Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  Zsinj waved his objection away. "We'll make sure Night Caller doesn't go through the effort to shake pursuit that she did when she joined you at Morobe. We'll give the corvette enough time to be spotted by Rebel spies. And if even that fails, we'll just try again until we succeed. No, Apwar, I like this plan." He returned his attention to Face. "Zurel, stay in Obinipor system but forget about terrorizing Bonion. We'll worry about inducing his cooperation later. I'll let you know soon where our ambush is to take place."

  "Yes—"

  Zsinj's image winked out.

  "—my lord."

  Trigit gave him a rueful look. "You'll make a good Star Destroyer captain, Darillian. If your ambitions don't get you killed first."

  Face smiled. "Yes—"

  Trigit disappeared.

  "—sir."

  Face turned.

  Wedge stood in the doorway, giving him a piercing look. Behind him were a stone-faced Donos and a jubilant-looking Janson.

  Face shrugged. "So I improvised."

  Wedge said, "That's all right." His voice became a dead-on mockery of Trigit's precise tones. "You'll make a good lieutenant, Face. If your ambitions don't get you killed first."

  "Yes—"

  Wedge walked out.

  "-sir.

  28

  Zsinj said, "It will be Ession."

  Face nodded sagely as though he had any idea of what the warlord was talking about. Then his main monitor lit up and words appeared on it—one at a time, as fast as Night Caller's new communications officer could speak them.

  Ession, Lucaya system, fourth planet (Corporate Sector). Settled four thousand years ago. Major center for industrial manufacture. Nonaligned. Night Caller's last visit was eighteen months ago. No record of Zsinj-related contacts at that time.

  "The Rebels will see that site as a rich prize," Face said. He carefully pitched his voice so that his words could be interpreted as sarcastic if, in fact, that world was not Zsinj's intended ambush target.

  "Which is why you must make sure the site does not suffer too much damage. It would be a costly loss."

  "Whom will I coordinate with on the ground?"

  "Raffin, of course, for general details. But he's too ner- vous for the real planning. Work with Paskalian, his security director. She'll set up the site's own defenses, throw another couple of dozen TIE fighters into the mix, and all without Raffin's shrill complaints. I really think Raffin is due to retire and Paskalian is due to replace him."

  "Shall I see to that while I'm there?"

  Zsinj laughed. "I meant an actual retirement, Zurel. He goes away to live in a cottage somewhere and writes his memoirs."

  "Sorry."

  "You're just being your usual efficient self, I know." Zsinj sobered. His hands moved outside the range of the sensor on him. "I'm transmitting your instructions. Do try to get along with Apwar."

  "I'm over my initial anger, my lord. And anxious to strike back at those who actually deserve it."

  "Good. Until later." The warlord faded from view.

  By the time Face made his way back to the auxiliary bridge, the comm officer had accessed New Republic records via the HoloNet and had the data they needed. Members of the bridge crew and Wraith pilots were clustered around him as the man spoke. "Pakkerd Light Transport," he said. "Before the death of the Emperor, it was a division of Sienar Fleet Systems that built TIE fighters and Interceptors. After the Emperor died, Sienar sold it off and now it builds a 'complete line of repulsorlift utility vehicles.' "

  Face snorted. "Who wants to bet there are still assembly lines for fighters?"

  He had no takers. Wedge said, "If Zsinj thinks the plant can throw a couple of squadrons of fighters at us, we ought to have a little help on the ground to keep it from happening. Like Lieutenant Page's commandos."

  "I'll second that," Face said.

  The comm officer continued. "Owner, Oan Pakkerd. Probably another false Zsinj identity. Chief officer, Vanter Raffin. Head of security, Hola Paskalian. I'd say that makes it a match."

  Wedge stepped away from the gathered officers. "Our orders from Zsinj are to break off our mission here on Obinipor and head with all due speed—but by an extremely simple and easy-to-follow route—to Ession. Can you handle that, Captain Tabanne?"

  She gave him a look made up of amusement and scorn. "I hope that was a rhetorical question, Commander."

  "We have broadcast codes that will get us past Ession , system's security forces. Implacable will join us on Ession's ' primary moon for the ambush." Wedge smiled grimly. "Then we drop the heavy end of the hammer on them."

  Donos, who had been studying the screenful of data on Pakkerd Light Transport, straightened and turned toward Wedge. Face was startled by the deadly intensity in the pilot's eyes. "This time he doesn't get away," Donos said. "Even if I have to fly my snubfighter up and down his corridors looking for him."

  Two days later Donos merely needed to look out a viewport to see the ship of the man he wanted to kill.

  Night Caller rested on the surface of Ession's largest sat ellite, a silvery rock covered in impact craters and dust.

  Floating a few hundred meters directly above them, sustained by tireless repulsorlift engines, was the Imperial-class Star Destroyer Implacable.

  Not far away, a communications relay dish was set up atop a mountain. This was a permanent array, a commercial dish designed to relay transmissions and sensors from the planet's surface to ships behind the moon. But Kell had come up with an idea and Face, playing Captain Darillian, had I convinced Admiral Trigit of its virtue—the idea that the dish was the key to their ability to hide from Rogue Squadron and yet remain instantly responsive.

  "What we do," Face had said, "is rig the dish to throw off emissions like a failing transponder. Emissions strong enough to conceal the standard engine emissions from our two ships. The planetary communications can issue routine apologies for the problem along with a promise that it will be repaired soon. We can be right here, ready to launch, and Rogue Squadron will be unaware of us—unless they come in close for a visual sensor look at us."

  "At which point we have them anyway," Trigit had agreed. "A good plan."

  So they had implemented it by the simple expedient of telling the Pakkerd Light Transport head Vanter Raffin to make it so. A short negotiation and a bribe of a planetary government official later, the two ships had their electronic concealment in place.

  Face slouched, bored, in his chair in the comm center. Every so often, Admiral Trigit wanted to chat and Face had to be here for it.

  The comm officer's voice came over the ship intercom. "The shuttle Yellow Rover has just announced its arrival to system ship control."

  Face straightened. Yellow Rover's innocuous arrival was the signal that the New Republic attack was half an hour away.

  Minutes later the comm officer announced a transmission from Implacable. Face brought up Trigit's image.

  The admiral looked irritable. "Darillian, are you sure you blazed a clear enough trail for Rogue Squadron to follow?"

  Face nodded. "I couldn't make it too obvious, Admiral. If I operated outside our normal procedures, their Intelligence people might note it and realize we were allowing them to follow. I simply made sure that Night Caller was within range of Obinipor's planetary sensors, spent the maximum appropriate time on course before jumping, and made sure to jump through a couple of inhabited systems where our presence would be noted by Rebel spies. They know where we are."

  "A simple game of follow best."

  The phrase didn't ring a bell with Face. He simply nodded. No hint showed up on his main monitor to help him.

  The admiral frowned. "Follow best," he repeated.

  Face smiled. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm still being distracted by our battle plan. In fact, I was wondering, since my few TIE fighters don't constitute a significant improvement to the strength of your squadrons, if they might have the honor of escorting Implacable once the battle starts."

  "Don't change the
subject, Darillian. You follow best."

  Finally words sprang up on the main monitor. Face glanced over them, tried to look relaxed. "You follow best by following from in front. Thus your prey never knows that he's not actually the predator. Standard Imperial Intelligence doctrine."

  "You're rather slow with a catchphrase that is practically a reflex among former Intel officers from Coruscant."

  Face began to sweat. He hoped Grinder's visual translation program would not pass that particular imagery along. He made his tone a sad one. "Do you know how long it has been since I saw my home, sir?"

  "Two years, seven months." Trigit glanced off to the side. "And six days. Thank you, Lieutenant." He returned his attention to Face. "Why is it that you don't know something that should be second nature to Captain Zurel Darillian?"

  "Because I'm not Captain Darillian," Face said. At Trigit's expression of surprise, he continued, "Not the Darillian who left home two years, seven months, and six days ago. Everything changed after I left the last time." Data began spilling across his monitor, pertinent facts about the real Captain Darillian, as Night Caller's bridge crew tried to keep Face ahead of Trigit's prying questions. "I'm not the Darillian I was before the Lusankya fled Coruscant and my wife died in the disaster that followed. I'm certainly not the compressed set of data in your memory that you think is Captain Darillian."

  "You're evading the question—"

  Face continued as if he hadn't heard the interruption. He glanced away from Trigit's face, tried to inject even more gloom into his tone. "An irony to that, of course. That one woman I adored killed the other woman I adored. I'm sure someone finds it funny."

  "You're—what did you say?"

  Face returned his attention to Trigit. "When Ysanne Isard launched the Super Star Destroyer Lusankya from its berth on Coruscant, the building in which my wife and 1 made our home was among those destroyed."

  "I know that. It's a matter of Imperial record. What was that you were saying about one woman you adored?"

  Face could have cheered. He'd finally pulled Trigit off the tracks of his interrogation. "Oh, there's no use hiding the truth anymore. It can no longer hurt anyone. I loved my wife, Admiral, but Ysanne Isard was a goddess to me."

  "You're joking."

  "Did you ever meet her?"

  "Of course. Several times."

  "I, too. And I was dumbstruck each time. By her intelligence, by her power, by the sense that she had destiny wrapped around her like a cloak. I would have given up everything for her—my family, my honor, my command, my name." He shook his head ruefully. "It could never have been, of course. I was an insect under her eyes. I think everyone but the Emperor was. But I could dream." He took a deep breath, straining the seams of his uniform, and let his eyes drift as his memory ranged back through time. "Just the smell of her. As clean as if she were as meticulous and uncompromising in hygiene as she was in every other area of her life. And a touch of perfume, something with spice but lacking any sweetness whatsoever—"

  The admiral nodded, his expression fascinated. "Leather-wood. A scent few women can carry off."

  "That was it." Face managed a sad smile. "And now both my loves are dead. One more reason to wipe the stain of the Rebellion from the galaxy. My reason, anyway."

  "I understand." Trigit's tone was solemn, soothing. "Yes, of course your TIE fighters may escort Implacable. I'll leave you to your preparations, Captain."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Trigit's hologram vanished. A moment later the comm system popped. The noise that came across it was not a voice, but the applause and cheering of many crewmen.

  The smile that sprang to Face's lips was not Darillian's but his own. "Thank you, thank you. Performances every hour, on the hour. Imperial madmen a speciality."

  The communications officer announced, "Cargo carrier Red Feathers is passing through Ession's outer security belt." Captain Atril Tabanne nodded. "That's our contact.

  Patch it through to all stations and all fighters. And put it up on the monitor. I want to see what she is."

  A moment later the auxiliary bridge's main monitor glowed with the image of a decrepit, ancient container ship approaching one of Ession's warehousing space stations.

  Atril hissed. "I know that ship."

  "That's not Red Feathers," Janson said. His tone was one of amazement. "That's Blood Nest."

  Indeed, the container ship approaching Ession was the pathetic Super Transport Mark VI that had served the pirates of M2398-3 as a base.

  "I can't believe they got it flying," Wedge said.

  "You'd better get to your fighters," Atril said. "But first, I've had a bad thought."

  "You shouldn't do that," Janson said.

  "My current orders are to get clear as soon as the Wraiths are away. The sensor jamming from that relay dish should make it hard for Implacable to target me."

  Wedge nodded. "Correct."

  "What if they're smart enough to blast the dish a few seconds into the engagement? We'll be an easy target."

  "I hadn't considered that." Now Wedge did. "Well, there's a maneuver you can perform that will also foul up both their sensors and visual targeting systems." He described it to her.

  Atril glanced at her chief pilot, who shook his head. "Sir," she said, "I'm not confident we can do something that sophisticated. We haven't had enough time with this class of ship."

  "Atril, you're the most experienced pilot of Corellian craft aboard."

  "Excuse me, sir, but I'm not. There is one who's a lot more experienced."

  Falynn, dressed in her TIE fighter piloting gear, waited beside the escape pod access hatch to her starfighter.

  She heard booted feet coming at a run, expected to see Commander Antilles race past her to his own starfighter ac- cess—was surprised when the black-clad pilot turned out to be Atril Tabanne.

  "Captain? What happened to the commander?"

  Atril skidded to a halt beside her hatch and pulled her helmet on. "We traded. I'm Gray One now."

  "Another last-minute foul-up?"

  "No, I think we averted one." Atril disappeared into her hatch. Falynn followed suit.

  Kell flipped switches, announced, "Five here. Four engines lit and showing green. Weapon systems at full power. All systems nominal."

  He heard similar reports from the pilots around him, nestled in the metal brackets in Night Caller's bow hold. Grinder, Runt, Phanan, Donos, and Tyria reported go conditions. Face would join them for initial launch if feasible, or launch subsequently if not. Wedge, Falynn, Janson, and Piggy were supposed to be readying themselves in the four TIE fighters for their own surprise assault on the Star Destroyer.

  His breathing was already accelerating, and they were still minutes from launch. He tried to calm himself.

  He looked rightward and down. In the next row over, in the bottom rack, Tyria was going through her own start-up and checklist. She glanced his way, saw he was looking, blew him a kiss.

  He forced a smile for her, turned away as he felt it turn shaky.

  Lieutenant Gara Petothel looked up from her station in the crew pit and caught Admiral Trigit's eye. "I think the old container ship is their delivery mechanism, sir."

  "Why is that?"

  "It's reporting structural damage from planetary gravity. Possible breakup. I say it loses structural integrity, breaks up . . . and when it blows, it rains X-wings."

  Trigit chuckled. "Not a bad tactic. Whether or not you're right about this assault, I'll have to remember that."

  She smiled and turned away.

  "Communications, put up on our speaker any transmissions you receive to or from the container ship Red Feathers. Sensors, give us a visual lock on that cargo hauler."

  "Switching to speaker, sir."

  "Yes, sir."

  Almost immediately a voice came over the bridge's main speaker: "Negative, Ession Control. We're showing failure all along the keel. Fissures widening. Hold atmosphere venting. That's making it worse. We can't hold
together until you get rescue craft up here." The voice sounded pained.

  "Red Feathers, do you anticipate debris entering our atmosphere?"

  "I'm afraid that's an affirmative, Ession. We'll do what we can to limit it. We're going to set our self-destruct for five minutes and eject in an escape pod."

  "What about the mass of your hull and containers—"

  "Hull won't be a problem. Our self-destruct will reduce it so everything will burn up on reentry. Containers, too. I've transmitted our manifest. We're not exactly hauling hundred-ton durasteel ingots up here. You're mostly going to get a rain of manure."

  "Planetary communications protocols don't allow me to answer that statement properly, Red Feathers."

  Admiral Trigit looked down at his navigator. "Plot their course. Report where they will be at the end of their five-minute countdown."

  "Yes, sir." The navigator worked at his control panel for a minute. "Grid seventeen thirteen."

  "I mean, in relation to the Pakkerd Light Transport plant."

  "Oh." The navigator sounded abashed. "Laterally, within fifty kilometers, plus or minus another fifty. At an altitude of a few hundred klicks."

  The admiral settled back, satisfied. "Lieutenant Petothel, award yourself a three-day pass."

  "At once, sir."

  "All pilots to their fighters."

  On Night Caller's main monitor, and piped to secondary monitors in all the fighters and common areas, the ancient container ship called Red Feathers tumbled helplessly, its hull already deforming, as it reached the outer edges of Ession's atmosphere.

  An escape pod ejected and drifted away from the planet.

  A minute later the first explosion rocked the cargo ship's surface. Portions of the hull gave way. As the ship continued to rotate, tiny rectangles, standardized cargo containers each capable of holding a hundred tons of raw goods, tumbled free. With them were smaller, more irregular shapes.

  Wedge activated the ship's intercom. "Rogue, Green, and Blue Squadrons are emerging." Green Squadron was a unit of Y-wing bombers from General Salm on the world of Borleias; Blue Squadron was a unit of A-wings commanded by General Crespin. Between them and the X-wings of Rogue Squadron, this mission was being handled by a versatile set of attack craft. "Gray Flight, stand by for the command from Implacable. Wraith Squadron, are you ready?"