Star Wars: X-Wing VII: Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

  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 Kell’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 chasing 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 starfigh
ters 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.