Star Wars - X-Wing - Iron Fist

by Aaron Allston

  Maybe she could do it. Maybe she could just be Lara Notsil, forever, with Lieutenant Gara Petothel, that poor, unhappy crea-ture, truly among the dead of the Star Destroyer Implacable.

  One of us.

  She slept, and in her dreams Gara and Lara argued with

  one another, speaking words she could barely hear and couldn't understand, exchanging thoughts that would make no sense when she awoke, and she did not know which of the two wore her face.

  When the Wraiths returned to Hawk-bat Station, with their new member in tow, they found that the other members of the squadron had not been idle. On his own initiative, Kell Tainer had plotted and led two missions, all because of Runt.

  "We determined that they, the people of Halmad, had made a mistake," the long-faced alien said, pride in his voice. He stood at the head of the cargo module that served as the Wraiths' conference room; the pilots were packed in around its narrow oval table. "They had installed a new set of sensor sta-tions on the west coast of Hullis's continent and decommis-sioned the older sensor stations out in the western islands. But when we examined the specifications of those new sensors, we discovered that their effective range was a couple of hundred kilometers short of the area they were supposed to cover.

  Meaning that we now possessed a narrow corridor of airspace we could drop into without any real likelihood of detection. After that, with terrain-following flying to make other sen-sor tracking difficult, we were able to stage raids on ground emplacements."

  "Raid number one," Kell said, "was on a port warehouse district in the city of Fellon. Not much booty there, I'm afraid.

  We picked up a large stock of recreational holos being pro-

  duced by the Imperials, propaganda dramas to make Face

  blush-"

  "That'd take some doing," Face said. "I'm shameless."

  "True. But also, in taking off, we strafed the marina where the recreational water vessels of the city's wealthy-and other people, including the wealthy of the city of Hullis and the offi-cers of Victory Base there-were docked. Did a few dozen mil-lion credits' worth of damage to some very pretty vessels.

  "In our second mission, we struck at Hullis herself. We put Castin on the ground the day before to do what he could with security systems, and then Phanan and I flew in, blew a hole in the side of a building, and flew out with as much cargo as we could load without sacrificing the flying speed of our TIE fighters."

  "What cargo ?" Wedge asked.

  "Imperial credit notes, coin, gems. We hit one of the offi-

  cial money-exchange sites used by the Imperial base."

  Wedge gaped. "You robbed a bank."

  "We did. It was fun, too. Getting clear was a little tricky-

  that close in, it's impossible to elude their sensors-but we just took off straight for space, suffered their antiaerial-invasion gun barrage, and outflew the TIEs they sent in pursuit. End re-sult, a few dings and pits in Phanan's starfighter."

  "To match," Phanan said, "the few dings and pits in its pilot."

  "Tell them what I did," Castin said.

  "Oh, that's right. In the day or so he had before his extrac-

  tion, Castin managed to forge us a high-level account on their global information service. We're now being bounced visual and sensor data from their planetary defense satellite network.

  It's not being beamed straight at us, don't worry-we've set up

  a relay near one of the existing satellite-belt mining colonies. If

  it's detected, we can detonate the retransmitter before they're

  likely to get it open. Anyway, we've picked up signs that they're

  constructing a couple of small starfighter bases, possibly as a

  counter against our ground missions. One of them is near Fel-

  lon, the other way out east of Hullis in a region that doesn't

  seem to need the extra protection, so now we have to wonder

  what is out there." Kell smiled, his expression reflecting a

  simple pride in the Wraiths' accomplishments while most of

  the officers were gone. "Castin has also modified the comm systems in all our TIEs so they distort our voices more effec-tively-the new computer-controlled distortion actually modi-fies accents and changes genders, making it even harder for listeners to identify our voices."

  "That's good work," Wedge said. "But on this pirate ac-tivity, I just wish you all didn't look as though you'd enjoyed yourselves so much."

  Phanan snorted. "A happy worker is a productive worker."

  Wedge nodded. "But a happy pirate is a career pirate. You do remember that the Hawk-bats are a front, a sham?"

  Kell and Phanan exchanged looks suggesting that this was news to them.

  "That's what I thought. Anything else?"

  Runt said, "Yes. We have also identified the regular sched-

  ule and course of a refueling tanker that leaves Helmed, takes a tour of government mining operations in the asteroid belt, and returns to the city of Hullis. It is now escorted by a couple of TIE fighters, but I think that with the proper surprise we could take them before a distress signal is sent. If we capture the tanker but fly it along its regular course, that gives us one op-portunity to drop our entire squadron and perhaps Sungrass as well down on Hullis, should we ever need to mount a larger-scale mission there... or just capture a refueling tanker should we ever need one."

  "Good to know. All right, Wraiths-"

  "Hawk-bats," corrected Kell, absently.

  Wedge gave him a stern look. "Wraiths, make sure your pi-rates' take is logged to the last credit for your report to Corus-cant. Now, with the good work you did while we were gone, you've added quite a lot to the sting the government of Helmed has to be feeling." He began counting items off on his fingers.

  "We've hurt them militarily with the theft of the interceptors

  and then of the replacement parts. We've put civilian pressure on

  them with that water-vehicle raid. We've hurt them economi-

  cally with the money changers' strike, and that will also result in

  more civilian pressure. And we've demonstrated that we can en-

  ter their airspace and leave at will, no casualties, no apparent ef-fort that they can discern, and that's the most important thing.

  They've lived at a relative level of peace for too long and don't

  k now how to cope with a unit like the Wraiths. With any luck,

  that will put them in the camp of Zsinj and his protection-"

  "So Zsinj can come and squash us," said Face.

  Wedge smiled. "If you're as tough to squash as you are to

  predict, he'll be in for an unpleasant surprise.

  "All right. Let's keep the pressure up on them. I want those two starfighter bases eliminated-a clear message to the Imperial forces on Halmad that anything they can construct, the Hawk-bats can knock down. And I think, to demonstrate our superiority and their helplessness, we ought to stage those two eliminations simultaneously. So let's settle in and do some planning."

  One of the base's inhabitable cargo modules had been equipped to serve as the squadron's cafeteria, with an adjoining module serving as the galley. While most of the Wraiths had been away on Mon Remonda, Kell and mechanic Cubber Daine had used laser cutters to open a large portion of the wall facing the Trench, giving it the aspect of a large viewport minus trans-paristeel, and had improvised additional chairs and tables out there. Now the Wraiths had a dining choice of "inside" or "outside on the patio." Face had seen Wedge shaking his head over these minute decorative differences, but the squadron commander had never stepped in to regiment the Wraiths on such matters.

  Tonight, after the last long planning session before Opera-tion Groundquake-as Tyria had nicknamed the plan to knock down two Imperial bases-Face ate at a table "on the patio." Usually he shared a table with Phanan, a platform from which the two of them could harangue the other diners, but tonight his wingman was at an inside table with Lara Notsil. Face
couldn't fault Phanan his choice of companions; Lara was at-tractive, quick-witted, good company. He saw her laugh at one of Phanan's jokes.

  There was a little tension in her body language. She proba-bly still didn't feel that she fit in with the Wraiths. It was likely that she wouldn't for a while.

  Lara spoke a few words to Phanan, good cheer still evi-dent in her expression, then policed her tray and left. Phanan remained behind.

  And Face saw his partner do something uncharacteristic. Phanan slowly settled into an attitude of stillness so profound that it would have been difficult for an observer to tell whether he was alive or dead, had he not been breathing. Other than the slow rise and fall of his chest, nothing moved; his one hu-man eye was closed, and his posture gradually slumped into an attitude of profound resignation, of complete defeat.

  Face rose and approached him, stepping over the low lip of the new opening. "Ton ?"

  Phanan jerked upright, and his expression was suddenly merry. "Face! Just the man. Polish my boots, would you, son? I have a mission tomorrow."

  Face gestured at his own lieutenant's insignia.

  "Oh, that's right. In spite of my superior intellect, you fig-ured out who to bribe first. My loss." Phanan rose and quickly cleaned off his tray, stowing it in the rack set aside for that purpose.

  "Are you all right?"

  Phanan looked at him, evidently confused. "Of course.

  Oh, the boots thing is a disappointment, of course. Maybe I can get Wedge to clean them."

  Face snorted. "You're angling to get in some laser target-ing practice, aren't you ? As the target."

  "No, I've been there. No desire to repeat the experience." Phanan stretched and yawned. "I'd better hit my bunk. Mis-sion tomorrow."

  "That's right."

  Phanan breezed past him with a final smile and headed up the Trench toward the flight officers' quarters. Face let him go, but felt unsettled, as though he'd seen some sort of simulacrum of Phanan walk by, with the real Phanan missing and unac-counted for.

  An hour later, after doing a last simulation run against Fellon Base, Face stopped by the quarters Phanan shared with Piggy. His initial rap at the door elicited no answer, so he knocked again.

  "Go away. Or, if you're at lieutenant rank or higher, go away, sir."

  "I need to speak to you, Ton."

  "Tomorrow."

  "Right now."

  "I'm with somebody."

  "I know. Piggy said you'd asked him to bunk out for the

  evening. This will only take a moment."

  The door into the modified cargo module opened with a

  hiss. It wasn't a mechanical hiss; the modules didn't have hy-

  draulic doors. The noise was a sound of exasperation, and

  Phanan made it. The cybernetically enhanced pilot wore a

  loose robe of scarlet silk and an irritated expression. "What?"

  Face squeezed past him into the module's first chamber. These modules were divided into three chambers, the largest for socializing, the next largest containing two bunks, the smallest acting as a refresher. Face saw that the terminal here in the main chamber was alive but with nothing on it. "There's no one here."

  "Keep your voice down. She's back in the bunkroom."

  "There's no one there, either."

  "Are you calling me a liar?" There was no anger in

  Phanan's tone, just curiosity.

  "You don't drink when you're entertaining. And I can smell the booze in the air."

  Phanan shrugged negligently and pulled a bottle from his robe pocket. The label identified it as Halmad Prime, doubtless a diverted part of the shipment the "Hawk-bats" had seized off Barderia. Phanan held it out. "Care for some?" "No. What's the matter, Ton?"

  Phanan shut the module door and sat-slouched, rather-

  on the chamber's inflatable sofa. "I get drunk faster these

  days."

  "A sign of age?"

  "No." Phanan shook his head. "There's less of me for the alcohol to pollute. Every year, less meat, more machine. So the alcohol goes to work faster."

  Face pulled the terminal chair around and sat wrongways in it so he could lean forward against its back. "I'm not sure I understand."

  "She wasn't interested, Face. In me."

  "Lara ?"

  "Yes, Lara. Well, actually, at various times, Falynn, Tyria, various ladies on Folor, Borleias, and Coruscant, then Shalla, Dia, and most recently Lara." He tipped the bottle up and took a long pull from it.

  Face snorted. "Maybe you need to work on your tech-nique. What sort of invitation did you make her?"

  "Ah, that's just it. I didn't make any sort of invitation. I just sat with her, and talked with her, and read her eyes. She thought my jokes were funny. She was interested in my stories about the campaign we waged with Admiral Trigit. She liked me, I think she did. But... other than that... nothing. I held no other appeal for her. And that's the way it's been for quite some time."

  "Look, Ton, being at war kind of limits all our social lives.

  I'm sure you'll find someone-"

  "Finish that idiotic gesture of reassurance and HI be obliged to put your face through this wall," Phanan said. His tone was mild, but there was no mistaking the seriousness in his words. He wasn't even looking at Face, he hadn't moved or tensed, yet something in his tone made his threat very real. "You don't understand."

  "Make me understand."

  Phanan looked up at the low ceiling of the cargo module

  as if seeing through it, as if staring at a starry sky in the hope

  that it could provide inspiration. "A long time ago, back at the

  Battle of Endor, the frigate I was working on as a doctor was

  hit by an Imperial barrage. Blew out whole sections of the hull,

  sucked crewmen out into hard vacuum. I was hit by a falling

  beam superheated by laser fire. One minute I'm helping a pilot

  with a concussion, the next minute that pilot's been dead for

  two weeks and I'm just waking up with a mechanical half a face and a mechanical leg.

  "Ever since then, no woman has looked at me with any sort of serious interest."

  "It's not the leg or the face, Ton."

  "I know that, you moronic nerf." Phanan glared at him,

  the glowing optic that served him as a left eye making the ex-pression malevolent. "But something died when I was hit in that medical ward, and I think it was my future. I think people, maybe only women, can just look at me and say, 'There's no future in him.'"

  "That's ridiculous."

  "There's no mechanical replacement for a future, Face.

  And every time I take a hit, and they have to cut away another part of me and replace it with machinery because I'm allergic to bacta, every time that happens I seem to be a little further away from the young doctor who had a future. He can't come back, Face. Not all of him is here anymore." "Ton..."

  "Don't give me some line about my not knowing what I'm

  talking about because I'm drunk and morose. I know I'm

  drunk and morose. But the truth of what I'm telling you is

  around me all the time, even when I'm not drunk. Even when I'm enjoying everything about my life. No future, and no one in my future."

  "You have your friends, Ton."

  Phanan nodded. "Yes, I do. And I'm grateful for them. But

  my friends are my present. And when I try to look from where they are to where my future is, there's just no one there. No future."

  "I don't know what to tell you. I wish you didn't feel this way."

  "Me either."

  "Give me the bottle."

  "I know. Mission tomorrow." Phanan handed over the

  bottle, two-thirds of its contents gone.

  "If you're not right for the mission tomorrow morning, I want you to tell me."

  "Yes, Lieutenant."

  Face wanted to say more, but the sudden formality of Phanan's last reply had somehow propelled him ou
t of the con-versation. He just shook his head and left.

  10

  Tyria entered the bunkroom module she now shared with Lara and waved the datacard she held. "Mail from home."

  Lara gave her an uncertain smile. "Should I leave so you can watch it in private? That's not a problem."

  "It's not for me. Most of my family is gone, and what's left is on Toprawa-and no mail comes off Toprawa." This was true; the world, where Rebel Alliance forces had staged deliv-ery of information that had been vital to the destruction of the first Death Star, had been punished by the Empire as an act of warning. Its cities had been destroyed, its people reduced to barbarism. "And this is addressed to you. I'd be happy to leave if you wa nt privacy."

  Lara took the card, curious, and slid it into the appropri-ate slot on her terminal. Her name came up at the top of the screen, and a prompt to enter her password. File information showed that the message was much too large for a mere text transmission, so it was bound to be voice and image. "No, that's all right. I have no secrets." She entered her password and brought up the mail message.

  A man's face, good-looking and somewhat roguish, sur-

  rounded by black hair cut close and a trim mustache; behind

  was a plain beige wall, a table with some holos on it, an open viewport showing a landscape of blasted, black ground. "Hello, Lara," the man said. "I don't imagine you ever thought you'd hear from me again."

  Lara frowned. Who was this man? Then she recognized his face, a face she'd only seen a couple of times in files she'd hastily memorized some time ago, and she felt her jaw drop. "It's-it's-Tavin Notsil. My brother."

  "I thought he was supposed to be-"

  "I know you must have thought I was dead," the record-ing continued. "Just as I thought you were. It seems that fate has spared us both. I'd made some unusual arrangements with the town constable and was earning an honest living on the Sea of Aidiv under an assumed name when New Oldtown was hit. I came home and everything I knew was gone. But now I find out that you've survived. I can't tell you how happy I am."