by James Luceno
“And the unit is commanded by a Corellian and has another Corellian pilot in it.” Nawara tapped himself on the chest. “I’m either a token Twi’lek or a token lawyer.”
Rhysati laughed. “I’m a token refugee, I guess.”
Ooryl snapped a trio of fingers against his billet datacard. “Ooryl is token Gand.”
“So, if this unit is a symbol that’s filled with symbols, the supposition is that we have to do something very symbolic to get more worlds to join the New Republic.” Corran smiled. “As long as that means I get to bring justice to a bunch of Imperial pilots, I’m all for it.”
“Oh, I think you’ll have that opportunity, Corran.” The Twi’lek’s rosy eyes darkened to the color of dried blood. “I’d guess Rogue Squadron will have the greatest of that sort of opportunity.”
“You think you know what target will be coming up next, Nawara?”
“It’s only logical, Corran.” Both of the Twi’lek’s head tails twitched in tandem. “Before too long we’ll be going after the biggest symbol of all. Let’s hope they train us very well because Rogue Squadron is bound to be the tip of the spear the Alliance stabs into the heart of the Empire.”
A chill ran down Corran’s spine. “Coruscant?”
“The sooner it falls, the sooner the Empire falls apart.”
“I never wanted to go to Coruscant.” The Corellian pilot smiled. “But if I have to go, doing it in the cockpit of a Rebel X-wing will make the visit just that much more memorable.”
7
Wedge Antilles killed his proud smile as he began his walking inspection of his X-wing. He brushed his fingers along the underside of its smooth nose cone. “Newly refinished, good.” He emphasized this judgment with a firm nod of his head so those who could not hear him could determine what he was saying and thinking.
Throughout the cavernous hangar the pace of work had slowed as he came to inspect his ship. His squadron had already cleared the area and waited for him on the dark side of Folor, leaving him alone with the technical staff. Aside from his X-wing, three other X-wings being worked on, and a scattering of other broken-down fighters, there was little to occupy the attention of the crews. While they made a show of rolling up cables and sorting tools, they watched him and his reaction to their work.
He continued on around to the starboard side of the craft, noticing how clean the crew had gotten the proton torpedo alleys. Another nod. The background hum of conversation picked up in volume and speed, but Wedge ignored it and continued his walk-around.
He could have cited dozens of reasons for doing a preflight inspection of his fighter, and all of them would have been good and right and militarily proper. The starfighter had seen him through seven years of pitched battles with a minimal amount of failure. The inspection allowed him to spot anything that might be trouble before he got out into space—and that would save him a long cold wait for a rescue crew.
More importantly than that, his taking a tour around his ship set a good example for the rest of Rogue Squadron. He wanted to fight the belief that because they were elite pilots they were above the mundane sort of duties all other pilots had to endure. Most of his people weren’t like that, but he didn’t want laziness by one person to slowly spread to the rest of the squadron. While they weren’t there to see him, he knew news of his inspection would get back to them. And if I do this right, they’ll be sorry they missed the show.
He paused for a moment and looked at the rows of TIE fighters, bombers, and Interceptors painted on the side of the ship. Big Death Stars bracketed the collection of smaller ships on either side, and Ssi-ruuk fighters had started a new row, right at the top of the red stripe bisecting the fuselage. It has been a long fight. And will be longer still.
Behind him Wedge heard some chittering that Emtrey translated. “Master Zraii apologizes for not being able to fit all your kills in the space allotted. The ships rendered in red are meant to represent a squadron worth of kills—meaning a dozen.”
Wedge frowned as he turned to face the droid. “I have a vague idea how many ships there are in a squadron, you know.”
“Yes, of course, sir. I know that, but given that the Verpine normally count in base six and humans use base ten, twelve, which to a Verpine is known as ‘four fists,’ the potential for confusion warranted explanation.”
The human held his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Just tell him that he can group kills by dozens or gross lots. It makes no difference to me.”
“Gross lots, sir?”
“A dozen dozen, Emtrey.”
“One hundred and forty-four? Four wings?”
“Yes, forty-eight fists in Verpine.”
Emtrey looked from Wedge to the brown insectoid trailing behind them. “Sir, if I knew you were fluent in Verpine …”
“Enough, Trey. I’m not fluent in Verpine, but I have a head for figures. Let me finish this inspection.” Wedge took in a deep breath and slowly let it out again. I’m going to have to talk to Luke and find out how he puts up with his 3PO unit—wait, that won’t work. I don’t have a sister around here to foist the droid off on.
He walked back to the starboard engines and inspected the cooling vanes and what little of the centrifugal debris extractor he could find. After looking over the engines he examined the lenses for the deflector shield projectors and saw new ones had been installed. Shields gave the X-wing its major advantage over TIE fighters and contributed to the X-wing’s reputation for being able to take a lot of damage before it went down. Even though the lasers were being powered down for the training exercises, seeing the deflector shield equipment in good repair pleased him.
He paid very careful attention to the twin laser cannons mounted on the ends of the ship’s stabilizer foils. He pulled down on the bottom one and felt a slight shift before the unpowered actuator prohibited movement. That was good—more play than a couple of centimeters meant the lasers might shift out of alignment during use.
“Emtrey, ask Zraii what range he zeroed these lasers at?”
A click-buzz exchange took place between tech and droid. “He says he zeroed them at 250 meters, Commander.”
“Good.” When they had flown against the Death Star the X-wings had been reconfigured so their zero—the point where the four beams converged—was nearly half a kilometer. That allowed them to be employed very effectively in knocking out stationary ground targets. In space combat, where ranges shrank and targets moved quite a bit, keeping the focal point closer increased the chances of scoring lethal hits on the enemy. While the lasers could still hit another fighter at a range of more than a kilometer, the lasers were at their most powerful at the close ranges common in dogfights.
The cannons’ barrels, flashback suppressors, gate couplers, and lasing tips seemed in good shape. Ducking beneath the cannons, he swung around to the aft of the X-wing. Power couplings, deflector generators, exhaust ports, and power cell indicators all seemed in order. The inspection of the port S-foils and cannons showed them to be in good repair.
His inspection ended with his return to the nose of the craft, he bowed his head to the Verpine tech. “It looks as good as new, if not better.”
Emtrey translated and the Verpine started buzzing. Wedge couldn’t figure out what was being said, but the friendly pat on the arm by the insect-man told Wedge the enthusiasm he heard was positive. “Emtrey, what did you tell him?”
“I told him that you think this ship is superior to what it was in its pre-molt stage. That is high praise. He is saying that he has a passion for restoring antiques like this and has taken the liberty to make minor adjustments that will enhance performance.”
“Oh, wonderful.” Wedge smiled and kept his tone light. The Verpine, with their fascination for technology and with eyesight that allows them to spot microscopic details—like stress fractures—without magnifying equipment, made for some of the best tech support in the galaxy. They were also known, however, for tinkering with the ships for which they cared. Wedge had never had
a problem in that regard, but stories abounded about ships where the controls had been reconfigured into what a Verpine found would be a much better alignment—not realizing most pilots did not have microscopic vision or didn’t think in base six.
Continuing to smile, Wedge mounted the ladder an assistant tech ran up against the side of the X-wing. Poised on the edge of the cockpit, the pilot looked at his astromech. He didn’t recognize it beyond realizing it was one of the flowerpot-topped R5 droids. Though the R5 was a newer model astromech droid, Wedge actually preferred the dome-topped R2 astromech droids like the one Luke used because of the lower target profile they offered an enemy. “Then again, if they’re close enough to hit you, you’ll take the shots before they hit the cockpit, won’t you?”
The droid’s panicked hooting brought a smile to his face. “Don’t worry, the shooting is not going to start yet.”
Wedge dropped into the pilot’s seat and got a pleasant surprise. One of Zraii’s improvements had been a refurbishing of the padding in his ejection seat. This will make those long hyperspace jumps more comfortable. He strapped himself in, then brought his systems up. All the monitors and indicators came to life as expected. “Weapons are green and go.”
The R5 unit reported all navigation and flight systems were working, so Wedge pulled on his helmet and keyed his comm unit. “This is Rogue Leader requesting departure clearance from Folor Traffic Control.”
“Rogue One is clear for departure. Have a good flight, Commander.”
“Thank you, Control.”
With the flick of a switch he cut in his repulsorlift generators and feathered the throttle so his fighter rose from the hangar deck in a deliberate and firm manner. Using the rudder pedals to keep the lift generators in tandem, he killed roll and yawing. He wanted there to be no doubt in the minds of anyone in the hangar that his was a steady strong hand on the controls. His performance, he knew, would be pulsed out through the base’s rumor network and become fodder for every idle conversation until something truly worthy of discussion displaced it.
Adding some forward thrust, he moved the X-wing into the magnetic atmospheric containment bubble and through it to the airless exterior. Once outside, he kicked the Incom 4L4 Fusial Thrust Engines in at full power and rocketed away from the craggy grey lunar surface. He rolled the X-wing and brought the nose up slightly, sending the fighter into a gentle arc toward the horizon.
The datascreen in front of him reported the engines were working at 105 percent of efficiency—an increase he put down to Verpine tinkering. Throttling back to 70 percent, then 65 percent, he dropped his speed and flipped a switch above his right shoulder. The stabilizer foils split and locked into the cross pattern that had given the X-wing its name.
He glanced at the upper left corner of the screen and saw his R5 unit had been designated “Mynock.”
“Are you called Mynock because you draw a lot of power?”
Urgent whistles and tweets were translated to a scrolling line of text at the very top of the screen. “A pilot once said I screamed like a mynock when we were in combat. A slander, Commander.”
“I can understand that. No one likes to be thought of as a space rat.” Wedge shook his head. “I need you to adjust the acceleration compensator down a bit. I want .05 gravity.”
The astromech droid complied and Wedge immediately began to feel more at home in the cockpit. To combat the effects of negative and positive gravity because of maneuvers, the starfighter had a compensator that created a gravity neutral pocket for both the craft and pilot. It prevented a lot of problems with blood flow and black- or red-outs in pilots, but Wedge felt it insulated him from the machine and left him out of touch with his situation.
Flying with all gravity negated felt, to him, like trying to pick up grains of salt while wearing heavy gloves. It might be possible, but it would be a lot easier without the interference. Flying required use of all the senses and the compensator cut out most kinesthetic sensations.
And that kills pilots. Wedge was convinced that some pilots had died unnecessarily because they couldn’t feel where they were. Jek Porkins, a heavyset man who always had his compensator on at full, had plowed into the first Death Star while trying to pull out of a dive. His repeated assurances of “I can hold it, I can hold it” died in a burst of static as his X-wing slammed into the Emperor’s toy. Had Porkins not been compensated, he could have realized he wasn’t pulling up and he might have had time to do something else.
Flying without full compensation is just one more thing we need to teach these kids. Wedge laughed at himself. Aside from Gavin the whole crew in Rogue Squadron was almost his own age or older. He thought of them as kids because they hadn’t seen the sort of duty he and Tycho had. And with what we’ll teach them, maybe they’ll survive longer than the rest did.
Wedge rolled the X-wing again as he hit the terminator line and daylight flopped into darkness. Punching a console button he changed his screen over to a tactical scanner and picked up a dozen other traces. The screen reported and tagged eleven X-wings and one Z-95XT Trainer—the benign version of the X-wing’s little brother.
He switched his comm over to the tactical frequency he shared with Tycho. “Everyone green and running, Tycho?”
“Affirmative. Systems are go. There’s been some grumbling about feeding at the pig trough, however.”
“No surprise there. Shifting to Tac-One.”
“I copy.”
Flipping the comm over to the frequency shared by the rest of the squadron, Wedge caught the last of a comment by Rogue Nine, Corran Horn. “… blind, wallowing pigs, and slow.”
“I’m sure, Rogue Nine, your comrades who fly Y-wings will be pleased to know what you think of their ships.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Good.” The unit commander throttled back and fed his repulsorlift generators enough power to counter the moon’s gravity. The reference to Y-wings, their slow speed and the underpowered nature of their sensors, had been heard in Rebel camps since the earliest days of the fight against the Empire. The B-wings had been developed to counter the flaws with the Y-wing and replace it in service, but production had yet to meet demand, so plenty of Y-wings still saw service.
Their reputation as “wallowing pigs” had led to the naming of the Folor gunnery and bombing range the “pig trough.” Alliance command had originally designated it the “Trench” as a memorial to the pilots who had died running the artificial canyon on the Death Star, but pilots saw no reason to stand on ceremony. Y-wings practiced their bombing runs in the twists and turns of the lunar canyon while fighter pilots preferred the rolling and looping demanded of them in the satellite field circling the moon.
“Today I want you all to do some basic work on the gunnery range. Laser targets have been set up to provide you a number of flying and targeting challenges. Your run will be graded for accuracy and speed, and if you get hit, you’ll lose points. If you suffer an equipment failure, pull out and you’ll get another run after things are fixed. We don’t want to lose you or the equipment, so try not to do anything stupid. Any questions?”
Horn’s voice squawked through the helmet headset. “Sir, our lasers are zeroed at 250 meters, which is a little short for ground attack missions.”
“I guess, then, you’ll have to be very good and very quick in shooting, won’t you, Mr. Horn?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wedge smiled. “Good, then perhaps you’d like to go first. Mr. Qrygg will fly your wing.”
“Yes, sir.” The enthusiasm in Horn’s voice matched the energy in the roll and dive his X-wing executed. “Shifting to ground attack mode.”
“Good luck, Mr. Horn.” Wedge killed his comm unit. “Mynock, pull a sensor feed from Horn’s R2. Shoot it to Captain Celchu on Tac-Three.” He popped his comm over to Tac-Two. “Captain, you’ll be getting a datafeed from Rogue Nine.”
“It will be interesting to watch. He’s going in hot.”
“That he is, Tycho, very hot.
He wants to set a mark the others can’t possibly hit.” Wedge nodded slowly. “I think he needs to get a different lesson today. Here’s what we’ll do …”
8
Corran pulled out of his dive and skimmed the surface of Folor. He aimed the nose of his snubfighter at the paired mountains that marked the opening of the pig trough. A line of red lights burned on and off in sequence, seeming to send the light from plains to the peaks of the grey mountains. Below him the rough rims of countless craters flashed past.
“Nine, should Ten shift shields forward?”
“Negative, Ten. Even them out. We’ll probably have targets at our backs.” Corran glanced at his datascreen. “Whistler, can you boost my forward sensors? Screen for background formations and pick out what’s anomalous. Yes, yes, take care of your communications link first, but just do it. Thanks.”
After a couple of seconds the astromech droid complied with the request and the image on the datascreen refined itself. The mountains appeared in a light shade of green and likely targets—in this case the lights on the mountains—were translated into red circles that began to blink when he had a clear shot at them. From past experience he knew Whistler would turn the circles into diamonds if they proved to be hostile.
The fighter shot forward into the trench. Tall, jagged walls rose tall on either side of him. Unlike canyons carved through stone by the relentless flow of water, this one boasted sharp walls that would grind a fighter into dust. It seems as if I’m flying between teeth, not stones.
He guided the fighter up over a small rise and then down into a valley where two red circles became diamonds. His cannons tracked left and lit up the first target while laser fire from the Gand hit the second. “Nice shooting, Ten.”
“Ooryl was anxious. Ooryl will wait for clearance to fire in future.”
“Not at all. Two more targets. I’ve got them.” Corran let his fighter drift to the right. “Pick up what I drop.”
