and drew out a bowl full of brownish lumps

Janson couldn't identify. "Now, you've fed Kettch before, correct?"

"No. You and whatever crew you've been  using  haven't  brought  me  in

before now."

"That's right." Wedge led Janson toward the forward doors  out  of  the

cargo area. "There are  still  some  security  concerns,  since  Kettch  was

supposed to be a Hawk-bat, not a New Republic pilot. So we're  limiting  the

personnel who see him. He gets one bowlful like this, three times a day.  We

have him set up near an officers' mess that General Solo isn't using,  since

he doesn't entertain. So you'll get water for Kettch from the mess."

"Right."

They passed through a small door into a secondary cargo area, this  one

much smaller than the one they'd left, its shelves full  of  crates  labeled

bulk cloth. From the rear, they approached a larger crate, one two meters by

two meters by one and a half tall, which had been  laid  out  in  the  aisle

between rows of shelves.

"And now," Wedge said, as they got to the  front  of  the  crate,  "you

meet-uh-oh."

A door that had obviously been retrofitted onto the front of the  crate

lay on the floor, off its hinges. There was nothing  within  the  crate  but

what looked like a bed of grass and cloth scraps.

"He's loose?" Janson said.

"He's loose." Wedge looked around. "But for how long? We've got to find

him, keep to a minimum the number of crewmen who see him-"

There was a soft patter-patter of movement from  the  far  end  of  the

chamber, the bow end.

"We're in luck," Wedge said. "He's still in here." He extended the bowl

of food. "Here, take some. Maybe we can lure him back."

Janson grimaced as he grabbed up a handful of the smelly

Ewok food.

They headed forward, only to hear the forward door out

of the chamber hiss open, followed by the patter-patter  of  bare  feet

and the door hissing closed again. Wedge  headed  forward  at  a  dead  run,

Janson at his heels.

The door opened for them, revealing  dimness  beyond,  then  Wedge  was

skidding to a halt and Janson ran into  him.  They  toppled  over  together,

crashing into containers of some sort, and fluid,  liters  of  it,  splashed

over them.

A sharp, poisonously clean smell forced its way  into  Jan-son's  nose.

"Sithspit, what's that?"

"Cleansing fluid of some sort. We  must  have  hit  a  janitor  droid's

stash." Wedge sat up. Janson could see him wrinkling his nose  even  in  the

dim light. Somewhere else in the room, a door hissed open and closed again.

"Oh, this is no good," Wedge said.  "He's  running  now  because  we're

chasing him, and he's going to be able to smell us from kilometers away."

"So let's call in Kell and Tyria. They can hunt him down while we clean

up."

"They're not part of our Kettch conspiracy." Wedge rose and moved  away

from the puddle. "Strip."

"What?"

"Get those clothes off. We'll rub some of the Ewok food over the  parts

of our skin that have the cleansing fluid  on  them.  That  should  make  it

possible for us to  get  close  to  him."  Wedge  suited  action  to  words,

unzipping his jumpsuit.

"Oh, sure. Would you stand still if you were being  approached  by  two

naked men with Ewok food smeared all over them?"

"No, but I'm not an Ewok. Just do it." Wedge  nodded  right  and  left.

"Looks like there are two doors out of here. I don't know which one he took,

but they'll both go into General Solo's mess. You take that one,  I'll  take

this one."

"Wedge, this is the last time I'm feeding Kettch."

"Me, too."

The door opened for Janson and he crept through into the dimly lit room

beyond.

Not  three  meters  ahead  stood  an  Ewok,  wearing  the   traditional

bonnet-style headgear of the species, his back to Janson.

Janson took a careful, silent step forward. The Ewok didn't react.  One

more step and he was in range-Janson lunged, grabbing the Ewok with his left

hand, the one uncontaminated by Ewok food. "Got you!"

The Ewok didn't struggle. Nor did it weigh much. Janson looked  at  it.

It wasn't a live Ewok; it was the stuffed toy the Wraiths had  brought  with

them from Hawk-bat Base, the one they called Kettch. ù

Then Janson realized that the room was full  of  people-all  the  other

members of Wraith Squadron. In the dimness,  they  stood  like  statues,  in

poses suggesting they'd been  in  the  middle  of  a  social  gathering,  in

conversational groups of twos and threes, and then had been flash-frozen.

No, not frozen, exactly. They still  breathed.  Some  swayed  a  little

where they stood.

And none of them looked at Janson.

Janson stood still for a long moment, waiting for  some  reaction  from

them, or for some realization to  set  in  and  inform  him  why  they'd  be

standing stock-still in a dimly lit room. None came.

So he held the stuffed Ewok toy before  him  and  backed  to  the  door

through which he'd entered.

His bare skin touched metal and he flinched. The door  had  closed  and

wasn't opening for him.

He scraped the Ewok food off his hand  against  the  doorjamb.  Slowly,

silently, his sense of unreality mounting, he  walked  sideways  toward  the

other door into this chamber. To get there,  he'd  have  to  pass  close  to

Piggy, Shalla, and Elassar, who were grouped close to the wall. As he neared

them, he paused and reached out to touch Piggy, the Wraith nearest him.

His fingers encountered real flight suit and solid  flesh  beneath.  He

jerked his hand back. Neither Piggy nor any of the others reacted.

It was a dream, it had to be. And by the  rules  of  dreams,  doubtless

there was to be some bad result if he failed to escape  before  the  Wraiths

awoke. In case he could short-circuit the

process, he pinched himself, hoping to awaken prematurely, but  he  had

no such luck. The scene remained before him.

Moving with less caution, he made it to the other door and backed  into

it... and his bare rear once again contacted metal as  the  door  failed  to

open.

Well, then. There was one more door out of this chamber,  which  should

open up into a corridor-a corridor that  he  could,  with  luck,  duck  down

unobserved and perhaps reach the pilots's ready room, where he  had  another

uniform in his locker. He continued sideways  along  the  wall,  around  the

corner...

He reached the doorway and turned into it. The door whooshed open.  And

beyond was Wedge, fully uniformed, bellowing, "Attention!"

The room lights blazed into normal  brightness  and  Janson  heard  the

Wraiths behind him snapping to attention. He felt  his  cheeks  burn  as  he

realized they had to be facing his bare backside.

Wedge looked at Janson, then at  the  Ewok  toy  he  held  protectively

before him. "Lieutenant, you're out of uniform. And  you  know,  wearing  an

Ewok as a swimsuit is a felony on some worlds."

Janson nodded. He could not keep a rueful  grin  from  forming  on  his

lips. "I have been so set up," he said.

"Good analysis," Wedge said. "You're showing real leadership potential,

among other things. Lieutenant Nelprin?"

Shalla approached, standing beside Janson so he could see  her  without

turning. In her hands was a folded mass of orange cloth.  She  unfolded  and

displayed it before him. It was a cloak, in New Republic flight-suit orange,

with the words "Yub, yub, Lieutenant" stenciled on the back  in  black.  She

swept it across his shoulders and fastened it  around  his  neck.  Then  she

leaned in close and whispered, "Nice rear, Lieutenant."

Janson felt  his  cheeks  burning  hotter.  "Thank  you  for  noticing,

Lieutenant." He handed her the Ewok doll and draped  the  cloak  in  a  more

concealing fashion about himself. "I take it this is revenge  for  that  bet

about your not speaking Wookiee?"

Wedge stepped into the room and the door shut behind

him. "Well, for that, and for your antics with Lieutenant  Kettch  here

and at Hawk-bat Base."

Janson couldn't keep the surprise from his face. "You knew about that?"

"Well, not at first, of course. Not for sure." Wedge threw an arm  over

Janson's shoulders and turned him, leading him back into the room, into  the

midst of the grinning  Wraiths.  "But  you  didn't  do  much  of  a  job  of

concealing your tracks. The doll showed up  immediately  after  your  return

from Coruscant, which meant  that  it  was  probably  you  or  someone  else

involved with that trip. Then, after  it  was  obvious  that  the  doll  was

wandering pretty much at will, I had a transmitter sewn into it."

Janson winced. "You tracked its movements. And  knew  it  was  me.  And

waited all this time for payback."

"So, do you still think revenge is beneath Wedge Antilles, Hero of  the

New Republic?"

"I'm not sure anything is beneath you anymore. Who was playing  Kettch?

Or Chulku, or whatever his name was supposed to be?"

Wedge grinned. "The first time, we had Squeaky in the box you  saw.  He

speaks Ewok, of course." "Of course." Janson sighed.

Dia said, "I was the footsteps you were following a  few  minutes  ago.

And 1 was the one who splashed you with the bucket full of cleansers. Had to

make sure you got plenty on you. We couldn't rely on you to  fall  correctly

onto the buckets we'd placed."

Wedge accepted a small glass of amber-colored liquid from Kell,  passed

it to Janson. "A reward. You're taking it  very  well,  Wes.  Just  remember

that, when it comes to pranks, you have the necessary enthusiasm,  you  have

the inventiveness, you have the experience ... I have the resources."

"Granted." Janson sipped at the glass, made an  appreciative  face.  It

was Whyren's Reserve, a Corellian brandy with a  rich,  smoky  flavor.  "But

it's over now. No ongoing punishment forme. Right?"

Wedge's expression became serious. "Well, not after  the  holorecording

of tonight's events has been circulated."

"Tell me you're kidding."

"What, and deny the universe the chance to see  a  rear  end  that  the

Wraiths have proclaimed so hologenic?"

Janson didn't even try to keep the dismay off his face. "Please tell me

you're kidding."

"I'll decide tomorrow. Tonight we celebrate."

Donos leaned in. "And remember what a very wise man once told me.  'You

can't look dignified when you're having fun.'"

"If I knew who that wise man was," Janson said, "I'd shoot him."

The next morning, the last pilot to enter the briefing amphitheater was

Donos. He remained standing until Wedge noticed him. "Permission to sit  in,

sir?"

"Why? You're still off the active list."

"I'd like to volunteer for this mission."

Wedge looked momentarily baffled. "Did I  misstate  myself?  You  can't

fly."

"I'm  not  volunteering  as  a  pilot,  sir.  Nothing  in  my   current

reevaluation indicates that I'm unfit to handle a ship's guns. I'd  like  to

volunteer as a crewman on the Millennium Falsehood. I'm a Corellian, I  know

the equipment, and I'm a good shot."  That  was  understating  it  somewhat;

though  his  greatest  talent  was  with  a  sniper's   rifle,   Donos   was

marksman-rated with most sorts of blaster and laser weapons.

"Good point," Wedge said. "Yes,  you  can  attend  the  briefing;  I'll

decide on your request later." He stood behind the lectern and turned to the

assembled pilots.

"Today is a standard 'let them see the Falsehood  then  run'  exercise.

Our target is  the  Comkin  system.  Comkin's  security  measures  are  more

extensive than some  we've  recently  encountered,  so  we  can't  count  on

smuggling in our TIE interceptor escort. However, Chewbacca has  temporarily

attached plating to the surface of the Falsehood that gives it a sensor echo

much more like that of a YT-2400 freighter, and that plating will contain  a

bit  of  a  surprise  for  Comkin's  defenders.  We  have  transponder  data

corresponding to that of a real YT-2400

mercenary trader, so we should be able  to  make  it  to  the  planet's

surface; however, if we're identified on entry, we just evacuate and achieve

our primary objective, another appearance by the Millennium Falcon.

"Another modification we've  made  to  the  Falsehood  will  allow  for

quicker response time by the support squadron when it's supposed to come  in

for rescue: we've installed a miniature holocomm unit worth  more  than  the

rest of the ship put together. Yes, Face?"

"Sir, is it a bad time to point out that a good shot of brandy is worth

more than the rest of the ship put together?"

"Yes. Wraith Squadron will be our primary escort..."

Melvar  appeared  silently  beside  Lara's  station.  His  mild   words

contrasted with the cruelty of his features. "Baron Fel would  like  to  see

you fly."

"Really." Lara made a  face  suggesting  that  she  was  surprised  and

pleased. "You mean, for real, not in a simulator."

"For  real.  Broadaxe  Squadron   will   be   supplementing   the   One

Eighty-first, and they're a pilot light. Would you care to suit up  and  fly

with them?"

"I'd be delighted."

"Report to their ready room at thirteen hundred."  Melvar  gave  her  a

mirthless smile. "Don't do too well. We'd hate to lose you as an analyst."

"I'll keep it in mind. Thank you, sir."

When he was gone, she stared at her screen, seeing none of the data  on

it, and tried not to shake. She prayed that she'd been wrong in her  initial

assessment, that the next Mon Remonda strike would be on  any  system  other

than Comkin Five.

For if she'd been right, she might end up facing her former  squadmates

in mortal combat.

Comkin Five was a green-blue world  circling  a  yellow  star.  As  the

Falsehood neared the planet's surface, blotches of color resolved themselves

into blue sea, deep green tropics, and bands of cloud cover, with  only  the

smallest patches of arctic ice.

"Pretty," Donos said. "What do we blow up first?"

Wedge, ahead of him in the pilot's chair,  turned  to  glance  at  him.

"Write that down," he said. "That ought to be the Wraith Squadron slogan."

"Good point. Squeaky, record that."

"If I must."

Wedge's attention was diverted by data on his sensor board. "We've just

been tapped by planetary sensors. Now we find out if our  camouflage  fooled

them."

"I don't see how it can," Squeaky said, his voice  even  more  petulant

than usual. "On close examination, the extension off our starboard side just

does not look genuine. And Chewbacca has failed to minimize the  Falsehood's

forward mandibles, which are, if I'm not  mistaken,  characteristic  of  the

YT-1300s but not the YT-2400s. We are, I think, probably dead."

Donos frowned at the two-tone  3PO  unit  seated  beside  him.  Squeaky

looked absurd in his ill-fitting clothing, a New Republic general's uniform.

"Then why did you volunteer for this mission?"

"Habit?"

"No."

"Because I thought my absence would doom the mission?"

"Although Emtrey could have substituted for you."

Chewbacca grumbled something.

"Certainly not," Squeaky said, his tone turning indignant. "This is not

fun, and I wouldn't miss you."

Chewbacca grumbled again.

"No, you don't keep having to remind me to belt in. I am firmly  belted

in. My belt is fixed with more  finesse  than  that  of  any  belt  in  this

cockpit."

Donos shook his head. Maybe he ought to set up at one  of  the  gunport

turrets now.

Lara sat in her cockpit, drenched in sweat and feeling miserable.

It wasn't because the cockpit was more  uncomfortable  than  usual,  or

because of the protracted amount of time she'd been in it.

She'd met the Broadaxe Squadron pilots and had been

assigned a TIE interceptor and a wingman, the squadron commander. She'd

gone through the routine power-up checklist and transferred, with  the  rest

of the Broadaxes and the 181st, to another ship)-a Dreadnaught,  older  than

the Empire, named Reprisal. She  remembered  it  from  the  Levian  mission.

Broad-axe Squadron occupied the Dreadnaught's fighter bay, while  the  181st

was divided among officers' bays and cargo bays. Lara shook  her  head  over

that; she'd have thought that the more prestigious  unit  would  choose  the

more convenient bay.

She'd been among the last TIEs to land, and was positioned to be  among

the first to launch, her viewport a mere meter from the bay's magcon shield.

Her temporary commander had laughed at  her  zeal,  but  there  was  another

reason she wanted this position: no one was likely to walk in front  of  her

TIE and see what she was doing inside it. Since she'd settled in, she'd been

hard at work.

She had started by coupling her personal comlink  to  a  datapad  she'd

stolen from another Iron Fist crewman while they were in the officers' mess.

She didn't steal equipment on the bridge; it might be too easy to track back

to her.

She recorded a lengthy message, one that turned  her  thoughts  gloomy.

Then she pulled up a panel beneath  her  feet,  one  that  gave  technicians

access to the vehicle's laser power generators. She powered down all vehicle

systems except the comm unit and exterior lights, which would allow  her  to

pretend that the system was still fully powered-assuming no one ran a sensor

scan on her, or that no one called, in the next few minutes,  for  immediate

takeoff.

Leading from the power generators were power  regulators,  which  could

keep a fatal spike  of  power  from  frying  vehicle  systems  in  case  the

generators were hit or malfunctioned  in  combat.  She  opened  one  of  the

regulators, the one protecting the port-side laser cannons, and spliced in a

set of cables. These she attached to the datapad's computer coupler port.

She activated the datapad and packed it into the cavity with the  laser

power generators,  taping  it  securely  into  place.  She  left  one  wire,

terminating in a simple thumb switch, trailing into the cockpit; she  closed

the access hatch over it, then taped the thumb switch to her pilot's yoke.

Finally,  she  recommenced  power-up,  hoping  that  her   modification

wouldn't cause any of the vehicle systems to  fail,  that  her  modification

wouldn't activate any sensor she didn't know about.

If this worked, she was one step closer to Iron Fist's destruction.  If

it failed, but she was otherwise very lucky, maybe her  activities  wouldn't

be noticed. Maybe.

After a mere ten minutes of frantic activity,  she  began  to  get  her

breathing back under control.

The stars beyond the magcon  field  suddenly  twisted  and  blurred  as

Reprisal entered hyperspace.

"This will be a short jump," her commanding officer said.  "Prepare  to

launch on arrival."

The Falsehood waited in low planetary  orbit,  its  crew  watching  the

green, lush world slowly turn beneath them.

"It's been too long," Donos said. "They're on to us."

"Probably," Wedge said. He didn't look at all uneasy.

Squeaky  said,  "I  see  other  vessels  awaiting  final  clearance  to

descend."

"Either they're not on to us," Wedge said, "in which case  our  waiting

here is standard procedure, or they're on to us, and  they're  having  other

vessels wait nearby so we won't get suspicious."

"Oh," Squeaky said. "But we're suspicious anyway."

"They failed," Wedge said.

"Will it matter if they destroy us anyway?"

"Not really." The console beeped at Wedge, and he leaned over  to  look

at the comm unit's text screen. "We have final approval for descent  to  our

primary target zone."

Chewbacca shook his head, making a nearly subsonic noise of dissent. He

gestured at the sensor board.

There, approaching from planetary east in a similar orbit, was a large,

indistinct signal.

"Looks like starfighters," Wedge said. "At  least  a  full  squad.  All

right, we go." He unbelted. "Donos, take the belly gunport turret, I'll take

the top. Chewbacca, the controls are yours. Squeaky, you have the comm unit.

Call in the Wraiths now,

then bring in Mon Remonda on the holocomm unit, then stand by  in  your

new mode."

"I'll be so pleased to make my debut."

"Only if they address you, now."

"Yes, sir."

Donos followed Wedge back to the turret access tubes and  descended  to

his turret. He powered it up, swung his weapons back and forth a  few  times

to gauge their speed and responsiveness. Meanwhile, he  felt  the  Falsehood

maneuvering as it pointed spaceward and accelerated away from Comkin Five.

Squeaky's voice came over the ship's internal comlink. "Chewbacca  says

estimated two minutes until the TIEs are in range. At least five until we're

far enough away from the planet's mass shadow to enter  hyperspace.  Wraiths

report that they will intercept us in three and a half minutes."

Wedge's voice was next. "So they have a minute and a half to batter  us

before we have reinforcements. We should be able to handle that."

Squeaky said, "Chewbacca says ... oh, my. Oh, dear, dear dear."

Wedge said, "Report, Squeaky."

"Are you sure you want to know? It's not good."

"Do you want to walk home? Report."

"Chewbacca reports a capital ship dropping out of hyperspace along  our

escape vector.  It's  closer  than  the  Wraiths,  and  it's  deploying  TIE

fighters. Excuse me, TIE interceptors. Two squadrons. They are deploying  in

what he calls umbrella formation and approaching."

Wedge said, "And our pursuit?"

"They're, ah, they seem to  be  hanging  back.  Pacing  us,  no  longer

gaining."

"Driving us to the hunters. Thank  you,  Squeaky."  There  was  a  long

moment of silence. "Chewbacca, make your course  straight  for  the  capital

ship. When you're just outside the range of their tractors,  deploy  Package

One and vector away. Then allow Package Two to deploy at its discretion."

A grumble sounded over the comm unit.

"He doesn't seem happy with your order, sir, but he's corn-plying.  Ah,

ah, the capital ship is identified. A Rendili Star-

Drive Dreadnought-class heavy cruiser. Oh, it's the Reprisal! How  nice

to see it still functional. The Reprisal visited Kessel one time."

"Save your reminiscences for later. And put your mask on."  "Yes,  sir.

The droid's voice sounded resigned.

13

Lara put everything into acceleration, hurtling toward the Falsehood as

fast as she could travel. She shouldn't have been able to outstrip the other

TIE interceptors of the combined units, but  most  of  them  dropped  slowly

back. In a matter of moments, she was at the fore with three other  TIEs-her

wingman and two interceptors of the

181st.

One of them communicated. "Anxious  for  battle,  Lieutenant?"  It  was

Baron Fel's voice.

"Anxious to show you what I'm made of," she said.

"Never let it be said that I'm  not  gallant,"  Fel  said.  "The  first

strafing run is yours."

She managed to project gratitude and excitement into her voice.  "Thank

you, sir." But the words were like bile to her.

She knew what was happening. It was a test. If she was  seen  to  offer

less than her best effort toward the destruction of  the  ersatz  Millennium

Falcon, they'd know she was not

trustworthy.

Well, she'd show them something. She'd hit the Falsehood

again and again.

"Millennium Falcon,'' came the  woman's  voice,  "this  is  the  former

Wraith Two. Prepare to die." The source of the transmission,  the  lead  TIE

interceptor, opened fire.

The voice was Lara's. Donos stiffened. He'd been tracking the  incoming

TIEs, aiming at the lead starfighter, but now he let his aim drift off her.

Green laser fire streamed from the interceptor. It was the only one  of

the four TIEs to fire. The first few linked bursts missed, then  Lara  began

connecting, and the Falsehood rocked under the impact of her hits.

The first pair of TIEs roared past the Falsehood and immediately looped

around for a second pass. The second pair came on, and a new voice  crackled

across the comm waves. "I believe I address General Solo. You can spare  the

lives of your crew by surrendering now."

Donos had heard that voice  before,  at  the  Implacable  fight.  Baron

Soontir Fel. He twisted to look up the access tube at Wedge.  His  commander

had some sort of personal relationship with Fel,  doubtless  something  that

had come about during the brief time Fel served with Rogue Squadron,  though

Donos didn't know what it was. And sure enough, Wedge had stiffened  in  his

seat, his aim faltering.

Donos almost smiled. It was good to know that he wasn't  the  only  one

caught off guard by the forces confronting them.

Then came another voice over the comlink. Han Solo's.

Solo's voice said, "Baron Fel. They still say you're the best Imp pilot

since Darth Vader. When you were  a  Rogue,  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  your

feelings, but now I can tell you, I flew against him-and you're not  fit  to

shine his helmet."

"We'll never know," Fel said. "I'm certainly pilot enough to put an end

to you." He and his wingman came on, firing, with twenty TIE interceptors in

their wake.

Donos's aim was thrown off as the  Falsehood  suddenly  began  spinning

along its bow-to-stern axis. He recognized the maneuver's intent, to  change

the sight profile of the Falsehood  so  incoming  attackers  would  have  an

irregular target.

Fel and his wingman blasted by, their laser fire hitting  the  bow  and

forward mandibles. The ship's lights dimmed as its shields strained to  hold

up under the assaults. Donos's return fire missed both TIEs, but he was able

to swing back in line and tag the second interceptor of the next  pair.  His

shots chewed through a solar wing array and sent  the  interceptor  spinning

off  into  the  blackness  of  space.  On  his  sensor  screen,  the  second

interceptor  vanished;  streaks  of  debris  exploded  away  from  its  last

position, then faded.

And more TIEs came on as, in the distance, the bow of  the  Dreadnaught

grew larger and larger.

Squeaky watched with fascination as the universe  spun  crazily  before

him. He switched back to his normal voice.  "I  say.  If  I  were  human,  I

imagine I'd be throwing up all over your control panels."

Chewbacca turned and grumbled something.

Squeaky turned to look in amazement at the Wookiee-what he could see of

Chewbacca, anyway, through the holes in the absurd, oversized  mask  Squeaky

was wearing. "Why, that's the nicest thing you've ever said  to  me.  Did  I

really sound like him?"

Chewbacca grumbled an assent.

Squeaky sat back, suddenly delighted.  All  the  work  he'd  done  with

General Solo, recording his voice, analyzing and parsing appropriate phrases

and recurrent remarks, might have paid off. It had  not  only  fooled  Baron

Fel, it had finally gained him Chewbacca's admiration.

The Falsehood rocked, accompanied by noises  of  hardware  and  systems

leaping from their wall brackets and crashing around against the  walls,  as

it sustained more incoming fire. "Chewbacca, can't we do  all  this  without

the participation of enemy forces?"

The Wookiee spared a moment to glare at him.

"What did I say?"

ron of TIE  fighters  that  had  escorted  them  out  of  the  planet's

atmosphere was on an approach back toward the planet, doubtless ordered away

so the Reprisal and the interceptors could have all the glory  arising  from

the Millennium Falcon's destruction. Donos watched  his  sensor  board  with

concern. The Falsehood had been  lucky  to  survive  one  run  through  that

gauntlet.

First to return would be Lara and her wingman. They were  only  seconds

from optimal firing range. "Commander?" Donos said. "Opinions about Lara?"

"When we do the breakaway move," Wedge said, "when we vector away  from

the Dreadnaught's bow, she may over-shoot us. Try  for  one  of  her  wings.

Disable instead of kill."

The next voice was Squeaky's. "If you'll pardon me, sirs, I  think  you

should let Flight Officer Notsil continue shooting us."

, Laser fire from Lara's interceptor and her wingmate's  began  pouring

down on the Falsehood again. Out of the corner  of  his  eye,  Donos  saw  a

hydrospanner rocketing down the access tube toward him. He tried twisting up

and out of the way; it slammed into his rib cage instead of his head, and he

grunted from the sudden pain.

"What?" Wedge's voice suggested the frown Donos  could  easily  imagine

him wearing. "Squeaky, have you shaken loose your logic circuits?"

"No, sir. It's rather complicated. It will take too  long  to  explain.

Just trust me." The droid's  voice  was  surprisingly  confident.  "This  is

something I  know  about.  What?  Oh.  Chewbacca  -says  thirty  seconds  to

release-and-turn."

Donos twisted and swept his arc of fire across Lara's TIE,  but  didn't

begin firing until his crosshairs were just past her  wing.  His  series  of

blasts flashed between her and her wingman, then one grazed the second  TIE.

It jumped up, gaining relative altitude, and was suddenly out of sight.

Then it was a bright, expanding ball as Wedge's shot hulled it.

The last of the TIEs finished their first pass. Behind  the  Falsehood,

they began looping around for a second run. The squad-

On the bridge of Iron Fist, Zsinj and Melvar watched with interest  the

holocomm broadcast from the bow of the Reprisal. It

showed the Millennium  Falcon's  suicidal  charge,  the  horde  of  TIE

interceptors converging upon the Corellian freighter.

"Come on, come on," Zsinj breathed. "Bring in Mow Remonda.  You'll  die

if you don't."

"Ten seconds to breakaway," Squeaky said. "Nine... Eight..."

Chewbacca rumbled at him.

"You want me to do the jettison?  Very  well."  Squeaky's  metal  hands

sought out the large switch that had been bonded to the main console earlier

today. "Four ... Three ..."

Chewbacca  ceased  the  freighter's  spinning  motion.  The   Falsehood

shuddered as a vicious shot from Fel's  interceptor  slammed  into  its  top

hull.

"One ..." Squeaky threw the switch.

All along the starboard side of the Falsehood, seals  holding  the  new

extension, the  mock-up  that  made  the  ship  better  resemble  a  YT-2400

freighter, opened with little flashes of explosive  charges.  The  extension

drifted half a meter from the Falsehood's hull.

Chewbacca yanked the controls hard to port.  The  freighter's  inertial

compensators shrieked as they tried to accommodate the nearly  ninety-degree

maneuver. TIE interceptors, their pilots caught momentarily off guard by the

surprise move, overshot the Falsehood. The jettisoned portion  of  the  ship

continued on, laser-straight, toward the bow of the Reprisal.

Squeaky said, "Flight Officer Konnair, you  are  free  to  detach  when

ready."

Lara and Fel looped back quickly, getting back into position behind the

Falsehood. They continued their erratic, side-to-side motion, which made  it

all but impossible for the ship's gunners to target them.

Lara heard Fel report, "There's something attached to the Falcon  where

that piece of debris just detached. It's-oh."

Lara saw the "something" break free of the Falsehood. It was an  A-wing

fighter. It drifted free of the freighter with the puff of  small  explosive

bolts detonating; then its engines lit off and it vectored away at the  kind

of speed only an A-wing could manage.

"Don't be distracted, Petothel,"  Fel  said.  "Stay  with  the  primary

target."

"Don't worry about me," she said, and opened up again on the Falsehood.

Fel's wingman veered away in pursuit of the A-wing.

On the bridge of  the  Reprisal,  the  captain  and  crew  watched  the

Falsehood's movements.

"He's vectoring to sweep around us,"  the  weapons  operator  reported.

"He'll probably return to his primary course when he's clear of our guns."

"Order the TIEs to herd him back in toward our side," said the captain,

a burly man who could not return to his home on Coruscant until Rebels  like

Han Solo were purged from the galaxy. "We can't keep Fel from firing on her,

but maybe we can steal the kill. What's the status of that debris?"

"On a collision course with us," the sensor specialist said.  "But  its

speed and tonnage are insufficient to do us harm.  Our  shields  will  repel

it."

"Very well," the captain said.

Lara and Fel continued to pour laser fire into the  Falsehood's  stern,

all the while dodging with the mad speed and maneuverability of  which  only

TIE interceptors were capable. The remaining TIEs swept  out  ahead  of  the

Falsehood, forming up in her path, dictating a run through their gauntlet or

a turn- either toward space, along the Dreadnaught's flank, or  back  toward

the planet.

But Dorset Konnair in her A-wing flashed along behind the line of TIEs,

firing her blaster cannons continuously, vaping two of the TIEs  before  she

emerged from the other side.

Fel's wingman pursued her, firing at maximum range, unable to  overtake

the starfighter.

Donos kept up ineffectual fire at  Lara  whenever  she  was  under  his

sights, while trying with all his skill to tag Fel whenever that pilot  came

within view. He had no more success hitting the pilot he wanted to kill than

he did the one he wanted to miss. And shot after shot from the pursuing TIEs

rocked the Falsehood, sounding alarms as shields threatened to fail.

Chewbacca veered back toward the escape course short of the gauntlet of

TIEs. His maneuver left them too close to  the  Dreadnaught;  the  Falsehood

would be running under the guns of the Reprisal. Donos shook  his  head  and

stayed focused on his more immediate problems. If  the  Reprisal  hit  them,

he'd be dead before he felt anything.

Zsinj watched the Corellian freighter's run.  He  rapped  his  knuckles

against a bulkhead, trying to bleed his nervousness away with activity. "Why

isn't Mon Remonda jumping in?" he said. "Petothel said that these Millennium

Falcon missions had cruiser support."

Melvar said, "Maybe she was wrong. Or they changed tactics."

"No, it makes sense. He just isn't calling in his  cruiser.  Why  isn't

the Reprisal dealing with that debris?"

Melvar glanced at the data feed from the Dreadnaught.  "It's  not  real

ship's construction. Too light. Their shields will handle it."

Zsinj glanced away from the transmitted view from the Reprisal's bridge

to the data feed. Cold suspicion clawed at him. "Contact the Reprisal!  Tell

them to blow that debris now!"

The rumbling piece  of  space  junk  that  had  been  attached  to  the

Falsehood made contact with the Reprisal's bow shields.

Inside, a sensor attuned to sudden shocks and  gravitational  variances

registered impact. It triggered  the  large  cache  of  explosives  fastened

within the debris's hull.

The bomb, originally intended for a drop onto one of Zsinj's production

facilities on the surface of Comkin Five, exploded with far more force  than

the Dreadnaught's shields could withstand.

A bright glow washed over the Falsehood from the  side.  Donos  glanced

away from Lara's TIE interceptor to look.

The entire bow of the Reprisal seemed to be awash in bright  light  and

flame.

His comm unit crackled. Squeaky said, "We have good news to report. The

Wraiths are incoming."

Squeaky turned off the comm mike and glared at Chewbacca.  "You  didn't

tell me it was a bomb."

Chewbacca rumbled a reply.

"No, now is the time to talk about it. You've made me a participant  in

this fight! I've actually done damage to other beings! I'm not allowed to do

that. I don't know if I can cope."

Face brought the seven X-wings of Wraith Squadron,  including  Kell  in

Donos's snubfighter, around the Reprisal's stern along its  starboard  side,

putting them on the same side of the  conflict  as  the  Falsehood  and  her

pursuit. The X-wings were already in attack position, their  S-foils  spread

and locked. "Fire One," he said.

Fourteen proton torpedoes launched toward the mass of  enemy  TIEs.  As

close as the Wraiths were  to  their  targets,  the  torpedoes  crossed  the

intervening distance almost immediately. As tightly packed as the TIEs were,

when those on the leading edge were able to veer out of the way and break  a

torpedo's  targeting  lock,  the  TIEs  behind  them  were  not.  Ten  kills

registered on Face's sensor  screen,  then  the  TIE  force  was  spreading,

scattering, breaking by twos and preparing to engage the Wraiths.

"That  won't  work  twice,"  Face  said.  "Change  Target  Two  to  the

Dreadnaught's bow. Fire Two." Fourteen more proton

torpedoes leaped away. Face saw detonations all around  the  Reprisal's

bow, couldn't determine if they were penetrating the  damaged  Dreadnaught's

shields. "Break and engage by pairs."

On the bridge of Mon Remonda, Han Solo sat in his  command  chair,  his

stomach threatening to knot ever tighter,  while  he  watched  the  holocomm

broadcast from the Falsehood. The sensor-display portion  of  the  broadcast

showed the Falsehood on her outbound flight and all the vehicles around her.

At the moment, only two TIE starfighters assailed  the  Falsehood.  The

Dreadnaught was not firing, its command crew obviously thrown into  disarray

by the detonation of the bomb.

"They're going to escape, Zsinj," he said, his words  intended  for  no

one's ears but his own. "You can't have that. Jump in. Bring Iron  Fist  in.

Come on, Zsinj."

"Sir," Squeaky said, "do we tell the Wraiths about Lara?"

Wedge hesitated. If they broadcast an  encrypted  message  telling  the

Wraiths that one of the TIEs was Lara and she was conceivably an  ally,  the

message would eventually be broken. A voice signal like that simply  offered

too much data. "Tag her as a friendly on the sensor board and transmit  only

that information, and only as data," he said. That might do it-a  tiny  data

update was much less likely to be intercepted by the enemy or decoded. "Yes,

sir."

"Me up, you down," Kell said.

"We're your wing," Runt responded.

They aimed straight for  the  Millennium  Falsehood,  Kell  approaching

above the level of the freighter's top hull, Runt  beneath  her  keel,  both

firing at the TIEs pursuing the freighter.

Kell kept his fire a little high so no slight deviation in his progress

would bring his lasers down onto the Falsehood.  But  his  target's  erratic

motion brought it up toward his field of fire...

And then, on his targeting computer, his target changed

color from red to blue. Kell swore, took his finger from  the  trigger,

and the Falsehood and its pursuit blasted past underneath him. He  began  as

tight a turn as was possible to come up behind the  Falsehood  again.  Below

him, Runt was doing the same.

The Falsehood rocked more violently than before and  suddenly  air  was

howling through the freighter. Wedge's  ears  popped  as  the  air  pressure

changed.

Squeaky's voice, for once, contained alarm. "We are  breached!  Shields

are down on the keel!"

"Chewbacca, roll her!" Wedge shouted.

Outside his  viewport,  the  universe  rotated  180  degrees.  Fel  was

abruptly in his gunsights instead of Lara. He opened fire  on  Fel.  "Donos,

lock down that hull breach. Chewie, keep our good  shields  between  us  and

Fel. Maybe Lara won't vape us."

What a thing to  have  to  count  on.  Squeaky's  assurance  that  they

shouldn't destroy  Lara-and  now,  with  the  Falsehood's  unprotected  keel

exposed to her guns, she could vape them with no effort.

Lara saw the Falsehood rotate, exposing  its  belly,  and  her  sensors

showed its shields there were gone.

She could fire, or she could reveal herself to Zsinj to be a traitor to

his cause.

Or she could-

She deliberately twitched the pilot's yoke a little too  hard  and  her

maneuver carried her forward, right into the Falsehood's keel. Suddenly  she

was spinning out of control, and there was an ominous cracking  noise  as  a

jagged line appeared on her viewport.

"Petothel?" It was Fel's voice. "Petothel, are you hurt?"

She didn't answer.

Zsinj watched, his mouth slack  and  expression  disbelieving,  as  the

holocomm display from the Reprisal continued.

The bridge view was gone, of course. It had vanished  when  the  bridge

was destroyed. But sensor data continued to pour in.

The Reprisal was breaking up. The initial explosion  had  breached  her

hull, smashed her bow shields, and temporarily  deprived  her  of  effective

command. The proton torpedoes that followed had inflicted massive structural

damage on the old Dreadnaught.

Now she  continuously  vented  atmosphere  into  space,  her  crumpling

bulkheads preventing airtight doors from sealing. Her captain had  sent  her

into a turn just before the bomb's impact, doubtless to track the Millennium

Falcon with her guns, and the stress of the maneuver was cracking the mighty

old ship open like a nut.

Zsinj sagged against the bulkhead. "I can't kill him. I can't kill  Han

Solo. I don't know the formula. I don't have the plan."

Melvar, in his ear, said, "The One Eighty-first is  disconnected.  I've

ordered them to break away from the attacking force.  But  we  can  send  in

another capital ship and get them coordinated again."

"No. Throw good money after bad? Besides, Solo will  be  in  hyperspace

before another ship can get into proper position. This assault is over."

Melvar saluted and moved over to look down into the crew pit, where his

starfighter director was. "Send the starfighters down to a planetary  base."

His voice was heavy with regret.

Zsinj knew that regret.

He knew frustration, too. Nothing was working. Nothing was working.

The TIEs were still  swarming,  but  abruptly  they  were  swarming  in

another direction, back toward the planet.

With no TIE fighters close enough  to  see  in  the  cockpit  viewport,

Squeaky dispensed with the human-face mask he  wore.  It  served  merely  to

conceal the gold tone of his face and was only effective against distant  or

fast-moving observers. At Wedge's direction he  returned  to  his  Han  Solo

voice and acti-

vated the comm unit. "Wraiths, form up, prepare for hyperspace. Polearm

Seven, it's time for you to return to dock with the Falcon."

"Coming in, General."

Wedge leaned in over Squeaky's shoulder. "Now say, 'Good  shooting  out

there.' *

"Doesn't she know she shot well?"

Wedge glowered. "Just do it."

"Good shooting out there, Konnair."

"Thank you, Genera!."

Dorset Konnair's A-wing sidled in  toward  the  Falsehood's  starboard.

Delicately, she maneuvered it  alongside  the  docking  station  temporarily

installed where one of the freighter's  escape  pods  should  be.  A  moment

later, Squeaky felt the thump of contact. "All ready," he said, in  his  own

voice.

"Go back and help Donos patch that leak, would you?"

"If I must. One  minute  a  general,  the  next  minute  a  sheet-metal

worker."

Wedge smiled at him. "That's life in the armed forces."

"Petothel, come in."

Lara stirred, trying to convey with body language that she  was  dazed.

She stared out the forward viewport. Fel's TIE  interceptor  cruised  there,

mere meters from her. It seemed to be spinning, though she knew that it  was

her own interceptor that was rolling. "What? I, what?"

"Are you injured? We can bring in a shuttle with a tractor to  get  you

out of there."

"No, I'm good to fly." That was the pilot's automatic response, whether

Imperial or New Republic, whether truth or self-delusion. She  sat  upright.

"Did-did we get him?"

"Almost," Fel said. "Come along, you're my wing." He vectored away  and

moved planetward, away from the burning wreckage of the Reprisal, only a few

kilometers away.

She'd spent her time "unconscious" productively. The datapad  that  had

transmitted its unusual commands to her laser weaponry was  now  back  in  a

pocket. She'd hammered her helmeted head against the  side  of  the  cockpit

until it really was

sore, until she was almost as dizzy as she claimed to be-she'd need the

telltale physical signs of injury when she got back to Iron Fist.

She'd done it. She couldn't keep a smile off her face as  she  followed

in Baron Fel's wake.

Captain Onoma stood before Solo. "We have found the position Iron  Fist

held throughout the engagement. A wingpair from Mon Delindo detected  her  a

few minutes ago."

Solo came upright. "Alert Rogue and Nova Squadrons, tell them to  stand

ready.  Communicate  with  Mon  Delindo.  We'll  converge  on  Iron   Fist's

position-"

"Sir, Iron Fist has already jumped out of system."

Solo sagged into his chair. "Abandoning his pilots? Not even  bothering

to pick up survivors off the Reprisal?"

Onoma nodded in the  awkward  Mon  Calamari  fashion.  "Doubtless  he's

relying on planetary forces for rescue, and will send a freighter  back  for

his TIE squadrons. He's gone, sir."

Solo offered him a disbelieving shake of the head. "He just won't  come

in close enough to a system for its mass shadow to delay his departure. He's

that spooked."

"You should be honored, General. You're what's 'spooking'him."

"Failures don't get honored, Captain." He shook his head,  looked  away

from the captain. "I have to think about this."

The crew of the Millennium Falsehood-two Corellian men, a Wookiee,  and

a 3PO droid in a general's uniform-descended the loading ramp  more  hastily

than usual, as though they expected the battered craft to burst into  flame,

and turned to look at the freighter.

She had new laser scoring all over her hull. Smoke drifted from beneath

the keel and rose to the hangar's ceiling.  "Not  bad,"  Wedge  said.  "I've

flown worse." Squeaky said, "You are joking, I hope, sir." Wedge turned  his

attention to the droid. "And now that

we have a moment or two, Squeaky, would you mind  telling  me  why  you

said we should allow Lara Notsil to blow holes in our hull?"

"Well, I thought she was trying to tell us something."

Wedge blinked. Then he turned to the  Wookiee.  "Chewbacca,  go  ahead.

Pull his legs off and hit him with them."

"Wait!" Squeaky threw up his arms as if to ward off the blows to  come.

"Let me explain."

And he did.

General Solo, Captain Onoma, and Wedge were  already  in  the  briefing

room when Donos arrived. Within a minute, they were  joined  by  Shalla  and

Face.

"This meeting concerns Lara Notsil," Wedge said. "Each of you  is  here

for a different purpose. General Solo and Captain  Onoma  are  here  because

this pertains to mission planning. Shalla,  because  of  your  knowledge  of

Imperial Intelligence techniques . . . and mentalities.  Donos,  because  of

your familiarity with Lara. Face, because of your training as an  actor;  we

assume that you can recognize your own kind."

Face managed a smile. "From time to time," he said.

Wedge said, "Earlier today,  the  Falsehood  was  fired  upon  by  Lara

Notsil, who was acting as  a  TIE  interceptor  pilot  for  Zsinj's  forces.

Squeaky, acting as communications officer, noticed that every time  she  hit

us with laser fire, our comm unit stored fragments of a transmission."

Donos frowned. "Her attacks were also transmissions?"

"That's right. She had apparently rigged one of her  laser  cannons  to

pulse in the fashion of a line-of-sight laser communicator.  She  had  also,

according to what we can determine,  reduced  the  strength  of  her  lasers

somewhat-else we would have suffered more damage than we did."

Shalla said, "This is sort of what Donos did with his  laser  rifle  at

Halmad." Above that world,  needing  to  trigger  an  explosive  device  but

prevented from doing so by comm jamming, Donos had modified  the  output  of

his laser sniper rifle to transmit the detonation signal.

Wedge nodded. "That may have been what gave her the  idea.  Here's  the

message. It's voice only." He reached over to the terminal  keyboard  beside

the conference table and pressed a button.

First, a hiss suggesting a low-quality  recording,  then  Lara's  voice

emerged from the air around them. "This  is  Lara  Notsil,  transmitting  to

Wraith Squadron and Mon Remonda."

Donos tensed. Knowing that the message was from her hadn't prepared him

for actually  hearing  her  voice;  he  felt  almost  as  though  he'd  been

physically struck. Then he became aware of Shalla's  gaze  on  him.  Face's,

too. They were evaluating him, his reaction.

Once, he would have washed all expression away from  his  face,  giving

them nothing to read. But he didn't care about that anymore. It hurt to hear

Lara. It didn't matter if they could see the bleakness of his expression. He

closed his eyes to listen more carefully.

"I was the one who suggested to the warlord that he'd encounter you  at

Comkin Five. If you did show up there, I hope it's because it's part of your

mission plan-that you were hoping to engage him. I told him you  might  also

appear at Vahaba. You might want to keep that on your schedule.  You  should

be able to engage him there as well."

Donos opened his eyes to glance at Solo and Wedge. They were exchanging

a look, and Solo shook his head, a trace of confusion to his expression.

"I'm working on a plan now whereby I might be able to transmit you Iron

Fist's location, just as we did with the Parasite plan."  That  mission,  in

which Wraith Squadron had planted a program in the computer of a  new  Super

Star Destroyer, Razor's Kiss, had led to the new ship automatically  sending

its location to Solo's fleet. Ultimately, it  had  resulted  in  the  ship's

destruction. "If I die, the plan might be able to continue in my absence, so

don't just give up on it if someone manages to shoot me  down.  Attached  to

this message is a data package showing what I've done, what conclusions I've

reached. I hope you can use them.

"Please tell the Wraiths that I'm holding faith with them." There was a

long pause, the distinct sound of Lara swallowing with difficulty. "The rest

of this message is for Myn Donos."

Wedge tapped a key on the terminal and her voice cut off.

He looked apologetically at Donos. "I'm sorry. I've heard  it  already,

and it does pertain to her state of mind. We're all going to  have  to  hear

it."

Donos nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Wedge tapped the key again.

A little background hiss returned to the air, but Lara didn't speak for

several seconds. Then, "Myn, it's not likely that we'll ever see one another

again. So I wanted to take this opportunity to say good-bye. Well, more than

that. I wanted to explain. About what I did.

"I was fighting a war, the way I'd  been  trained,  and  that  involved

infiltrating the enemy and getting their secrets back to  my  superiors,  or

sabotaging the data the enemy possessed. There was never a time I saw a file

labeled 'How to Destroy Talon Squadron' and thought to myself,  'Oh,  that's

what I want to do.' To me, it was just data about occupied  territories  and

interplanetary borders.

"Then I infiltrated Wraith Squadron, just a ploy to  make  myself  more

valuable to prospective employers, and things  started  happening.  All  the

furniture that made up the way I'd thought and felt about things all my life

started coming loose in my head. Nowadays it slides around and  breaks  into

pieces and I have no idea what parts of it are real and what aren't."  There

was a waver to her voice now, a suggestion she was having trouble keeping it

under control. "It hurts, and a lot of the  time  I  don't  know  who  I  am

anymore.

"But I know what I have to do. Whoever I am, I'm staying here,  like  a

vibroblade right next to Zsinj's vitals, and when the right time  comes  I'm

going to stab him deep. That'll probably be the last thing I do.

"I don't have any friends here, except one droid, and I don't have  any

where you are, or anywhere else in the galaxy, so when I'm gone there  isn't

going to be anyone to remember me kindly. So I was just sort of  hoping  you

wouldn't hate me anymore. I really can't stand thinking that's the only  way

I'll be remembered."

There was a long silence, the sound of a  sniffle.  Her  voice  finally

returned, quieter than it had been. "I wish I'd been someone else.  To  give

you that chance you wanted.

"Lara Notsil out."

Donos felt his eyes burning. He put his hand over them. He  felt  tears

under his fingers.

They were silent a long moment. Then Wedge, regret in his voice,  said,

"All right. Opinions. Shalla?"

Shalla cleared her throat. "Tough call. At a  certain  level,  I  think

Corran Horn was right. Mentally and emotionally, Lara's  not  all  together.

But she seems to be sticking to her plan, to her perception  that  Zsinj  is

the enemy. And if I read her words right, she's resigned herself to death in

this effort. That makes it more likely that her words can be trusted.

"Add to that the very interesting way  she  transmitted  data.  It  was

complicated, it was unreliable. It was a desperation measure. If she  really

was an  agent  of  Zsinj's,  she  could  have  just  shot  us  a  tight-beam

transmission from her interceptor's comm system. We would  have  known  that

there was very little chance of such a message being detected. The  approach

she actually used suggests to me that she's afraid  that  her  interceptor's

comm system is tapped, recording, something, and she wanted  to  get  around

whatever measures had been taken that way."

"All right. Face?" .

"She's a pretty good actress," Face said. "In her line of  work,  she'd

have to be. But there was a lot of what seemed like very genuine  strain  in

her voice. I'd lean toward the side of her telling the truth."

"Donos?"

Decorum demanded that he look at them when he  answered.  To  do  that,

he'd have to put his hand down. If he did that, they'd see his tears. They'd

know he wasn't in control of himself. They'd know-

Well, to hell with what they knew, with what they thought.  He  slammed

his hand down on the tabletop. Shalla and Solo jumped. He looked around  the

table, defying all to say anything about the tears on his cheeks.  "She  was

telling the truth," he said.

"I need a little more than that," Wedge said. "Your reasons?"

"That final bit... if she's luring us into a trap for Zsinj,  what  was

that last bit for? To make me feel bad? What good

would that do?" He took a deep, shuddery breath. "If she had wanted  to

manipulate me, to make me come in on her side, she'd have said,  'If  I  get

out of this alive, I'll come back to stand trial.' That gives me everything,

puts everything on me. If I just want justice, I win-she stands trial. If  I

want her, I win-I stand beside her at her trial, and I can dream that she'll

get off light. That's the way to swing me over, but she didn't do that.  She

just said good-bye."

Wedge nodded. "All right. There you go, General. Three opinions, all in

the same direction, for different reasons."

Solo asked, "Why did she think Vahaba would be on our list?"

"I looked at the data file she'd appended to the  audio,"  Wedge  said.

"She had done a good job of calculating the criteria we were  using,  except

that she thought that the planets our false Han Solo would be visiting would

all be former trading partners with, or recipients of  regular  trade  goods

from, Alderaan."

Solo leaned back. "That makes sense. It does. One  of  the  factors  we

used was choosing worlds that produced certain types of  materiel  that  are

valuable in times of war and times of peace.  That  would  correspond  to  a

certain degree to the types of goods Alderaan was importing after it  banned

all its  weapons.  Can  you  run  the  numbers  on  our  projections  again,

substituting trade with Alderaan for what we had?"

Wedge  gave  him  a  smile.  "Already  did.  And  guess  which  system,

discounting the ones we've already visited, jumps to the top  of  the  list?

Vahaba."

"Vahaba." Solo smiled. "If we  can  get  the  Falsehood  repaired  fast

enough, we can dangle it like bait for  Zsinj  again.  All  right,  Nelprin,

Donos, thanks for coming. Loran, I need you for a moment more."

Donos rose, offered a salute, and was the first one out the door.

When the three pilots were  gone,  Solo  turned  to  Wedge.  "If  Zsinj

wouldn't come in at Kidriff to get me, he won't come in anywhere. He's  just

too conservative. Protecting Iron Fist all

the way. So if we can't get Iron Fist close enough to a gravity well to

trap it for a while, we need to bring a gravity well to Iron Fist."

Wedge frowned. "Meaning what? An Interdictor cruiser?"  Those  vessels,

uncommon even  in  the  Imperial  fleet  where  they  were  most  prevalent,

possessed gravity-well generators  that,  when  activated,  could  keep  all

vessels within range from entering hyperspace.

"That's right."

"Does Fleet Command have one available for you?"

"No," Solo said. He turned to Face.  "That's  where  you  come  in."  .

"Uh-oh," Face said.

"I'm going to set up an  appointment  between  you  and  your  Imperial

admiral buddy. I want you to go ask him for an Interdictor."

Face said, "Begging your pardon, sir, but you're crazy enough to  be  a

Wraith."

Solo grinned. "Until you've crewed with me for a few  years,  kid,  you

have no idea what 'crazy' means."

14

Tonin decided that it might be a good thing  to  be  the  King  of  the

Droids.

He was now a mighty leader, in command of hundreds  of  utility  droids

aboard Iron Fist.

He had modified many of them,  with  magnetic  treads  replacing  their

wheels, so that they might maneuver on the outer hull of  the  vessel.  They

clustered at the engines and the hypercomm antennae,  using  their  internal

tools to chew and splice their way into external system ports and accesses.

More moved within Iron Fist at  Tonin's  commands.  Some  were  in  the

engine compartments. Others had spliced into the computer data  cables.  One

was now in the security  system  that  monitored  Lara's  quarters;  it  fed

modified recordings of her to the observers, so she could  do  whatever  she

pleased in her quarters while they saw only footage of her sleeping.  Others

dragged cables and dataports through the walls, giving Lara access  to  more

and more secure portions of the ship and the computer archives.

Even so, half of the utility droids Tonin commanded confined themselves

to ordinary ship's functions ... for Tonin  had  to  make  sure  the  ship's

central  computer  didn't  notice  a  sudden  drop  in  the  utility   droid

population. If droid MSE-6-P303K

spent its day doing Tonin's bidding, droid MSE-6-E629L would spend half

its day doing the duties assigned by the ship's computer, then  would  visit

one of the special interfaces Tonin had had installed at points in the ship,

assume the identity of MSE-6-P303K, and spend the  other  half  of  its  day

doing that droid's duties.

So far, the ship's  main  computer  hadn't  noticed.  This  was,  Tonin

reflected, because Tonin was so much better at this  task  than  the  ship's

computer was. Perhaps the ship's computer considered maintenance of a  fleet

of MSE-6 droids beneath its dignity.

The droid-guard in the corridor transmitted  a  warning  to  Tonin;  it

indicated someone was approaching Lara's door. Tonin decoupled himself  from

Lara's terminal and rolled hastily  into  her  closet.  But  when  the  door

opened, it was Lara herself who entered, looking tired  and  even  dazed-but

not hurt or unhappy, so far  as  Tonin  could  read  human  emotions.  "Good

morning, Tonin."

He beeped a greeting at her, then returned to his post at the  terminal

and extended his scomp-link once more into its data port. To the  terminal's

screen, he transmitted, you were gone

FOR A LONG TIME.

"I'm sorry. I had to go on a mission. I think  I  got  a  communication

through to Mon Remonda, though." She sat on her bed, pulled her  boots  off,

and lay down. "I also gave myself  a  mild  concussion  and  got  personally

congratulated by General Melvar for 'tenacity and courage in pursuit of  the

enemy.'"

THE CONCUSSION WAS PROBABLY A BAD IDEA.

"Don't be so sure." She gave him a little smile. "What have you been up

to?"

WE HAVE HOLOCOMM ACCESS WHENEVER YOU NEED IT, BUT IF YOU USE  IT,  THEY

WILL DETECT IT VERY QUICKLY. AND MY DROIDS FOUND AN UNMAPPED SECTION OF  THE

SHIP.

"Show me."

Tonin  accessed  this  morning's   most   interesting   recording   and

transmitted it to the terminal's screen.

It was a very low view, as was to be expected due to the  MSE-6's  tiny

size, of a bank of rectangular viewports seen from  an  adjoining  corridor.

Beyond the viewports were cham-

bers that were obviously medical wards. One was an  operating  theater.

Another held cages filled with sapient and near-sapient  life-forms:  Ewoks,

rodentlike Ranats, Bilars with their stuffed-doll features but  lacking  the

carefree expressions of  most  of  their  kind,  a  pink  Ortolan  with  its

trunklike nose pressed against  the  front  bars  of  its  cage,  meter-long

Chadra-Fan with their furry faces and gigantic ears, and more.

- She sat up, her tiredness apparently forgotten for  the  moment.  "Is

this everything you have on this chamber?"

YES, FOR NOW.

"We need more. Get a holocam droid into that chamber, assign  it  there

permanently. And get a droid with a computer link in behind the  walls,  see

what sort of data we can intercept. This is really important."

IT WILL BE DONE.

"Now, I've got to sleep." She flopped back onto the  bed.  "Concussions

are no fun." don't do that anymore.

Admiral Rogriss froze with his wineglass halfway to his lips. "You want

what?"

Face smiled. "Surely you have one available."

Rogriss set his glass down with a thump. "Available to me, yes. I can't

make it available to you."

"Even to destroy Zsinj?"

"Even then. Factor in the likelihood that Iron Fist will  destroy  her.

Factor in the likelihood that  you  Rebels  will  destroy  her-accidents  do

happen. Then append the certainty that you'll take the  credit  for  Zsinj's

destruction regardless. I become a failure who, at worst, collaborated  with

the enemy and, at best, lost an Interdictor cruiser. No, no, no."

"Well, we can do a lot of things to keep  this  from  happening,"  Face

said. "First, we'll assign two  of  our  own  Imperial  Star  Destroyers  to

protect your Interdictor. Second,  if  you  inform  only  the  most  trusted

members of the Interdictor's bridge crew that  they're  temporarily  working

with the New Republic, the majority of the  crewmen  will  never  figure  it

out-they'll see our Star Destroyers out of  their  ports  and  presume  that

they're

Imperial. Later, you can say that  the  Interdictor  blundered  into  a

fight between the New Republic and Zsinj and was able to get in the  killing

blow while everyone else was figuring out whom to shoot."

"What will you give me?"

Face frowned. "How's that again?"

"If I do this, I'll be giving you  an  Interdictor,  even  temporarily.

Will you give me, say, a Mon Calamari cruiser for one of my missions?"

"I'll give you a framed and autographed holo of Face Loran, Boy Actor."

Rogriss brightened. "Excellent!  I  can  trade  it  for  a  framed  and

autographed holo  of  Tetran  Cowall.  I  always  preferred  his  holodramas

anyway."

Face seized his chest over his heart. "A good shot, Admiral. I  concede

the duel." Then he gave the admiral his most  frank  and  evaluative  stare.

"Realistically, you're not giving  us  anything.  You're  joining  us  on  a

mission, of mutual interest. If we succeed, we both win. If  you  lose  your

Interdictor,  you  can  be  assured  we'll  have  lost  both  Imperial  Star

Destroyers assigned to protect it ... and many more ships besides.  I  guess

it boils down to the question of what's  more  important-accomplishing  your

Zsinj mission because it's good for the Empire  or  because  it's  good  for

Admiral Rogriss."

The admiral touched his own chest, an  echo  of  Face's  gesture.  "You

shoot well yourself." He looked away, at the white bulkhead  wall,  and  was

silent for several long seconds. "I'll do it," he said.

"I'm glad."

"We must have a rendezvous point." The admiral held up his wineglass.

Face touched it with his own.  "Good  to  be  collaborating  with  you,

Admiral."

Lara could almost feel the stare of Tonin's holocam eye on her. The  R2

had been very solicitous since her return from the Comkin mission. Worse, it

seemed to sense the way her spirits

lowered as she reviewed the data they continued  to  receive  from  the

secret chamber on Iron Fist.

It was awful stuff. She didn't get into the worst of it in the  summary

she recorded for Mon Remonda. The attached data  file  would  give  the  New

Republic the most gruesome details.

"Project Chubar is what they call the  techniques  used  to  raise  the

intelligence of sapient and near-sapient beings. The  name  derives  from  a

character in a series of children's holos about a bilar,  a  cute  mammalian

creature, who is a clever pet of a  young  girl.  The  holos  used  animated

graphics instead of actors. It's a twisted sort of  touch  that  Face  Loran

supplied the voice for Chubar. Maybe you ought not tell him that one of  his

roles was the inspiration for  the  name  of  the  project.  Anyway,  Chubar

involves chemical treatments and a teaching regimen to  bring  a  humanoid's

mental functions up to those of human average-sometimes higher. In the  case

of creatures that are already intelligent-for  instance,  Ewoks-the  process

enhances mental traits that bring its type of intelligence more in line with

a human's. Less reliance on sensory data and more on analysis, for instance.

"Project Minefield derived from Chubar. It involves a second, and  much

faster-acting, set of chemical treatments that affect the victim's mind on a

much shorter-term basis. While the chemicals are at  their  maximum  effect,

Zsinj's agents can implant a delusion and a mission in  the  victim's  mind.

The delusion is usually that some awful situation is in effect and can't  be

stopped until the mission is accomplished.

"Both the delusion and the  mission  are  associated  with  a  trigger,

usually a code phrase. Until the phrase is used, the victim  is  unaware  of

what has been done to him ... in theory. Some of the  doctors's  annotations

indicate that the victims sometimes suspect that  something  is  wrong.  But

when the phrase is used, the  mission  pops  to  the  top  and  becomes  the

victim's number one priority. Um, this conditioning wears off after a while.

The length of time it remains viable varies from  species  to  species,  but

seldom exceeds one standard year."

She scrolled through screens of data on her terminal. "The code  phrase

can have a variable in it. Let's say the mission is

'Kidnap someone' and the trigger phrase  is  'I  need  a  new  speeder,

someone broke mine.' You'd  tell  the  brainwashed  agent,  'I  need  a  new

speeder, Elassar Targon broke mine,' and the victim would interpret that  as

'Kidnap Elassar Targon.' It's a fairly versatile setup." She skimmed through

more screens of data.  "So  far,  the  treatment  only  works  on  mammalian

species.

"Project  Funeral  is  Zsinj's  major  operation  using  the  Minefield

technique. Our brainstorming session pretty  much  nailed  its  purpose  and

intent-fomenting suspicion between the  humans  and  nonhumans  of  the  New

Republic. Addenda to the files suggest that the project  has  recently  been

suspended, pending a new direction or a shutdown. In other words, it's  been

stopped dead, at least temporarily.

"I'm going to do what I can for the test subjects on  Iron  Fist.  I'll

end their suffering, one way or another.

"End Session Three." She switched off the recording and leaned back  in

her chair.

She felt strange. Growing up  on  Coruscant,  raised  in  the  planet's

long-standing traditions concerning other species, she'd always believed  in

the basic superiority of humans. Oh, it wasn't  necessarily  wrong  to  have

affection for a member of another species-a household servant, or a reliable

merchant who knew his role in life-but Coruscant was a world for and made by

humans. Imperial doctrine solidified these traditions  into  something  like

duracrete.

Then, as an infiltrator in the Rebel navy and, later, Wraith  Squadron,

she'd run again and again into evidence  suggesting  that  these  traditions

simply made no sense. With Wraith Squadron, her long-standing assumption  of

superiority over even the nonhumans she'd liked simply wilted away.

And now, with only a droid-held by the Empire in even lower esteem than

nonhumans-for a friend, longing to return to a society full  of  what  she'd

once considered aliens, she once again knew that the Gara Petothel that  had

been her childhood identity was dead. Dead and unmourned.

And the nonhumans in  their  cages  deep  in  Iron  Fist's  belly  were

beginning to haunt her dreams.

Words popped up on her screen, are you sad?

"No," she lied. "Just tired. But it's time to get back  to  work."  She

leaned forward again. "What's our situation with the hyperdrive?"

WE HAVE UNITS IN PLACE ALL OVER  THE  ENGINES.  THEY  CAN  BEGIN  THEIR

SABOTAGE AT ANY TIME. BUT THERE ARE NOT YET ENOUGH IN CRITICAL POSITIONS FOR

US TO BE CERTAIN THAT THEY CAN DISABLE THE HYPERDRIVE.

"Keep pouring on resources," she said. "We have to  be  able  to  bring

those engines down when we want to.

"Let's see here ... even though we  have  some  access  to  the  ship's

computers, we can't afford to play around  with  them  too  much.  We'll  be

detected. Zsinj's slicers aren't bad. So I've been thinking about  the  most

efficient way to give Solo's force an advantage in any direct  confrontation

with Zsinj's fleet. To me, that suggests messing with Iron Fist's  strategic

coordination of Zsinj's fleet. We might be able to flag  friendly  ships  as

enemies, temporarily, and enemies as friendly. Can we proceed that way?"

YES.

"Chance of being detected?"

VERY LOW, IN OUR INITIAL PHASE OF MANIPULATING  THE  PROGRAMMING.  ONCE

THE PROGRAM IS ACTIVATED, DETECTION CHANCE IS 99% IN  THE  FIRST  SECOND  OF

OPERATION, WITH ODDS INCREASING EACH ADDITIONAL SECOND. PROBABLE DURATION OF

PROGRAM ONCE IT IS RUNNING IS ABOUT TWELVE SECONDS.

"Not good enough. How about something to lower the ship's shields?"

PROBABILITY OF SUCH A THING SURVIVING EVEN IN LATENT FORM FOR MORE THAN

A FEW MOMENTS IS VERY LOW. THE MA!N COMPUTER'S SECURITY  MEASURES  LOOK  FOR

PROBLEMS THAT CATASTROPHIC.

"So most forms of self-destruct are not even worth looking into."

THAT IS CORRECT.

"Well, then what-" She stopped as a new idea occurred to her. "Ooh."

The document on Wedge's screen was labeled "Routine  Examination,"  but

Wedge knew it to be anything but. It was a fitness report,  the  accumulated

conclusions of Mon Remonda's most experienced medics and analysts.

About Myn Donos.

The review board had been unable to confirm or deny  that  the  torpedo

launch was an accidental discharge. That was a break in his favor.

However, the medics collectively pronounced him borderline.  One  medic

said it was a certainty that he'd lose control again; the  trauma  from  the

loss of his squadron and his conflicting  feelings  concerning  Lara  Notsil

made it inevitable. The others disagreed,  but  indicated  that  his  stress

levels made him a less than ideal candidate for missions.

It was the sort of data-based torpedo that could  sink  a  career.  All

Wedge had to do was accept their conclusions, scrub Donos  permanently  from

the active flight list,  and  the  problem  he  represented  would  go  away

forever.

But one party hadn't voted yet, and that was Wedge's gut instinct.

A knock sounded on his door. "Come," he said.

Donos entered, saluted. "Reporting as ordered, sir." His expression was

somber, but was not the rigid mask  Wedge  remembered  from  most  of  their

earlier interviews.

"Have a seat."

Donos complied, then quirked a smile. "Shall I take off my boot, sir?"

"Not this time. Lieutenant, I've asked you in here  to  find  out  what

role you'd like to play in the Vahaba mission."

"If I could do anything I wanted?"

"That's right."

"I'd be back in my X-wing. That's where I feel I belong."

"And if that were denied you?"

"I'd like to be put in command of the Millennium Falsehood."

Wedge leaned back. Donos's comment had taken him momentarily off guard,

though he believed he'd kept his surprise from his face. "That has  been  my

role."

"I expect you'd rather be back in your X-wing, sir."

"I don't recall inviting you to attempt mind reading, Donos."

Donos's expression became more serious. "No, sir. But  we've  flown  in

the  same  squadron.  Learning  to  anticipate   the   reactions   of   your

squadmates-emotional ones as well as physical reflexes-is a survival  trait.

Maybe you find it a gross insult for me to make predictions this  way,  sir,

but I'd say you wanted to get back in your X-wing  cockpit  and  were  doing

these Falsehood runs because of duty. Because you're most  qualified-second,

perhaps, to General Solo. If I can't fly my own snubfighter, I'd be happy to

free you up to fly yours."

"Very generous of you. What if you couldn't pilot at  all?"  "Then  I'd

volunteer for a gunnery position on the Falsehood."

"And in any of these three roles, what would you do about Lara Notsil?"

Donos hesitated, and his expression went  from  somber  to  melancholy.

"I'd follow orders, sir." "What orders would you prefer?" "Let her go."

"And if you were ordered to fire on her?" "I'd do  it.  I've  sworn  an

oath to the New Republic. To hold its needs above my own."

"And if you killed her? What would you do then?" "I don't  know,  sir."

Donos's eyes lost focus as they stared off into the distance-perhaps to some

future. His expression suggested that this future was not appealing to  him.

"I don't know who I'd be then, sir."

"Fair enough." Wedge regarded the lieutenant for a moment.

This wasn't the Donos he'd met several months before. Not a  man  whose

every worry, every crisis was kept bottled up inside.

Wedge typed a few words into his terminal and sent the file on  to  the

ship's central computer. "Donos, for your information, you were  right.  I'd

rather be in an X-wing, and for the upcoming and future engagements  I  plan

to be. And so will you. I'm certifying you fit to fly. You'll be  back  with

the Wraiths at Vahaba."

Donos's eyes opened wide. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank me after you've performed your duties to my satisfaction. That's

when I'll know I haven't made a mistake. Dismissed."

Vahaba was a red giant circled by numerous planets. At some time in the

past, a celestial catastrophe had destroyed the largest of those worlds  and

scattered its remains in a thin ring around  the  sun.  The  asteroids  were

spread across such an enormous distance that the Vahaba  Asteroid  Belt  was

not a hazard to navigation; any capital ship could blast through it at  full

acceleration with minimal worry about  collision  with  one  of  the  belt's

misshapen stony satellites.

Not that Mon Remonda was close enough for her  handlers  to  feel  even

that minimal worry. To Han Solo's eye, Vahaba was a  distant  red  dot,  and

none of the system's planets was visible to the naked eye. Solo's fleet hung

in space so far out that no set of Imperial  sensors  within  the  planetary

system would pick them up. Meanwhile, pairs of X-wings off Mon  Remonda  and

his fleet's other cruisers scoured the system.

And found nothing.

He resisted the urge to gripe, to drum on his chair arm,  to  ask  once

more if there were any updates. Or to tell the new sensor  officer  to  quit

looking at him. He'd felt the woman's curious gaze on him ever since Stellar

Web joined his fleet.

To the bridge crew, Stellar Web was an unknown, tagged  Contact  M-317.

It hovered some considerable distance from the rest of the fleet, far out of

the range of the most capable visual enhancer. Messages from  Contact  M-317

were supposed to be sent directly to Solo, and  the  communications  officer

was under direct orders not to monitor, not to record them.

Solo and a  few  others  knew  the  distant  ship  to  be  an  Imperial

Interdictor-class cruiser, the new flagship of Admiral Rogriss. But it would

be best for that information not to spread.

"New contact, sir." The sensor officer's quiet words nearly jolted Solo

out of his seat.

"Let me see," Solo said,  and  brought  up  his  own  chair's  terminal

screen.

It lit up with a wobbly visual image. Distant ships, forming up  slowly

into an attack group. Solo nodded. Two Star Destroyers, one  Imperial-class,

one Victory-class. Two Dread-naughts. One smaller ship, a featureless needle

at this distance; Solo couldn't recognize it.

"Standard for a Zsinj group," Solo said. "The question is, is this  all

he's deploying to Vahaba, or is it just part of his fleet?"  He  raised  his

voice. "What's the source of this recording?"

"A wingpair from Corsair Squadron,  off  Mon  Karren,"  said  the  comm

officer. "They recorded this, using only visual sensors so they'd be  harder

to spot. Then one of the pair returned with the data while the other  stayed

out there to monitor."

"Where is this?"

"At the approximate orbit of the outermost planet, on the approach from

Halmad."

"Reinforce the X-wings monitoring this group with another pair. As  our

reconnaissance  units  come  in  for  refueling,  assign  half  of  them  to

concentrate on the  orbit  of  the  outermost  planet,  on  the  direct-line

approaches from other surrounding stars."

"Yes, sir."

Solo settled back. His heart was pounding just a little faster.

"Sick of it yet?" Face asked his temporary wingman.

"We are growing absolutely sick of it, Face," said Runt. The  need  for

hyperdrive-equipped reconnaissance pairs had placed him with Face  for  this

mission.

The starfield outside their cockpits was  brilliant,  unchanging.  They

cruised at sublight speeds at what would be considered the boundary  of  the

Vahaba system.

"Good." Face changed the timbre of his voice, dropping it  a  register,

making it smooth, insidious. "'Please don't insult my  intelligence.  Please

don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about.'" He forced a falsetto.

"'1 don't, I really don't. Please put down the blaster.  You're  frightening

me.'" He dropped into the lower register again. "'Fright  is  the  least  of

what you will suffer.'"

"Are we wrong?" Runt asked. "Or is this as terrible as  we  think?  The

writing is awful. You are not improving on it."

"Sometimes you rise above your material, sometimes you don't. I had  to

learn this when I was seven. It has never left me."  He  dropped  his  voice

again. "'Now, tell me where the map is, or I-'"

"New contact, course thirteen degrees, down eighty-two."  Runt's  voice

was suddenly crisp, professional.

"Roll for visual inspection, kill forward thrust, kill cockpit  lights,

passive sensors only."

"Acknowledged, One."

Face rolled his X-wing upside down. It would have  been  an  unsettling

experience in a vessel not equipped with an inertial compensator, but to his

perspective it appeared only that the universe rotated around him.  He  shut

down most of his vehicle systems and visually scanned the area of space Runt

had indicated.

Nothing; the target was too far away. He brought up the visual enhancer

on his sensor board and directed it toward the target area.

A minute's worth of careful panning and searching yielded the target: a

group of four ships in close formation. The smallest of them was too tiny to

identify by class, but the other three were not. Three Star Destroyers,  one

of them an ancient Victory-class, one an lmperial-class, and the other-

"We have her," Face  said.  "Iron  Fist.  Give  me  a  minute  while  I

calculate range, Six."

"Yes, sir."

Face ran numbers through his navigational computer  and  compared  them

with what he knew about the likely sensor ranges of Imperial capital  ships.

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Six,  I  want  you  to  run  ahead  at  one-third

acceleration for ten minutes, then set your course to Mon Remonda's  station

and transit back there. You were recording, weren't you?"

"Yes, sir! Wait, let us check. Yes, we have it."

"Good. Go."

"Recall all starfighters  in  close  range,"  Solo  said.  "Launch  our

hyperdrive-equipped shuttles to the regions we sent recon units to and  have

them transmit the new coordinates."

"Battle stations," Onoma said. "All spacetight doors to  be  closed  in

three minutes."

"Transmit our course to Contact M-317," Solo  said.  "Dispatch  Skyhook

and Crynyd to form up with M-317.  They're  to  shadow  her  at  all  times,

protect her at all costs, not to interfere with her operations."

"Bring   our   course   to   one-oh-six-point-two-two-four,   elevation

thirty-six-point-oh-nine-nine. Transmit same to fleet."

"Tell the Falsehood crew to  stand  down  and  go  to  their  secondary

mission parameters; we won't need them as bait."

A low, unsettling rumble filled the bridge. Solo felt the hair  on  his

arms and the back of his  neck  rise.  He  swung  around  to  see  Chewbacca

standing in the doorway, his expression happy, uttering the jubilant hunting

call. "That's right, Chewie," he said. "It's our best shot yet."

The news hit Mon Remonda's bridge like a concussion missile. Solo  came

up out of his chair, began issuing orders. Captain Onoma did the same. Often

their words overlapped one another.

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  1

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-y,ears, 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. 1 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 Hal-mad 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."

16

"Second Death is on  station,"  announced  Iron  Fist's  communications

officer.

"Very well," Zsinj said.

"Sit"

Zsinj turned at the sound of Vellar's  voice.  "Captain.  What  is  it?

You're almost smiling."

Vellar did in fact smile. "I got through  to  the  Chains  of  Justice.

Group Three had not yet entered hyperspace at Vahaba. The entire Group Three

is en route to us now."

Zsinj beamed at him. "We might not only survive-we may  have  just  won

this engagement, Captain. Thank you."

Mon Remonda and the New Republic fleet dropped out of  hyperspace  well

within the Selaggis system.

"Contact," announced the sensor  operator.  "Multiple  contacts  moving

well ahead of us. Their course takes them toward Selaggis Six."

"Show me," Solo said.

The holoimage brought  up  to  hang  before  Solo's  chair  jerked  and

flickered, the result of the extreme visual enhancement

needed to offer any  detail  at  this  range.  It  showed  a  gradually

lengthening line of ships headed toward a distinct yellow-orange world.  The

closest  ships,  those  at  the  rear  of  the  formation,  were  two   Star

Destroyers-one  Imperial,   one   Victory-and   a   smaller   vessel.   Like

Carrack-class cruisers,  the  small  ship  looked  like  a  thick  bar  with

thickened areas fore and aft, but  Solo  recognized  it  as  a  Lancer-class

frigate. Smaller  than  Carracks,  the  Lancers  were  configured  to  repel

starfighter squadrons. Stretching  out  ahead  of  these  vessels  were  two

Dreadnaughts and, in front, a smaller craft that would have  been  difficult

to identify if seen from an above angle, where it would look like  a  simple

triangle. But Mon Remonda's position was slightly below the flight  path  of

the  outbound  ships,  and  from  this  perspective  Solo  could   see   the

teardrop-shaped command pod hanging from the bow, the boxy  starfighter  bay

depending from the stern. It was a Quasar Fire-class starfighter  transport.

Solo had one in his own fleet.

Solo ran the numbers through his head. It was a habit he'd gotten  into

as a general; the Corellian habit of ignoring odds until one  crashed  right

into them was inappropriate for an officer who had lives  depending  on  his

decisions.

"If they join up with Iron Fist, they will outgun  us,"  Captain  Onoma

said, confirming Solo's calculations.

"But not by an impossible amount," Solo said. "We'll just  have  to  be

better than they are."

The world the enemy forces approached, Solo knew, was a  gas  giant,  a

beautiful yellow-orange thing whose atmosphere was characterized by constant

storm activity. The storms unceasingly  changed  the  planet's  patterns  of

swirls and lines of color, so that each new day offered  variations  in  the

worldscape. It must have been an ever-changing work of art for the colonists

on one of the world's moons. Selaggis Six  also  had  a  heavy  debris  ring

thought to have been another moon at one time.

Solo nodded. "Selaggis Six is the perfect place for  Zsinj  to  make  a

stand. He can use the terrain to his advantage. An asteroid ring to hide in,

a planetary atmosphere he might even be able to bring  Iron  Fist  into  for

cover. That's our destination, Captain. Follow that group."

Leaving Tonin behind, Lara stepped out of the turbolift onto a deck  of

Iron Fist that wasn't supposed to exist.

She'd only seen it through holocam recordings taken by utility  droids.

It didn't seem quite as cavernous from a human perspective.

Ahead was a long, dimly lit corridor.  To  the  right  was  a  bank  of

viewports showing more brightly lit chambers.

The first chamber she passed was the one she thought of as the zoo.  In

it were a couple of monitoring consoles and an  entire  wall  of  metal  and

transparisteel cages, stacked three high, the upper ones accessed by a  sort

of portable turbolift-a metal floor in an open-air upright  frame.  Most  of

the cages still seemed to be full. Two human men were seated at a desk,  one

typing away on a large terminal. Neither noticed Lara. She wasn't surprised;

inside the more brightly lit room, the transparisteel of the viewport  would

be very reflective. If they did see her, all they'd see was a naval  officer

walking at a slow, measured rate.

It was making her crazy, having to pace herself now that she was within

sight of humans and  holocams  again-though  Tonin's  measures  should  have

rendered those holocams ineffective. She wanted to dash down to the end  and

do her business. But she couldn't afford to attract attention, not now.

The next chamber was a surgical theater. The operating  table  featured

an inordinate number of straps and fasteners of varying  sizes.  There  were

also injectors on robot arms, monitor screens, tools she couldn't recognize.

She suppressed a shudder.

Then, the office. Within it, another two men, medical technicians.  One

looked up as she passed, squinted, and shaded his eyes to  see  her  through

the partial reflection.

She rounded the turn to the right and punched the combination Tonin had

given her into the door keypad there. The door slid open.

The two technicians, dark-haired  men  of  ordinary  appearance,  their

features so similar they were probably brothers, glanced at one another  and

their expressions brightened. "A new liaison officer?" asked one.

"That's right." Lara entered and shut the door.

"Would you please-" said the first.

"Please please please," said the second.

"Tell us what's going on with the ship?"

"We were in a battle, weren't we?" said the second. "I could  feel  the

vibrations even down here."

"I felt them first."

Lara looked between them. "You two, and  the  men  in  the  containment

chamber, are the most vomitously despicable  creatures  I  think  I've  ever

met."

The two men looked at one another. "You haven't even gotten to know  us

yet," said the first.

From where she'd tucked it into her belt at  her  back,  she  drew  her

blaster. Both men flinched. "Take me to the containment chamber," she  said.

"Or I'll kill you."

In moments she was in the  largest  chamber,  four  prisoners  standing

splayed against one blank wall, while  she  examined  the  cages  at  ground

level.

Inside the nearest was an Ewok. "Do you understand Basic?" she asked.

It nodded, its motion quick and very human. Its eyes looked like  those

of an Ewok but possessed an understanding that was unsettling.

"I'm going to free you and get you off this ship. So you can go home or

live where you please. Would you like that?"

It nodded.

One of the medics said, "Zsinj will kill you for this."

"No, he's going to kill me for several other things." The lock  on  the

cage was simple, mechanical;  she  lifted  it  and  the  Ewok  emerged.  The

creature looked at the medics and uttered a low, rolling growl.

Then, to Lara's discomfiture, it spoke, its voice rising and falling in

a singsong that did not belong to any Basic dialect  she'd  ever  heard.  "I

will kill them."

"No," she said. "You will go to each cage. Ask each prisoner if it will

refrain from attacking me if it is freed. Tell it that I will get  them  all

off this ship. Then free the ones who agree."

The Ewok looked up at her, so obviously considering her

command and his other options that Lara could almost  see  a  strategic

program running behind his eyes. Then he shrugged like a human and moved  to

the next cage.

Out the forward viewport, Zsinj could see little but tumbling asteroids

and brilliant flashes of light as  Iron  Fist's  forward  guns  blasted  the

largest of them.

The communications officer said, "The shuttles  report  our  explosives

packages being planted on schedule."

"Good."

"And Chains of Justice reports sensor contact with Solo's fleet, sir."

"Very well."

"And we have a report from the chief engineer."

"Hold on." Zsinj stepped back to his hologram pod in the security foyer

directly behind the bridge. "Send it to me here."

The face and torso  of  the  chief  engineer,  whose  light  build  and

scrupulous cleanliness belied his profession, swam into focus  in  the  air.

"Sir,  we've  identified  the  trouble.  The  engineering  compartments  are

swarming with, well, saboteur droids."

Zsinj gave him a look to suggest the man shouldn't make  jokes.  "Would

you like to try again?"

"Standard  MSE-6  utility  droids,  sir.  They've  gone  mad  or   been

reprogrammed. With their internal tools,  they're  opening  access  hatches,

chewing their way into wire clusters, sending false data, dragging chips out

of their housings. All in the hyperdrive systems."

The absurdity of what the man  was  saying  hit  Zsinj  and  he  almost

snorted. "And what are you doing about this?"

"We're, uh, kicking the things  to  pieces  with  our  boots,  Warlord.

Between the primary and redundant systems, we're  restoring  the  system  to

functionality. But when we jump, we'll need to make it a careful one;  there

won't be any backup systems in case of component failure."

"Understood. How long?"

"Pessimistically, an hour. Optimistically, somewhat less. I don't  know

how much less."

"As much less as possible, if you please. Out." The image faded.

Zsinj  turned  to  Melvar.  "Very  clever.  I  wish  our  analysts  had

anticipated such an approach to sabotage. We need thinkers like  her  in  my

organization, General."

"Are we not going to kill her, then?"

"I said thinkers like her. But loyal  ones.  Her  fate  will  serve  to

reinforce that loyalty."

The starfighters of Solo's fleet finished forming up, then broke off by

task.

Wedge's task force included four X-wing squadrons, one A-wing, and  the

Wraiths. They turned toward Selaggis Six  and  leaped  forward,  drifting  a

little out from the path taken by Zsinj's group, their intent to pass it  by

and reach the planet first. Other groups of starfighters would head straight

for the Star Destroyers at the rear of the formation,  hoping  to  get  some

early licks in, while still others remained on station with Solo's fleet  as

a defensive screen.

"Group, this is Leader. When we reach the ring, we'll break  by  squads

to our assigned task. Rogue and Wraith Squadrons will head  counter-spinward

and spread out the width of the ring for reconnaissance.  Corsair  and  High

Flight Squadrons will do the same spinward.  Polearm  and  Shadow  Squadrons

will break by wingpairs and do recon runs on the moons. First pilot to  spot

Iron Fist gets an extra three-day leave."

Iron  Fist's  communications  officer  announced,  "Chains  of  Justice

reports  starfighter  launch  and  deployment  from  Mon  Remonda.   X-wings

incoming. Y-wings remaining behind as a screen."

Zsinj smiled. "Launch all our squadrons, except  the  One  Eighty-first

and the experimentals." He turned to Melvar. "While they send their  fastest

fighters looking for us, we can concentrate ours on them. Mon Remonda is  in

for the beating she deserves."

"Incoming starfighter squadrons from Selaggis Six," the sensor operator

said.

Solo nodded. "Bring the Y-wings up front. Let them think that's all  we

have. Array the rest behind Mon Remonda." He had four squadrons of  Y-wings,

two each from Mon Karren and Mon Delindo, plus two more Y-wing squadrons and

a Cloakshape squad off the Battle Dog.

The Y-wings were good at hammering large targets, and rugged enough  to

sustain a lot of damage from enemy starfighters. But they  weren't  fast  or

nimble enough to keep TIE fighters from bypassing them and hitting a  target

like Mon Remonda.

However, the last ship in Solo's formation, the Imperial Star Destroyer

Skyhook, after its capture from the Empire,  never  had  its  complement  of

Imperial  fighters  replaced  by  the  New  Republic's  ubiquitous  Y-wings.

Instead, it retained its original complement of six TIE  fighter  squadrons,

crewed mostly by former Imperial pilots who'd joined the Alliance  over  the

years.

The approaching force, nine squadrons of TIE fighters and interceptors,

came on in a spread pattern toward Mon Remonda, ignoring the other ships  in

Solo's group. Several kilometers out  from  Mon  Remonda,  as  they  reached

maximum firing range from the Y-wing squadrons, they opened up with a  salvo

of lasers, then broke around the Y-wing force in four  groups,  leaving  the

slower New Republic starfighters to turn awkwardly in their wake.

"Open mass fire," Solo said. "Forward guns only. Prepare to  drop  them

at my command. Bring up the TIEs."

The cruiser's forward turbolaser batteries and ion cannons flashed into

life, and Solo could feel vibrations in the heels of his boots as wave after

wave of destructive energy poured out toward the enemy. On his sensor board,

the cluster of TIEs waiting to Mon Remonda's stern, colored blue to indicate

their friendly status, suddenly leaped into motion, half moving up over  the

cruiser, half under her hull.

Off the cruiser's bow, the incoming TIEs began reaching effective  fire

range.  The  cruiser  throbbed  and  vibrated  as   her   shields   absorbed

concentrated laser fire from a hundred starfighters.

The friendly TIEs reached Mon Remonda's midway point. Solo said, "Cease

mass fire. Begin individual defensive fire by

sensor only-with friendly TIEs out there, they can't rely  on  visuals.

Good luck to the pilots." Then, all he could do was wait and watch.

He saw a collective waver along the line of enemy TIEs as their pilots,

momentarily freed from the distraction of the turbolaser barrage, recognized

that the incoming TIEs were not friendly. Some looped back  the  way  they'd

come. Two red dots vanished instantly, destroyed by incoming fire  from  the

pursuing Y-wings. Then the clouds of red and blue targets became  hopelessly

intermixed.

The turbolasers opened up again, their fire  more  intermittent,  their

gunners firing more discriminately now that friendly and enemy  forces  were

in such close proximity.

Far ahead, Solo's X-wing reconnaissance squadrons  should  be  reaching

the ring of Selaggis Six about now. "Come on, guys," he  breathed.  "Get  me

what I need, fast."

"Group Leader, this is Polearm One. I  have  the  Iron  Fist."  Captain

Todra Mayn, once of Commenor, now a Starfleet Command  lifer,  had  only  to

glance out her port viewport to see the mighty vessel. "I'm flying  parallel

to the center of the interior rim of the debris ring.  Iron  Fist  is  about

forty kilometers deep in the ring.  She  seems  to  be  blasting  herself  a

channel parallel to the edge. It's the turbolaser flashes that let  me  spot

her."

"Polearm One, Group Leader. Good work. Stay in position and we'll  form

up on you."

Iron Fist didn't alter course in the minutes it took Wedge to  form  up

his group of six squadrons. "Group, Leader. Any guesses as to her intent?"

"Leader, this is Shadow One. This sort of ring includes particles  much

finer and closer than we see in normal asteroid fields. Most of  them  won't

worry a shielded Star Destroyer. But even finger-sized  bits  can  wreck  an

X-wing at high speeds. I think he's giving himself a second set  of  shields

here."

"Good point," Wedge said. "But space around the larger asteroids should

be a little clearer-their gravity will have drawn in

some of the proximate particles. We'll take it slow going in  and  move

from asteroid to asteroid until we're  close,  an  island-hopping  approach.

Break by squads, each squad choosing its own approach." He suited action  to

words by heeling over to  starboard,  descending  relative  to  Iron  Fist's

orientation, along the inner rim of the debris field. Rogue Squadron  formed

up behind him.

Entering the debris field was like flying into an  odd  sandstorm.  The

asteroid debris was mostly small, and was sufficiently well spaced  so  that

only the larger asteroids interfered with vision.  But  every  few  seconds,

forward shields would light up with the impact  from  a  tiny  asteroid,  or

Wedge would hear a metallic clank as something hit his hull. His diagnostics

continued to register full atmospheric pressure, though.

He set his course from large asteroid to large asteroid. Some  of  them

were the size of small moons, the  others  merely  as  large  as  good-sized

houses.

His comm unit crackled. "Group  Leader,  this  is  Wraith  One.  Wraith

Squadron in position to begin assault run."

"Wraith One, Leader. Good flying. Stand by until all squadrons  are  in

position."

"Acknowledged."

Rogue Squadron finished a half orbit around one of the larger asteroids

and suddenly Iron Fist was in full view again- less than a kilometer  below.

Other than the bow guns being used to clear  a  path  for  her,  the  ship's

weapons were not active. A few large asteroids floated  between  the  Rogues

and their target, partially obscuring Wedge's view.

"Maintain this orbit," Wedge said. "Rogue Squadron in position."

"Shadow Squadron in position."

"Corsair Squadron in position."

A minute later, the remaining units had reported in.

At the end of another quick orbit, Wedge said, "Leader  to  group.  Set

S-foils to attack position. Begin your assault runs." He  looped  away  from

his orbital path and dove toward the Super Star Destroyer.

As Wraith Squadron formed up to begin its assault run,  Donos  suddenly

felt uncertain. More than that, he felt awash in unreality.

He'd been here before. He knew he had.

The last time he'd felt this way-above a moon circling the third planet

of solar system M2398-he'd  witnessed  the  destruction  of  his  astromech,

Shiner. Then the sense of unreality had claimed him and he'd  found  himself

back in the ambush at Gravan Seven, the one that had cost him his squad  ...

and his sanity.

It was happening again-

He clamped down on his feeling of desperation. But neither Gravan Seven

nor M2398 had had an asteroid field. Neither resembled the space around him.

What was here that threatened to send him back into a state of collapse?

"Break off, break off! It's an ambush!"

Wedge grimaced. The voice was that of Donos. Wedge had been wrong.  The

pilot's mind had snapped back to the Gravan system ambush yet again.

"Group Leader, this is Wraith Three."  Donos's  voice  was  in  control

again. "Please order an abort on the assault run. This is an ambush."

"Group, abort. Pull back and regroup." Wedge hauled back on  his  yoke,

veering away from Iron Fist. "Wraith Three, this better be good."

Abruptly the Star Destroyer's gun batteries went active, pouring  laser

blasts into the asteroid field all around it. Wedge could see bright flashes

as dozens of asteroids detonated. Comm traffic told the story of  the  other

pilots's conditions.  "This  is  High  Flight  Three.  I'm  hit  by  debris.

Experiencing engine shutdown." "Shadow Twelve is gone, repeat, is  gone!  He

ran right into a chunk of asteroid."

"Wraith Three, that's two casualties and all we  did  was  break  off,"

Wedge said. "You'd better have a good reason." Well out  of  range  of  Iron

Fist's guns, he put Rogue Squadron into orbit around another planetoid.

"Yes, sir. I thought I was going  crazy  for  a  minute.  I  distinctly

remembered going through this exact raid once before.  I  hadn't,  really-it

was a simulator run back when I was first getting pilot  training  with  the

Alliance."

"Go ahead."

"The sim was based on a story, a lesson from  one  of  my  instructors.

He'd been a Y-wing pilot. His unit encountered  an  old  Victory-class  Star

Destroyer in a debris field like this one. Took the same  kind  of  approach

in, island-hopping from big asteroid to big asteroid to minimize damage from

debris. When they got close enough, the  destroyer  opened  up-shooting  the

asteroids they were nearest. The rock debris superheated and  exploded  like

bombs. It was a disaster for the Y-wing unit. I ran through  the  simulation

of it several times. It was a nightmare."

Wedge thought about it. Their target's barrage had seemed to hit a  lot

of the asteroids near his starfighters. "Which Victory-class Star  Destroyer

was it?"

"Iron Fist, sir. The original one. Zsinj's first command."

"Good work, Wraith Three. Group, we have a new plan. Squads who feel up

to it can still approach laterally, but stay away from  any  asteroid  large

enough for them to target and blow up-say, anything half the  size  of  your

vehicle or larger. The rest, drop down into Iron Fist's wake, into the  path

they've already cleared out for  us,  and  strafe  her  stern.  Resume  your

assault runs." He heeled his X-wing over, choosing a path between asteroids,

and began another run, Rogue Squadron following close behind.

Deep in the  automated  processes  of  Iron  Fist's  main  computer,  a

watchdog program, recently activated, detected  the  fact  that  the  ship's

laser batteries had recently fired on targets  in  a  non-drill  fashion.  A

timer associated with the program  started  up,  counting  down  from  three

minutes.

Zsinj offered up a heavy sigh. "The starfighter trap  appears  to  have

failed," he told Melvar. "Bring back our own starfighters from Mon  Remonda.

We'll need them."

"They suffered substantial losses before they understood what they were

facing there," the general said. "It'll be even  worse  when  they  have  to

disengage and run home."

"I know." Dispirited, the warlord looked down at his  feet,  a  neutral

image that could bring him no bad news. "I'm getting tired,  Melvar.  Making

mistakes. Not anticipating my opponents' moves the way  I  should.  And  I'm

going to have to sacrifice more if I'm to win this engagement.  I'm  pouring

credits on this problem instead of solving it with ingenuity." He looked  up

at his general. "Bring them back."

The four medics lay with their limbs tied, their mouths gagged, as Lara

assembled the humanoids she'd freed. There were  two  pachydermal  Ortolans,

three Ewoks, male and female Gamorreans, three  bilars  looking  like  large

children's toys, two knee-high Ranats with suspicious  eyes  and  frequently

bared incisors, one huge, white-furred Talz with four pain-racked eyes,  and

five waist-high  Chadra-Fan  whose  ears  flicked  back  and  forth  between

listening to Lara's words and to the struggles of the medics.

"We can get you out on escape pods," Lara said. "Unless- can any of you

pilot a shuttle?"

One of the humanoids raised a paw.

The Ewok.

Lara stared at him. "You're kidding."

"No," he said. "Doctors put me in sim-u-la-tors. See if Kolot can learn

to fly."

"And you can."

"Yes."

"Kolot, you can't even reach all the controls."

"Warlord had mechanics make me pros-the-tics. For hands and feet-"

"Stop it!" The words emerged from Lara as a shout and  she  buried  her

face in her hands. "I know this joke already."

"Joke?"

After a moment, she uncovered her face and knelt  before  the  Ewok  to

look at him from his own altitude. "Kolot, we're the same thing, you and  I.

We're both lies that eventually became the truth."

The Ewok shook his head, not comprehending.

"Don't worry. You'll understand someday. Let's go."

Tonin was still in the turbolift, his scomp-link inserted into the lift

controls. He uttered a relieved whistle when he saw Lara returning safely.

She counted heads as her rescuees entered the turbolift and came up two

short. "Where are the Gamorreans?"

She saw them now, down at the end of the corridor, coming toward her at

a trot. As they got closer she could see something different about them.

Blood. It was splashed across  their  chests  and  dripped  from  their

tusks.

She looked at the viewport into the zoo. She couldn't see much  of  the

containment chamber, certainly couldn't see where she  had  left  the  bound

medics, but she could see the splash of blood across the inside of the  near

corner of the viewport.

She looked at the Gamorreans and could think of  nothing  to  say.  How

could she protest their actions, not knowing what was happening behind their

eyes, not knowing what the medics had subjected them to? As they entered the

turbolift, they regarded her steadily, with no hint of regret or apology  in

their eyes.

Her voice emerged in a whisper. "Let's go."

Zsinj's fleet moved out over the broad  portion  of  Selaggis's  debris

ring, then turned back toward Solo's. Two of the ships, the  antistarfighter

frigate and the bulk cruiser acting as a TIE carrier,  continued  on  toward

the inner edge of the ring. The stream of TIE fighters fleeing  Mon  Remonda

and the starfighters pursuing them caught up with  the  two  smaller  ships,

passed them by, then dove into the debris ring.

"That's where they're making their stand," Solo said. "All right. Bring

up Allegiance, Crynyd, Tedevium, Etherhawk, and Ession Strike to engage  and

hold Zsinj's fleet. The rest of our fleet will bounce around them  and  head

on straight for Iron Fist. Except Warder-keep the medical frigate out of the

engagement zone."

Solo's two Imperial-class Star Destroyers, one  of  the  frigates,  his

Marauder-class corvette, and his Corellian block-

ade runner surged ahead, a spearpoint  aimed  at  Zsinj's  fleet.  Solo

waited until they were well ahead, then directed the navigator to enter  the

angled course that would take the three Mon  Cal  cruisers,  remaining  Star

Destroyer, and Quasar Fire carrier toward Zsinj himself.

Within Iron Fist's computer system, the three-minute countdown ended.

The program looked for and found the fleet diagnostic data being  piped

to the ship's bridge-damage analysis from each ship in Zsinj's fleet. It was

already assembled in a convenient package to be displayed as a holoimage for

Zsinj's use.

The program took the package and encrypted it under a  Wraith  Squadron

communications scheme. Then it checked Iron Fist's threat board,  identified

the distant target Mon Remonda as the chief designated threat, and broadcast

the package to that cruiser as an ordinary data stream.

"Comm transmission from Iron Fist, sir."

"Chewie, your favorite correspondent is calling you again."

"No, sir," the comm officer said.  "It's  a  data  stream."  His  voice

indicated confusion. "It's diagnostic  data,  sir.  For  all  the  ships  in

Zsinj's  fleet.  It's  being  broadcast  under  a  recent  Wraith   Squadron

encryption on New Republic frequencies."

Solo looked up at his comm officer, then glanced at Captain Onoma,  who

regarded him with one eye turned back toward  him.  "That  would  be  Notsil

again," Solo said. "Probably. Are all our ships getting this data?"

"No, sir."

"Send it to all our  ships.  They're  to  use  the  data  until  I  say

otherwise."

"Yes, sir."

Solo allowed himself a smile.

Zsinj's comlink beeped. He brought if up. "Yes?"

"Sir, Engineering. We have the hyperdrive functional again.''

Zsinj checked his chrono. "Thirty-eight  minutes.  Excellent.  Continue

with repairs. Perhaps you can get some of the redundant  systems  functional

and improve the odds that we'll survive a hyperspace leap."

"Already on it, sir."

Zsinj pocketed the device. "Put him down for extra  leave  time  and  a

raise in pay. I approve of efficiency."

Melvar nodded, but did not look at the warlord. His attention was fixed

on the holo showing the damage Iron Fist had sustained and was continuing to

suffer. The primary projection showed a series of wire-frame  renderings  of

the destroyer as shown from above;  blinking  red  zones  indicated  damaged

areas. A secondary list indicated system failures. "We have a radiation leak

on Deck Four."

Zsinj grimaced. "I see six radiation leaks."  There  was  a  tremendous

bang from overhead and the bridge lights  momentarily  dimmed  as  a  nearby

torpedo strike momentarily overloaded some ship's systems. "Ah. Seven,  now.

Deck Four is the least of our troubles."

"Yes, sir. Still, I want to check it out personally. On a  hunch."  The

general bowed and headed back toward the bridge exit.

Zsinj followed him but stopped at one of the  secondary  communications

consoles in the security foyer. He leaned  over  the  shoulder  of  the  man

there.

The officer didn't turn, but said, "Our  TIEs  have  returned  to  Iron

Fist. Now making an attack on the squadrons assaulting us."

"Good. Is any of  the  units  assaulting  us  now  confirmed  as  Rogue

Squadron?"

The man nodded. "Yes, sir. Eighty-three percent probability. We haven't

cracked their current transmission scramble code, but based  on  performance

we still get a better  than  fifty  percent  probability  that  Antilles  is

leading them."

"Excellent." Zsinj pulled out his comlink again. "Zsinj to Baron Fel."

"Fel here."

"Prepare to launch. Don't worry about defending Iron Fist.  We'll  give

you a course that will take you within visual

range of Rogue Squadron, then you can head out to an engagement zone of

your own choosing. Do whatever it takes to draw them away-far away."

"And then?"

"I'll send a support squadron a couple of minutes later.  Between  your

pilots, your special systems, and this support, you should be able  to  kill

Antilles. Please do so."

"Warlord, it will be a pleasure."

Zsinj pocketed the device and moved slowly back  up  to  his  preferred

station on the command walkway. It was time, almost time to decide. The next

few minutes would show him whether Solo's fleet or his own would prevail  in

this battle. In the latter case, he would send Solo yelping  back  to  Rebel

space . . . or, best of ail, kill him. In  the  former,  he  would  have  to

destroy Iron Fist.

Temporarily, at least.

Solo's Star Destroyer group closed with Zsinj's  force.  Even  at  this

range, Solo could see the needles of laser light flash between ships engaged

in that action.

His sensor operator kept data on the status of all his ships  projected

as holos up on one of the  bridge  viewports.  But  now  those  images  were

smaller than usual, joined by similar data being broadcast from Iron Fist.

Solo saw red areas creeping through the engine compartments of the data

screen labeled Flash Fire. The  captains  of  his  own  ships  Tedevium  and

Etherhawk began concentrating their fire on the stern of the Dreadnaught and

the redness spread even faster.

That engagement was visible through his starboard viewport.  Ahead  was

the glorious color pattern that was Selaggis Six. Below was the debris field

that, from a distance, was just a  ring,  an  attractive  ornament  for  the

planet.

"We're above Iron Fist now," the navigator said.

"Very well," Solo said. "Make your course straight for Iron  Fist.  Bow

shields to maximum. Sensors, relay data to gunners on all asteroids  in  our

path that could conceivably harm

us. All other ships in the group are to line  up  behind  Mon  Remonda.

We're going to drill a hole straight to Iron Fist, and we're going in fast."

Wedge and Tycho whipped across a massive stone ridge  on  a  city-sized

asteroid; the instant they knew the pursuing TIEs had lost  sight  of  them,

they decelerated.

Their pursuers came  around  at  full  speed,  hugging  the  asteroid's

surface more closely than they had, and  overshot  the  two  X-wings.  Wedge

fired, saw his twin-linked lasers hammer the side of his  target.  The  TIE,

not penetrated, struggled to return to its original course,  but  the  blast

had sent it tumbling too close to the asteroid surface. It  veered  straight

into a hill-sized projection and detonated.

Wedge glanced at Tycho, then at  his  sensor  board.  His  wingman  was

intact; the other TIE was a ball of orange-and-yellow gases half a kilometer

back. The other starfighters of his group were holding up well in  spite  of

the sudden arrival of  several  TIE  fighter  squads-and  not  all  the  new

arrivals were enemies. Some were friendlies off Skyhook.

Wedge looped back around toward Iron Fist for another  strafing  run-or

another head-to-head with TIEs.

A new cloud  of  TIEs,  two  squads  of  interceptors,  rose  from  the

destroyer's belly and veered off into  the  asteroid  field.  All  wore  red

horizontal stripes on their solar wing arrays.

Wedge checked their course. It took the  interceptors  away  from  Iron

Fist, away from Solo's engagement, toward Selaggis Six's once-occupied moon.

"Leader, Two. I don't like the sight of that."

"Me either, Two." He switched his comm unit  to  the  group  frequency.

"Group, this is Leader. Polearm One, take  command  of  the  group.  Rogues,

Wraiths, form up on me. We have something to check out."

Lara pushed open the access hatch just a few centimeters and peered out

into the corridor beyond. It was empty,  echoing  with  a  radiation  alarm,

flashing with the red lights appropriate

to such a dangerous condition. Opposite the hatch was the door into the

hangar bay she wanted.

She stepped out and helped haul Tonin over the hatch lip.  "Give  us  a

minute to get the door open," she told the nonhumans crowded into the access

shaft. "Then look both ways to make sure no one is coming, and join us."

They nodded,  a  little  excited  but  confident,  like  a  roomful  of

businessfolk just before  an  important  meeting.  She  was  left  with  the

unsettling impression that she was leading a horde of humans dressed up  for

no particular reason in humanoid suits.

The hangar door opened to  their  approach.  She  breathed  a  sigh  of

relief; she and Tonin wouldn't have to run a  lengthy  bypass  on  the  door

controls. She toggled the control so the door  would  remain  open  for  the

humanoids   following;   despite   their   human-level,   or   genius-level,

intelligence, they might still be startled  by  the  suddenness  with  which

ship's doors tended to shoot up into their housings.

Within the hangar, only  three  vehicles  remained:  Lara's  X-wing,  a

Lambda-class shuttle, and a larger shuttle of similar  design,  an  Imperial

landing craft. "We'll give them the landing craft," she  told  Tonin.  "I'll

get it prepped for launch. You still have the file on my X-wing?"

Tonin tweetled an affirmative.

"Open it up, disable all transponder systems,  and  disengage  whatever

else the file says they've done to it. I don't  want  them  to  be  able  to

detonate it remotely."

"They won't need to." The voice, cultured and self-assured,  came  from

behind her, from the hangar corner nearest the door.

She whirled. General Melvar stood there, a blaster pistol in his  hand,

and Ensign Gatterweld, looking surly and betrayed, held a blaster  rifle  at

the ready beside him. Both men moved toward her.

"You had to come back here for  your  souvenir  X-wing,"  Melvar  said.

"Perhaps your only mistake in a skillful escape attempt. I knew your arrival

was pending when you or your droid falsified the  radiation  leak  for  this

deck."

Lara saw shadows congregating behind the two men, at the door into  the

bay. She raised her hands. "That's why the hangar doors  were  not  secured.

You were waiting for me."

"Correct."

"Will you be killing me now?"

"No. That's the warlord's prerogative." Melvar looked sad, and Lara had

the unsettling feeling that the emotion was genuine. "I do wish  you'd  been

faithful. You could have helped the warlord lock down this quadrant  of  the

galaxy. He's generous with those he respects. You could have owned a world."

"I wish I had something witty to say to you," she told  him.  "But  the

thought of helping Zsinj is turning my stomach."

The humanoids moved forward,  a  nonhuman  mob,  the  sounds  of  their

passage masked by the alarm sounding in the corridor.

"I think-" Melvar stopped, his eyes darting right,  where  one  of  the

Gamorreans had just moved up within his peripheral vision.

He turned, brought the blaster around. The other Gamorrean, the female,

grabbed his forearm and slammed him to the hangar's metal floor.  Gatterweld

spun, panic on his face-

And then the nonhumans were all over the two men, pounding them, raking

claws across their faces, biting at limbs and heads and torsos.

"Stop it!" Lara yelled.

The humanoids looked up at her.

"Just bind them. Leave them. They'll die when Iron Fist is destroyed."

They looked at each other, then rose from the downed men.

In minutes, she and Tonin had the two vehicles ready for departure. She

fitted a ladder to the side of her X-wing. "You're sure  you  can  fly  this

thing."

The Ewok, standing at the base of the shuttle's boarding ramp,  nodded.

He carried the objects  he'd  brought  with  him  from  the  hidden  medical

facility-four prosthetic extensions, two with articulated hands at the ends,

two with long-toed feet.

Tonin rolled up to her and whistled a question.

She didn't have to know the musical speech  of  droids  to  understand.

"No, Tonin. You're going with them. You have to

broadcast all that data I recorded about Zsinj's projects. The  medical

data."

He whistled again, more urgently, shrilly, a complicated message.

She drew her goggles from her pack, put them on, plugged  the  trailing

wire into Tonin's side.

WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

"I'm going to rejoin my unit."

YOU SAID THEY HATED YOU. THEY  WILL  BE  YOUR  ENEMIES.  THE  WARLORD'S

FORCES ARE YOUR ENEMIES. YOU'LL DIE IF YOU DO THIS.

"Maybe," she said. "Probably."

don't.

She stared down into his  holocam  eye,  and  suddenly  found  it,  and

Tonin's stance, to be as expressive as any human mannerism.  "Oh,  Tonin.  I

have to. I have to do this to be  who  I  decided  I  want  to  be.  Do  you

understand?"

no. you've already reprogrammed yourself. that's

ENOUGH.

''I wish it were. But an intention isn't anything unless you  carry  it

out." She knelt, wrapped her arms around the droid, gave him a  squeeze  she

knew he could not feel.

YOU WILL TELL US IF YOU NEED HELP. WE WILL HELP.

"I have my comlink," she said.  "I'll  tell  you."  Tears  blurred  her

vision for the first time in days. She rose,  pulled  her  goggles  free  of

Tonin's jack, and hurriedly climbed up into her cockpit, unable to face  the

droid again.

Tonin wheetled one last, sad sound and rolled toward the landing craft.

17

On Wedge's sensor board, the interceptors of the 181st had a commanding

lead; they were already entering the atmosphere of the moon,  once  home  to

Selaggis's colony.

Four friendly starfighters trailed the  181st,  not  losing  ground  to

them-Kell, Elassar, Shalla, and Janson, flying four of Wraith Squadron's own

TIE interceptors. The X-wings of Rogue and Wraith  Squadrons  trailed  by  a

distance that increased with every minute.

"Wraith Five to Leader. They're descending toward the west coast of the

primary continent. I think that's where the colony used to  be.  Atmospheric

conditions not helpful. Heavy rain, heavy winds."

"Acknowledged, Five. Do not engage. Continue  to  update  us  on  their

progress. Transmit us your  sensor  data."  Wedge  suppressed  a  curse.  He

preferred the X-wing to every other starfighter ever made,  for  its  nearly

ideal balance of ruggedness, speed, and  firepower,  but  sometimes-such  as

now-he devoutly wished for more speed.

"They're banking toward a set of ruins-the colony, I guess. No sign  of

life in the ruins-they're strafing! There has to be  a  living  target  down

there, Leader. Permission to engage."

Wedge closed his eyes. He'd already confirmed that there was no  native

comm traffic from Selcaron. Mon Remonda's records had reported no  survivors

from Zsinj's barrage of five months ago. And yet Zsinj  was  dedicating  his

best pilot, his best-trained starfighter unit, to pound those ruins flatter.

It had to be a trap. Had to be. But if it wasn't...

The New  Republic  wasn't  here  to  protect  itself,  but  to  protect

innocents: There might be colony survivors down there. It was that simple.

He opened his eyes again. One second had  clicked  by  on  his  console

chrono. "Permission granted."

Kell banked and dove toward one of two rearmost pairs of  interceptors.

It was difficult to see them; the sky was overcast, arid fierce  winds  blew

sheeting rain almost horizontally across his path. His heart hammered-in his

throat, it felt like-and he knew that he might at any moment  introduce  his

lunch to the inside of his helmet.

The old fear. It had paralyzed him at  the  Implacable  fight.  In  the

months since, it had never entirely left him. It might never leave him.

It made him feel like hell. He decided to take it out on the enemy.

The rearmost interceptor of the wingpair he'd targeted chittered for  a

split second in  his  targeting  brackets,  then  broke  to  starboard.  Its

wingmate made a sudden deceleration, seeming to blast backwards past  Kell's

port side, preparatory to setting up for an attack on him-

It exploded, vanishing from his sensor screen. "Good  shot,  Nine."  He

banked tighter, trying to stay inside his  target's  turn  radius,  but  the

enemy interceptor's maneuver was sharper than any  Kell  had  ever  made.  A

moment later the interceptor came up behind him, a quarter klick back.  Kell

heard his sensor system howl with the confirmation of his enemy's  targeting

lock on him.

He dove toward the ground-a two-tone surface, gray seas  to  his  port,

brown soil to starboard, the wreckage of prefabricated dome buildings  where

the two colors met. Lasers  flashed  above  him,  visible  through  his  top

viewport. He angled

over toward the sea, dropping almost straight toward the shoreline.

As the range meter dropped, he  felt  wind  kicking  him  to  port.  He

struggled with the piloting yoke, heard the howl of his sensors  again,  and

juked to throw off his pursuer's aim. He was kicked to port again, and  from

the sensor's unmusical complaints, this time it had  to  have  been  from  a

laser graze rather than atmospheric conditions.

At a mere couple of hundred meters from the ocean's  surface  he  fired

his lasers and hauled back on the yoke. The lasers hit the water's  surface,

boiling it, sending up a column of steam. He flashed  through  it,  actually

felt the drag of the mist as his interceptor hit the column, and  banked  to

port, a maneuver so fast and tight his vision began to gray out.

His pursuer emerged from the column of steam, not banking instantly-its

pilot had to be taking a moment to find Kell.

That was the moment he needed. He held his turn, struggled against  the

centrifugal forces trying to  slam  him  into  the  starboard  side  of  his

cockpit, and came around behind his enemy. The TIE vibrated in his targeting

brackets and he fired.

The TIE exploded spectacularly, transformed into the  biggest  fireball

Kell  had  ever   seen   yielded   by   an   interceptor's   detonation,   a

hundred-meter-diameter ball of destruction. Kell climbed to stay  above  the

rising cloud of smoke and flame, then shook his head to  try  to  clear  his

vision. "Two down," he said, "Twenty-two to go."

"Twenty." That was Janson's voice. "But they're changing tactics."

Kell looped around, back toward the ruined town, and  Elassar  fell  in

beside him.

Ahead, the interceptors of the 181st  continued  with  their  low-level

strafing runs against the ruins. They seemed to have no  particular  target;

their aim seemed to be the transformation of the entire set  of  ruins  into

smaller rubble and dust.

Kell saw Janson and Elassar come in from the east, aiming for a pair of

interceptors near the ruins's border. Their targets shied  away  toward  the

colony center; two more turned in the direction of Janson and Elassar for  a

head-to-head. Janson and

Elassar banked toward the newcomers, but  those  targets,  too,  looped

away as a third pair maneuvered to engage the Wraiths.

It was a deadly game of keep-away,  fliers  of  the  181st  turning  to

engage the Wraiths just long enough to get their  attention,  then  breaking

away to return to their strafing. As Kell  and  Elassar  neared  shore,  two

interceptors turned toward them.

"If they come at us," Kell said, "standard head-to-head. If  they  bank

away, don't follow."

"Acknowledged," Elassar said.

Their enemies banked away well before they were in targeting  range.  A

new pair angled in from the north, timing their approach so they'd hit  Kell

and Elassar from the side  if  the  Wraiths  continued  their  straight-line

approach.

"Up," Kell said, and drew back on his yoke. His interceptor rose  at  a

dizzying pace. "I don't get it. They're playing defensively."

"They're waiting," Janson  said.  "For  the  rest  of  the  Rogues  and

Wraiths."

Zsinj watched in mounting disbelief as his fleet's damage displays grew

ever redder. "Melvar," he said.

Captain Vellar looked over from his position on  the  command  walkway.

"He's not back from his errand. Did his errand involve a shuttle launch?  We

have a landing craft taking off

from the personal-vehicles bay. It seems to be in pursuit of an

X-wing."

Zsinj shook his head, unconcerned. "Never mind that. Vellar,  are  they

that good? Oh, Sithspit, we  just  lost  Venom."  Red  flashes  crossed  and

crisscrossed the display of the Victory-class Star Destroyer  like  a  flash

fire. '

"They seem to be, sir," the captain said.  There  was  tension  in  his

voice, but his expression was unwavering. "Mon Remonda is almost in position

to engage us."

"Your opinion?"

The captain gave the sensor holoprojections a  long  look.  "Our  group

isn't going to defeat  their  secondary  group.  They're  being  pounded  to

pieces. Solo's main group, which is almost

unhurt, is going to hit us in just a  minute.  We're  damaged,  and  we

don't know  the  extent  to  which  we  may  have  been  further  sabotaged.

Eventually Solo's secondary group will reinforce the main group." He  turned

a regretful face to Zsinj. "Sir, we're not going to win this fight."

"All ahead full," Zsinj said. "Get us out of the debris field. Set your

course for Second Death's position.  Bring  in  all  starfighters  from  all

ships-except the 181st and their support- to harass Solo's group."

"Sir, that will accelerate the damage the rest of our group is taking."

"You don't think I know that?" Zsinj couldn't keep the venom out of his

tone. "As soon as we're free of the debris ring, issue orders for the  ships

that survive to flee at their discretion." He felt something  sharp  in  his

chest, a pain that had  everything  to  do  with  the  sudden  loss  of  his

reputation for infallibility on the battlefield.

Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron broke through the  high  cloud  over

into a dark world lashed by  rains.  They  dove  toward  the  colony  ruins,

breaking by wingpairs, each pair of  pilots  seeking  out  prey-starfighters

that  were  frailer  but  far  faster  than  theirs.  They  saw  the   enemy

interceptors scatter by pairs, each trying to find an advantageous angle  to

repel the X-wings's assaults.

Wedge tried to pick out by eye which of the enemies was Baron  Fel.  He

needn't have bothered. A pair of interceptors rose straight toward  him  and

Tycho.

"Fel, is that you?"

"Antilles," came the familiar voice. "So good to see you at last. Again

at last."

"Iron Fist isn't doing so well. You can save yourself some  trouble  by

surrendering."

The interceptors came on straight at  them.  The  range  meter  dropped

below two kilometers and the interceptors fired. Wedge sideslipped,  sending

his X-wing into a defensive dance, and pressed his own laser's trigger.

Then the TIEs were past, roaring back the way Wedge and

Tycho had come. Oddly, they didn't immediately loop around to  gain  an

advantageous position on the  X-wings's  tails.  They  continued  their  run

eastward, then looped around south, headed once again toward the coastline.

Wedge and Tycho turned to pursue. The maneuver was made a  little  more

difficult by a ferocious crosswind that threatened to drive  them  eastward.

"Fel, let's not do this. You've been a Rogue. I really don't  want  to  kill

you."

"Why ever not, Wedge? I don't share any such sentiment about you."

Wedge gritted his teeth. Because you  haven't  yet  told  me  where  my

sister is. Tell me that, and I may lose all  compunction  about  vaping  you

where you fly.

Kell and Elassar veered  in  opposite  directions,  the  Devaronian  to

rejoin Face, his regular wingman. Kell  swung  around  and  came  up  behind

Runt's X-wing.

"Welcome back," Runt said.

"Good to be home. Let's get 'em."

They turned toward a new pair of interceptors. The 181st seemed to have

abandoned their defensive, scurrying tactics; now they seemed eager for runs

against the Rogues  and  Wraiths.  A  pair  veered  toward  Kell  and  Runt,

accelerating.

Kell dropped behind Runt, constantly adjusting his position to keep the

X-wing between him and the oncoming interceptors. As  the  range  closed  to

nearly two kilometers, he popped up above Runt for a snap shot  against  the

rear interceptor, then dropped below his wingman for sustained fire  against

the lead TIE. Incoming laser fire hammered against Runt's  forward  shields,

diffusing to a pastel green as it failed to penetrate.

Kell's sustained fire finally tracked on the ball of  the  interceptor.

He saw the green of his own lasers stitch the fuselage. There was no visible

change to the interceptor's exterior,  but  the  lead  enemy  dropped  on  a

ballistic course toward the ground below. His wingman veered off at an angle

seemingly impossible even for a  TIE  and  headed  back  toward  the  colony

center.

"He's running away," Onoma said.

Beyond the forward viewport, they could see  wave  after  wave  of  TIE

fighters making suicidal runs against Mon Remonda. Three  had  already  come

within tens of meters of crashing into the cruiser's  side;  only  brilliant

gunnery by the turbolaser handlers had  prevented  collisions.  Solo's  TIEs

were helping, but they were outnumbered by the enemy force, which  had  been

bolstered by squadrons diverted from the other engagement zone.

And Zsinj's choice of a battlefield was proving to be a  good  one  for

the warlord. Solo's Y-wings, tough as they were, weren't  nimble  enough  to

handle the debris field at dogfighting speeds-report after report came in of

pilot loss because of an injudicious turn into  the  path  of  an  asteroid.

Between the speed Mon Remonda had to make to catch up to the  destroyer  and

the necessity of diverting most of the gun batteries to antistarfighter use,

the cruiser didn't have enough laser power to clear the path ahead  entirely

of asteroids; every few moments, stones, some the size of R2 units and  some

the size of X-wings, would hammer into the cruiser's  shields  or  penetrate

and crash into her hull.

Though Mon Karren and Mon Delindo followed in Mon Remonda's wake,  Solo

knew they had to be suffering worse. Their shields and hull were not  up  to

Mon Remonda's specs.

"We're in range," said the sensor officer.

"Bow batteries, open fire on  Iron  Fist."  Solo  breathed  a  sigh  of

relief. At last they were in contact.

The topside stern of the destroyer lit up under Mon Remonda's  barrage.

But Iron Fist's own batteries opened fire  and  suddenly  space  before  the

forward viewport was bright with laser flashes.

Mon Remonda shuddered under impacts against her shields.

Ahead, Fel and his wingman lost speed. Wedge and Tycho rapidly overtook

them. In a moment, Wedge could see them  again,  two  dots  that  grew  into

interceptors blurred by rain and distance.  There  was  only  ocean  beneath

them, shore a mere kilometer or two off to starboard.

One of  the  interceptors  dropped  behind  the  other,  losing  ground

rapidly, but maintaining the high-speed side-to-side maneuvering that was so

effective at throwing off a pursuer's aim.  Wedge  and  Tycho  squeezed  off

ranging shots.

Then the interceptor decelerated  further,  right  into  Wedge's  path.

Reflex took over, twitching his yoke to port so that he veered  out  of  its

path.

Tycho veered  in  skillful  mimicry  of  Wedge's  move-right  into  the

interceptor's path.

It should not have  been  a  problem.  At  their  relative  speeds  and

courses, no collision was possible; he should have been well  clear  of  the

interceptor. But the decelerating vehicle exploded into a brilliant ball  of

fire and debris-and Tycho's X-wing flew straight through the  heart  of  the

detonation.

Tycho emerged from  the  explosion,  his  X-wing  trailing  smoke,  its

S-foils shuddering. He rapidly lost ground on Wedge.

"One to Two, come in."

There was no answer. Tycho banked to starboard, back toward land.

"Tycho, come in. Are you all right?"

His comm unit hissed, then words, partial words, emerged. "...  failure

... hold her ... repulsorlifts out..."

As Wedge watched, Tycho's starboard lower S-foil began  to  shake  more

ferociously, then to crumple  under  air  friction.  Ahead,  the  other  TIE

interceptor began to loop around for a head-to-head.

"Tycho, don't try to hold her together. She's a wreck.  Get  over  land

and punch out. Do you understand?"

"... land ... understood."

The other interceptor roared toward them.

Toward Tycho.

Wedge accelerated forward  past  his  wingman,  laser-straight  at  the

interceptor. "Is that Fel again, or did we get lucky?"

"No luck for you, Wedge. This is your last engagement zone."

The interceptor drifted up, firing. Wedge  hit  his  trigger,  saw  his

lasers pass harmlessly beneath the TIE.

Fel's lasers didn't miss. They chewed into the nose of Tycho's  X-wing.

Fel shot past and began to bank again.

Wedge saw Tycho's snubfighter shudder and begin to disintegrate at  the

nose. The cockpit's cowling popped up and  a  moment  later  Tycho  ejected,

still half a kilometer short of the shore.

"Group, this is Leader. I need  extravehicular  pilot  rescue  at  this

position. Mark it and get someone here." Wedge wrestled his X-wing around to

confront Fel once more.

But the nimbler interceptor  settled  into  position  behind  him,  its

lasers opening up, bracketing Wedge.

Wedge  set  his  teeth  and  flew  southward,  clearing  his  head   of

distractions, letting the sensor board and targeting brackets  become  extra

eyes.

Fel settled in on his tail and  would  not  be  shaken  free.  But  the

onetime Rogue had no more luck firing than  Wedge  did  shaking  him;  burst

after burst of laser fire flashed to the left, the right, beneath the X-wing

as Wedge used every trick he knew to make the man miss.

Another violent crosswind hit Wedge. He didn't struggle against it;  he

let it propel him toward shore, a sudden movement that caught Fel off guard.

Then Fel, too, crossed into the wind and was pushed eastward,  farther  even

than Wedge had been.

Wedge felt his spine  stiffen.  That  was  it.  The  interceptors  were

lighter than X-wings, with much broader cross sections-

He resumed his original course and waited until another  crosswind  hit

him. As it propelled him shoreward, he wrenched his yoke that  way,  turning

in the direction he was being shoved, and saw out his starboard viewport  as

Fel was victimized by  the  same  wind.  The  interceptor  rolled  eastward,

momentarily out of control.

Wedge maintained his loop, was pressed hard into his pilot's  couch  as

he came around ...

And then, for a brief moment, his targeting brackets went green  around

Fel's interceptor. Wedge fired and saw the red flashes of his  lasers  score

the squint's engines.

Fel's interceptor dropped, half out of control, and  he  banked  toward

shore. Wedge followed, alert for a trick. But Fel continued to lose altitude

at a dangerous rate and hit the ground in a

skidding, rolling, half-controlled crash  that  constituted  the  worst

landing Wedge had seen in years.

He circled the downed interceptor and angled in to land.

Corran Horn dove toward his target interceptor,  trying  to  bring  his

targeting brackets to bear over it, hoping for a maximum-distance shot-these

enemies were more  maneuverable  than  even  he  was  used  to.  His  target

continued sideslipping, dancing around, avoiding the target lock-

He blinked. There was something fundamentally wrong  with  his  target.

Something that turned his gut cold.

It wasn't his pilot's skills telling him this. It was  the  other,  his

slowly improving ability with the Force ...

"Group, this is Rogue Nine. Be advised. My  current  target  is  not  a

living being. Repeat, not living. I think it's a droid ship." He finally got

a green flicker on his brackets and fired.

His lasers hit the interceptor's fuselage. The  squint  detonated  with

far more force than was appropriate for a vehicle with twin ion engines. The

blast was powerful enough to engulf his target's wingman fifty meters behind

the explosion. That interceptor emerged from the fireball spinning, flaming,

out of control, and smashed through the already-ruined dome of  one  of  the

colony buildings. It exploded, too, but in a fashion  that  was  subdued  by

comparison.

"Group, Wraith Eight." Piggy's voice, jarring and mechanical. "I am  an

idiot. This is why the wingman of  each  pair  at  the  Razor's  Kiss  fight

behaved in such a similar fashion. They have  droid  pilots.  And  they  are

packed with explosives. A moment while I calculate."

Corran looped back toward the fight  and  Ooryl,  his  wingman,  stayed

tight with him.

Piggy's voice came back a moment later. "Observation suggests that each

wingpair is one human pilot, one droid. In free flight, the droid falls back

to wingman position. The droid  units'  maneuverability  increases  as  your

range to them  decreases.  Their  performance  suggests  they  are  enjoying

computerized coordination. They must be transmitting sensor data to

the ship handling  coordination.  Who  is  the  Rogues'  communications

specialist?"

"That's me. Rogue Seven."

"With the permission of the Wraith and Rogue leaders, I offer a plan."

Corran Horn's voice came back instantly. "Go ahead, Wraith Eight."

Face's followed a moment later. "Let's hear it."

"Rogue Seven and Wraith Six use their comm gear to jam transmissions in

the area for thirty seconds. In  that  time,  we'll  either  enjoy  dramatic

improvement in our ability to handle the enemy ... or  we're  no  worse  off

than before."

"Wraith One authorizes," Face said.

"Rogue Nine says go," Horn said.

Mon Remonda dropped into the channel  Iron  Fist  had  already  blasted

through the debris field and began gaining  on  the  Super  Star  Destroyer.

Still close enough for  long-range  fire,  the  Mon  Cal  cruiser  continued

blasting away at Iron Fist's stern, despite the distraction of TIE  fighters

making constant assaults against Mon Remonda's bow and bridge.

"Gaining," Solo said. "Gaining."

"Detonation ahead!" said the sensor officer.

"Iron Fist?"

"No," she said. "To starboard of her course. Something on the far  side

of that planetoid she's passing."

Solo brought  up  his  visual  enhancers  to  focus  on  the  area  she

described. She was correct: asteroids opposite a two-kilometer-long hunk  of

rock were illuminated by some sort of sustained explosion taking place  just

on the far surface of the larger asteroid.

Whatever its cause, the explosion was propulsion as well as detonation.

The two-kilometer rock began moving slowly toward the channel left  in  Iron

Fist's wake.

"Navigator?" Solo asked.

The Mon Calamari navigation officer turned an eye toward him. "It  will

partially block the channel. We must destroy it or pass it by."

"Weapons?"

His weapons officer shook his head. "Too big for our guns to  dismantle

before we get there."

Solo offered up a rich curse  he'd  learned  on  the  back  streets  of

Corellia. "Navigator, divert our course around it. Through the debris. Alert

the rest of our group what's happening.  Zsinj  has  set  up  at  least  one

asteroid, maybe more, with explosives or thrusters to move it in  our  path.

Stay alert."

Mon Remonda began a slow maneuver, veering to starboard inside the path

of the asteroid. As the bow of the cruiser entered the uncleared portion  of

the debris field, Solo heard ominous clankings and felt trembling under  his

heels.

Red lights flashed across more portions of  Mon  Remonda's  diagnostics

display.

The numbers on the gauge showing the distance between Mon  Remonda  and

Iron Fist slowed their rapid descent. The numbers  stopped  and  then  began

climbing.

Mon Remonda was falling behind.

Lara's sensor board had shown the Rogues and  Wraiths  descending  into

Selcaron's atmosphere, and the ten strange TIEs she  pursued  did  likewise.

She entered the moon's  atmosphere  at  the  angle  necessary  to  keep  air

friction from burning her alive, then set her S-foils to attack position.

When she broke through the cloud cover she could see, ahead and  below,

the unusual fighters split up by pairs, most heading to the main engagement,

four vectoring to the south.

Her sensor board said Rogue One, Rogue Two, and one unfriendly  lay  in

that direction. Then it updated and only Rogue One and the  unfriendly  were

left.

She looped around to the south and dropped nearly to the surface of the

water.

Janson hit his trigger and the distant TIE interceptor detonated  in  a

brilliant flash, leaving behind one of the hundred-meter-diameter  fireballs

the Rogues and Wraiths were coming to expect. The jamming technique had been

a spectacular success-this unit

of droids and humans had been trained to  function  under  coordination

and fell to pieces without that benefit. In the first  thirty  seconds,  the

Rogues and Wraiths had reduced the number of interceptors by half. Then they

sustained a one-minute jamming period . . . and the last of the interceptors

had now fallen to Janson.

The communications jamming fell away. "Group,  Wraith  Eight.  We  have

incoming traffic descending from high altitude from the east-northeast."

Janson veered in that direction  and  climbed.  Yes,  there  were  more

starfighters coming in.

He gave them a second look. "What in the world are those?"

Wedge swung his legs over the lip of his cockpit and slid with reckless

haste to the ground. He drew his blaster and moved at a full run across  the

sand toward Baron Fel.

Fel, evidently injured, was crawling at  a  good  pace  away  from  his

smoking interceptor. Fel was not in a traditional TIE fighter pilot's  gear;

the black jumpsuit was standard, but the red featureless mask,  gloves,  and

boots, and the poisonous yellow piping  on  those  accouterments  were  pure

Raptor uniform.

Wedge reached him and prodded his boot with his toe. Fel rolled over on

his back. His right leg did not turn the way it should have; Wedge could see

it was badly broken beneath the knee.

Wedge aimed his blaster. "Mind answering a few questions?"

"Not at all." Fel's voice was muffled. He reached up to pull his helmet

free.

Wedge blinked. The man under his gun had Fel's height  and  build,  but

his blond hair and homely features were not Fel's. "Who are you?"

The man offered him a pained smile. "My name is Tetran Cowall."

"I know that name." Wedge frowned. "Some  sort  of  actor.  Face  Loran

doesn't think much of you."

"That's because he is my inferior in every way," the man

said. His voice did not resemble Fel's. It was higher in pitch,  though

melodious.

"You used computer voice enhancement to sound like Fel."

"Very good."

"Where is Fel?"

The man shrugged. "You should know. You had him last. Where was he when

you last saw him?" He gave Wedge a smirk. "Really, we have no idea."

"So this was all a ploy." Wedge felt sudden exhaustion begin to eat  at

him. All these months, hoping that this man would  have  some  word  of  his

sister ... and this man turned out to be the wrong one. "Why?"

Cowall slowly put his hands behind his head, a  posture  of  relaxation

and contentment that was belied by the sweat on his face and the  odd  angle

at which his right leg lay. "Well, you, actually. Scuttlebutt  had  it  that

Fel had deserted you and that you'd taken it rather personally. Had arranged

for him  to  be  looked  for  since  then.  The  warlord  decided  that  his

reappearance would be a mystery you just had to solve. He put together a new

One Eighty-first. Half with human pilots, half with flying bombs that  could

sidle up next to you and detonate- making hash of the famous Wedge  Antilles

despite your overly vaunted skills."

"So your only job was to lure me out and kill me."

Cowall smiled. "And it worked."

"Not exactly."

Cowall pointed eastward. Wedge sidestepped to be sure he could keep the

actor under his gun while he looked.

In the distance, two or  three  kilometers  off,  TIE  fighters,  their

outlines  unusual,  were  looping  around  from  east  to  south,  obviously

intending to turn northward near or at the shoreline.

"TIE Raptors," Cowall said. "New design, nice to fly. They'll be on  us

in a few seconds. And you can't get into the air by then. You're dead, Wedge

Antilles."

For a quarter second, Wedge debated shooting the man, then sheathed the

blaster and made a sprint for his X-wing. He heard the  actor  laugh  behind

him.

Cowall was right, of course. He could hear the distant  shriek  of  the

TIEs. They'd be in firing position about the time he was  sliding  into  his

cockpit.

He reached his X-wing, leaped up to swing himself in, dropped into  his

chair.

There were three incoming TIEs, and they were of a type he'd never seen

before. They had the standard TIE ball  cockpit,  but  lacked  wing  pylons.

Instead, four trapezoidal wings, smaller than half the size of a regular TIE

fighter's wings, protruded from the cockpit at even intervals.  They  rolled

to port to line up along the straight section of beach and  came  on,  their

engines shrill, a second from firing.

Then Wedge saw something blue flash over his head from behind  and  the

center TIE exploded.  The  other  two  broke  left  and  right,  momentarily

abandoning their run.

Wedge  finished  shutting  his  canopy  and  got  his  X-wing   up   on

repulsorlifts. He had his S-foils locked into attack  position  before  he'd

drifted ten meters forward.

Another X-wing flashed by mere meters overhead. It was painted  in  the

darker gray of Wraith Squadron and had no  astromech.  Wedge  put  power  to

acceleration and checked his sensor board. The  X-wing  wasn't  returning  a

transponder signal.

The X-wing looped in pursuit of one of the alien-looking TIEs, climbing

in its wake. Wedge turned in the direction of the other, coaxing his  X-wing

up to speed. "Lara, is that you?"

"Sorry I was late." She was banking hard,  trying  to  get  her  X-wing

around at an angle that could fire on her target. "Had to hit one  of  these

weird TIEs that was trying to strafe a downed Rogue."

"Tycho-is he-"

"He's under cover now. Hopping mad, I think."

"When you come around north, you may get  crosswinds.  He'll  get  them

worse. They may blow him back across your path. Hold  tight."  Wedge  turned

after his target TIE Raptor, saw that the unusual vehicle  was  now  looping

around to get behind Lara. "I owe you one," he said.

"I owe you," she said. "I-there!"

The Raptor pilot hit a bad patch of crosswind and was

tumbled eastward. Lara fired, her lasers creasing the rear of the TIE.

A plume of smoke emerged  from  her  target.  The  starfighter  dropped

tumbling into the sea, hitting with enough force to turn anything within  it

into something resembling jelly.

But the last Raptor dropped in behind Lara and began stitching her rear

with laser fire. Wedge  put  all  discretionary  energy  into  acceleration,

hurtling toward the engagement.

The TIE Raptor fired again. This  was  no  laser-a  concussion  missile

detonated just below Lara's X-wing. Wedge saw her stern leap  up,  and  then

the  X-wing  was  tumbling,  unaerodynamic,  slinging  components   in   all

directions as it dropped.

"Punch out, punch out," Wedge said, but had no time to watch. He turned

after the TIE Raptor.

That pilot tried an immediate roll to port, diving toward the water,  a

frantic effort to shake Wedge from his tail.  Wedge  flicked  his  targeting

brackets back and forth but was unable to get a lock.

So he fired directly over the TIE Raptor's hull, immediately above  its

top viewport.

The pilot dodged out of reflex.

Straight down.

The leading edges of its odd wings dipped into the surf. The TIE rolled

forward, its wings breaking free and being flung  into  the  air  with  more

speed and violence than anything coming off Lara's X-wing.

Wedge looped around, looking for Lara.

He found her X-wing fifty meters offshore. It  was  a  twisted,  broken

thing, slowly rolling over from its belly onto its side.

He cruised over it at a slow rate of speed, running  on  repulsorlifts,

and looked into the cockpit. Then he shook his head and banked  back  toward

Tycho and the colony.

"On my command," Piggy said, "Wraith Nine and Ten, begin  straight-line

flight but maintain evasive maneuvering. Rogue Three and Four,  climb  at  a

thirty-degree angle, target their pursuit, and fire. Ready ... now."

Two kilometers below him, Shalla and Janson discontinued their  efforts

to get around behind the unusual TIEs pursuing them. They  accelerated  into

straightforward flight toward the west. Their pursuit accelerated,  swinging

into firing position behind them.

A kilometer below that, Pedna Scotian and Hobbie  Klivian  rose  toward

the engagement now passing above them. Piggy could  tell  the  exact  moment

they acquired targeting locks: both pursuing TIEs suddenly wobbled in flight

as their pilots were alerted to the danger they were in.

But it was too late. Both Rogues fired. Hobbie's lasers sheared through

the lower portion of  one  TIE's  forward  viewport  and  continued  cycling

against that target. A moment later, Piggy saw his lasers emerge from  above

the TIE's  engines.  The  TIE  hurtled  forward  ballistically  for  half  a

kilometer, then detonated.

Scotian's lasers missed the second  TIE.  It  veered  abruptly  upward.

Shalla and Janson looped around in tight maneuvers and gave pursuit.

Piggy turned away from that engagement, looked again  at  the  swirling

colored dots on  his  sensor  board.  Flight  vectors,  acceleration  rates,

probabilities ran through his mind like unregulated data streams. He saw the

blip designated Rogue One returning. That would begin  to  figure  into  his

calculations in two minutes.  He  saw  another  blip,  yellow  for  unknown,

descend from low lunar orbit toward  Wedge's  earlier  engagement  zone.  He

dismissed it. It wouldn't factor into his equations until it came closer  to

his current engagement zone.

His comm system lit up, indicating reception of a recorded message.  He

glanced at the data portion of the screen. It was a lengthy message, flagged

as low priority, going to all  vehicles  on  New  Republic  frequencies.  He

dismissed it from his mind.

Numbers and formulae clicked into place in his mind. "Wraith Seven, two

targets will be crossing over your space from  the  east  in  six-point-four

seconds." Dia, her fuzial thrust engines malfunctioning, was now running  on

repulsorlifts only; Face had directed her to stay under cover, and  she  now

hovered within a half-ruined colony dome, able to swivel her guns toward any

one of three large holes in the dome. "Wraith Five, please make your  course

due east and come up to full speed. You

should pull two of the new intruders . . . yes, you have." Kell  veered

as Piggy had requested, momentarily abandoning  his  slower-moving  wingman,

and both new TIEs that had been lining up for a run on Wraiths Five and  Six

opted to pursue him. Kell blasted across Dia's position  and  the  lead  TIE

pursuing him was suddenly  illuminated  from  the  dome,  painted  and  then

penetrated by Dia's lasers. It rolled, a deceptively pretty  corkscrew,  and

then hit rubble that had once been a duracrete street.

Piggy started to speak again, then saw Kell's  TIE  interceptor  vector

back at a sharp angle toward Runt's position. Kell and Runt  closed  on  one

another as though they planned a head-to-head, but when Runt fired,  it  was

Kelt's pursuit he hit. The unusual TIE fired, too,  its  concussion  missile

flashing past Kell and hitting a ruined wall, before Runt's  lasers  punched

through the TIE's hull. It became, to Piggy's eye, a tiny,  pretty  ball  of

red, yellow, and orange.

Piggy sat back and nodded to himself, satisfied. He loved math.

"We're in open space, Warlord," the captain announced.

Zsinj offered him a tight, unhappy smile. "Make  your  course  directly

toward Second Death. Instruct Second Death to deploy  the  Nightcloak  in  a

channel long enough for us to make a hyperspace jump  from.  And  to  finish

this masquerade, I'm going to have to stand by in a shuttle. The fleet is in

your capable hands."

"Yes, sir."

In his shuttle bay, Zsinj and his  pilot  found  his  personal  shuttle

unharmed,  but  Melvar  and  Gatterweld  were  there  in  much  less  intact

condition. Both men were tied, bleeding, unconscious.

He clucked over them but didn't delay. Time was pressing. He called  in

a medical team as he and his pilot prepared the shuttle for flight.

"Iron Fist is outbound," Onoma said. "And as much as the  debris  field

is delaying us, we're not going to be able to catch her."

Solo looked at the damage  diagnostics  projections,  which  showed  an

ever-mounting damage total for Iron Fist. "Keep  the  starfighters  on  her.

There's a chance  they  can  crack  her  open  before  she  can  jump.  See,

concentrate there on the forward top  shield  projector  and  the  starboard

engines. Both systems are faltering like mad.  Her  hyperdrive  is  damaged,

too. There's got to be a chance it will fail when activated."

Mon Remonda's own damage totals were mounting, too.  Numerous  asteroid

impacts had reduced her shields, battered her bow hull  in  several  places,

even vented atmosphere from portions of the bow  near  the  keel.  And  Iron

Fist's starfighter screen had been insane in its prosecution of Mon Remonda.

But suddenly the enemy starfighters were running, fleeing in  the  wake

of Iron Fist.

Solo sat, his muscles knotting, uncertainty  burning  at  his  gut.  It

didn't matter that he and his force had just destroyed or captured the  rest

of Zsinj's group. It didn't matter that they'd survived each trap Zsinj  had

set, each ploy he had initiated. Nor did it matter  that  they'd  sent  Iron

Fist fleeing for the second time in the mighty destroyer's career.

The only thing that mattered, the only  acceptable  outcome,  was  Iron

Fist's capture or destruction.

More data crawled across his personal screen. Rogue Squadron and Wraith

Squadron were returning from Selcaron. They  were  requesting  shuttles  for

pilot rescue and enemy  pilot  capture.  Rogue  One  was  among  the  pilots

returning. Solo breathed a sigh of relief. He had few enough friends. Win or

lose, he didn't want to lose any more in this engagement.

Tetengo Noor, Polearm Nine, finished another  pass  across  Iron  Fist.

He'd dumped more laser fire across the great ship's bow. Turbolasers and ion

cannons had failed to touch his A-wing. Now he  banked  around  for  another

run. His wingman was dead; most of the friendly  starfighters  within  sight

were Y-wings and even TIE fighters.

Selaggis Six was growing small behind  him  and  his  target.  But  Mon

Remonda was coming on strong. His home was chas-

ing him. He got lined up for another run and dove toward the destroyer,

his lasers stitching destruction across her hull.

Halfway across, he sensed something  wrong  to  his  port,  toward  the

ship's bow. He glanced that way, saw nothing beyond the bow.

Nothing. No stars.  No  starfighters.  Blackness,  an  immense  sea  of

blackness. It so jarred him that he ceased fire, ceased maneuvering until  a

near miss from an Iron Fist turbolaser jolted him out of his surprise.

Iron Fist's bow entered the darkness  and  disappeared.  The  blackness

rolled across the ship's hull and swallowed Tetengo Noor.

All the stars disappeared, but he could still see Iron  Fist's  lights,

still see the glows of fire from friendly and enemy starfighters.  He  shook

off his apprehension and banked for  another  run  at  his  colossal  enemy.

"Polearm Nine to Mon Remonda. Something odd is going on here."

He heard nothing but the alarmed comm chatter of other pilots near him.

Sensor data was strange. It showed new blips  where  none  had  been  a

moment ago. There were now two capital ships  in  his  near  vicinity.  Iron

Fist, immediately to his stern, and something about a third of  Iron  Fist's

size-still larger  than  any  Imperial  Star  Destroyer-well  below  Zsinj's

flagship. In addition, there were  four  stationary  objects  arrayed  in  a

square back the way he'd come, and four more, similarly arrayed,  kilometers

ahead along Iron Fist's outbound course.

He looped around to get a look at the new capital ship.  "Polearm  Nine

to Mon Remonda, come in. I think Iron Fist has additional support up here."

Only static answered him.

Zsinj stayed on his comlink while his pilot did the work.  His  shuttle

lifted off, moved smoothly out into the eerie darkness now surrounding  Iron

Fist,  and  headed  off  at  a  course  perpendicular  to  the  Super   Star

Destroyer's. "Captain Vellar, report."

"Thirty seconds to hyperspace entry. I've transmitted the countdown  to

Second Death."

"Second Death, report."

"Yes, warlord. Our detonation is linked  to  the  countdown.  Countdown

plus two seconds. We've already abandoned ship. Our crew is on  the  landing

craft and we've launched."

"Well, get clear of here or you'll be nothing but a dim  memory  and  a

pension bonus." Zsinj turned to his pilot. "That stands for us, too."

The taciturn pilot nodded and brought the shuttle up to  speed.  A  few

moments later, the stars returned as though they'd been switched back on  by

some cosmic being.

Zsinj checked his sensors. There was nothing behind him,  no  trace  of

Iron Fist, Second Death, or the starfighters battling around them.

"No, no, no," Solo said. "She can't have jumped.  We'd  have  seen  the

sensor signs of hyperspace entry."

The sensor officer offered him a face full of confusion. "No, sir.  But

she's gone. It's strange. Several minutes ago, we thought we detected a ship

out there at that  position;  her  sensor  echo  wasn't  anything  we  could

identify, and she vanished almost immediately. Now Iron Fist goes out  there

and vanishes, too-and all the starfighters on her, ours  and  theirs.  We're

not even getting comm traffic from them. We do have an odd visual."

"Bring it up."

The visual enhancer brought  up  a  hologram  of-nothingness.  A  black

square blotting out the stars directly ahead of Mon Remonda,  on  the  exact

path Iron Fist took, many kilometers ahead.  Three  shuttles  were  outbound

from the anomaly. Several Y-wings from Mon Remonda approached it at cautious

speeds.

"What is that?"

The sensor operator shook her  head.  "It's  not  on  any  sensors  but

visual. It's not like anything I've ever seen."

Captain Vellar stared out the forward viewport and tried  to  keep  all

emotion out of his face.

It was hard. He had to focus all that energy on his task.

He was a soldier. He always did his duty.

This time, his duty, as defined by the warlord,  demanded  that  he  be

party to the murder of dozens of his own pilots.

"Captain," called the comm officer, "the starfighter  group  leader  is

asking if it's time to bring the TIEs in."

"Tell him one minute," Vellar said. "Then we'll open  up  the  bay  and

transmit approach channels where they won't be chopped to pieces by our  own

batteries."

"Yes, sir."

A moment later, another officer called, "Ten seconds to hyperspace."

"Very well." Vellar closed his eyes. He would not bear the sight of the

eyes  of  the  bridge  crew.  They  knew  why  all  the  pilots  were  being

sacrificed-so Iron Fist would not be delayed in her jump to safety.  So  the

intermixed wreckage of friendly and enemy starfighters  would  convince  Han

Solo that Iron Fist and her starfighter screen were destroyed.

Tetengo Noor brought in his A-wing close to the misshapen capital ship.

It was not illuminated and  was  firing  no  weapons.  He  switched  on

forward lights as he cruised over it.

He saw an engine pod, a bridge pod, a long spar  connecting  them,  and

three kilometers of vehicle wreckage between bow and stern.

One piece of wreckage was instantly recognizable. The triangular  point

of a Star Destroyer's bow. On it were painted the words iron fist.

Apprehension seized him-not fear for himself, but fear for his mission,

his fleet's mission. He turned back toward Mon Remonda and accelerated.

Behind him, the utter blackness became pure, burning brightness. For  a

moment, as it swept forward across him, he thought he felt heat.

As Solo and his bridge crew watched, flame gouted out from  the  center

of the blackness, then spread to engulf it entirely. The approaching Y-wings

veered away. Metal debris, brilliantly glowing, hurtled from the  center  of

the explosion. In moments, the bright ball of explosive  gas  faded-and  the

blackness, too, was gone, the stars beyond it restored.

The sensor operator blinked. "We had signs of a hyperspace  entry  just

before the explosion, sir."

"Find out," Solo said. "Find out if it was Iron Fist  or  that  phantom

ship."

"Yes, sir."

A moment later, the communications officer rocked back in his chair  as

if slapped. He turned to Solo. "Sir, I have a transmission from one  of  our

Y-wings. The pilot thinks you ought to see this right away."

"Put it up."

The enhanced starfield wavered. The stars changed, and much of the view

was replaced by a tumbling piece of debris, an enormous  triangle  of  metal

trailing cables and metal spars. Portions of the debris  still  glowed  from

the heat of the explosion.

Painted on the side of the triangle, rotating into and out of sight  as

the debris spun, were the words iron fist.

Captain Onoma joined him. "That is her bow."

"Yes." Solo let out a breath and  felt  five  months  of  pressure  and

frustration begin to leave him. If he could breathe like that for  a  while,

expelling the nightmare of this command one lungful  at  a  time,  he  could

someday become a real human again.

He moved back to his control chair and  sat  heavily.  All  across  the

bridge, officers began applauding, offering handshakes, exchanging embraces.

"Comm, let me address the fleet."

"Ready, sir."

"This is General Solo. Iron Fist is destroyed. We'll tell you  more  as

we know more." He gestured for the comm officer to cease  the  transmission.

"Sensors, Communications, what about our pilots who were close to her?"

The sensor officer shook her head. "They were awfully

near to the explosion. Unless they move under their own power, we won't

be able to distinguish them from debris."

"I have a transmission from a Y-wing pilot,"  the  comm  officer  said.

"He's injured, coming in on one  engine.  He  was  just  emerging  from  the

darkness field when Iron Fist blew. He was pretty disoriented while  he  was

in the darkness field. He saw a second capital ship on sensors; it must have

been the one that made hyperspace. He thinks most of  our  starfighters  are

gone, sir."

Solo closed his eyes.

Maybe, just maybe, those were the last beings he  would  ever  have  to

order to their deaths.

"Incoming message, sir. From one of those outbound  shuttles.  He  says

it's Warlord Zsinj."

"Of course," Solo murmured. "He wouldn't stay aboard Iron Fist and  let

himself be blown up. Not even if I asked him nicely." He  raised  his  head.

"Chewie, you took the last one. Come join me for this one."

Chewbacca moved in to stand behind Solo. "Put it on," Solo said.

Zsinj's image, against the background  of  a  Lambda  shuttle  cockpit,

appeared both on Solo's private screen and  as  a  holoprojection  over  the

bridge's main viewport.

There was no humor remaining  to  Zsinj's  expression.  Sweat  darkened

parts of his white uniform. His mustachios drooped in what might have  been,

under other circumstances, a comical fashion. "I've signaled  you  to  offer

congratulations," the warlord said. His voice was low, pained. "You  realize

you have cost me very dearly."

Han summoned up the energy to give him a mocking smile. "I  don't  have

much to offer you in compensation. Maybe I could let you kiss my Wookiee."

Chewbacca grumbled, a noise of dissent.

The color rose in Zsinj's face and he spoke again-words  Solo  did  not

know, each few syllables sounding different in character and pitch than  the

ones before. The rant went on for nearly a minute, and Solo  was  glad  they

routinely recorded bridge communications-he wanted one of the 3PO units to

translate this multilingual composition of profanity for him. One blast

in the Rodian language he understood quite well;  it  described  Han  Solo's

chemical composition in a fashion that would make any Rodian's blood boil.

Then Zsinj sagged, all energy seemingly having fled him. "General,"  he

said, "we will meet again."

"I'm sure we will." Solo lost his smile. "Zsinj, I'm not  a  rich  man.

Not really an ambitious man. Maybe you should take  that  into  account.  It

means that you can never cost me as much as I've cost you. Never."

Zsinj regarded him soberly for a moment. Then his holoimage faded.

"Shuttle's  made  the  launch  to  hyperspace,"  reported  the   sensor

operator.

Solo nodded. Then he looked up at Chewbacca.  "We  got  him.  He's  not

dead, but his fleet is a shambles and his  financial  empire  is  coming  to

pieces. He may never recover."

Chewie rumbled a reply.

"No, I never really would have asked you to kiss him."

With the colors of hyperspace flowing past the forward  viewport,  sign

of safety that was finally his, Zsinj turned to his  pilot.  "What  did  you

think of my performance?"

The man looked at him blankly. "I suppose it was pretty good, sir."

"You obviously have no appreciation of the theater, dear boy. Oh, well.

In a few minutes, we'll rendezvous with Iron Fist  and  head  on  to  Rancor

Base, where you won't be called upon to provide  artistic  criticism  you're

not qualified to offer." He heaved a sigh.

18

Dr. Gast lay on her bed in the tiny chamber that was her  cell,  bored,

and watched the same holodrama for the third time in as many  days.  It  was

called High Winds, and told the story of performing wire-walkers, madmen who

stretched fibra-ropes between the skyscrapers of Coruscant and then tried to

walk across for the entertainment of others. It was a  tragedy,  of  course;

any such account, made by Imperial holomakers, of  such  nontraditional  and

independent behavior always ended in sadness and death.

There was a murmur  of  voices  from  outside,  her  guard  talking  to

someone, and then there was a knock at her door.

She paused the holo. Actor Tetran Cowall froze in mid-slip, his  plunge

to death delayed for a few moments, his expression wide-eyed  and  hopeless.

"Come in," she said.

Nawara Ven entered, stared at her impassively. "You'll launch  tomorrow

in the shuttle Narra for Coruscant. Nobody wants you to arrive  with  Solo's

fleet." He tossed a packet tied together with cord at her  feet.  "Your  new

identity," he said. "Maharg Tulis, home decorator  from  Alderaan.  It  will

stand up to any scrutiny, New Republic or Imperial."

She didn't reach for the packet. "That's an ugly name."

"To accompany an ugly spirit."

"And my money?"

"I'll give you one more chance on the money. Tell me you don't want it,

that you're donating it back to the New Republic cause to save  lives.  That

could be your very first step in returning from what you've become."

"I'll take the money, thanks."

"As you wish. I won't ever again try to protect you from yourself."  He

offered her a toothy smile. "We have to send out a holocomm request for your

money. How would you prefer your credits-New Republic or Imperial?"

"Imperial, of course. What did you think?"

"Imperial it is. As soon as they arrive, you'll be off to Coruscant."

"I need a bodyguard! I'll  be  carrying  half  a  million  credits.  It

wouldn't do to let me be robbed.  That  would  reflect  badly  on  your  New

Republic."

The Twi'lek nodded. "You're absolutely right. I'll  be  your  bodyguard

until we get to Coruscant. Once we're there, you can hire one to your liking

and book your own passage to whatever world you like."

"Well... I suppose you'll do."

Ven took a step back and shut the door.

Gast grabbed the identity packet, plucked the string free, and examined

the documents, shoving the datacards in her terminal one by one. An identity

card. A falsified personal history-born on Alderaan, a traveler among  Outer

Rim worlds since her home planet's destruction eight years before. A  permit

permitting her to carry a large sum of money,  up  to  a  half  million  New

Republic credits or  the  equivalent.  Memberships  in  various  decorators'

guilds-Imperial, New Republic, various unaligned planets.

She sat back, satisfied. One or two more days,  and  she'd  be  rid  of

Zsinj, rid of the Rebels, rid of this whole business forever.

Wedge looked over the fighter pilots of Mon  Remonda.  The  Rogues  and

Wraiths were present in nearly full strength; he had  lost  only  one  pilot

from those squadrons yesterday, and

had lost her only temporarily. A few survivors from  Polearm  and  Nova

Squadrons, pilots who had been knocked out of  battle  minutes  before  Iron

Fist detonated, were also present.

This was the last time the  four  squadrons  were  ever  likely  to  be

assembled this way. The pilots  stared  at  him,  their  expressions  tired,

solemn, battered, triumphant.

In  spite  of  the  high  casualty  toll,  it  had  been  a  successful

engagement. Iron Fist was gone.

"We'll start with pilot updates," he said. "Sadly,  all  the  Nova  and

Polearm pilots missing at the site of Iron Fist's last stand  remain  listed

as missing in action and presumed dead. But our injured Rogue, Asyr Sei'lar,

is out of danger, and the medics say she will suffer no permanent effects of

her exposure.

"Most of the Rogues  and  Wraiths  received  a  communication  from  an

unknown craft as we were departing Selcaron. It turned out to be  a  lengthy

message and data package from Lara Notsil, recorded  before  her  death.  It

included many details about Zsinj's brainwashing project that  should  allow

Intelligence to dismantle Zsinj's operation on Coruscant. We probably  won't

have to worry again about the kind of circumstances that led to  the  deaths

of Tal'dira and Nuro Tualin." He spared a glance at Horn and Tyria. Both had

been sobered by the mention of the pilots they'd been forced  to  kill,  but

Wedge could see no uncertainty in their expressions. Horn had  always  known

whom to blame for his squadmate's  death.  Tyria  had  apparently  begun  to

understand the same thing.

"Many commendations will be resulting from our recent  actions,"  Wedge

continued. "We'll get to them later. I think I first ought to let  you  know

that Fleet Command and Starfighter Command seem to be in agreement-that  you

all have seen enough carrier duty for a while.  Squadron  transfers  are  in

order and will be coming through in the next day or two. Rogue Squadron  can

expect to see some planet-based duty, at least for a while. Polearm and Nova

Squadrons will be returning to Coruscant so they can be rebuilt."

Face's hand shot up. "And the Wraiths? We're still on Mon Remonda}"

"Not exactly. For you, I have good news, bad news, and news you'll have

to interpret for yourselves. Face, I'm obliged

to inform you that your captaincy has stuck. It's  Captain  Loran  from

now on."

The pilots closest to Face treated him to backslaps. Dia  tickled  him,

causing him to shy away from her until he could pin  her  hands.  He  turned

back to Wedge, his expression serious. "And the good news?"

"The  bad  news  is  that  as  of  today,  Wraith  Squadron  has   been

decommissioned as an X-wing unit."

Face released Dia's hands and dropped back  in  his  seat,  looking  as

stunned as if Kell had just side-kicked him in the head. "What? Sir?"

Wedge heard intakes of  breath  from  several  pilots,  not  just  from

Wraiths. "It's not quite what it sounds like. It seems you've done too  good

a job, accomplishing a broad set of objectives, few of which  have  anything

to do with the perceived strengths of an X-wing unit. You've made  quite  an

impression on General Cracken, the head of Intelligence. As of  now,  Wraith

Squadron  has  been  recommissioned  as  an  Intelligence  unit.  Commandos,

insurgents,  pilots-it  will  do  whatever  the  situation  warrants.  With,

unfortunately, less celebrity than even the little an X-wing unit  typically

receives." He  offered  them  an  expression  of  apology.  "Obviously,  the

government won't just yank you out of Starfighter Command and give you  like

presents to another branch of the service. But all you have to do is say yes

and your transfer to the new Wraith Squadron will be accepted  instantly-and

with thanks. General Cracken offers his personal wishes that you  do  accept

transfer, and that you stay together as a team."

"I'm coming back to Rogue Squadron," said Janson. "That was the deal."

Wedge smiled at him. "Wes, the Wraiths don't want you anyway."

"That's right," Elassar said. '-You're unlucky."

Dia said, "I hate how serious he is all the time."

Runt said, "We don't like the way he chews his food."

Shalla said, "But we'll miss his rear end."

Janson grinned as he took it, and accepted handshakes from the  Wraiths

and Rogues around him.

"Those Wraiths who do not intend to accept General Crack-

en's offer can tell me more privately than Wes here," Wedge said. " And

regardless of where you choose to go,  drop  by  the  pilots's  lounge  this

evening for one last drink together. You can celebrate where you've been and

where you're going.

"Now, for those commendations.  Flight  Officer  Dorset  Konnair,  step

forward..."

Face leaned against the pilot lounge bar and felt the brandy  ease  its

way down his throat, warming him from within.

There was also warmth from without. The lounge was filled  with  pilots

and friends-and tonight, with the mechanics, other technical  staffers,  and

astromechs that had supported the starfighter squadrons. The heat of so many

bodies raised the temperature in the lounge to a level no Mon Calamari would

want to bear for long.

It was the end. Tomorrow, his profession would be  different,  and  his

surroundings would be changed, and so much of what he'd known  for  so  long

would be left behind.

"How is the voting running?" Wedge asked him.

"We'll be staying together," Face said. "Not everybody has talked to me

yet, but most of the Wraiths will be Intelligence Wraiths tomorrow."

Wedge nodded. "I think that's the  right  choice.  I  thought  the  New

Republic needed a unit like the Wraiths. Now others have bought in as well."

"Does that mean Admiral Ackbar has let you off the hook? You don't have

to accept the generalship?"

Wedge smiled. "I had a congratulatory message from  him  this  morning.

'Even I wanted you to win,' he said. 'How could I vote against a starfighter

unit proving its worth?'"

"Good point."

Donos moved through the crowd to stand before  them.  He  extended  his

hand to Face.

Face took it. "You've already congratulated me."

"And now I'm leaving you."

" Staying with Starfighter Command ?"

"Yes. Flying is what I want to do." Donos gave a helpless shrug.

Face grinned. "And staying with X-wings, too?"

"I hope so. I put in my request for transfer to any  X-wing  unit  with

openings."

"Ah," Wedge said. "I forgot to mention. Your approval for transfer came

in earlier today. You have a new unit."

"Really? Which one?"

"Rogue Squadron."

Donos took a half-step back. "You're kidding."

"No, no, no." Wedge shook his head. "Kidding  sounds  like  this.  'The

next candidate's name is Kettch, and he's an Ewok.' See the difference?"

Donos's mouth worked for a moment. Finally he said, "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome. Go talk to your new squadmates. Maybe you could manage

to be a little less distant with them than you were with the old ones."

Donos managed a smile. "Yes, I guess I could use the practice."

The descent to Coruscant's surface was uneventful, but Dr. Gast, seeing

the former Imperial throneworld for the first time in years, was thrilled by

every moment, by every glimpse the shuttle's viewports afforded her  of  the

world's soaring buildings and rain-filled skies.

Nawara Ven, beside her-far too close for her peace of mind,  but  that,

too, would soon change-obviously  did  not  share  her  enthusiasm  for  the

world's attractions. He sat ignoring her, stonily facing forward  throughout

the landing. And that,  too,  gave  her  a  little  thrill  of  victory:  to

discommode the subhuman who had offered her so much grief was simply lovely.

An hour later, she and the Twi'lek neared the head of the customs entry

line. It was one of many such lines in a cavernous  hall  that  was  broken,

mazelike, by transparisteel barriers designed to keep arrivals from entering

Coruscant unexamined and untaxed.

"Where do you go from here?" Ven asked her.

"I'm not fool enough to tell you," she said.  "You  can  be  sure  it's

somewhere well away from Rebel space. Somewhere

far from bad-smelling, bad-tempered Twi'leks. Somewhere orderly,  where

the cutting edge of medical research is admired and respected."

Ven nodded sagely. "Well, then, I know exactly where you're going."

"No, you don't."

"I'll bet you half a million credits I can name the planet."

She offered him a scowl. Then the man ahead of her in line  moved  past

the customs station. She swung her two bags atop the examination table.

The customs worker, an aging human man, quickly ran  a  scanner  across

her bags, then opened the first and probed  through  the  few  garments  and

personal possessions that made up most of what she retained  of  her  former

life.

Then he  opened  her  other  bag  and  froze.  He  looked  up  at  her,

astonishment in his eyes. "What's this?"

"Money." She handed him a datacard. "Here's  my  financial  record.  It

constitutes authorization to travel with a large sum such as this."

"It's not the sum." His  look  suggested  that  she  was  a  victim  of

sun-madness. "These are Imperial credits."

"Yes, of course."

"And bringing them into Coruscant is an act of  smuggling."  His  hands

shoved the currency around in her bag.

Nawara Ven leaned in close. "Actually, by Coruscant  law,  bringing  in

that many Imperial credits can only be for purposes of  sedition.  That's  a

far more serious charge than merely smuggling. You'll be spending at least a

lifetime in prison on Coruscant."

The customs official snapped his fingers and waved.  Security  officers

approached.

Gast turned on Ven. "You set me up."

He looked down at her impassively. "No, I let you  do  exactly  as  you

wanted. I also saved your life. I'd say I've treated you rather well."

She spat at him. A gooey mass hit his cheek and clung there.

He brought out a handkerchief of fine cloth, wiped the sputum away, and

discarded it, as  though  the  substance  were  poison,  ruining  the  cloth

forevermore.

Then strong hands gripped Dr. Cast's arms and she was yanked away.

Han Solo and Wedge Antilles  sat  in  the  cockpit  of  the  Millennium

Falsehood, their feet up on the control boards. All lights in the  ship  and

in the bay were off, including the strip around the magcon  field,  so  they

had an unimpeded view of the colorful swirl of hyperspace beyond.

"What are you going to do with her?" Wedge asked.

"Hmmm?" Solo stirred, his train of thought broken. "Do with who?"

"With the Falsehood."

"Well, technically, I can't do anything  with  her,"  Solo  said.  "She

belongs to the New Republic. But if they listen to me- which they  will-I'll

recommend they put her up in a museum. As a near replica of the Falcon. That

way nobody is ever likely to bother me anymore about donating the old girl."

"Which old girl?"

"You know what I mean."

The comm unit crackled  into  life,  startling  both  men.  "Bridge  to

General Solo."

Solo thumbed the system to two-way transmission. "Solo here."

"Communications here, sir. We have a situation."

"Go ahead."

"A while back you ordered my  station  to  run  all  incoming  messages

through a voice-analysis program. So you could be  notified  immediately  if

Lara Notsil contacted you again."

"That's right."

"No one thought to end the program after her death. Well,  just  before

we made our last jump, we received a  recorded  message.  Let  me  patch  it

through to you, sir."

"Hold on."  Solo  activated  the  bridge  lights  and  powered  up  the

Falsehood's cockpit terminal screen. "Ready to receive."

The terminal glowed into life. A data screen popped up, announcing  the

details of the message's origin and route before arriving  on  Mon  Remonda.

Its origin was Corellia; it was originally transmitted one day  before;  its

intended recipient was

Myn Donos, New Republic Starfighter Command. The data shrank and  moved

over into the left margin, to be replaced by a full-holo message.

The woman it showed had long red hair artfully draped in a  braid  over

her shoulder. She was rather delicate of features, with an  uncertain  smile

on her lips. "Hello, Myn," she said. "It's been a while since we've seen one

another."

Solo and Wedge looked at one another. "That's Lara Notsil," Solo said.

Wedge glanced over at the data stream. "No, it's someone  named  Kirney

Slane."

"You're not even surprised." Solo glared at him, suspicion on his face.

"I'm back on Corellia now," the redhead said, "after  a  few  years  of

knocking around the galaxy."

"Years?" Solo asked. "More like a few days."

"Pretty good Corellian accent," Wedge said.

"I don't believe this," Solo said.

"And I know, after the way we parted company, you may not want  to  see

me again. But I had to find out if there was any sort of chance  for  us.  I

think I'm finally ready and able to give it a try again." There was hope  in

the woman's expression, and acceptance. "I'll be here, at the address  given

in the message header, for the next few weeks. I'm trying to drum up traffic

for my new shuttle business. I have a ship, a Sentinel-class landing craft I

obtained used. I have a copilot you really need to meet and an astromech you

already know. Contact me, visit me-do whatever you feel you  have  to.  I'll

accept whatever you decide."

The screen faded.

"Stand by, Communications." Solo shut off the  cockpit  microphone  and

gave Wedge an accusing look. "You said, when you overflew her  X-wing,  that

you saw no sign she'd ejected."

"That's right." Wedge stretched lazily. "There was  no  automated  comm

signal indicating an ejection."

"Of course, that could have been damaged in combat, or she  could  have

disabled it."

"Sure, sure. Anyway, as the X-wing was rolling over and  sinking  as  I

flew over her, I couldn't see whether the pilot's chair was still in there."

"Commander Square Corners himself, showing a streak of duplicity. Lying

by omission. I can't believe it."

"Maybe, ultimately, I believe in happy endings,"  Wedge  said.  "I  can

hope for them, anyway. Besides, with Wraith Squadron on one side of  me  and

Han Solo on the other, how can I keep from being infected with duplicity?"

"Good point." Solo considered. "She could come back. What she did as an

Imperial agent is nothing compared to what she did for us."

Wedge shook his head. "I think the way you do, but the law doesn't.  In

her false identity, she swore an oath to the New Republic, then  transmitted

classified data to the Empire during a time of war. That's treason. The only

legal outcome for her would be the death sentence. Regardless  of  what  she

did for us. Regardless of the fact that she's not remotely the  same  person

who served the Empire and Admiral Trigit."

"You're right." Solo reactivated the comm  unit.  "Communications,  you

have a false reading. The sender's vocal similarity  to  Lara  Notsil  is  a

coincidence. She's dead. Understood?"

"Uh,     sir,     our      correlation      is      something      like

ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-seven-"

"Tell you what. I'll send Chewbacca up there and have  him  explain  to

you what I just said."

"No, sir, not necessary. I understand."

"Forward the message to Lieutenant  Donos  and  then  erase  all  other

ship's copies of the message. Nothing goes into archives. Understood?"

"Fully, sir."

"Solo out." He rose. "Come on, we've got  an  hour  before  arrival  at

Coruscant. I'll buy you a drink."

"I'll let you."

As they walked down the Falsehood's loading ramp,  Solo  threw  an  arm

over Wedge's shoulders. "Corellian to Corellian, you  know  what  the  great

thing about being a general is?"

"No, what?"

"In lots of circumstances, you can pretty much do whatever  you  want."

With his free hand, Solo reached over  and  gave  Wedge's  hair  a  thorough

mussing.

Wedge batted his hand away. "Hey, stop it."

"No. I don't have to. Hey, you should try  this  general  thing.  You'd

like it."

"I don't think so."

"I'm going to send a message to Ackbar and tell him just what a natural

you are for that rank."

"General, I'm warning you ..."

THE STORY OF HAN SOLO AND WARLORD ZSINJ

CONTINUES IN

THE COURTSHIP OF PRINCESS LEIA

BY DAVE WOLVERTON

(BANTAM SPECTRA, ISBN 0-553-56937-6)

About the Author

Aaron Allston is a novelist and game designer from the  Austin,  Texas,

area.  His  hobbies  include   reading,   role-playing   games,   Ping-Pong,

cat-herding, and promotion of subversive thinking.

Solo Command is his ninth completed novel and his third in  the  X-Wing

series.

His web page is online at http://www.io.com/~allston/