All the stars disappeared, but he could still see Iron Fist's lights, still see the glows of fire from friendly and enemy star fighters. 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—nothing ness. A black square blotting out the stars directly ahead of Mon Remonda, on the exact path Iron Fist took, many kilome ters 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 pi lots were being sacrificed—so Iron Fist would not be delayed in her jump to safety. So the intermixed wreckage of friendly and enemy starfighters 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 tri angular 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 pres sure 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 shut tles. 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 sig
naled 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 expres sion 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 return ing 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 expres sions tired, solemn, battered, triumphant.
In spite of the high casualty toll, it had been a successful engagement. Iron Fist was gone.
"We'll start with pilot updates," he said. "Sadly, all the Nova and Polearm pilots missing at the site of Iron Fist's last stand remain listed as missing in action and presumed dead. But our injured Rogue, Asyr Sei'lar, is out of danger, and the medics say she will suffer no permanent effects of her exposure.
"Most of the Rogues and Wraiths received a communica tion from an unknown craft as we were departing Selcaron. It turned out to be a lengthy message and data package from Lara Notsil, recorded before her death. It included many details about Zsinj's brainwashing project that should allow Intelligence to dismantle Zsinj's operation on Coruscant. We probably won't have to worry again about the kind of circumstances that led to the deaths of Tal'dira and Nuro Tualin." He spared a glance at Horn and Tyria. Both had been sobered by the mention of the pilots they'd been forced to kill, but Wedge could see no uncertainty in their expressions. Horn had always known whom to blame for his squadmate's death. Tyria had apparently begun to understand the same thing.
"Many commendations will be resulting from our recent actions," Wedge continued. "We'll get to them later. I think I first ought to let you know that Fleet Command and Starfighter Command seem to be in agreement—that you all have seen enough carrier duty for a while. Squadron transfers are in order and will be coming through in the next day or two. Rogue Squadron can expect to see some planet-based duty, at least for a while. Polearm and Nova Squadrons will be returning to Coruscant so they can be rebuilt."
Face's hand shot up. "And the Wraiths? We're still on Mon Remonda}"
"Not exactly. For you, I have good news, bad news, and news you'll have to interpret for yourselves. Face, I'm obliged to inform you that your captaincy has stuck. It's Captain Loran from now on."
The pilots closest to Face treated him to backslaps. Dia tickled him, causing him to shy away from her until he could pin her hands. He turned back to Wedge, his expression serious. "And the good news?"
"The bad news is that as of today, Wraith Squadron has been decommissioned as an X-wing unit."
Face released Dia's hands and dropped back in his seat, looking as stunned as if Kell had just side-kicked him in the head. "What? Sir?"
Wedge heard intakes of breath from several pilots, not just from Wraiths. "It's not quite what it sounds like. It seems you've done too good a job, accomplishing a broad set of objectives, few of which have anything to do with the perceived strengths of an X-wing unit. You've made quite an impression on General Cracken, the head o
f Intelligence. As of now, Wraith Squadron has been recommissioned as an Intelligence unit. Commandos, insurgents, pilots—it will do whatever the situation warrants. With, unfortunately, less celebrity than even the little an X-wing unit typically receives." He offered them an expression of apology. "Obviously, the government won't just yank you out of Starfighter Command and give you like presents to another branch of the service. But all you have to do is say yes and your transfer to the new Wraith Squadron will be accepted instantly—and with thanks. General Cracken offers his personal wishes that you do accept transfer, and that you stay together as a team."
"I'm coming back to Rogue Squadron," said Janson. "That was the deal."
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