Starfighters of Adumar

by Aaron Allston

  Then the lines of TIEs and New Republic fighters met, merged, and separated again, the TIE squadrons flashing past. In a second the TIEs were behind him but coming around in their impossibly tight loops to come up behind the slower New Republic craft.

  “Red Leader, got an eyeball,” Tycho said.

  Wedge checked by sensors and visually. A TIE fighter, or eyeball in pilot’s parlance, had come up behind Tycho and was unloading a continuous stream of laser fire at him, though Tycho’s erratic side-to-side motions had kept him from sustaining any but the most grazing of laser impacts.

  “Read you, Two. I’m your wing.” Wedge turned in Tycho’s wake.

  Tycho dove—“downward” being the direction of Adumar’s orbital plane—in a shallow arc the most inexperienced of pilots could have followed. Less easy to follow would have been his extraordinary evasive maneuvering within the simple arc. The TIE fighter followed, keeping up his laser fire, and Wedge came up behind.

  He fired once, his four lasers flashing through empty space where, a quarter second before, the TIE had been. The nimble eyeball flashed off to port, breaking away from its pursuit of Tycho.

  “You’d think he wanted to stay alive or something, Lead.”

  “Let’s disabuse him of the notion. Back to the furball.” Wedge turned toward the most active portion of the engagement zone.

  He could see on his sensor board the second wave of fighters, the missile-bearing craft, heading in two columns around the engagement zone toward Agonizer. And what he could see, the enemy could see. It would be best not to give the TIE Defenders a crack at those columns; Defenders would tear the slow-moving Y-wings and Blades to pieces. He identified the nearest Defender on his sensor board and headed straight for it.

  It was engaged with two Allegiance TIE fighters and a B-wing operating in concert. As Wedge approached, the Defender’s lasers chewed through one of the TIE fighters; the eyeball vented the gases in its cockpit and went dark. A linked ion-cannon blast from the B-wing missed the Defender by thirty meters or more, and the Defender’s return ion blast eliminated the other TIE fighter, filling its cockpit with sparks before the vehicle went dark.

  “Red Two, go wide. Let’s give him nothing but guns to run toward.” Wedge looped to starboard, away from his wingman, and Tycho looped to port; they arced toward the B-wing and Defender from opposite directions.

  The Defender, itself looping around for a run at the B-wing, instead swung wide to keep clear of its original target and accelerated toward Tycho.

  Wedge’s targeting brackets flickered green across the Defender. He fired, but his lasers were meters off the mark.

  Tycho and the Defender, skittering around like drops of ale on a cooking surface, came toward one another, Tycho unloading lasers, the Defender firing ion cannons. They passed one another seemingly undamaged… until Wedge noticed that Tycho was no longer maneuvering. Red Two’s X-wing was dark, headed out to space like a missile with no guidance control.

  Wedge bit back a curse. He didn’t bother trying to raise Tycho on the comlink. Ion cannons tended to wipe out all a vehicle’s electronics. Tycho was out of the game unless he could manage a cold start on his engines, an unlikely eventuality.

  Instead, Wedge turned in the Defender’s wake. He’d have only a shot or two before the other vehicle’s superior speed and maneuverability would take it out of Wedge’s range.

  As his targeting brackets edged toward the Defender, its pilot detected the attempted targeting lock and went evasive, executing the kind of side-to-side maneuvers that only a TIE-style vehicle could manage. He also put on a burst of acceleration, drawing away from the X-wing at a prodigious rate, and began a tight loop upward that would inevitably put him at Wedge’s stern.

  Wedge shook his head and held his fire. Instead, he maneuvered his brackets around and across his target, seeing which way the Defender jumped whenever threatened with an imminent hit. The Defender’s response was always a spiraling loop down and to starboard, a fatal predictability… Wedge ran his brackets toward the Defender one last time, then, not waiting for the Defender’s response, sent his X-wing into a loop down and to starboard.

  The Defender rolled right into his targeting brackets. The pilot saw his mistake, began a reverse, but Wedge fired, quad-linked lasers punching through the vehicle’s engines and into the cockpit. Fire flared through the hole he’d made, then the vehicle detonated.

  Wedge found the B-wing on his sensors. “Red Leader to Solar Wind Eight. Tag Red Two, calculate his course and velocity, and transmit that data to Allegiance with a request for rescue.”

  “Will do, Red Leader.”

  Wedge turned back toward the heart of the engagement.

  He could see, in the distance—not so great a distance as before—the B-wings, Y-wings, and Blades beginning their attack run on Agonizer. A little flare of light within the Y-wing formation had to be one of the wishbones intercepting a turbolaser blast, with fatal results.

  Then bright lights began erupting on Agonizer’s hull, proton torpedo and Adumari missile impacts. A moment later the first barrage was done and Wedge could see char marks and buckled hull plates where the attack had hit.

  No substantial penetration. “Red Leader to all Blade-Thirty-twos. Concentrate your fire or you’ll never get penetration. Flightknife leaders, pick a target and transmit its location to your pilots for your next barrage or you might as well be throwing spitwads.”

  He heard the trio of acknowledgments, barely registering them, the Blades’ problem already washed from his mental processes. Ahead, another TIE Defender, this one with red paint on its solar wing arrays, was turning into his path and accelerating toward him.

  Red paint—that probably meant red horizontal stripes on the solar wings, and that meant it was piloted by a member of the 181st. Not many pilots of any unit, no matter how prestigious, rated a Defender. Turr Phennir was the logical candidate.

  Wedge set logic aside. He needed his experience and his instincts now.

  The Defender came straight at him, accelerating at full. Wedge bared a carnivore’s grin. If he survived the head-to-head run, he’d have more time to turn about and confront the Defender again—the Defender’s high rate of speed would make him overshoot Wedge and take his time turning around.

  As he tried to target the madly maneuvering Defender, his brackets flickered from yellow to green and back again at a rate too quick for him to respond to—by the time he saw green and pulled his trigger, the brackets would have cycled through colors two or three more times. As the Defender came into optimal range, he fired anyway, saw his lasers flash through the gap between his target’s solar wing arrays, felt an impact, and then he was past and looping around toward the Defender once more.

  Diagnostics said his forward landing strut actuator was gone and indicated progressive problems with the launch mechanism for his proton torpedoes. He didn’t need the diagnostics to see the black hole that had appeared in his X-wing’s nose. For the laser shot to have pierced the top side of his fuselage and hit both proton torpedo launchers and landing strut, it would have had to have been a hard and accurate hit.

  Not his problem now. He got turned around and headed toward the Defender again. He was aware of familiar voices over the comlink, but his call sign was not being used and he ignored them.

  This time, he ignored the color changes on his brackets. He settled into his pilot’s couch, felt its familiar contours around him, allowed his senses to spread out through his X-wing and ahead to—and into—the Defender rushing at him.

  This wasn’t use of the Force; to Wedge, the Force was as incomprehensible as astronavigation was to a bantha. But his long experience allowed him focus and responses that others sometimes considered mystical. He knew the change in engine pitch that said one of his generators was malfunctioning, the flash of light from his lasers that said one had drifted out of alignment, the subtle variations in acceleration that said his power was surging erratically.

  He tho
ught past the armor of the Defender, past the TIE pilot’s suit, to the human beyond. He felt the pilot’s twitch of response when he sent his X-wing swerving out of the pilot’s own targeting brackets.

  He felt his laser’s aim rest on the pilot and he fired.

  Then he was past, and looping around for another run.

  The Defender, in the distance, wasn’t looping back toward him. In fact, it wasn’t quite a TIE Defender, anymore. The top solar wing array was gone, its pylon destroyed where it met the hull, and the Defender was venting atmosphere into space.

  But it was still under control. The Defender picked up speed, heading out of the engagement zone at full acceleration. The pilot was supplied breathing air by his flight suit, but the loss of his cockpit atmosphere to space meant he was getting cold, and fast; he had only a few minutes before he’d freeze to death. He was out of the combat.

  “Good shot, boss.”

  Wedge checked his sensor board, then looked to either side. “When did you get here?”

  Red Three flew to his port side, Red Four to his starboard.

  “Just now,” Janson said. “You had a couple of opportunistic squints headed toward you. We scraped ’em off.”

  “Thanks.” Wedge shook his head, trying to force himself out of the flow state he’d entered. “Was that Phennir?”

  “According to our sensors, probably so.”

  “Tycho?”

  “There’s a damaged A-wing pacing him. The rescue shuttle has him on its list.”

  They were out of the main fight area and not engaged with enemies. Wedge turned back toward Agonizer just in time to see a brilliant fire flare up from its surface—the result of multiple missile hits breaching the shields and then the hull. The impact area, far starboard of the ship’s center line, suggested that the damage would not be fatal to the Star Destroyer… but loss of atmosphere, structural integrity, and human life would be considerable. If the commander had any sense, the vessel would pull out of the engagement.

  If.

  “Red Leader to Allegiance. Give me a conflict status update, please.”

  “Allegiance here.” It was, as he’d hoped, Iella’s voice. “Imperial forces assaulting Aduma’s surface are suffering heavy losses. They appear to have been anticipating a disorganized response and have been taken off-guard by the Adumari Union counterattacks. The TIE bombers have been especially hard-hit. The Imps also appear to have mounted a rescue operation to retrieve the perator of Cartann and, presumably, install him as a puppet ruler… but two transports full of stormtrooper elites are in Union hands now.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “In your group, the Blade squadrons were particularly hard-hit, with over thirty percent casualties and fatalities, but your group has inflicted heavy damage to Agonizer.” Indeed, as Wedge watched, the prow of the Star Destroyer slowly began to come about, away from Adumar’s sun and the system’s inner planets. In the distance, a point on the bow of the Star Destroyer Master Stroke flared into incandescence, sign of a serious detonation.

  Wedge breathed a sigh of relief. This battle wasn’t done, but the Imperials, calculating that the New Republic would be the only organized forces defending Adumar, had had the heavy end of the hammer dropped on them by united Adumari forces. When the spasms of pain from devastated TIE squadrons and damaged Star Destroyers finally hit the mission commanders—which appeared to be happening now—the Imperial forces would withdraw.

  They’d be back someday. But before then, Wedge hoped, the New Republic would have taught Adumar more about defending itself.

  “Thanks, Allegiance. Out.” He switched back to squadron frequency. “Red Flight, let’s do some hitting while we still have the chance.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  He’d already made his good-byes to Adumar, another speech from the plaza receiving stand in Cartann City before a crowd.

  The crowd wasn’t quite so mindlessly enthusiastic this time. Some of its members chose to recall that Wedge had flown against them just days before. But others, still caught up in the worship of pilot excellence, or appreciative of the new configuration of Adumar’s government, still cheered.

  And now he stood as the centerpiece of the farewell party for Wedge Antilles, Ambassador. He was back in his Cartann quarters, once again in New Republic dress uniform, among a crowd made up of New Republic pilots and Adumari nobles—including pilots, ministers, and the perators of Cartann and the Yedagon Confederacy. And he had signs of progress to cheer him—such as Cartann’s recent request for a set of flight simulators.

  Iella took his arm. She was dressed once more in the moving-fire dress; he’d told her he liked it. “I know Intelligence has tried to recruit you once or twice,” she said. “But I have a feeling that the diplomatic corps just isn’t going to.”

  Wedge smiled. “Good. I’d be obliged to shoot whoever came to me with the offer. Saves me a murder trial.”

  Balass ke Teldan, Cartann’s new perator, approached. “I am so sorry,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “Your last flight in Adumar space and it gives you only a single kill.”

  Wedge shrugged away that concern. “That kill was a TIE Defender. Very prestigious. If prestige is your aim.”

  “Which, I know, is not one of your worries.” The perator lost his slight smile. “My father’s ways are old-fashioned. Not suited even to the world he wanted to build. But he is an honorable man, within the code he embraces, and wishes to offer you an apology. He is furious that Tomer Darpen was able to convince him that you sought death when you did not, and deeply saddened that he offered it. I think he does not care for your forms of honor… but he recognizes them.”

  Wedge lowered his gaze for a moment. He had no doubt that the perator best served now by remaining in exile, with little or no influence on Cartann. Wedge had imagined that the former ruler would while away his remaining years, doing little but polishing his memories of the successes of his youth, offering others little but bad advice and a growing dissatisfaction with what his world would become. But that was, perhaps, doing Pekaelic a disservice. The old man might change, might adapt. He might even lead again, by example, someday.

  Wedge returned his gaze to Balass’s. “Please tell him I accept.”

  “I shall. For now, though, I offer my last farewell. Duty calls.” He offered a minimal bow, shook Wedge’s hand, and was gone.

  Iella said, “Poor boy.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He’s a perator now. He can’t lavish praise upon you and beg you to teach him all you know.”

  “As if he would.”

  “He would. Our profile on him says he’s one of your biggest admirers. But now he’s locked behind the ruler’s mask and can never admit it.”

  “That’s politics for you.” Wedge looked around the chamber.

  Janson and a crowd of admirers occupied a corner. Janson was in his dress uniform, but, in violation of regulations, had his favorite cloak on over it. The flatscreen panels on the cloak showed a line of Jansons, arms linked, doing high kicks like a dancing chorus. Wedge wondered where he’d gotten the image. He also wondered if there was any way to space that cloak, once they were headed back to Coruscant, without Janson knowing.

  Tycho and Hobbie stood in a cluster of pilots, their hands moving, showing the respective positions of starfighters from some past dogfight.

  Hallis was at the counter that served as the party’s bar, her expression perplexed, as it had been for the last few days. The recordings she had made ever since Red Flight had been condemned to run its gauntlet had been increasingly inappropriate for the documentary she’d hoped to assemble. Some were now even classified. Yet the Adumari Union had settled a small fortune on her for her hard work in scripting the broadcasts that had successfully misled the Imperial invaders, and Wedge suspected, though Iella would not confirm it, that New Republic Intelligence had made an offer for her future services in the field of propaganda and deception. She looked l
ike a woman with too many choices to make and not enough time to make them.

  He turned, looking for Cheriss, and there she was beside him. “Ah. Cheriss. I wanted you to know that I’ve transmitted your application to the academy, along with my recommendation.”

  “Thank you. May I ask another favor?”

  “Certainly.”

  “May I leave Adumar with your ship?”

  Wedge hesitated. The last thing he needed was for her crush on him to interfere with his time with Iella…

  “You see,” she continued, “the new perator is obliged to dislike me. I was a member, the chief guide actually, of the party that captured his father. My—what did Hobbie call it?—endorsement arrangement has already been canceled, and the owner of the building where I keep my quarters has issued a decree of eviction. If I’m to move, I might as well move all at once. Even if your academy does not accept me—”

  “You’ll find work teaching the art of the sword, believe me. Of course, Cheriss. I’ll arrange it with Captain Salaban.”

  “Thank you.” With a smile, she returned to the group Hobbie and Tycho were entertaining.

  Wedge couldn’t quite suppress a rueful grin, and Iella saw it. “What?”

  “I was in the process of flattering myself,” Wedge said, “and I got caught doing it.”

  “You just flatter yourself anytime you want. I’ll always be here to bring you back to ground.”

  He drew her hands up around his neck, took her about the waist, and began a slow dance of Corellia.

  “Wedge, there’s no music.”

  “Well, for the next few hours anyway, until we pack up and jump out of system, I can snap my fingers and have anything I want. One of the rewards of fame. You want music?”

  “No.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “This is perfect.”

  He nodded, feeling her hair soft beneath his chin.

  Perfect it was.