Star Wars: X-Wing I: Rogue Squadron

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Kirtan aborted a wince. “Yes?”

  “Our source within the squadron tells us that a friend of yours is a flight leader of remarkable skill.”

  One of Isard’s earlier statements ran through his mind again. A man is best evaluated by his enemies. “Corran Horn.”

  “You see, you already know more about them than you thought you did.” Ysanne Isard gave him an even stare. “Do you accept being the instrument of Rogue Squadron’s destruction?”

  “With pleasure, Madam Director.” Kirtan smiled to himself. “With the utmost of pleasure indeed.”

  13

  Corran forced himself to relax. Though Commander Antilles had cast the trip as an exercise in astronavigation and hyperspace jumping, deep down in his gut Corran thought a lot was being left unsaid. He was certain that if they had been going out on a formal patrol or escort mission Wedge would have told them so. The fact that he hadn’t said anything conflicted with the mission requirement of packing up and stowing their personal gear in their X-wings. This left Corran thinking something more than an exercise was taking place.

  Because of his training exercise scores, Corran had been promoted to Lieutenant and given the command of Three Flight. As an officer he had expected Wedge would trust him enough to let him know what was really going on. Even so, with his background he had great respect for security, and that put a brake on his uneasiness.

  Those concerns don’t matter. Getting through the drill does. Heading outbound from Folor’s scarred grey surface, Corran flew lead for Rogue Squadron’s Three Flight. Ooryl was back to starboard while Lujayne and Andoorni were off to port, similarly staggered front and back. Within the unit they had comm unit call signs of Rogue Nine through Twelve respectively, though for this exercise they would be operating as a semiindependent flight.

  “Let’s keep it close, Three Flight. Whistler will send you all our jump coordinates and speed parameters. Have your R2s double-check it, then lock the route.” He checked his datascreen for the positions of the first two X-wing flights and Tycho Celchu bringing up the rear in a captured Lambda-class shuttle, Forbidden. “We follow One Flight on this leg, then Two Flight on the next one. After that we’re leading, so let’s be prepared.”

  The members of his flight signaled their readiness to jump, so Corran keyed his comlink over to the command frequency. “Three Flight ready to jump on your mark, Rogue One.”

  “Good. All flights, five seconds to mark.”

  With Wedge’s reply Whistler began counting down for the five seconds. Corran watched the seconds click off the digital display. When it read 00:00 he engaged the X-wing’s hyperdrive and sat back as the stars filled the viewscreen. Just as the color threatened to overwhelm him with its intensity, his snubfighter leaped into hyperspace and moved beyond the ability of the light to abuse him.

  The first leg was to take them about an hour and had them flying along the plane of the galactic dish, moving against the swirl of the galaxy itself. The course brought them in ever so slightly toward the Core, which was good because the databases containing information about navigation hazards got progressively better as they headed toward the Core.

  And Coruscant.

  Corran knew the Imperial capital was not their intended target—at least not for this flight—but he felt certain they would get there eventually. His more immediate concern, however, was plotting the course for the third leg of the jump. While he had not been told their final destination, Commander Antilles had given him a list of twenty starting and ending points, and he had calculated the best courses he could see for making those jumps. The direction, speed, and duration of the first leg allowed him to eliminate all but two of the courses given to Rhysati for solution for the second leg and that narrowing down of ending points meant he only had two plans of his own to refine.

  The first course of his, which would take the flight further along the disk and outside the most populated and advanced section of the galaxy, had been plotted pretty tightly. Several black hole clusters narrowed leeway as far as that course was concerned. He glanced at it again and decided it couldn’t be refined any more.

  “Whistler, bring up the course for the Morobe system.”

  The astromech droid hooted at him as numbers and graphics scrolled up on the screen.

  “Yes, I know you did the best you could on this plotting. Freeze output there.” He tapped the glass on the monitor. “At the Chorax system you have us skirting it by .25 parsecs. There’s only one planetary mass in that system and the sun isn’t that big. Since the Chorax system comes up so early in our leg, if you pull us another tenth of a parsec closer we should come out of hyperspace close enough to Morobe’s habitable planets that we won’t need to make an in-system jump to find gravity if we need it.”

  The astromech wailed at him.

  Corran laughed. “You’re correct, the data you used to compute the course indicated giving the system a wider berth, but that’s because you’re using merchant data and they’re afraid of pirates and smugglers working the system. We’re a squadron of X-wings. We have nothing to worry about.”

  With astronavigation and hyperspace jumping being so tricky a business, courses were plotted as often as not to brush by inhabited systems, even if they were inhabited by social misfits and undesirables. If a hyperdrive went out in midflight, or refused to engage after a course correction between jumps, being within hailing distance of worlds from which help could easily be summoned was a blessing. Trying to find a ship that had misjumped to some random location in the galaxy was next to impossible—as all those who hunted after the fabled Katana fleet had learned since its disappearance.

  The first leg of the journey ended uneventfully. Two Flight, with Rhysati flying lead, took over from One Flight and brought the squadron around on its new heading. Just before they made the jump to light speed, Commander Antilles shot Corran the coordinates for the third jump.

  “So, it’s Morobe after all.” Corran called the flight plan up for one last time, ignoring Whistler’s disgusted wail, and went over it. The course appeared as nearly perfect as possible, given the ships they were using. A ship capable of greater speed could have trimmed even more distance off the run by getting closer to the Chorax system. The greater speed would allow it to resist the influence of the star’s hyperspace mass shadow. Without the resistance the ship would be dragged back into realspace in the system and, more likely than not, would be unable to escape the sun’s gravitational grasp.

  “Fortunately X-wings have enough power to get us through.” Corran glanced at his reactor fuel level readings. The hyperdrives barely sipped fuel, while the sublight engines gulped it. Running up to a lightspeed jump burned a lot of fuel, though not as much as maneuvering through a dogfight, but nothing they had done on their journey so far had been that taxing on the engines or fuel supply.

  By the time we make my jump we’ll still be at eighty-seven percent of a full load. More than enough to make it to the Morobe system and back home again.

  The squadron came out of hyperspace and Corran eased his stick to port. “Squadron, come about to a heading of 230 degrees and depress 12 degrees. Flight plan on its way to you.” He pushed his stick forward until the X-wing’s nose dipped slightly. “Jump to light speed in five.”

  The jump to hyperspace for his leg seemed somehow smoother and more effortless than the previous two. He knew that sensation was an illusion and he wondered about it for a moment or two. It occurred to him that the reason he was more at ease with his jump was because he had been in control of it. Mistakes made in calculating a hyperspace jump could be fatal and Corran had never been good about putting responsibility for his life in another person’s hands.

  “But I don’t have to worry about a mistake on this leg, since I did the calculations.” A keening whistle from his astromech made him smile. “Fine. You did the calculations, with no help from me at all.”

  Whistler’s hooting became more urgent. The astromech started scrolling sensor
data over the cockpit screen, but none of it made sense to Corran. “There’s another stellar mass in the Chorax system. That’s impossible, unless …”

  Before he could broadcast a warning to the other members of Rogue Squadron, the automatic safety cutout on the hyperdrive kicked in. The snubfighter burst through an incandescent white wall and into the outer reaches of the Chorax system.

  And right into the middle of a running lightfight.

  Corran threw the stick hard to port and pushed it forward. “Rogue Eleven, break up-star.” He trusted Ooryl would follow him moving down and to the left, which cleared the way for the rest of the squadron to enter the system. “Lock S-foils into attack position.”

  He reached up and flipped the switch with his right hand. “Whistler, have you IDed those ships yet?”

  The little droid shrieked urgently back at him.

  “Anything you can give me.” The big ship, Corran knew immediately, was an Imperial Interdictor cruiser. Its quartet of gravity well projectors allowed it to create a hyperspace shadow roughly equivalent to that of a fair-sized star. The Interdictors had proved effective in ambushing smugglers and pirates—and the presence of one of the six-hundred-meter-long triangular cruisers in the Chorax system was not wholly unexpected.

  It hadn’t been there to trap them, however. Running from the cruiser, which Whistler identified as the Black Asp, was a modified Baudo-class star yacht. About three times as long as his X-wing, the yacht had a broad, triangular shape to it that was softened by the gentle down-curve of the wings. It looked almost organic in origin, as if it should have been swimming through space instead of rocketing along on its twin engine’s ion thrust.

  Corran had seen plenty of modified yachts in his time with Corellian Security, and this one even looked vaguely familiar. Most often the yachts were modified to haul contraband. While he had no love for smugglers, he had even less for the Empire. Enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  Whistler bleated sharply. Corran glanced at his screen, then keyed his comm. “TIEs. Squints—I mean Interceptors. Looks like a dozen of them.” He looked up through his cockpit canopy and felt panic when he couldn’t see with the naked eye what his instruments showed so plainly on his monitor. “Rogue One, what are your orders?”

  Wedge’s voice came back cool. “Engage them, but watch the cruiser’s guns.”

  “I copy that. Rogue Ten, on me.”

  Ooryl double-clicked his comm, indicating understanding of Corran’s order. That action seemed, like Commander Antilles’s order, to betray no nervousness at all. The bitter taste slicking Corran’s tongue surprised him because he’d flown against Imps in real life and endless simulator battles. He’d never been this bad before—nervous, yes, but not edging toward losing it.

  Pull yourself together, Corran. His hand snaked up and touched the coin he wore. Your squadron mates and the folks in that yacht are counting on you.

  Because the break they’d executed had taken them down, the Interdictor and its TIEs were coming in above their line of sight. Pulling back on his stick, Corran thumbed a switch that put all power in the forward shield.

  “All power to forward shield, switching to proton torpedoes.” A targeting box appeared on the heads-up display and Corran maneuvered the X-wing to drop the sight on the lead Interceptor. The range indicator dropped numbers and digits as the X-wing closed on the Imperial fighter.

  Easy, easy. Let yourself go, just like in training. He nudged the flight stick to the left and framed the incoming squint perfectly. The box went red and a strident beep filled the cockpit. Corran hit the trigger and the first torpedo sped in at its target.

  Another torpedo streaked past him and raced toward an Interceptor. Both of the Imperial ships broke hard, but Ooryl’s torpedo reduced his target to fire and scrap metal. Corran’s missile missed his intended target, so he switched back to lasers and evened his shields out.

  “Good shot, Ten. Scratch one squint!” Fingering the coin he wore beneath his flight suit, Corran swallowed hard, then keyed his comm unit. “Cover me, I’m going after mine.”

  Ratcheting the throttle up to full, Corran swooped the X-wing up on its port stabilizers, then corkscrewed down through a roll that brought him out on the Interceptor’s tail. He linked his offside lasers so they fired two at a time and triggered a burst that burned armor from the Interceptor’s bent wings, but failed to destroy it.

  The squint drifted to the left, then came up in a roll that brought it around and over Corran’s line of flight. If he continues that roll, I’ll overshoot him and he’ll end up on my tail. Corran pushed the stick to the left, making a wide turn to port that opened distance from the Interceptor, but still let the Imperial ship slip in behind him.

  “Ooryl cannot get him, Nine.”

  “I know, Ten, not to worry.”

  Keeping one eye on the rangefinder, Corran kept his X-wing on the long loop. Come on, you know you want me. If you had proton torps I’d be freespace ions, but you don’t! “Yes, Whistler, I know what I’m doing.” Feeling some of his confidence returning, he shrugged. “At least I’m pretty sure I do.”

  The Interceptor pilot came up fast and flew in a straight line to get quickly to the same point in space where Corran could get slowly with his great loop. Seeing his prey close in fast, Corran centered and hauled back on his stick, tightening his turn considerably and jamming his body down in his seat.

  The X-wing shot across the TIE’s line of flight barely twenty meters behind the ball-and-wing craft. Yanking the stick to starboard, Corran rolled the fighter 180 degrees. He pulled the stick back to his breastbone, bringing the X-wing’s nose up in another turn that reversed his previous course. Leveling the fighter out, he sailed in right on the TIE’s tail—his long S-turn having allowed him to let it overshoot him by a fair distance.

  A lethal distance. Corran lined the Interceptor up in the sights and blew it apart with two laser blasts. As pieces of the disintegrating ship whirled past him, he keyed his comm unit. “Ten, report.”

  “Cover Ten. Heading 90 degrees.”

  “I have your wing, Ten.” Guiding the stick to the right he saw Ooryl’s X-wing shoot ahead of him and into the ion wake of an Interceptor. The Gand’s first shot struck sparks and armor from the fighter’s central ball. One more, Ooryl, and you have him!

  “Nine and Ten, break hard port! Get out of there!”

  Ooryl’s compliance with Wedge’s order came immediately. His sharp turn took him across Corran’s line of flight, forcing Corran to yank back on his stick and roll to starboard. He leveled out and started a turn to port, but Whistler’s shrill whine filled the cockpit. The stick slammed back into Corran’s chest, pinning him in his ejection chair as the droid brought the X-wing’s nose up. Red crept into the corners of Corran’s vision and the stick’s pressure against his breastbone made breathing hard.

  The vast expanse of the Black Asp’s bulk filled his viewscreen. By all the souls of Alderaan! A blue bolt of ion-cannon energy sizzled in and battered down the X-wing’s shields. Whistler yowled and the stick went slack for a moment, allowing Corran to act.

  He slapped the stick hard to port, bringing the X-wing up in a snap-roll that put the Interdictor beneath his feet. He started to pull back on the stick, to show the cruiser his stern and rocket full away from it, but he felt a tingle run through him as another ion blast partially caught the starboard stabilizer foils. The astromech’s screams died abruptly and Corran was slammed against the left side of the cockpit.

  Even without seeing the stars swirling around him like dust motes in a Tatooine sand tornado, he knew what had happened. The ion blast had knocked out his starboard sublight engines, leaving the pair on the port side of the ship operating at full power and without competition. This put him into a flat spin, with his stern chasing his nose, completely out of control.

  But at least I’m hard to hit.

  The ion blast, in addition to shutting Whistler off, had killed all his cockpit electronics and accelerati
on compensator. The only thing he could do, he knew, was to shut his engines down and go for a restart. Until he had some sort of power, or until that cruiser slaps a tractor beam on me, the X-wing would spin like a gyroscope. Gotta power down.

  That was easier said than done. The emergency shutdown panel had been placed on the right side of the cockpit. Mashed against the opposite side by centrifugal force, it remained just beyond the reach of his outstretched fingers. Gritting his teeth, Corran levered himself off the cockpit wall with his left elbow and tried to hit the panel.

  The stick slammed him back into place pinning him. Corran caught it with his right hand and tried to pry it forward. Pain radiated out from where the stick had jammed his medallion into breastbone. So much for that being terribly lucky. The stick made it painful to breathe, adding one more unnecessary complication to his predicament.

  A sense of urgency boiled up in him, overriding panic instead of boosting it. “Let. Me. Go!” He redoubled his effort to move the stick. It resisted at first, but Corran refused to be daunted. Concentrating with every fiber of his being, he pushed and the stick yielded. Centimeter by centimeter he forced it away from himself. Yes, I’m free.

  Corran shoved the stick as far as it would go to the left, then used it to pull himself away from the port side of the cockpit. With his left hand on the top of the stick, he brought his elbow up, inch by inch, scraping it past various switches and knobs that had died with the rest of the ship. When his arm came up above the top of the stick, he lunged to the right, letting the stick slip beneath his armpit, and hit the shutdown panel with his right elbow.

  The thrumming of the port engines died, leaving him alone with the sound of his own breathing in the cockpit. The ship still spun and showed no signs of slowing, but without friction or other resistance in the vacuum of space, it would continue to spin forever. Corran relaxed slightly in relief at cutting the engines off, and was rewarded by being bashed back against the port side of the cockpit. His helmet hit a hard stanchion, leaving him a touch dazed. Along with the spin-induced nausea, it made him hope someone would shoot him and end his misery.