Star Wars - X-Wing 07 - Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

  "After due reflection, I have concluded that my earlier in­tention was the correct one. I have come to formally resign my commission. It's my only possible course of action." Wedge waited, but Donos didn't elaborate. "Why?" "I have performed acts that are an embarrassment to this unit and that will inevitably result in the end of my flying ca­reer. I feel that it is best to end it myself, without further incon­venience to you or to the unit."

  Wedge regarded him steadily. Yes, this was just like the first time, with Donos's true thoughts hidden behind the mask of his face, kept rigidly at bay by his personal discipline. And his words had been so precise. "I'm sorry," Wedge said, "I didn't catch all of your last statement. 'To end it myself—'" "Without further inconvenience to you or to the unit. Sir." Wedge sighed. He rose, unfastened his right boot, drew it off, and stood it upright on his desktop. "You, too, Donos. Your right boot. Put it there."

  Confusion struggled with the imperturbability on Donos's face. "Sir, I don't understand." "Do it."

  When Donos complied, setting his boot beside Wedge's, the commander sat, putting his feet up on the desk. "Lieuten­ant, sit down. Put your feet up. That's an order."

  They sat, two officers each with one boot off, their feet up on the desk, for long moments of silence. Finally Donos said, "Sir, I don't think you're taking my request seriously."

  "You'd be surprised at how seriously I'm taking it. Now, start that little speech again, Lieutenant. Come on, you know it. It goes, 'I have performed acts that are an embarrassment to this unit...'"

  "You're mocking me."

  "No, I'm testing a theory. I think that in this ridiculous pose, you won't be able to convincingly recite the speech you have so laboriously written for yourself.

  "Let me guess," Wedge continued, and began counting off items on his fingers. "In your resignation speech, you take full responsibility for your actions. You throw yourself into the path of the oncoming investigation so that the unit will not suf­fer. You apologize eloquently. And with your words, you anaes­thetize yourself so you don't have to feel anything when your fellow pilots look at you or when your superior officers tell you what they think of you."

  Donos's face flushed. He rose. "I didn't come here for you to make fun of me—"

  "Sit!" Wedge made a bellow of the word, and Donos flinched. " And get your feet back on top of the desk. Right now."

  Donos complied. His face did not fade to a normal color.

  "That's better. Now, let's have it without the speech. In not just your own words but your real voice. Start."

  Donos looked as though he were silently practicing swear words. Then he said, "I'm here to resign my commission in Starfighter Command."

  "Because you want to, or because you feel you ought to?"

  "Because it's better to punch out before the oncoming mis­sile hits you."

  "Well, that's an ironic turn of phrase, in light of today's events. Who is the incoming missile?"

  "Whatever board investigates the events at Kidriff Five. And, if I may say so, sir, you."

  "I'm going to drum you out of Starfighter Command?"

  "Yes, sir. You'll have to."

  "I do not invite you to speak for me, Lieutenant. But let's assume that I don't have to do this, that the investigating board will do it. Why will they do it?"

  "Because I deliberately shot at a fellow pilot, or a surren­dering enemy, or whatever she was—" Donos's voice was sud­denly hoarse "—in the face of a superior's orders not to do so."

  "When we landed, you said that you didn't remember having fired. You didn't remember anything about the critical seconds in which you turned toward your target and shot off a proton torpedo. Do you remember those events now?"

  "No, sir."

  "So how do you know you fired deliberately?"

  Donos frowned. "I—I—Can I put my feet down? I feel silly."

  "You may not. You're supposed to feel silly. It makes it much harder to baffle me with elegantly designed speeches. What you may do is take your time in answering."

  Donos did. He took several long breaths and his face re­turned to a normal color. Finally, he said, "My assumption that I fired deliberately comes because such an act is completely in keeping with my mental state whenever I thought about what I'd do if I ever had the betrayer of Talon Squadron under my guns."

  "Very good. That's a real answer. Now, tell me, based on your memories, not what's consistent with your feelings prior to this event: Did you deliberately fire on Lara Notsil?"

  "I don't know."

  "Did you deliberately disobey the orders of a superior officer?"

  "I don't know."

  "Very well. I'm going to put the incident down as 'acci­dental discharge of a weapons system' for the time being. That's the way it goes in the record until an investigation deter­mines otherwise."

  "And when the investigation determines otherwise, I go through a court-martial."

  "Possibly, But they might not determine otherwise. We may never know. And if they're obliged to accept the 'accidental-discharge' theory because nothing else can be determined, your career will probably survive it. There will come a time, in the far future, when a peacetime Starfighter Command has too many pilots, and a blemish much less significant than this one will torpedo a career . .. but that'll be a long time in coming." Wedge gave Donos a frank and evaluative stare, one he knew to be intimidating. "Donos, do you know what I think happened?"'

  "No, sir."

  "I think that when you realized that Notsil had been par­tially or completely responsible for the deaths of your fellow Talon Squadron pilots, you lost all control and tried to kill her, in spite of danger to your fellow pilots and in spite of orders from a superior officer."

  Donos's face registered shock. "That's what I've been try­ing to tell you. That's what I've been trying to accept responsi­bility for."

  Wedge shook his head. "You haven't been trying to accept responsibility. You've been trying to avoid it. Responsibility in­volves owning up to what you've done wrong and trying to make up for it."

  "I... don't understand. Once again, I have no idea what you're saying."

  "Why did you lose control? More specifically, why were no members of your squadron aware that you might lose control?"

  "Obviously, there's something still wrong in my head."

  "And obviously, you've discussed this problem with the medics."

  "No, sir."

  "You've discussed it with your wingmate."

  "No, sir."

  "Whom have you discussed it with in order to improve the situation?"

  Donos looked away, struggling to keep distress off his face. "No one, sir."

  "Donos, that's the responsibility you've dodged. Now, ei­ther you're fit to fly or you're not. How do we find out?"

  "I guess I talk to the medics."

  "Talk to one of your squadmates first. One or more of them. Venting whatever pressure is in you is easier to survive if it's done in atmosphere rather than in vacuum. And then talk to the medics."

  Donos didn't meet his gaze, but nodded.

  "You're off the active flying roster until someone can tell me whether you're fit to fly. And you're not the person to tell me."

  Finally Donos looked at him and nodded again. "Under­stood, sir."

  "You did one thing right today, Donos. You probably don't even know it. Your flight recorder and your astromech both indicate that you detonated your torpedo before it hit Captain Loran."

  "I don't remember that, either."

  "But it's the one reason that stands between you and my instant acceptance of your resignation. Dismissed."

  Donos took his feet from the desk. "Before I go, may I ask something?"

  "Go ahead."

  "In the bay, you asked me something. You asked if we met Lara again, which Wraith I'd want to kill her instead of me. I still don't understand why you asked. What the question even means."

  "Well, answer the question. Then I'll explain why I asked."
/>   "I'm not sure I can. I don't want to kill her, not anymore. I don't want her to be dead. I'm not even sure I want her pun­ished. She was an enemy when she gave Admiral Trigit the data on my squadron, then she became something that wasn't an enemy." His shrug suggested helplessness. "I don't know what I want."

  "That's what I thought. One reason I asked was to gauge your reaction to the thought of somebody killing Lara. You didn't like that idea. And I also asked so you'd think about this: If we run up against her in an adversarial situation, and—in the faint likelihood that you'll be piloting by that time—you lose control again and assault her, you may provoke her into fighting back. Correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "If your squadmates see you having trouble with an enemy, they may come in to help you. Correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Which puts them in the position of possibly having to kill her. Which also puts her in the position of possibly having to kill one of them. The other half of that question was, which of your squadmates are you willing to sacrifice?"

  "None, sir."

  "Then get your head fixed. Or I will accept your resignation."

  Donos rose and saluted. The expression on his face was a glum one. But, Wedge reflected, at least it was an expression.

  When Donos and his boot were gone, Wedge let out a sigh and tried to relax. He'd had too many years of command not to have some experience at taking the attention and thoughts of a pilot and redirecting them, but it was still an effort, one that filled his gut with acid.

  Donos was on the edge. Wedge recognized that. One step the wrong way and he'd be lost as a pilot, too erratic and undis­ciplined to be trustworthy.

  But he hadn't quite taken that step, and if Wedge could keep him from taking it, he'd save the New Republic the stag­gering number of credits that had been spent on Donos's pilot training. He might even save a man whose warlike skills and impulses would not translate well to civilian life.

  There was another rap at the door.

  "Come."

  Wes Janson strolled in, datapad in hand, and stopped short. He stared at Wedge's bootless foot. He said, "Should I ask?"

  "Not unless you'd like me to decide on a new place for my boot to go."

  11

  She was drifting, in pain, and knew she did not want to awaken. But something would not let her sleep. Not just the pain in her back. She opened her eyes.

  Pink, she was floating in a sea of pink. No, nothing so poetic—she was suspended within a bacta tank, and the pain she felt suggested she was going to be here for some time to come.

  But a female technician with a perky smile was outside, gesturing for her to rise to the top, so she gave a few feeble kicks and floated up through the cloying liquid.

  When she broke the surface, a hand, a male hand, reached down to help disengage the breather unit from her face. When her vision cleared, she recognized the individual leaning across the top of the bacta tank, reaching in to assist her: it was that Twi'lek lawyer, Nawara Ven.

  "Doctor Gast," he said, "I have an offer for you. One half a million credits. Amnesty for all crimes to which you provide confession and full details. And a new identity—quite easy to manage, as you are already officially dead; only a couple of medics and three officers know you're still alive. But this offer is only valid if you can tell us, among other things, the biologi­cal signs and markers that indicate when someone has been subjected to Zsinj's brainwashing techniques."

  Gast let a slow smile spread across her features. "My, you have been doing your research."

  "We'll keep today's meeting short," Wedge said. He looked out over his audience of pilots, trying to gauge their mood.

  They were quiet. Few wisecracks. Little banter. They were even refraining from badgering Elassar Targon. A bad sign; morale was low.

  "A recent attempt by a Sullustan pilot to crash a luxury liner onto Coruscant was thwarted by a fellow Sullustan offi­cer. An attempt, also on Coruscant, by a Bothan civil services employee to cause an explosion at a power center was thwarted by his supervisor. Though, officially, both incidents were pre­vented by fellow workers, unofficially, they were prevented by New Republic Intelligence—who were following the blueprint we sent them for Zsinj's operations. General Cracken sends his personal congratulations to the members of Wraith Squadron and Rogue Squadron who participated in our prediction ses­sions. Yes, Face?"

  "Does this mean that the order keeping the Twi'lek crew­men off active duty is rescinded?"

  "No. Officially, it's not." He nodded toward Dia Passik. "Unofficially, it is, pending an upcoming vote by the Provi­sional Council. Dia, you're back on duty."

  "That's not good enough," Face said.

  "I know," Wedge said. "Zsinj has still wounded the New Republic. We're going to have to bear up under it until the wounds close, and be happy that we prevented similar mea­sures from being handed down against Sullustans and Bothans. But, Dia, it's up to you. Do you want to fly?"

  "I'll fly," she said. "I want my shot at Zsinj."

  "Good, because we have a heavy schedule ahead of us." Wedge activated the holoprojector. The image of a broad belt of stars appeared beside him, with numerous points of light blinking within it. "We're going to be bouncing in and out of Zsinj-controlled space, hitting his territories in some places, showing up in our ersatz Millennium Falcon in others. We'll

  also be moving through the borders between New Republic territory and Zsinj's, performing some routine assaults. Horn?"

  The Rogue pilot lowered his hand. "Sir, Lara Notsil isn't just gone, she has to have defected. She really has nowhere to go but the Empire or Zsinj, and that's a fifty percent chance that the Falsehood scheme has been compromised.".

  "That's a very good point. It all boils down to the question of whether or not we believe her last transmissions. That she still considers herself a loyal Wraith. That she never betrayed us. Do you believe her?"

  "No," Horn said. "She may have believed what she was saying. But after talking to some of the Wraiths about her be­havior, reviewing her conduct before Kidriff Five, I tend to think she's a situational conformist with a few bolts loose in her skull. If she ends up in Zsinj's hands, she'll probably end up being a loyal officer of Zsinj's."

  "That's a reasonable interpretation," Wedge said. "Don't think I haven't considered it. But I don't believe it. I think that the Falsehood plan will remain secure, just as the Hawk-bats plan did. However, since I'll be staking my life on this conclu­sion, and those of my pilots, I'll accept, without prejudice, any request for transfer any of you has to offer me. Make them through routine channels after this briefing.

  "More good news. We are now in the possession of in­formation about the blood markers that indicate Zsinj brain­washing in a variety of humanoid species. All members of this task force, from General Solo to the most junior civilian crew­men, will be tested, and anyone returning from a shore leave or unmonitored departure from the fleet will be retested. We will not face the tragedy of Tal'dira and Nuro Tualin a second time." He saw some expressions brighten.

  "All right. Among our new weapons is a lot of data about the way Zsinj moves into a system currently in enemy hands and acquires control of businesses there." That had been an­other benefit of the first interview with Dr. Gast; her uncle had helped him acquire his majority share in Binring Biomedical on Saffalore, and had told her of the precise techniques he had used. "On Zsinj-held worlds, we'll be making strikes against the businesses that have to be providing him with the greatest amounts of money or necessary materiel, and we'll be escort­ing more appearances by the Millennium Falsehood—both to lure him into an attack on General Solo and, we hope, to make him paranoid about treason on worlds he holds."

  There was more to it than that, details Wedge couldn't give his pilots. There were no Imperial-held worlds on the task force's hit list, because General Solo was forwarding to Admi­ral Teren Rogriss that same information about Zsinj's business dealings. New Republic Intelligence would be ferreti
ng out Zsinj-held businesses in New Republic territories, hoping to use some to lure Zsinj into a trap, cutting off Zsinj's precious pipelines of money and materiel from others . . . and Imperial Intelligence would be doing exactly the same thing in Imperial-controlled territories.

  General Solo and Admiral Rogriss, senior officers of two enemy governments making agreements that would be easy to interpret as treasonous . . . Wedge had to shake his head over that. It took a menace like Zsinj to make temporary allies of two men who would otherwise be bitter opponents.

  "So. Mission One." He shifted the holoprojector image to a single solar system, that of a red gas giant. "This is the Bel­smuth system in Zsinj-controlled space. On the second planet in the system is what used to be one of the Empire's finest tech­nical universities. Now it's an academy for Zsinj's pilots and officers. Two days from now, it's going to be a series of craters. Rogue Squadron will escort Nova Squadron in from north of the facility ..."

  "Lieutenant Petothel. Delighted to meet you."

  At the foot of the ladder to her X-wing cockpit, Lara shucked her helmet and turned to face the speaker. The man advancing toward Lara was tall and lean, with the cruelest fea­tures she'd ever seen on a human being. The nails on the hand he offered gleamed like mirrors. She suspected that they were as sharp as a vibroblade.

  She put on a broad smile that masked the sudden churning in her stomach. "I recognize your voice. General Melvar?" She took his hand.

  "Correct. Welcome to Iron Fist. And thank you for dress­ing for the occasion."

  Lara smiled. She'd left her New Republic flight suit at Hawk-bat Base and was now dressed in a TIE fighter's black jumpsuit, though it was adorned with the standard X-wing flight gear. "I can't tell you how happy I am to be here at last."

  Melvar's gesture took in her X-wing and her astromech, which was now being extracted from its berth by a hangar electromagnet. "Are you making a presentation to us of this vehicle?"

  "No." She laughed. "This Rebel starfighter and its as­tromech are all the property I have in the galaxy. If the warlord doesn't choose to employ me, I'll need them to continue on. To find someplace to call home."