by James Luceno
Afyon shook his head. “Don’t take me for a stormie, Antilles, I don’t believe everything I’m told. You’d have gone in after the Havoc itself. What’s a Strike cruiser to a crew that turned two Death Stars into black holes?”
The Corellian brought his chair down onto all four legs. “The New Republic might promote me and this squadron as immortal and immune to danger, but I know better than that. Two of us, just two, survived Yavin. A half dozen survived Hoth and just four of us lived through Endor. As far as I’m concerned the Death Stars lived up to their names.
“Well now, this squadron has to live up to its name. The New Republic is using us as a symbol because it’s easier to blind people to the blood-cost of war when you get to celebrate the heroic efforts of a half-dozen people. Luke Skywalker is easy to admire and want to follow. Han Solo is a man who rose from nothing to become a hero and consort with royalty. Me, I’m the quintessential soldier who does his job very well. But what is that job? Two things: neutralizing Imperials and, the part I take most seriously, keeping my people alive.”
Wedge raked fingers back through his brown hair. “It doesn’t matter if we were good or lucky out there today—and I’d rather the former than trust in the latter. What does matter is that we all survived, and that’s as close to a miracle as I ever expect to see in my lifetime. The key thing to remember is that I can’t trust in our luck or skill. I can’t allow myself to believe we were that much better than the opposition and I can’t let my people believe it. If they do, they’ll die taking chances they should never take.”
Afyon sucked on his teeth for a second. “You’re right. I guess I just remember the Clone Wars and how the ‘hero’ labels were handed out. You’d think a dozen Jedi and two dozen snubby jocks won the whole thing. Even all the years I spend pulling for peace—same as most of the rest of the folks on Alderaan—never dulled that feeling of injustice I had concerning credit for the war. Weird, eh, wanting peace enough to agree to disarmament of my home planet, yet still burning about getting credit for my part in a war?”
The other Alderaanian at the table shook his head. “One of the problems we all have is that we try to think of ourselves in general terms, and that smoothes over some of the inconsistencies that make us who we are. We see all Imperials as rancors and they see all of us as nerfs. The very fact that we see them as a united front is ridiculous, just the same as we’re not all united—as this discussion proves.”
Afyon smiled. “I’ve not heard that kind of philosophy since, you know, our world …”
Tycho nodded solemnly and squeezed Afyon’s shoulder with his right hand. “I do know.” He smiled and looked over at the knot of pilots in the center of the room. “I’m afraid this group does not inspire that much philosophy. I appreciate being able to share some with another Alderaanian.”
Wedge glanced at his pilots, then tipped his chair back up against the wall as the Twi’lek stood. Nawara Ven flipped one of his brain tails around and over his shoulder as if it were a scarf, then stumbled slightly. Wedge wasn’t sure if it was the cavalier way he tossed his brain tails around or the drink that made the pilot stumble. The lum brewed up by the ground crew had the potency of Corellian brandy and the piquant bouquet—according to Gavin—of a Tatooine dewback in heat.
Nawara remained almost completely upright as he wove his way through tables to where Wedge sat. “Forgive me, noble leaders, but we require your esteemed personages to act as a tribunal to adjudicate a question.” The Twi’lek pressed a hand to his own chest. “Owing to my legal background, I have been appointed a neutral advocate to present the cases to you.”
Wedge couldn’t keep a smile from his face. “Please proceed, Counselor.”
“Thank you, sir.” Nawara turned back toward the other pilots. “First we have the case of the worst pilot in the unit. May I present Gavin Darklighter, who won this award by virtue of the fact of not getting anything out there today.”
Easier to read than the scowl on Gavin’s face was the open relief on the faces of Lujayne Forge and Peshk Vri’syk. Wedge knew the award had to sting Gavin badly, but he was young. The rest of the squadron had been willing to cut him a lot of slack because of his youth, but that latitude would last only so long. In Wedge’s opinion Gavin wasn’t the worst pilot by far, but his lack of kills allowed his squadron mates to rib him a little.
Nawara gestured at Gavin. “The accused will stand.”
Gavin remained seated.
Bror Jace grabbed him by the shoulder of his flight suit and hauled him up out of his seat. “Here he is, the worst we have. Just like the TIE pilots, he got zero kills.”
The edge in Jace’s voice provoked a snarl from Gavin’s wingmate, Shiel. Color flooded Gavin’s face and muscles bunched at his jaw as he ground his teeth. Jace laughed and tugged on Gavin’s shoulder, like a puppeteer manipulating a marionette.
The Twi’lek, seemingly oblivious to Gavin’s discomfort, smiled at the tribunal. “We have determined there should be a punishment of some sort, to encourage an improvement in performance.”
Wedge turned his head to face the other two members of the tribunal. “Ideas, gentlemen?”
Tycho held a finger up. “Strikes me that apprenticing Gavin to the best pilot, having him run errands and the like for him, might provide the perfect situation for Gavin to learn how to be better.”
I like that, Tycho. Corran won’t be too hard on him and the added responsibility will give Corran something to think about other than your situation. Wedge nodded. “I think that is a good idea. Captain Afyon?”
“Sure. I know I’d love to have an aide to draft the performance reports for the Eridain.”
Captain Afyon’s suggestion brought a groan from the squadron, so Wedge catalogued the threat of report preparation for future disciplinary use. “I believe, Counselor, you have your judgment rendered.”
The Twi’lek bowed and straightened up slowly, then turned back to his compatriots. “Gavin Darklighter, you are sentenced to serve as aide to the best pilot in the squadron until such time as you are no longer judged the worst pilot.”
Bror smiled broadly and gave Gavin’s flight suit one last tug. “Good, you can start your service by getting me more lum.”
Wedge frowned. “How is it that you, Mr. Jace, are considered the best pilot? You only had five and Mr. Horn had six. If we average them over the last two engagements, then Mr. Horn has four and a half, with you, Mr. Qrygg, and me each at two and a half. You fare no better when we total them.”
Nawara smiled, flashing pointy peg-teeth. “You have hit upon the crux of the matter, sir. Mr. Jace argues that percentages tell the true story. He killed five of the six bombers he faced, meaning he downed eighty-five percent of the TIEs he engaged.”
Gavin sat down and snarled, “And they were big, lumbering bombers—no one could have missed them.”
The Twi’lek clucked at Gavin, then continued his explanation. “Mr. Horn, on the other hand, shot only six of thirty, giving him a kill percentage of twenty percent.”
Wedge shook his head. “This is ridiculous. Percentages have no place in this.”
“If you don’t mind, sir”—Corran stood up and glared over at Bror—“I’m willing to let things be figured by percentages.”
“Go head, Mr. Horn.”
Corran folded his arms across his chest. “You want a real contest, Jace?”
The Thyferran raised his head and glared down at the shorter man. “It’s an easy offer to be made by the man in the lead.”
“I’m willing to make it even, and I’ll even concede this round to you—declaring you the best pilot until our next mission.” Corran opened his arms and rested his right hand on Gavin’s shoulder. “What I’m willing to do is average Gavin’s kills in with mine. The one he got at Chorax adds to my nine, then we split that in half. That puts us even at an average of five kills. You and I are both aces and now so is he.”
“Don’t do this, Corran.”
The small man winked down at Gavin.
“I trust you, kid. You’ll do fine.”
“We start even?” the Thyferran asked.
Corran nodded. “We go straight kills from here on out, or average them, your choice.”
Bror raised a blond eyebrow. “You are still willing to average the kid’s kills in with yours?”
The Corellian nodded again and patted Gavin’s shoulder. “You willing to take the challenge?”
Wedge watched conflicting emotions ripple over Bror Jace’s face. He clearly wanted to go one-on-one with Corran, to prove he was better free and clear, yet the rules Corran was offering him played in his favor. Any kill Corran got would only count half. Unless Corran excelled—killing two for Bror’s one—or Gavin started on a tear, Bror would win easily. The difference between their skill levels was not significant enough to give Corran a real chance of winning.
Bror’s blue eyes thinned to arctic slits. “We’ll average things, just to keep Gavin in the game, but you and I can go head-to-head whenever I choose.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“And you and I, because we did have the most kills at Hensara, will share the best pilot crown until our next outing.”
Corran smiled. “Done.”
Wedge nodded once to Corran, then looked up at the Twi’lek. “So, by this settlement, Bror and Corran are co-best pilots, and Gavin has five kills, correct, Counselor?”
The Twi’lek nodded. “If you so agree, members of the tribunal.”
The three judges agreed and Nawara smiled. “It is done, then.”
“And the worst pilot is still apprenticed to the best pilot?”
Nawara nodded. “The worst pilot is still bound by that agreement.”
“Good.” Wedge stood and slapped the Twi’lek on the back. “Then since Gavin has five kills to his credit, that makes you, with only one kill, the worst pilot.”
Nawara’s pasty complexion became ghostlike. “No appeal?”
Wedge smiled. “To you there probably is not, but the idea of a lawyer getting the sentence instead of his client has some appeal to me.”
The Twi’lek frowned and caressed one of his brain tails. “Perhaps it is true that a lawyer who has himself as a client is a fool.”
“Which is why you’re a pilot now, Mr. Ven.” Wedge laughed lightly. “Consider your sentence suspended, at least for the duration of this celebration. Today we proved how good we can be—tomorrow we go back to training to make sure we know how we did what we did, so we can continue doing it in the future.”
Kirtan Loor scratched at the reddish raw patch of flesh behind his right ear. Rachuk roseola was a virus, he was told, that got to everyone who came to the world. Scratching it didn’t appear to make it worse, and nothing but time made it better. It annoyed him because he found it distracting, and at this late stage in his calculations, distraction was the last thing he needed.
He pored over the data from Hensara again, correlating figures and sensor tracks with known performance parameters for X-wings. All the ships in the squadron appeared to be operating within two standard deviations of the mean of Rebel specifications. This told him that the ships were in good repair, which meant the Rebels were expending considerable resources on that squadron to keep the ships working.
That little factoid combined with the spectacular kill ratio led him to believe Rogue Squadron had been at Hensara. Visuals were of generally poor quality, but crests and fighters appeared to match those images recorded by the Black Asp, confirming the squadron’s presence at Chorax as well. He had no objective confirmation about the squadron being Rogue Squadron, but one communications intercept had included the name “Wedge” and Kirtan thought he heard some faint trace of Corran Horn’s voice in other messages. The end-for-end swapping maneuver that led to the damaging of one Interceptor had been vintage Horn, providing Loor all the evidence he needed to label the X-wings as Rogue Squadron.
Admiral Devlia had not been convinced, but he had agreed to send units out to find the squadron’s base, if Kirtan could isolate it. Admiral Devlia had made the offer in a voice that suggested providing such information would be impossible.
It should have been impossible, and for most people it would have been. However, Kirtan Loor remembered a wealth of things that might be trivia to others, but proved to be useful to the search for the Rogues’ base. He had to make a few assumptions about them and the force they arrived with, but his calculations could be run with a number of variables factored in, then all that data could be correlated with known system locations and Rebel preferences for bases.
Because several of the X-wings entered the atmosphere of Hensara III, they left significant traces of ionized fuel in the atmosphere. Spectral analysis of those trails provided an amount of thrust that gave Kirtan an indication of the quantity of fuel used per second of operation with sublight engines. This proved consistent with the known specifications of the X-wing. Since the performance of sublight engines had not been modified, he assumed the hyperspace engines were similarly standard.
The forces on the ground on Hensara provided some basic entry vector and velocity data for the Rebel force. Back-plotting was not terribly difficult and suggested to Kirtan that the force had begun their last jump from the Darek system. Using the fuel consumption figures for an X-wing’s hyperspace engine, he was able to subtract from the weight of the ship the appropriate amount of fuel.
Thrust output, vector, and velocity data provided him with changing weights for the X-wings as they burned up fuel in their flight. The ending weight and fuel consumption seemed consistent for known performance profiles. Precluding refueling stops along the way, the amount of fuel he calculated for them determined the range to their base.
He had to assume, of course, that they had started with a full load of fuel, and the same had to be assumed for the Pulsar Skate and Eridain, as well as the Lambda-class shuttle at Chorax. Working out the fuel consumption and range limits for those ships had shown them to be far more fit for distance travel than the X-wings, as would be expected of larger ships, but few ships like to travel beyond range of their escorts.
Even limiting the trip to the range of the X-wings gave each flight the capability of traveling a considerable distance. He further reduced the range by assuming the Rebels would keep sufficient fuel in the X-wings for a dogfight or rearguard action to allow the other ships to escape. This cut the range roughly in half, and when given a spherical plot on a map of the galaxy for each of the squadron’s sightings, the spheres intersected in a relatively small area of space.
Five hundred known systems existed in that overlapping slice of space. Kirtan discarded all truly loyal worlds from the list. He also removed the openly rebellious worlds because Intelligence had enough spies of their own in hotbeds of Rebel support to inform him if Rogue Squadron had been seen. While the Alliance was willing to draw volunteers and support from such worlds, they chose not to jeopardize them by basing operations on them.
Inhospitable worlds were shuffled onto a secondary list. While the base on Hoth had shown the Rebels were willing to hide almost anywhere, post-invasion breakdowns and evaluations of the Hoth operation showed the Rebels had trouble modifying equipment to work there. In fact, had the Rebels not been reeling from the defeat at Derra IV, they probably would have bypassed Hoth altogether.
Being the opportunists they were, the Rebels did tend to prefer worlds that already had structures on them that could be converted into installations. It appeared that the more benign and abandoned the world seemed, the more likely the Rebellion was to choose it as a base. Kirtan doubted the Rebels themselves realized they had this predilection for taking over ruins for their own use, and he imagined it had to do with a subconscious desire to renew the Old Republic. The very thing that drove them against the Empire demanded they embrace things older than the Empire to give their movement a legitimacy it lacked itself.
The final list of primary worlds contained only ten names on it. Kirtan subjected this list to the final se
lection process—one that had come to him as inspiration upon waking from a dream that included visions of Ysanne Isard metamorphosing into a scarlet ghost of Darth Vader.
The X-wings, in arriving at Chorax, had not expected to be dragged out of hyperspace. That meant their entry vector, if drawn as a line through space, would point out their intended destination. Kirtan plotted that line through his data model and then asked the computer to sort the candidate worlds according to their proximity to any world on that line.
One world had a perfect correlation with that line. Kirtan smiled. “Talasea, in the Morobe system.” He downloaded his result into his personal datapad and headed off for Admiral Devlia’s office. “We know where you are, Rogue Squadron. Now we will crush you.”
18
Corran’s eyes snapped open. He knew from the chill of the air and the deep darkness that it was still night. The fog drifting in through the window of the small cottage seemed to amplify the silence of the night. He knew that nothing, not light nor sound had awakened him, but he also knew something was wrong.
He glanced over at Ooryl’s cot and saw it was empty. That wasn’t much of a surprise. He’d learned that Gands needed only a fraction of the sleep humans did and appeared to be able to store it up for times when they could not sleep. He would have loved to know what set of evolutionary pressures had given the Gands this ability, but Ooryl remained decidedly private concerning his species and Corran hadn’t pressed for details.
Corran’s sense of unease didn’t center itself on Ooryl. It remained a feeling that something was wrong, and this sensation was one with which Corran had a lot of experience. He’d felt it when preparing for meetings with criminals or during undercover work when his cover had been blown and enemies were waiting to hurt him. His father had nodded sagely when Corran told him about that feeling, and had encouraged him to heed it when it occurred.
He threw open his sleeping bag and shivered as the cold air hit his naked flesh. Well, Father, I’ll “go with my gut.” Corran pulled on his flight suit and discovered that its synthetic material retained the night’s chill better than his flesh retained heat. He stepped into boots that were also rather frigid. He would have run in place for a moment to warm himself up, but a wave of malignancy washed over him.
