Star Wars: X-Wing V: Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  His communications board lit up and immediately he had voices: “—is just drifting. I have one engine coming up; I’ll try to maneuver over to him.” “Do that, Three. Is anyone else active?”

  “Five here,” said Kell. “I’m in the middle of a cold start.”

  “Four.”

  “Eleven.”

  There was a noise over the comm, something like an animal grunt.

  “Twelve, this is Eleven. Was that you?”

  Another grunt.

  “Piggy, is your translator burned out? Once for yes, twice for no.”

  One grunt, a short, irritable one.

  “Are you injured? Has it done any damage to your throat?”

  Two short grunts.

  “Good. Stand by.”

  “Sir?”

  “This is Leader. Who’s speaking?”

  “Sir, Shiner isn’t responding.” Shiner was Donos’s R2.

  “Nine, is that you?”

  “Sir, Shiner isn’t responding.”

  “I read you, Nine. Are you injured?”

  “No, sir. But Shiner—”

  “Isn’t responding. I understand. Let him be for the time being.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kell frowned. Donos didn’t sound like himself. He did sound like someone suffering a concussion or other injury.

  Within the next couple of minutes, the remaining Wraiths had reported in, all but Runt, Phanan, and Grinder. Most also reported electronics system damage, some of it trivial, though several engine units and a couple of astromechs were not coming on-line.

  Everyone reported total electronic memory loss—from the X-wings’ configuration choices to the astromechs’ full memory banks to the contents of the pilots’ datapads and chronos. That meant their nav course to Doldrums was erased. Even a return to Commenor system was impossible.

  Wedge doggedly worked his way through their options. They didn’t have enough fuel to go looking for a safe landing zone in another system; the X-wings were running close to dry.

  The Narra had nearly a full load of fuel. The Wraiths could improvise a fuel transfer between the shuttle and the X-wings, but under these conditions this would take hours. If, as Wedge suspected, this attack would result in pursuit by their enemies, such a tactic would doom them.

  Or the shuttle could dump all its cargo, the pilots could assemble on board, and they could jump around until they reached a system where they could reacquire navigational data. That would bring them to safety … but would cost them twelve X-wings, eight of them new. That would probably be the death knell of Wraith Squadron.

  On the other hand, if he had the Narra use its personnel retrieval tractor to drag the inoperable snubfighters to available cover, where they could be repaired, the energy-expensive effort would burn off enough of the shuttle’s fuel to make the squadron’s escape impossible. But they would be operable and perhaps able to take out the pursuit vessels.

  Finally Wedge said, “All right, Wraiths. Two reports a planet and satellites not too far away. I’m pretty sure that it’s Xobome 6, the outermost planet of the system, and it has an atmosphere warm enough for us to effect some repairs, and an asteroid ring—just the thing if we’re being pursued, and I’ll bet my Endor patch that we are. We’ll transit there, with the Narra towing the three nonfunctional fighters with its pilot retrieval tractor.”

  “That’ll be slow going and a significant power drain, Lead.”

  “I know, Eleven. But we don’t have another choice that will keep the unit in one piece. Once we’re in position, we’ll try to effect repairs, first on the fighters that are out of commission. That means—Five, how’s your suit integrity? Can you stand a few seconds of hard vacuum to make a cold transit to the shuttle’s emergency airlock?”

  “My suit diagnostics are down, too, sir, but I think the suit’s otherwise intact.”

  “Good. You and Cubber will put on vacuum maintenance suits Cubber stowed on the shuttle and effect repairs as best you can. I’m assuming that we’re going to have pursuers on our tails soon, so work fast and be as messy as you have to. Everyone but Four, Six, and Seven head on over to Xobome 6. Land and effect what repairs you can, all but Five—you remain in orbit. I’ll stay on station with the inert fighters while Narra tows them in one by one. Execute.”

  Kell, who had four engines showing ready, brought his fighter up to speed and in line beside and aft of Wraith Twelve—even at proper trailing distances he could recognize Piggy by his profile in the cockpit.

  “Demolitions.”

  Kell jerked upright. In commando operations plotting, he knew he might be referred to as Demolitions instead of Wraith Five. A check of his comm board told him this was a private communication from Wraith Leader.

  “Yes, Control.”

  “What do you think hit us?”

  “Nothing I’ve ever heard of. But I think I could build something to do this—though I could bank the money and live off it for the rest of my life instead.”

  “Describe it.”

  “You’d need four basic components. No, five. First, a pretty standard ion projector, probably rigged for a single detonation instead of multiple shots. Second, an electromagnetic pulse generator, with the same area of emission. Third, a sensor rig that can detect hyperspace anomalies—that is to say, ships jumping into the system. Fourth, a gravitational pulse generator like the ones off the Imperial Interdictors. And fifth, a communications device—probably a one-shot hypercomm unit, something to throw off a single alarm at the time of detonation.”

  “So you’re talking about a bomb that detects hyperspace arrivals, puts out a gravitational pulse to bring them out of hyperspace prematurely, and then hits them with both ion pulse and electromagnetic pulse.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “I don’t buy it. Energy dropoff is such that it couldn’t be made practical. What if you arrive in a system and this bomb is on the far side? It would detonate and do no harm to the arrivals.”

  “I thought about that, sir. And if I think as a bomber, not a demolitions professional, it occurs to me that you plant bombs where people are most likely to be.”

  “Explain that.”

  Up ahead, a tiny white dot, Xobome 6, appeared among the stars and began to grow. “Sir, most nav courses are plotted from the point of departure to the center of the system where you plan to arrive—that is, the sun. It’s simple and it’s safe; you taught us that. You can set distance so you drop back into real space short of the system, with no chance of hitting any natural gravity well, or you can fire straight into the system, and if you hit a gravity well before you reach your destination, it pops you back into real space before you’re close enough to the center of gravity to endanger you. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “So everyone knows that most courses are aimed at the sun of the arrival system. And if you already know that there’s going to be a jump from Commenor to Xobome’s sun—”

  “Oh.” The word emerged almost as a bark. “You set up your bomb on that straight-line path, just short of any normal arrival point at the system, and you’re almost sure to bag your target. Meaning that someone knew, or suspected, there would be traffic from Commenor to Xobome.”

  “And since there’s no trade between the two systems, it had to have been planted by the forces that attacked us. They knew we’d flee, and knew or suspected that some of us would flee by way of Xobome.”

  “Right. That makes sense. Thanks, Demolitions. Control out.”

  Kell had had a little training in zero-gee, hard-vacuum work. He’d done some exterior repairs on a cruiser over Sluis Van and had gone through the standard demolitions training in planting charges on a vessel in orbit.

  That didn’t make him proficient. That didn’t mean he liked it.

  In the cumbersome vacuum maintenance suit, which had built-in maneuvering jets, he could move around and stay warm. But he and Cubber didn’t have tools rated to the cold of space, just toolboxes co
bbled together from the X-wing hangar back on Folor, and this left them cursing over frozen and vapor-locked hydrospanners while Grinder, safe inside his cockpit, watched them impatiently.

  Still … Kell could look up for an unimpeded view of an infinity of stars, the sort of vista he could never see on any world with atmosphere and never had time to appreciate while in the cockpit of a snubfighter. He could look down past his feet to see the world of Xobome 6, rotating with a slow majesty. Somewhere down there, on a high plain blasted by freezing winds, most of the Wraiths were trying to make repairs to their own less-damaged X-wings. They were probably looking up now and envying Kell his comparatively warm environment suit.

  Kell floated beside the open hatch to Grinder’s port dorsal engine. Its internal diagnostics said it was on-line and ready to supply power, but it was receiving no data from ship’s controls. Kell brought himself back to his task. “Could all four data relays have been shorted?”

  On the other side of the X-wing floated Cubber; even through their respective polarized faceplates Kell could see the mechanic shake his head. “All of them identically? No, it’s got to be an interruption farther up the line.”

  “Think you could get into his cargo hatch and splice into the data feeds under the cockpit? I’ll monitor here.”

  Cubber shrugged, an exaggerated motion. “I’ll give it a try.” Tiny jets vented at intervals across his back, turning him toward the X-wing’s bow, moving him forward.

  “Kell?” The voice was faint, eerie … and emerging from within Kell’s own suit.

  Kell’s mouth went dry. He used his tongue to hit the microphone-off switch, then said, “Who’s there?”

  “Kell, it’s Myn.”

  “How did—” Kell sighed and relaxed. Donos had apparently patched in to Kell’s own private comlink, the one he carried in his breast pocket. Kell tugged his helmet forward so he could angle his chin down past the bottom of his helmet, making it easier for him to make himself heard. “Myn, call me on the main squadron channel.”

  “No, no. I need privacy for this. I need your help.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Shiner’s still down, Kell. I need for him to be up.”

  “We have more important problems right now. Shiner can wait.”

  “Please, Kell.”

  Kell frowned, troubled. The pain and worry in Donos’s voice were clear enough to carry even over standard comlink distortion. “What’s he doing?”

  “Nothing! He won’t respond to verbal commands for a warm start, and the reset switches for a cold start don’t do anything. I think he’s … dead.”

  “Probably just in need of repairs. Stop worrying.” The droid’s power converter could be down, or it could be powered up but with its programming locked, unable to begin a restart sequence until power was actually shut off throughout the unit and the system was restarted. “Hey, try this. Do you have a restraining bolt? You or any of the others?”

  A long pause. Then, “Yes, you have one.”

  “All right. Insert it. In him, I mean.”

  Donos didn’t laugh at the joke. “It’s in. But nothing’s happening.”

  “Right. Now switch it over to power-down.”

  “Done. No change.”

  “Now switch it back to power-up.”

  “No—Hey! It’s working!”

  Kell smiled. Among the many features of the standard restraining bolt, an attachment designed to maintain control over a fractious or independent-minded droid, was an external means to shut off a droid’s main power converter. Kell’s guess had been right, and this external shutdown had flushed the droid’s locked-up programming and allowed it to begin a cold start.

  “Call me again if you absolutely have to—but don’t call me just because his memory’s gone. All their memories are gone.”

  “Right, right. Thanks, Kell. Myn out.”

  Cubber summed it up. “Commander, we got Grinder and Runt mobile in record time, but Phanan’s X-wing is a loss until we can get it into a full shop setup.” Within his cockpit, Phanan looked pale. He said he’d gotten bandages over his injuries, but there was no doubt that he couldn’t give himself full medical attention within the cramped confines of the cockpit, without the medical kit now occupying his cargo bay. He also wasn’t moving too well; it was evident some of his cybernetics were still malfunctioning.

  Wedge’s voice sounded resigned. “All right. Pop the hatch and get him into the shuttle. Don’t forget his medical gear.

  “In the meantime, we can assume that the bomb that stuck us here also sent out a signal to whoever planted it. Meaning they’ll be coming soon. If it was a hyperspace communication and they were signaling the Implacable, the Star Destroyer could be here in another couple of hours. We could make a blind jump to deep space or the nearest star to get away from them, but that’ll probably end up killing us; we don’t have enough fuel to do any significant exploration. Anybody have any ideas?”

  Cubber, floating beside Ton Phanan’s cockpit, pressed his faceplate against the transparisteel and began speaking. The words didn’t come over the squadron frequency. From the slow pace and deliberate way he was shaping his words, Kell assumed he was shouting; the sound would conduct through faceplate and canopy, and Phanan would be able to hear him. He saw Phanan nod listlessly.

  “Leader, this is Eight. I say we leave Seven’s X-wing up in orbit for them to find, and when they pull it in, we board and seize them.”

  “Thanks much, Eight. Anyone else?”

  “Sir, I’m serious. I’ve been thinking about this.”

  “… Very well. Give it to me step by step.”

  “Well, we leave the fighter in orbit broadcasting a distress signal. Put up some debris with it to suggest that maybe another X-wing has been destroyed. Among the debris we have someone in one of the extravehicle suits, carrying Donos’s laser rifle for maximum firepower.”

  “And they draw the suit in and the pilot inside starts shooting?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They do this even when their sensors say there’s a live body in the suit?”

  “Uh … I’d forgotten about that.”

  Atmosphere began venting from around the seals of Phanan’s cockpit. Kell saw Phanan check and recheck the integrity of the bandages he’d slapped onto his pilot suit where shrapnel had cut through it.

  “Next plan?”

  Kell keyed his microphone. “Sir, wait a second. We could put our intruder in the Narra’s smuggling compartment. Its systems will conceal the presence of a living person. Pull it out of the shuttle, attach a battery pack to maintain its electronic countermeasures, and float it among the debris.”

  Squeaky’s voice was distinctly irate: “Cubber, we have an additional compartment in here and you didn’t tell me? I could have packed more gear, more supplies—”

  Wedge cut him off. “Continue, Mr. Tainer.”

  “Well, that’s all I was going to say.”

  “And what do we do if they don’t tractor in our intruder?”

  “Make sure he can play some solo games on his datapad?”

  “Not funny, Mr. Tainer.”

  Face cut back in. “Could we mount a propulsion unit to the compartment? The thrusters from an ejection seat?”

  Kell said, “Yes.”

  Wedge said, “But it would be pointless. Can you imagine trying to aim a rig like that before firing off the thrusters? Odds are a hundred million to one that he’d miss and shoot off into space. And those are odds even a Corellian will pay attention to.”

  Kell said, “Put the thrusters at one end and an astromech at the other end. The astromech can feed visual data to the intruder’s datapad. The intruder steers with the datapad, and the astromech translates that into precise thruster control. That makes the odds pretty good that he’d make it where he was aiming.”

  “That’s crazy, Mr. Tainer.”

  “With all due respect, no it’s not, sir. It’s merely desperate. Speaking of which, the sniper rifle
may not be rated to hard vacuum and the cold of space. It might freeze up. And we can give our intruder a much better weapon anyway.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Well, if we’re using a battery to keep the smuggling compartment powered, we might as well use the 04–7 power generator off Ton’s X-wing. And if we have that much power available, we could pull the guts out of one of the laser cannons, cable it to the power generator, and rig it with a trigger. That’d give our intruder a few shots with something powerful enough to cut through bulkheads, much less through stormtroopers.”

  “A laser cannon is nine meters long, Five.”

  “Not the essential components and housing, sir. Strip out all the computerized aiming and synchronization equipment, the diagnostics, the flashback suppressor, I think we could chop it down to a meter and a half, two meters.”

  The canopy on the X-wing came up and Phanan clambered out, surrounded by the distinctive glow of a personal magcon field. He immediately began to drift away from the craft. Kell saw from Phanan’s expression that cold was already eating its way through the atmosphere around his compromised suit. Kell and Cubber closed on him, each grabbing one of his arms, and began to maneuver him toward the Narra’s emergency airlock.

  Wedge took a long time to answer. “Face, Kell, that’s the craziest idea I’ve heard in a long time.”

  Face said, “Maybe, sir, but we’ve answered all your objections. We can do this.”

  “Let’s say you’re right. We have one pilot with a powerful, crude, prone-to-failure weapons rig, and he’s in a hangar on an Imperial Star Destroyer. What then?”

  “Leader, Eleven. A couple of ideas. If he could get to a computer interlock, he might be able to load in a program that would broadcast a distress to the New Republic. The rest of the pilots might be able to hide out until rescue. Or it may not be Implacable. It could be one of their support vessels, and we might be able to take it.”

  “You, too, Wes?”

  “Yes, sir. I think this plan is marginally better than dying of asphyxiation or starvation out in empty space, and it has the virtue of novelty. Implacable couldn’t anticipate we’d do it. Only crazy people could anticipate we’d do it.”