Star Wars: X-Wing V: Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  Their next jump was to the Obinipor system, deeper in the Outer Rim but still in the path of the New Republic’s gradual expansion. Obinipor, the next stop on Night Caller’s circuit, was a free colony with an admirable mix of natural resources: metals suited to the fabrication of power generators, and active vulcanism providing the colonists with ready power of their own. Their orders were to take two TIE fighters and buzz the largest set of corporate headquarters, much as they had on the world of Viamarr.

  As soon as they made their initial drop to normal space they queried Obinipor with a coded transmission on New Republic frequencies and soon received the compressed, encrypted data package from the Intelligence team already in place.

  Before they had a chance to decompress and study it, Night Caller received a transmission on the HoloNet.

  Face took his seat in the comm center and punched up onto the main monitor the new view of himself. With the modifications Grinder had made, it now showed him seated at a much less ostentatious command chair in the ship’s auxiliary bridge. He glanced at Wedge waiting in the doorway. “I’m betting Zsinj.”

  Wedge shook his head. “It’s Trigit. Zsinj will have contacted the admiral for his side of the story before getting back in touch with us.”

  “Ten credits?”

  “You’re on.”

  Face shrugged, then activated the link.

  Admiral Trigit’s hologram swam into coherence.

  Face half rose from his chair. “You! I cannot believe you have the sheer, poisonous gall to contact me after that, that betrayal—”

  Trigit held up a hand. “Please, Captain. As soon as we realized it was a trap, we had to choose from among several tactics, none of which could please everyone.”

  “Please everyone? Admiral, you salted us and hung us out to dry! If I hadn’t been in the comm center, receiving your rather redundant message telling us it was a trap, I’d be as dead as my bridge crew. My bridge is a burned hole. I’m thinking of turning it into a garden.” Face let his voice turn from sarcasm to bitterness. “I have to rely on relief officers, untrained officers, prematurely promoted officers—”

  Trigit nodded throughout his tirade. “I know. I don’t contest your right to complaint. Tell me, though, what would you have done if you were in command of Implacable?”

  “Follow my fleet in and try to lead them back out again as fast as possible.”

  “You’re certain? You’re sure you’d have no other agendas from the warlord that might limit your choices?”

  Face glared at him. “No, of course I’m not privy to any special instructions you received from him.”

  “You may not trust me that I have such orders, but I can perhaps do something to convince you. Stand by for a new transmission.”

  Face glanced down at the comm board, waiting for the telltale indicators that Trigit was sending data … but, instead, a second hologram materialized before him.

  Warlord Zsinj.

  Kell froze. If this was a separate transmission—and the fact that it resolved itself separately from Trigit’s, rather than the warlord’s image stepping out of blank space next to Trigit’s, suggested this was the case—then Night Caller’s computer was suddenly having to do almost double the work it was before. Two HoloNet links with different points of view meant two sets of Captain Darillian images being generated and transmitted. Neither the ship computer’s graphical processors nor Grinder’s hastily compiled code was set up for such a drain.

  If the Captain Darillian image suddenly broke down, lost resolution …

  Face gulped and leaned back very slowly. “My lord.”

  Zsinj gave him a close look. “Zurel. It seems you’re upset with the admiral.”

  Face kept his body absolutely rigid. Perhaps, if the system only had to update his face, it might keep pace with the demands being put on it. “I think any commander would be, if he’d just gone through what I did.”

  The warlord smiled. “I think you’re correct. But you have much to be pleased about. I read your report. You did a fine job of getting your ship out of danger.”

  “The Rebels probably did not appreciate my use of their own Ackbar Slash against them.” The desperation maneuver, developed first in modern times by Admiral Ackbar, involved sending one’s fleet between lines of opposing ships, causing them to fire upon one another if they missed their primary target. It made up a large part of the fiction of Night Caller’s escape from Talasea.

  “Yes, but I appreciated it. Further—think about this. With Captain Joshi dead and Provocateur destroyed, whom do you suppose is next in line for command of Implacable?”

  One of the comm boards went completely dark. System failure, or a shutdown by the comm officer in the auxiliary bridge? Face sweated and tried not to think about it.

  Especially in light of the question Zsinj had just asked. Why was Trigit smiling instead of protesting the loss of his ship?

  Zsinj must have promised him something better. Command of the Iron Fist, perhaps, as Zsinj’s personal captain? Face said, thoughtfully, “I actually hadn’t considered that before.”

  “You’ve been busy. And you’re too busy now. Because I want you to join the admiral for one last mission. Then finish up your circuit and I’ll send you rendezvous instructions to rejoin me. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We have analyzed the data from the spy satellites you left behind,” Trigit said. “Do you know who’s been following you?”

  “No.”

  “Rogue Squadron.”

  “Really.” Face smiled. “I take it this mission the warlord mentioned involves them?”

  Trigit nodded. “We’re going to destroy them, Darillian. Annihilate them even more thoroughly than I destroyed Talon Squadron.”

  Face heard a noise, a muffled grunt, from the hallway outside the comm center. Sithspit, was Donos out there? He didn’t dare look to find out. “I will gladly join you for such an operation.”

  Trigit didn’t appear to have heard the noise from the hallway. “Good. I’ll rush to a position a few light-years from Obinipor. You just conclude your duties there … whatever they may be.”

  Zsinj smiled.

  “Then,” the admiral continued, “you’ll jump to join me, and we’ll reenter the system and position ourselves behind the planet’s largest moon. When Rogue Squadron comes in to perform their usual escapade, we’ll finish them.”

  Face took a deep breath. “A good plan, sir … but it lacks a little, I think, in ambition.”

  Trigit smiled. “What do you mean?”

  “Between Implacable and Night Caller, between your TIE fighters and mine, we can destroy more than just one twelve-fighter squadron. If we had a bigger, better target, one for which the Rebels would bring in additional fighters, we could destroy several squadrons.”

  Trigit shook his head. “Let’s keep things simple. The destruction of Rogue Squadron will have a much bigger effect than just the loss of twelve fighters and pilots. Their reputation, their legend, will also be destroyed.”

  But Warlord Zsinj looked thoughtful. “What sort of target do you mean, Zurel?”

  “The Rebels are fairly consistent in the matériel they allocate to various types of missions. If we wish to destroy three squadrons instead of one, we choose the type of site they’d use three squadrons to destroy.” Face resisted the urge to shrug, though he felt his shoulder muscles growing tight from his rigid posture. “A rich target. One they figure is worth some risk in assaulting because of what it would cost you.”

  Trigit’s voice rose in protest. “Warlord, we don’t even know exactly how the Rogues are tracking Night Caller. We can’t be sure they will follow Darillian if we vary the corvette’s routine. We have no indication that they followed Night Caller to Morobe.” His holographic image was looking up and to the side, beyond Face rather than at Zsinj’s hologram, but Face guessed that on his bridge he was staring straight at the warlord’s image.

  Zsinj waved his objection awa
y. “We’ll make sure Night Caller doesn’t go through the effort to shake pursuit that she did when she joined you at Morobe. We’ll give the corvette enough time to be spotted by Rebel spies. And if even that fails, we’ll just try again until we succeed. No, Apwar, I like this plan.” He returned his attention to Face. “Zurel, stay in Obinipor system but forget about terrorizing Bonion. We’ll worry about inducing his cooperation later. I’ll let you know soon where our ambush is to take place.”

  “Yes—”

  Zsinj’s image winked out.

  “—my lord.”

  Trigit gave him a rueful look. “You’ll make a good Star Destroyer captain, Darillian. If your ambitions don’t get you killed first.”

  Face smiled. “Yes—”

  Trigit disappeared.

  “—sir.”

  Face turned.

  Wedge stood in the doorway, giving him a piercing look. Behind him were a stone-faced Donos and a jubilant-looking Janson.

  Face shrugged. “So I improvised.”

  Wedge said, “That’s all right.” His voice became a deadon mockery of Trigit’s precise tones. “You’ll make a good lieutenant, Face. If your ambitions don’t get you killed first.”

  “Yes—”

  Wedge walked out.

  “—sir.”

  28

  Zsinj said, “It will be Ession.”

  Face nodded sagely as though he had any idea of what the warlord was talking about. Then his main monitor lit up and words appeared on it—one at a time, as fast as Night Caller’s new communications officer could speak them.

  Ession, Lucaya system, fourth planet (Corporate Sector). Settled four thousand years ago. Major center for industrial manufacture. Nonaligned. Night Caller’s last visit was eighteen months ago. No record of Zsinj-related contacts at that time.

  “The Rebels will see that site as a rich prize,” Face said. He carefully pitched his voice so that his words could be interpreted as sarcastic if, in fact, that world was not Zsinj’s intended ambush target.

  “Which is why you must make sure the site does not suffer too much damage. It would be a costly loss.”

  “Whom will I coordinate with on the ground?”

  “Raffin, of course, for general details. But he’s too nervous for the real planning. Work with Paskalian, his security director. She’ll set up the site’s own defenses, throw another couple of dozen TIE fighters into the mix, and all without Raffin’s shrill complaints. I really think Raffin is due to retire and Paskalian is due to replace him.”

  “Shall I see to that while I’m there?”

  Zsinj laughed. “I meant an actual retirement, Zurel. He goes away to live in a cottage somewhere and writes his memoirs.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re just being your usual efficient self, I know.” Zsinj sobered. His hands moved outside the range of the sensor on him. “I’m transmitting your instructions. Do try to get along with Apwar.”

  “I’m over my initial anger, my lord. And anxious to strike back at those who actually deserve it.”

  “Good. Until later.” The warlord faded from view.

  By the time Face made his way back to the auxiliary bridge, the comm officer had accessed New Republic records via the HoloNet and had the data they needed. Members of the bridge crew and Wraith pilots were clustered around him as the man spoke. “Pakkerd Light Transport,” he said. “Before the death of the Emperor, it was a division of Sienar Fleet Systems that built TIE fighters and Interceptors. After the Emperor died, Sienar sold it off and now it builds a ‘complete line of repulsorlift utility vehicles.’ ”

  Face snorted. “Who wants to bet there are still assembly lines for fighters?”

  He had no takers. Wedge said, “If Zsinj thinks the plant can throw a couple of squadrons of fighters at us, we ought to have a little help on the ground to keep it from happening. Like Lieutenant Page’s commandos.”

  “I’ll second that,” Face said.

  The comm officer continued. “Owner, Oan Pakkerd. Probably another false Zsinj identity. Chief officer, Vanter Raffin. Head of security, Hola Paskalian. I’d say that makes it a match.”

  Wedge stepped away from the gathered officers. “Our orders from Zsinj are to break off our mission here on Obinipor and head with all due speed—but by an extremely simple and easy-to-follow route—to Ession. Can you handle that, Captain Tabanne?”

  She gave him a look made up of amusement and scorn. “I hope that was a rhetorical question, Commander.”

  “We have broadcast codes that will get us past Ession system’s security forces. Implacable will join us on Ession’s primary moon for the ambush.” Wedge smiled grimly. “Then we drop the heavy end of the hammer on them.”

  Donos, who had been studying the screenful of data on Pakkerd Light Transport, straightened and turned toward Wedge. Face was startled by the deadly intensity in the pilot’s eyes. “This time he doesn’t get away,” Donos said. “Even if I have to fly my snubfighter up and down his corridors looking for him.”

  Two days later Donos merely needed to look out a viewport to see the ship of the man he wanted to kill.

  Night Caller rested on the surface of Ession’s largest satellite, a silvery rock covered in impact craters and dust.

  Floating a few hundred meters directly above them, sustained by tireless repulsorlift engines, was the Imperial-class Star Destroyer Implacable.

  Not far away, a communications relay dish was set up atop a mountain. This was a permanent array, a commercial dish designed to relay transmissions and sensors from the planet’s surface to ships behind the moon. But Kell had come up with an idea and Face, playing Captain Darillian, had convinced Admiral Trigit of its virtue—the idea that the dish was the key to their ability to hide from Rogue Squadron and yet remain instantly responsive.

  “What we do,” Face had said, “is rig the dish to throw off emissions like a failing transponder. Emissions strong enough to conceal the standard engine emissions from our two ships. The planetary communications can issue routine apologies for the problem along with a promise that it will be repaired soon. We can be right here, ready to launch, and Rogue Squadron will be unaware of us—unless they come in close for a visual sensor look at us.”

  “At which point we have them anyway,” Trigit had agreed. “A good plan.”

  So they had implemented it by the simple expedient of telling the Pakkerd Light Transport head Vanter Raffin to make it so. A short negotiation and a bribe of a planetary government official later, the two ships had their electronic concealment in place.

  Face slouched, bored, in his chair in the comm center. Every so often, Admiral Trigit wanted to chat and Face had to be here for it.

  The comm officer’s voice came over the ship intercom. “The shuttle Yellow Rover has just announced its arrival to system ship control.”

  Face straightened. Yellow Rover’s innocuous arrival was the signal that the New Republic attack was half an hour away.

  Minutes later the comm officer announced a transmission from Implacable. Face brought up Trigit’s image.

  The admiral looked irritable. “Darillian, are you sure you blazed a clear enough trail for Rogue Squadron to follow?”

  Face nodded. “I couldn’t make it too obvious, Admiral. If I operated outside our normal procedures, their Intelligence people might note it and realize we were allowing them to follow. I simply made sure that Night Caller was within range of Obinipor’s planetary sensors, spent the maximum appropriate time on course before jumping, and made sure to jump through a couple of inhabited systems where our presence would be noted by Rebel spies. They know where we are.”

  “A simple game of follow best.”

  The phrase didn’t ring a bell with Face. He simply nodded. No hint showed up on his main monitor to help him.

  The admiral frowned. “Follow best,” he repeated.

  Face smiled. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m still being distracted by our battle plan. In fact, I was wondering, since m
y few TIE fighters don’t constitute a significant improvement to the strength of your squadrons, if they might have the honor of escorting Implacable once the battle starts.”

  “Don’t change the subject, Darillian. You follow best.”

  Finally words sprang up on the main monitor. Face glanced over them, tried to look relaxed. “You follow best by following from in front. Thus your prey never knows that he’s not actually the predator. Standard Imperial Intelligence doctrine.”

  “You’re rather slow with a catchphrase that is practically a reflex among former Intel officers from Coruscant.”

  Face began to sweat. He hoped Grinder’s visual translation program would not pass that particular imagery along. He made his tone a sad one. “Do you know how long it has been since I saw my home, sir?”

  “Two years, seven months.” Trigit glanced off to the side. “And six days. Thank you, Lieutenant.” He returned his attention to Face. “Why is it that you don’t know something that should be second nature to Captain Zurel Darillian?”

  “Because I’m not Captain Darillian,” Face said. At Trigit’s expression of surprise, he continued, “Not the Darillian who left home two years, seven months, and six days ago. Everything changed after I left the last time.” Data began spilling across his monitor, pertinent facts about the real Captain Darillian, as Night Caller’s bridge crew tried to keep Face ahead of Trigit’s prying questions. “I’m not the Darillian I was before the Lusankya fled Coruscant and my wife died in the disaster that followed. I’m certainly not the compressed set of data in your memory that you think is Captain Darillian.”

  “You’re evading the question—”

  Face continued as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. He glanced away from Trigit’s face, tried to inject even more gloom into his tone. “An irony to that, of course. That one woman I adored killed the other woman I adored. I’m sure someone finds it funny.”

  “You’re—what did you say?”

  Face returned his attention to Trigit. “When Ysanne Isard launched the Super Star Destroyer Lusankya from its berth on Coruscant, the building in which my wife and I made our home was among those destroyed.”