Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  It couldn't last forever. She slid rightward, he followed suit—and noticed too late that the maneuver led him right onto a nest of boulders. Their proximity kicked his bow up into the air and she slid around to his left, passing him before he reestablished contact with the rift surface.

  He laughed. "Not bad, Falynn. You've proved you can learn at least one thing a day."

  "You're going to look funny spitting out lunar dust while you're teaching me, sir."

  Ahead, the rift turned leftward. Near the right wall was a tumbled pile of stone; between it and the wall itself the floor curved gently upward. Left of the pile was broad, open ground.

  Falynn headed for the broadest open area. Wedge slid rightward, angling between the stone pile and the wall. As he squeezed between them, his repulsors kicked loose stones from the pile of boulders, raining them down on Falynn's hauler. Her reflex slid her leftward and he gained on her going around the turn; he was a few meters ahead as they came out of the curve.

  "Obviously you can't win by flying fair, sir. What happens when we get to the end? Do you shoot me?"

  "I'm thinking about it."

  The end of the run was within sight, a distant red glow where Janson had dumped his flare. The rift bottom was flat and smooth to the right of the straightaway, but grew stony and broken along the center.

  Falynn drifted right. Wedge drifted left, toward the more difficult terrain. He saw Falynn turn to look at him; he couldn't read her expression through the vacuum suit's polarized shield, but knew she had to wonder what his plan was in giving up the speediest approach to the finish line.

  She gained on him as they approached the rockiest portion of rift floor. But as they reached the point where the tumbled boulders were worst, he sideslipped right and his nose crossed over the highest of them. The move kicked him up several meters.

  And he came down right on top of her hauler.

  His vehicle's weight forced hers down, compressing her repulsor emissions, slowing her vehicle. His own repulsors kicked him forward off her hauler. He held his control wheel on course by brute strength. His hauler straightened out as it came fully down off hers and onto the rift floor—and a second later he passed the glowing flare, Falynn's hauler tucked in right behind him.

  "You—you—"

  "That's right, Sandskimmer. I won."

  "You cheated."

  He laughed as he slowed his hauler and swung its nose around. "Falynn, consider this. When an Imperial laser cuts through your canopy and hits you, the energy will superheat the water in your tissues. They will literally explode. If there's enough of your X-wing to retrieve, they'll have to hose down the inside. When that happens, will you complain that the TIE fighter pilot cheated?"

  Her voice was grudging. "No, sir." She followed him through his maneuver.

  "What will you say?"

  "I won't say anything. I'll be dead."

  "So to keep one of these bad boys from cheating until you're dead, what are you going to do?"

  "I guess I'll have to learn to cheat, sir."

  "Congratulations. You've proved you can learn two things in a single day."

  At mission briefing that afternoon, Wedge announced, "We have two pieces of good news. Our other four snubfighters are in, and Cubber's crew has cleared them for use." He paused as the squadron applauded, then continued. "Also, we now have a unit designation. Courtesy of Tyria Sarkin, we are Wraith Squadron."

  Several of the pilots made appreciative noises. Face merely looked disgusted.

  Runt asked, "What is a wraith?"

  "Something I heard about in my childhood," Tyria said. "Dark things that come in the night for you. That's what I think we are. For the Empire, for the warlords, we're the phantoms under the bed, the monsters in the storage cubicles."

  Runt smiled, showing big teeth, and narrowed his eyes. The expression made his long face look sinister. "We like that."

  Wedge said, "So Tyria wins the three-day pass . . . but not today; we still have a run to do. A full squadron run, for the first time. Other news: we now have a squadron supply officer. Please come on in."

  The pilots turned toward the entrance. The supply officer's arrival was heralded by a set of rhythmic squeaks.

  "We are in trouble," Kell said.

  Squeaky, DownTime's 3PO server, walked in and up to the speakers podium. He turned to the pilots. "Let me begin by saying that I am delighted to bring my years of experience to this novice squadron. I expect that my skill will keep some of you alive."

  Phanan whispered, "Inevitably, some of us will prefer to die."

  Squeaky continued, "I am also pleased once again to be serving a fine officer named Antilles. A pity what happened to the last one. I am sure we will all pitch together to keep fate from repeating itself."

  Wedge looked pained. Most of the pilots knew that a Captain Antilles, no relation to the commander, had been master of the Tantive IV and had died at the hands of Darth Vader.

  "In dealing with you," Squeaky said, "I will match courtesy with courtesy, insult with insult, incompetence with incompetence. I have transmitted requisition forms to your astromechs and to your datapads; please use them, and always check your spelling. Thank you." He bowed to Wedge and moved to sit by Lieutenant Janson.

  Wedge's mouth twitched as he too obviously restrained a smile. "Thank you, Squeaky. Wes?"

  Janson stood and tapped his datapad. The room's holoprojector glowed into life, and on it appeared a dark field with a few dozen glowing points arranged within it: a small-area starmap.

  He pointed into the mass of stars at a bright golden one. "Here's Commenor. You are here. Here's Corellia and more Core systems. Farther out, we reach border and then Rim territories. This star is nicknamed Doldrums for its lovely, featureless, uninhabited planets. That's our destination.

  "Each of you is to spend an hour with your astromechs putting together a three-stage course to get us to Doldrums and a two-stage course to bring us back. These navigational paths should follow normal security guidelines for limiting observers' abilities to follow our course or trace our routes.

  "When you're done, transmit your course to Control. We'll choose the one we like best, the one that burns the least fuel and appears the most elegant . . . and then we'll fly it as a test of your hyperspace skill and accuracy. Questions?"

  There were none.

  "Good. We'll see you in the hangar in an hour."

  The pilots rose to head toward their X-wings and astromech droids. Face looked rueful. "I can't believe you, Tyria. I thought I had that pass locked up."

  "What squad names did you suggest?" she asked.

  "Well, there was Silly Squadron."

  She shook her head. "We'd have to repaint the X-wings."

  "Then there was Rogue Squadron."

  "Taken."

  "I know, but it was a good idea. Then there was Dinner Squadron."

  "I take it you were faint from hunger when you were coming up with these." "How did you know?"

  Less than two hours later, Wraith Squadron was skirting Commenor, preparing to slingshot past it to get clear of its gravity well and into the proper orientation for the first leg of Piggy's proposed course. Folor was moments from disappearing behind Commenor's horizon when Jesmin transmitted, "Wraith Leader, this is Two. I have transmissions on an Imperial channel."

  Kell knew Jesmin had installed an upgraded communications and sensor package in her X-wing, appropriate to the squad's communications expert.

  Wedge's voice was next. "Squad, break off the exit maneuver. Circle here at a diameter of fifty klicks. Two, are they transmitting in the clear?"

  "No, sir, it's encoded. I'm working on that. But there's something else. It's a tight-beam transmission, and the origin of the transmission is pretty close to our flight path from Commenor. Two possibilities are that they're waiting there for us, or they're using Commenor as a backstop for the signal so it won't reach Folor."

  "Right. I'll inform Folor. Wraiths, maintain station. M
ake yourselves useful."

  Kell gritted his teeth. Another test. The crucial duties, of warning the base and breaking the transmission code, were assigned; Wedge obviously wanted to find out what additional use the other Wraiths could make of themselves without suggestion from him.

  Almost immediately, Face's voice came back: "Twelve, here's an idea. Query Two's R2 unit for the signal she's receiving. Analyze it for Waveshift and see if you can determine how fast the signaler is coming."

  Piggy's voice, distorted by the comm unit, was completely mechanical and inflectionless: "Will do, Eight."

  Kell's shoulders tightened. Once again, Face was jumping right into a useful task, showing leadership qualities. If Kell wasn't careful, Face would grab control of Two Flight. Kell had to respond, to do something just as useful. He had to think fast.

  Commenor was a planet fringing on Core worlds territory. Its government dealt and traded with the New Republic, with the shrinking Empire, even with warlords. So if the incoming vessel or vessels, which were either Imperial or warlords because they were using Imperial frequencies, were transmitting to Commenor, they were either announcing their arrival or making requests of the government. "Four, this is Five."

  "I hear you, Five."

  "In all the time you've been here, have you sliced into Commenor's official computer system?"

  Grinder was slow in responding. Finally, "Yes, Five. Just to keep in practice."

  "Good. Can you slice in now, with the gear you have on your snubfighter?"

  "In no time, Five. I have my list of key codes with me. Always."

  "Right. Punch in now. We're going to look for a few things."

  "Making contact, Five. Starting the approval dance. What are we looking for?"

  Kell thought back to the sorts of record changes the commandos had taught him to look for. "First, any new mobilizations of government forces. Second, new reservations for ship berths. Sort by ship class, prioritize for military ships and hyperdrive-equipped shuttles. Take reservations made for tomorrow as well as today. Sudden large-block hotel and resort reservations, especially the cheaper ones, just in case there will be some rest and recreation for a capital ship. Also, I want astronomical data, if possible, from any observatories pointed out toward the origin of Jesmin's signal."

  "Would you like breakfast in bed with all that, Five?"

  "That's right, Four. But that's after everything else."

  They waited in silence for a few minutes.

  "Five, this is Four. I read one government shuttle assigned in the last few minutes to convey documents and an observer to the incoming flight. Granting it the right to perform military exercises above Folor."

  "Thanks, Four. Leader, that marks the base as their probable target."

  "Leader here. I read you, Five."

  "Five, there's more. Orbital Spaceyard 301 has been ordered to clear a servicing berth for private yacht Implacable."

  Kell frowned. "Implacable is the kind of name they give to Imperial capital ships."

  "Five, the berth they've cleared is the largest they have. This is no pleasure yacht."

  "Five, Four, this is Leader. You're correct. Implacable is an Imperial Star Destroyer commanded by Admiral Trigit. He went rogue when Ysanne Isard died. Good work, you two. We're going back to Folor, and we're going to set up a greeting for Admiral Trigit that he's going to remember for a while. Form up on me."

  Admiral Trigit beamed as he viewed the moon Folor through the bridge's transparisteel windows. An ugly, mountainous, frost-coated thing, it was well positioned to be of considerable use to the Rebels. He'd put an end to that.

  An aide appeared beside him. "Sir, we have low-level beacon transmissions and encrypted transmissions on Rebel frequencies from the far side of the moon."

  Trigit nodded. "Pinpoint the transmissions, then set a course for that location. Launch the TIE squadrons at a thousand kilometers to target. They'll escort us until we order otherwise."

  "Yes, sir."

  General Crespin's voice echoed in the ears of all the Wraiths. "They're coming in on the most obvious heading. They're a few minutes from arrival. Transports are loading. Four A-wings each from Gold Squadron will escort them. Blue Squadron, Gray Squadron, remain on station for delaying action."

  Wedge's voice came back immediately, "Wraith Leader acknowledging." Other voices, pilots of the transports and squadron leaders, responded likewise.

  Wraith Squadron sat on an icy field between two hill ridges about ten kilometers from Folor Base. They'd landed as per squad organization, with each group of four snubfighters one hundred meters from the other, arranged in a triangle.

  Kell decided against another, unnecessary check of his power levels and weapons readiness. His right leg was getting twitchy, refusing to sit still, a sign of his growing nervousness. He switched the comm system to Wraith Squadron's frequency and dialed it down to a transmission strength not likely to extend beyond this valley. "Commander, this is Five. Shouldn't we be up there, engaging them, slowing them down so the transports can launch?"

  "That's a negative, Five."

  "But they're going to arrive and pound their target flat!"

  "That could well be, Five."

  "Sir, I don't understand."

  "That's affirmative, Five."

  Kell shut up. He could imagine the other Wraiths, especially Janson, snickering over that rejoinder. Rather than humiliate himself further, he restored the comm system to its default settings and waited, seething.

  "No sign of defensive measures, Admiral."

  The Implacable was one hundred klicks from the target. "We'll just have to lure them out," Trigit said amiably. "Dispatch the bomber squadron and a screen of fighters."

  "Yes, sir."

  A moment later two squadrons of TIEs blasted past the Implacable, approaching from the rear, popping over the aft command tower and diving so that they seemed to swarm before the bridge viewports as they sped toward their target. As each TIE fighter or bomber dropped into view, it waggled its wings, a show of respect.

  Trigit smiled. He appreciated the showmanship. Those squadron commanders deserved a little reward. He'd have to think about that. "Keep me updated on their defensive posture."

  "All squadrons, all ships, this is Folor Base. We read multiple bombing runs and strikes on target." It was General Crespin's voice again.

  Kell looked to port, to the west. If the report was true, he should see bright flashes of light limning the tops of the hills between their position and the base. But there was nothing.

  Crespin continued, "All ready transports, Gold Squadron, launch. Good luck, and the Force be with you."

  Kell sank back in his seat as the truth dawned on him.

  "Coming within bombardment range now, Admiral."

  Trigit looked at his sensor screen, which showed the Folor Base site. It was a broad plain of ice situated between two mountain ranges. Now it was littered with craters; the one or two sets of buildings he could make out seemed to be burning. Doubtless they were fuel or chemical depots; otherwise they could not burn in the vacuum around Folor. He frowned. Idiotic of the Rebels to have surface-based fuel depots. "Any communications from them?"

  "No, sir. Their beacons are still transmitting, and their coded signals became more agitated, but they haven't responded to our hails."

  "Commence bombardment." Why did the matter of the surface fuel stations bother him? Ah, yes. Commenor's files on the abandoned mining facilities on the moon mentioned numerous surface buildings. The plain Trigit viewed was almost entirely clear of such construction. Obviously, the Rebels had destroyed or concealed the ruins in order to make it harder to find the base. A sensible measure, yet more work than the shorthanded Rebels were typically capable of performing. Nor was it sensible for them to remove most surface traces and yet allow surface refueling depots to remain. It was the contrast that worried him.

  His sensors officer looked up at him from the crew pit. "Sir, I'm reading launch of a capital s
hip. A Gallofree medium transport, from its sensor echo and maneuvering characteristics."

  Trigit stared unbelieving at the little sensor screen on the arm of his command chair. "Where?"

  "On the other side of Folor, sir. It just cleared the horizon."

  A cold wash of realization went through the admiral. "Lieutenant Petothel." He kept his voice cool, calm.

  His new favorite data analyst looked up from her station's screen. She was a lean woman with medium-length hair and a beauty mark on her right cheek. Her features were elegant, mesmerizing; he often had to make an effort not to stare. "Sir," she said.

  "Call up the maps Commenor provided us of Folor."

  "Done, sir."

  "Establish the location of the mining facilities suitable for Rebel occupation."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Where are they?"

  "They're . . ." She winced. "They're halfway around the moon, sir. The base is at this same latitude one hundred and eighty degrees around."

  Trigit slammed his fists down on the arms of his command chair. A simple trick: plant beacons and false buildings far from the true base location, light them up when trouble is spotted. All he had to do was make sure the base they were targeting was in the same position as the mining facilities . . . but he'd let the Rebels make a fool of him. "Navigator, set course for the coordinates Lieutenant Petothel will give you. Get us there as fast as possible. Communications, transmit that location to the squadrons; they're to stay before us as a screen." There was little to be gained by dispatching the fighters and leaving Implacable vulnerable to an ambush.

  "Yes, sir."

  Trigit watched the squadrons in the viewport as they heeled over and vectored north, the across-the-pole route being the shortest one to the target. The horizon tilted as the Implacable slowly followed suit. He couldn't feel the maneuver take place, couldn't feel the tilt of the ship; inertial and gravitational compensators eradicated the sensation.

  He could feel annoyance. And a certain admiration. Well, if he couldn't destroy Folor Base with its entire staff complement inside, at least he could annihilate the stragglers, destroy the base itself, and deny it to the Rebels forevermore. A partial victory.