Star Wars: X-Wing V: Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  “No, sir. I don’t want new pilots. I want experienced ones.”

  “Which is an even more significant expense.”

  “No, sir, not with these pilots. I want pilots no one else wants. Washouts. Pilots staring court-martials in the face. Troublemakers and screwups.”

  Ackbar stared as if he couldn’t believe his tympanic membranes. “In the name of the Force, Commander, why?”

  “Well, some of them, of course, will be irredeemable. I’ll wash them out, too. Some of them will be good men and women who’ve screwed up one time too many, who know their careers are dead but would give anything for one more chance …”

  “You’re more likely to get a proton torpedo up your engines than you are to get a functional squadron out of such pilots. The torpedo might be launched accidentally … but that’s no comfort to a widow.”

  Wedge spread his hands, palms up, and smiled. “Problem solved. I’m not married.”

  “I know you’re not. You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What would become of Rogue Squadron?”

  “I’d be happy to remain in charge officially, but for all squadron activities, Captain Celchu is more than qualified to lead … and now that he’s been cleared of the formal charge of Corran Horn’s murder and the informal charge of being a brainwashed double agent, there shouldn’t be any responsible objection to his full return to duties. I’d return Lieutenant Hobbie Klivan to Rogue Squadron as second-in-command and take Lieutenant Wes Janson as my own second-in-command. Once the new squadron is established, of course, I’d hope to return to direct command of Rogue Squadron.”

  “You’re committed to this idea, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Wedge considered what he was about to say. “Since the battle at Endor, the military’s public relations groups have represented Rogue Squadron as if we were the lightsaber of the New Republic. A bright, shiny weapon to cut down any dark Imperial holdovers who still stand against us. But, sir, not all battles call for lightsabers. Some of them are fought with vibroblades in back alleys. The New Republic needs those vibroblades too, and doesn’t have them.”

  “I understand.” Ackbar nodded agreeably. “Request refused.”

  Wedge couldn’t speak; suddenly all the air seemed to leave his chest. He’d thought he was so close, thought he had convinced the admiral.

  “Unless …”

  Wedge found his voice again. “Unless?”

  “I’ll make a bet with you, Commander. You get your chance at forming this squadron. If, three months after it goes operational, it has proven its worth—in my sole estimation—you can do as you please. Continue with the new squadron, go back to command Rogue Squadron, whichever you choose.”

  “And if I lose?”

  “You accept promotion to the rank of general and join my advisory staff.”

  Wedge kept his dismay from his face. “I would seem to win either way, sir.”

  “Stop it. You’re not fooling anyone. If you had your way, you’d continue flying snubfighters and commanding fighter squadrons until you were a century old. How many promotions have you turned down? Two? Three?”

  “Two.”

  “Well, if you lose your bet, you accept this one.”

  Wedge sighed and thought it over. He needed to keep flying; he wouldn’t be happy in any other way of life. But the New Republic military needed this new tactic, needed many new ways of doing things, before they became as tactically fossilized as the Empire had been. “I accept, sir.”

  Ackbar ground out a laugh. “In a sense, you’ve already lost, Commander Antilles. You’re wagering your career for the good of the New Republic. You’re creating new tactics, new weapons for the New Republic, not just for your squadron. You’re already a general … you just don’t know it yet.”

  “I guess I’ll accept that remark in the spirit in which it was intended, sir.”

  “I have another remark for you, Wedge. News, bad news that you’ll have to take to your subordinates. And I don’t envy you that task.”

  Wedge met with the others in the hangar aboard the cruiser Home One where the Rogue Squadron X-wings were undergoing repairs and repainting. He watched with a trace of wistfulness as the black and green-and-gold checks of his snubfighter, colors his father had chosen for the family refueling station and never lived to see implemented, were erased and replaced by New Republic grays and the proud but strident Rogue Squadron red stripes.

  Tycho frowned, but not at the repainting job. “So how is this going to work?”

  “I act as commander for the combined unit—for both Rogue Squadron and the new squadron. I also act as squadron leader for the new squad. Tycho, until I return, you’re Rogue Leader, with Hobbie your second-in-command; Nawara, you remain executive officer. Wes, you’re my second-in-command. Rogue Squadron is going to be assigned to the hunt for Zsinj; the new squadron will be put together at Folor Base—”

  Tycho winced. “Ah, yes, the center of New Republic entertainment and lunar beauty.”

  “Once it’s commissioned, the new X-wing squad will also join, covertly, the hunt for Zsinj, assuming he hasn’t been taken out by then. Both squads will fly together when circumstances dictate.”

  Wes turned to Hobbie, extended his hand. “Sorry to see that you’re stuck with the flying fossils, while I stay with Commander Wedge on the cutting edge of—”

  Hobbie batted his hand away. “Oh, shut up.”

  Wedge cleared his throat. “There’s something else. Tycho, Nawara, could you excuse us for a moment?”

  The two Rogues withdrew, leaving Wedge with Hobbie and Janson. “I have some news for you two,” Wedge said. “You’re not going to like hearing it. Talon Squad is gone.”

  Hobbie frowned. “What do you mean, gone?”

  “Wiped out. Ambush. Everyone is dead except Lieutenant Donos.”

  Janson leaned against the near wall. Hobbie looked as shocked as though he’d jammed his hand into a power generator. “How?”

  “We don’t know all the details yet. Only that they were pursuing an anomaly, a standard TIE interceptor far from any hyperspace-capable ship, into an uninhabited system logged as recently secured by New Republic Intelligence. That secure designation turns out to have been false, sliced into our code at a point yet to be determined. The interceptor led them into a shooting gallery and eleven members of the squadron died. Lieutenant Donos is being debriefed now; I’m having him brought to Folor Base when that’s done. Even if he’s cleared, a lot of squadron commanders will have no use for him, so I want him evaluated for the new squadron.”

  Janson’s voice was ragged. “Eleven pilots we trained. Wiped out by a simple ambush. What a pair of incompetents we must be.”

  Wedge shook his head. “It was more than a simple ambush. We’ll know how much more soon. In the meantime, don’t tear yourselves up. Any one of us could have been lured into something like that—all we’d have to do is base decisions on Intelligence reports that seemed reliable. You understand?”

  Both men nodded.

  From a flight suit pocket Wedge produced a datapad; this he handed to Janson. “There are a couple of files on this. One is a set of pilot-data criteria. The other is authorization to run it against pilot profiles across records of all New Republic armed forces. Tomorrow, I want you to assemble a list of all pilots matching the criteria, then begin to contact them, find out how many of them are willing to put in for transfer to my new squadron for possible permanent assignment. I’ll bet pretty close to one hundred percent will be. Those who answer in the affirmative, send to Folor without informing them of their destination; we’ll meet and evaluate them there.”

  He turned to Hobbie. “As soon as you’ve had a chance to debrief Donos, I want you to work up a simulator run based on the mission that destroyed Talon Squad. It will be one of the first simulator training sessions the new squad attempts—and the next one Rogue Squad experiences. So it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Underst
ood,” Hobbie said.

  “After due consideration and review, I think it’s a terrible idea,” said General Crespin.

  It was weeks later, and Wedge Antilles stood before another military leader in another office and prepared to plead his case again. Wedge felt irritation well up within him. Crespin might be his superior, but did not have a grasp of small-unit fighter uses and tactics superior to Wedge’s. Few, if any, officers did. But he clamped down on his emotion. It was important to meet Crespin reason for reason, fact for fact; if he let emotion dictate his defense he would lose this argument.

  General Crespin, new commander of the fighter training base on the moon called Folor, and personal commander of two training squads of A-wings, paced behind his desk while Wedge remained standing at attention before it. Crespin was a tall, lean man who seemed to know only two expressions, impassive and stern. Since the last time Wedge had seen him, in the briefings before the assault on the second Death Star, Crespin had been promoted from colonel to general, had picked up a limp, and had had his left eye replaced by a glossy black optical; he usually wore a mirrored patch over the mechanical replacement, as the patch was far less ominous than the black, inhuman eye. Wedge suspected the general could see through the patch. Wedge had heard that Crespin had been injured during a bombardment by Zsinj’s Super-class Star Destroyer, Iron Fist, against a New Republic military base established near the border to Zsinj-controlled space.

  “We don’t need misfits representing the New Republic,” the general continued. “We need heroes. Men and women with proper character and clean records. Hologenic pilots who’ll look good in the broadcasts, good in the archives.”

  “With all due respect, General, that’s equivalent to piloting a course right into the dark side of the Force.”

  Crespin’s head snapped around and he glared at Wedge. “You’re insolent. Explain yourself.”

  Wedge took a deep breath. Contain your anger. Make him an ally, not an enemy. “First, since the Alliance was first formed, we’ve made it a policy to accept Imperial defectors.”

  “I know that. I’m one of them.” Crespin’s chin came up, as if he were inviting Wedge to address the question of his loyalty.

  “Yes, sir. So, as you know, sometimes these people had just been waiting for the chance to side with us. Like yourself. Sometimes they jumped when our position was stronger than the Empire’s. Sometimes they jumped for purely selfish reasons. We never cared, so long as they did their jobs, continued to aid the New Republic, and stayed loyal to our goals.”

  “So?”

  “So all these defectors are retreads, General. Many are men and women with spots on their records. Sometimes more than spots. Here’s an example. We pulled Black Sun criminals off Kessel, introduced them onto Coruscant, and kept the faith with them so long as they did with us. You seem to be saying that their contributions should be ignored, kept hidden—the only people whose efforts we acknowledge will be those with spotless records, uniforms, and faces.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Second, this idea that appearance needs to be a factor in the choice of new pilots so they’ll look good on holograms and broadcasts—sir, I understand your reasoning, and I approve”—the lie nearly stuck in Wedge’s throat but he accelerated past it—“but it exposes the New Republic, the Provisional and Inner Councils, to a danger I think you’ve overlooked.”

  “Which is what?”

  “If all our pilots have to look a specific way, meet or surpass some arbitrary degree of beauty, we’re exactly the same as the Empire, which kept hundreds of sapient species under its heel because they weren’t human. Because they didn’t meet specific human standards of appearance.”

  “Preposterous!” But Crespin looked a trifle shaken by Wedge’s last accusation.

  “Of course it is, sir. It’s more than preposterous, it’s idiotic. Especially in light of all the nonhumans in Rogue Squadron and other units. But put that argument into the hands of Imperial insurgents working within the New Republic and you’ll have insurrections, protests from every New Republic signatory race that isn’t represented in the cockpit of an X-wing or A-wing somewhere.”

  Crespin grimaced but didn’t answer.

  “Third, the new squadron’s makeup allows for better, not poorer, public relations. Every pilot who makes it will be a success story, a come-from-behind story, suited to a holodrama or series. Most importantly, they’ll be common-being stories. Not everyone can identify with Corran Horn from Corellian Security, or with Bror Jace, millionaire prince of the bacta-producing monopoly on Thyferra. But some tug pilot who joined the Alliance, fumbled his career into the gutter, and then recovered it, repaired the damage he’d done to his life—”

  “Yes, yes.” Crespin waved for him to be quiet. “Very well, Commander. Your passion for this experiment is obvious. Your reasons are sound. Do it your way for now. Do note that I expect this experiment to be a disaster … and I’ll be on hand to clean it up when it detonates in your face.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll have to be aware of some changes implemented since the last time you were stationed here. You may have noticed when landing that the base’s emissions are much more contained than they used to be; external visual beacons are lit off only when landing craft need them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We need the extra security, what with Zsinj’s raids increasing in frequency and boldness … and with occasional lapses such as your own pilot, Erisi Dlarit, turning out to be a traitor—”

  Wedge reined in another flash of anger. “I should point out that she was placed in Rogue Squadron for political reasons, not recruited by me. And so far as we have seen, her controllers kept the information she sent them about Folor Base to themselves, not sharing it with renegades like Zsinj. And now they’re dead.”

  “Whatever. We still need the improved security. So long as this is border territory, we’re vulnerable to assaults like the ones Zsinj is so fond of making. All your pilots are being brought in without knowing where they are; the washouts will go out the same way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well.” Suddenly Crespin looked inexpressibly weary. Wedge wondered how many officers regularly brought him arguments and back talk—even when it was as polite and well reasoned as Wedge’s. “Dismissed.”

  3

  “You look like you’ve fought a few rounds with a rancor.”

  “Thanks, Wes. I’m sure General Crespin will appreciate that comparison.” Wedge sat back in his chair with a sigh, put his booted feet up on his desk. His office was a former storeroom with dismal lighting and not even a holoscreen to display a soothing picture of some faraway vista. His chair was a recycled ejection seat mounted on a heavy spring and a cross-brace. His desk was a section of metal bulkhead suspended between two low filing cabinets. It was all typical of the decor in underfunded Folor Base. Janson sat in a similar chair against the wall, and a third ejection seat was situated opposite Wedge’s.

  “We have pilots today?” Wedge asked.

  “We have pilots, possibly the last group, if some late arrivals make it in.”

  “Let’s get started. Who’s first?” Since the first day of evaluations, Wedge had followed a simple interview pattern: Janson kept the data on the pilots, allowing Wedge to meet each one without any foreknowledge. It gave him a better opportunity to consult his gut with respect to each candidate.

  Janson consulted his datapad. “His name is Kettch, and he’s an Ewok.”

  Wedge came upright. “No.”

  “Oh, yes. Determined to fight. You should hear him say, ‘Yub, yub.’ He makes it a battle cry.”

  “Wes, assuming he could be educated up to Alliance fighter-pilot standards, an Ewok couldn’t even reach an X-wing’s controls.”

  “He wears arm and leg extensions, prosthetics built for him by a sympathetic medical droid. And he’s anxious to go, Commander.”

  Wedge slumped and covered his eyes with one hand. “Please
tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Of course I’m kidding. Pilot-candidate number one is a human female, from Tatooine, Falynn Sandskimmer.”

  “I’m going to get you, Janson.”

  “Yub, yub, Commander.”

  “Show her in.”

  Late in the day, Wedge looked over the list of candidates processed so far.

  A Tatooine woman with excellent flying marks, already an ace, but a career in the incinerator because of what was listed as “chronic insolence.” An inability to keep scorn out of her voice when dealing with superior officers she didn’t respect. Failure to maintain military discipline. Wedge wondered how badly this would have affected her record a few years ago, when the New Republic was the Rebel Alliance and the military was a looser, rougher organization where rugged individualism was the norm rather than a common exception.

  He wondered, too, whether Falynn Sandskimmer’s attitude toward a certain Hero of the New Republic had contributed to the two demotions that had canceled her two promotions. Asked about Luke Skywalker, she’d said, “Can you imagine being compared to him all your adult life just because you’re another pilot from Tatooine? No, I’ve never met Luke Skywalker. In fact, I wish I’d never heard of him.” It was an attitude that would not endear her to many of Luke’s friends. Wedge, who was among those friends, simply shrugged it off. Her worth was in her performance, not her lack of appreciation of one good man.

  The second pilot, a human male from Etti IV, was facing a court-martial for theft. He expressed confidence that he would be cleared and asked for a chance to prove himself to Commander Antilles. A minute after he’d gone, Wedge noticed that the framed holo of his long-dead parents was missing from the tabletop. He sent Janson after the compulsive thief and scrubbed him from the candidate roster.

  The third pilot was a Talz, one of the white-furred humanoid inhabitants of Alzoc III. A former Imperial slave, he’d learned to pilot freighters for the Rebel Alliance and had transferred to fighters when the deadly pilot attrition of the year before the Emperor’s death had put a premium on good fliers. But his record showed a history of psychosomatic illnesses and the possibility of mental breakdown increasing in the last several years. His mental evaluations suggested that these problems resulted from conflict between the Talz’s basically gentle nature and the fighter’s mission of destroying enemy targets.