"The bad news is that as of today, Wraith Squadron has been decommissioned as an X-wing unit."
Face released Dia's hands and dropped back in his seat, looking as stunned as if Kell had just side-kicked him in the head. "What? Sir?"
Wedge heard intakes of breath from several pilots, not just from Wraiths. "It's not quite what it sounds like. It seems you've done too good a job, accomplishing a broad set of objectives, few of which have anything to do with the perceived strengths of an X-wing unit. You've made quite an impression on General Cracken, the head of Intelligence. As of now, Wraith Squadron has been recommissioned as an Intelligence unit. Commandos, insurgents, pilots—it will do whatever the situation warrants. With, unfortunately, less celebrity than even the little an X-wing unit typically receives." He offered them an expression of apology. "Obviously, the government won't just yank you out of Starfighter Command and give you like presents to another branch of the service. But all you have to do is say yes and your transfer to the new Wraith Squadron will be accepted instantly—and with thanks. General Cracken offers his personal wishes that you do accept transfer, and that you stay together as a team."
"I'm coming back to Rogue Squadron," said Janson. "That was the deal."
Wedge smiled at him. "Wes, the Wraiths don't want you anyway."
"That's right," Elassar said. '-You're unlucky."
Dia said, "I hate how serious he is all the time."
Runt said, "We don't like the way he chews his food."
Shalla said, "But we'll miss his rear end."
Janson grinned as he took it, and accepted handshakes from the Wraiths and Rogues around him.
"Those Wraiths who do not intend to accept General Crack-
en's offer can tell me more privately than Wes here," Wedge said. " And regardless of where you choose to go, drop by the pilots's lounge this evening for one last drink together. You can celebrate where you've been and where you're going.
"Now, for those commendations. Flight Officer Dorset Konnair, step forward..."
Face leaned against the pilot lounge bar and felt the brandy ease its way down his throat, warming him from within.
There was also warmth from without. The lounge was filled with pilots and friends—and tonight, with the mechanics, other technical staffers, and astromechs that had supported the starfighter squadrons. The heat of so many bodies raised the temperature in the lounge to a level no Mon Calamari would want to bear for long.
It was the end. Tomorrow, his profession would be different, and his surroundings would be changed, and so much of what he'd known for so long would be left behind.
"How is the voting running?" Wedge asked him.
"We'll be staying together," Face said. "Not everybody has talked to me yet, but most of the Wraiths will be Intelligence Wraiths tomorrow."
Wedge nodded. "I think that's the right choice. I thought the New Republic needed a unit like the Wraiths. Now others have bought in as well."
"Does that mean Admiral Ackbar has let you off the hook? You don't have to accept the generalship?"
Wedge smiled. "I had a congratulatory message from him this morning. 'Even I wanted you to win,' he said. 'How could I vote against a starfighter unit proving its worth?'"
"Good point."
Donos moved through the crowd to stand before them. He extended his hand to Face.
Face took it. "You've already congratulated me."
"And now I'm leaving you."
" Staying with Starfighter Command ?"
"Yes. Flying is what I want to do." Donos gave a helpless shrug.
Face grinned. "And staying with X-wings, too?"
"I hope so. I put in my request for transfer to any X-wing unit with openings."
"Ah," Wedge said. "I forgot to mention. Your approval for transfer came in earlier today. You have a new unit."
"Really? Which one?"
"Rogue Squadron."
Donos took a half-step back. "You're kidding."
"No, no, no." Wedge shook his head. "Kidding sounds like this. 'The next candidate's name is Kettch, and he's an Ewok.' See the difference?"
Donos's mouth worked for a moment. Finally he said, "Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome. Go talk to your new squadmates. Maybe you could manage to be a little less distant with them than you were with the old ones."
Donos managed a smile. "Yes, I guess I could use the practice."
The descent to Coruscant's surface was uneventful, but Dr. Gast, seeing the former Imperial throneworld for the first time in years, was thrilled by every moment, by every glimpse the shuttle's viewports afforded her of the world's soaring buildings and rain-filled skies.
Nawara Ven, beside her—far too close for her peace of mind, but that, too, would soon change—obviously did not share her enthusiasm for the world's attractions. He sat ignoring her, stonily facing forward throughout the landing. And that, too, gave her a little thrill of victory: to discommode the subhuman who had offered her so much grief was simply lovely.
An hour later, she and the Twi'lek neared the head of the customs entry line. It was one of many such lines in a cavernous hall that was broken, mazelike, by transparisteel barriers designed to keep arrivals from entering Coruscant unexamined and untaxed.
"Where do you go from here?" Ven asked her.
"I'm not fool enough to tell you," she said. "You can be sure it's somewhere well away from Rebel space. Somewhere far from bad-smelling, bad-tempered Twi'leks. Somewhere orderly, where the cutting edge of medical research is admired and respected."
Ven nodded sagely. "Well, then, I know exactly where you're going."
"No, you don't."
"I'll bet you half a million credits I can name the planet."
She offered him a scowl. Then the man ahead of her in line moved past the customs station. She swung her two bags atop the examination table.
The customs worker, an aging human man, quickly ran a scanner across her bags, then opened the first and probed through the few garments and personal possessions that made up most of what she retained of her former life.
Then he opened her other bag and froze. He looked up at her, astonishment in his eyes. "What's this?"
"Money." She handed him a datacard. "Here's my financial record. It constitutes authorization to travel with a large sum such as this."
"It's not the sum." His look suggested that she was a victim of sun-madness. "These are Imperial credits."
"Yes, of course."
"And bringing them into Coruscant is an act of smuggling." His hands shoved the currency around in her bag.
Nawara Ven leaned in close. "Actually, by Coruscant law, bringing in that many Imperial credits can only be for purposes of sedition. That's a far more serious charge than merely smuggling. You'll be spending at least a lifetime in prison on Coruscant."
The customs official snapped his fingers and waved. Security officers approached.
Gast turned on Ven. "You set me up."
He looked down at her impassively. "No, I let you do exactly as you wanted. I also saved your life. I'd say I've treated you rather well."
She spat at him. A gooey mass hit his cheek and clung there.
He brought out a handkerchief of fine cloth, wiped the sputum away, and discarded it, as though the substance were poison, ruining the cloth forevermore.
Then strong hands gripped Dr. Cast's arms and she was yanked away.
Han Solo and Wedge Antilles sat in the cockpit of the Millennium Falsehood, their feet up on the control boards. All lights in the ship and in the bay were off, including the strip around the magcon field, so they had an unimpeded view of the colorful swirl of hyperspace beyond.
"What are you going to do with her?" Wedge asked.
"Hmmm?" Solo stirred, his train of thought broken. "Do with who?"
"With the Falsehood."
"Well, technically, I can't do anything with her," Solo said. "She belongs to the New Republic. But if t
hey listen to me— which they will—I'll recommend they put her up in a museum. As a near replica of the Falcon. That way nobody is ever likely to bother me anymore about donating the old girl."
"Which old girl?"
"You know what I mean."
The comm unit crackled into life, startling both men. "Bridge to General Solo."
Solo thumbed the system to two-way transmission. "Solo here."
"Communications here, sir. We have a situation."
"Go ahead."
"A while back you ordered my station to run all incoming messages through a voice-analysis program. So you could be notified immediately if Lara Notsil contacted you again."
"That's right."
"No one thought to end the program after her death. Well, just before we made our last jump, we received a recorded message. Let me patch it through to you, sir."
"Hold on." Solo activated the bridge lights and powered up the Falsehood's cockpit terminal screen. "Ready to receive."
The terminal glowed into life. A data screen popped up, announcing the details of the message's origin and route before arriving on Mon Remonda. Its origin was Corellia; it was originally transmitted one day before; its intended recipient was Myn Donos, New Republic Starfighter Command. The data shrank and moved over into the left margin, to be replaced by a full-holo message.
The woman it showed had long red hair artfully draped in a braid over her shoulder. She was rather delicate of features, with an uncertain smile on her lips. "Hello, Myn," she said. "It's been a while since we've seen one another."
Solo and Wedge looked at one another. "That's Lara Notsil," Solo said.
Wedge glanced over at the data stream. "No, it's someone named Kirney Slane."
"You're not even surprised." Solo glared at him, suspicion on his face.
"I'm back on Corellia now," the redhead said, "after a few years of knocking around the galaxy."
"Years?" Solo asked. "More like a few days."
"Pretty good Corellian accent," Wedge said.
"I don't believe this," Solo said.
"And I know, after the way we parted company, you may not want to see me again. But I had to find out if there was any sort of chance for us. I think I'm finally ready and able to give it a try again." There was hope in the woman's expression, and acceptance. "I'll be here, at the address given in the message header, for the next few weeks. I'm trying to drum up traffic for my new shuttle business. I have a ship, a Sentinel-class landing craft I obtained used. I have a copilot you really need to meet and an astromech you already know. Contact me, visit me—do whatever you feel you have to. I'll accept whatever you decide."
The screen faded.
"Stand by, Communications." Solo shut off the cockpit microphone and gave Wedge an accusing look. "You said, when you overflew her X-wing, that you saw no sign she'd ejected."
"That's right." Wedge stretched lazily. "There was no automated comm signal indicating an ejection."
"Of course, that could have been damaged in combat, or she could have disabled it."
"Sure, sure. Anyway, as the X-wing was rolling over and sinking as I flew over her, I couldn't see whether the pilot's chair was still in there."
"Commander Square Corners himself, showing a streak of duplicity. Lying by omission. I can't believe it."
"Maybe, ultimately, I believe in happy endings," Wedge said. "I can hope for them, anyway. Besides, with Wraith Squadron on one side of me and Han Solo on the other, how can I keep from being infected with duplicity?"
"Good point." Solo considered. "She could come back. What she did as an Imperial agent is nothing compared to what she did for us."
Wedge shook his head. "I think the way you do, but the law doesn't. In her false identity, she swore an oath to the New Republic, then transmitted classified data to the Empire during a time of war. That's treason. The only legal outcome for her would be the death sentence. Regardless of what she did for us. Regardless of the fact that she's not remotely the same person who served the Empire and Admiral Trigit."
"You're right." Solo reactivated the comm unit. "Communications, you have a false reading. The sender's vocal similarity to Lara Notsil is a coincidence. She's dead. Understood?"
"Uh, sir, our correlation is something like ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-seven—"
"Tell you what. I'll send Chewbacca up there and have him explain to you what I just said."
"No, sir, not necessary. I understand."
"Forward the message to Lieutenant Donos and then erase all other ship's copies of the message. Nothing goes into archives. Understood?"
"Fully, sir."
"Solo out." He rose. "Come on, we've got an hour before arrival at Coruscant. I'll buy you a drink."
"I'll let you."
As they walked down the Falsehood's loading ramp, Solo threw an arm over Wedge's shoulders. "Corellian to Corellian, you know what the great thing about being a general is?"
"No, what?"
"In lots of circumstances, you can pretty much do whatever you want." With his free hand, Solo reached over and gave Wedge's hair a thorough mussing.
Wedge batted his hand away. "Hey, stop it."
"No. I don't have to. Hey, you should try this general thing. You'd like it."
"I don't think so."
"I'm going to send a message to Ackbar and tell him just what a natural you are for that rank."
"General, I'm warning you ..."
THE STORY OF HAN SOLO AND WARLORD ZSINJ
CONTINUES IN
THE COURTSHIP OF PRINCESS LEIA
BY DAVE WOLVERTON
(BANTAM SPECTRA, ISBN 0-553-56937-6)
About the Author Aaron Allston is a novelist and game designer from the Austin, Texas, area. His hobbies include reading, role-playing games, Ping-Pong, cat-herding, and promotion of subversive thinking.
Solo Command is his ninth completed novel and his third in the X-Wing series.
His web page is online at http://www.io.com/~allston/
Star Wars - X-Wing 07 - Solo Command Page 35
