"Yes, yes. Continual retooling, and all that." Trigit drew his sleeve across his brow to wipe away the sweat that had suddenly appeared there. Han Solo and Leia Organa here? Escorted by units of Rogue Squadron? Why? He was under the impression that their respective missions for the Rebels currently had them separated, with the Millennium Falcon not even in service.
But he knew it had to be them. The base was surely abandoned by now, so why would the base's A-wing and X-wing trainees be waging such a furious defense? It only made sense if they were covering the flight of the princess, one of the most influential figures in the New Republic.
"Pilot, close with target designated Folor-Three. We're going to capture some famous Rebels." He smiled at the cheers of his bridge crew and returned to his command seat.
"That's very encouraging, Rogue Two."
Wedge realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it. Rogue Squadron and Leia here? When the Millennium Falcon had arrived and departed without the Rogues days ago? It made no sense.
Then he caught sight of the data screen and the information his astromech unit, Gate, was scrolling across it. These transmissions had been encrypted in the Derra-114 protocol, a code they'd been instructed to abandon weeks ago when they learned the Warlord Zsinj's forces had cracked it. It was the same as broadcasting in the clear.
New Republic fighter voice transmissions were often crude, part voice and part static buzz. This wasn't because the New Republic couldn't afford better transmission gear; it was a tradition dating back to the earliest days of the Alliance. New Republic comm units, by reducing voice data to the smallest set that would convey data and be recognizable, were able to broadcast transmissions across a wider set of subfrequencies, making it more difficult for enemies to jam them. The data reduction had another effect that was vital back when the New Republic was a rebellion: The voice distortion made it next to impossible for Imperial investigators to conclusively match transmissions with those who had sent them, so it was difficult to prove that a given person was the pilot at a given fight. Still, Wedge thought he caught some of Kell Tainer's vocal mannerisms in the voice of "Rogue Two," meaning the supposed Millennium Falcon group had to be Kell and his three companions. It was some sort of ploy.
"Leader, Two. Implacable is breaking off."
The sensor screen showed Jesmin to be correct; the Imperial Star Destroyer was turning slowly to the west, away from the fighter engagement. Wedge smiled broadly. "Wraiths, this is Leader. We've been given some extra time. Make the most of it."
Ahead was the thickest swarm of the dogfight, at least twenty TIEs mixing it up with half that many New Republic fighters. Wedge set his lasers to dual-fire and angled in toward the swarm. "Strafing run, Two. Fire at will."
Engines wailing, they dove into the thickest of the dogfight, firing as fast as their targeting computers showed green. Green return fire and red crossfire from their own allies flashed before them, above, below, beside, but Gate gave him no indication that he'd been hit.
The comm was live with the fog of communication: "Blue Three is gone, I repeat, gone." "Somebody get this mynock off my tail!" "Wraith Four, this is Twelve. Spin out, now. Three, your target should be coming into range . . . now." "Blue Four, this is Three. I'm still here, where are you?" "Then who's that cloud of debris—"
Wedge emerged from the far side of that cluster of fighters certain that he'd hit a TIE fighter, equally certain that he'd vaped an interceptor and winged one or two other enemies. He glanced beside him and was reassured to see Jesmin still on his wing. "Two, this is Leader. Status?"
"Leader, I'm hit. I show significant damage to etheric rudder."
"Can your R2 patch it up?"
"I think so. He's shrieking at me not to maneuver, though. He says it will tear apart the few connections I have left."
Wedge bit his lip. If that report was accurate and Jesmin returned to the fight, she'd probably lose maneuverability fast—and that would make her an easy target for opportunistic TIE pilots. "Two, break off. Return to Folor Base, maneuvering by engines only. Take up station there and keep me updated."
"Yes, sir." Even with comm distortion, there was no mistaking the resignation in her voice. Wedge felt for her; he knew she'd be berating herself for failing the squadron. He'd felt that way himself eight years ago, when ordered to break off his attack on the first Death Star. But he had no time to play morale officer now. He waited until she locked her strike foils back into cruise formation and began her long, gentle curve back toward base, then he looped around in a tight arc and headed back toward the fight.
Sensors showed the TIEs dropping at a good rate, though battle damage was taking its toll on the X-wings and A-wings. If the Borleias didn't launch soon, Wraith and Blue Squadrons were going to be in deep trouble.
Blue Nine and Blue Ten flew wingtip to wingtip with a precision that made Kell jealous. He'd always thought of A-wing pilots as being a little sloppier than X-wing pilots, because their crafts were not quite as maneuverable, but Blue Squadron was putting the lie to his suppositions. He revised his opinion of General Crespin from "pain in the rear" to "pain in the rear but a fine trainer."
Wraith Five and Wraith Six paced the two A-wings, and their rate was appallingly slow—about the same as a fast human sprint, the maximum rate of some repulsorlift engines. Though their course was a straight line northwest, they kept the Pig Trough within a kilometer of their position.
Kell checked his monitor, still showing sensor data. The fighter battle was a confusing blur of specks far in the distance. Closer, the Implacable gained on them with frightening speed. They were already within range of the Star Destroyer's bombardment cannons . . . though those weapons were not accurate against fighters at this distance.
"Runt, anything from Folor?"
"Negative, Five."
He switched back to the Derra-114 encryption and boosted his transmission power. "Princess, they're gaining on us. I give you two minutes before we have to cut and run."
Blue Nine's voice was a plea: "Just hang on a little while, Rogue Two. We're almost there."
Kell grinned. He and Blue Nine were pretty bad actors, but the crew of the Implacable apparently hadn't noticed. Maybe, if he survived, he'd get Face to teach him some of the tricks of the trade.
"Five, this is Six. Borleias reports launch."
"Falcon, sorry, you're on your own. Go to ground, get to cover. We'll meet up with you at, uh, New DownTime."
"I read you, Rogue Two. Be strong in the Force. Falcon out."
That was their bug-out signal. Kell instructed Thirteen to cut the power boost to the X-wing's transponder and shields; Runt would be doing the same, and this would drop the signal strength to that appropriate to a pair of X-wings instead of two groups of them. The A-wing pilots would now be shutting down the program that oscillated the energy going to their own shields, which had yielded the odd signal Blue Nine had hoped would attract the Implacable. If this all worked, a presumed Millennium Falcon and six or eight X-wings would magically transform, on the Implacable's sensors, to a mere four fighters.
The four rolled to port and blasted their way to the Pig Trough, now only half a klick away, then dropped back into the fissure and headed southeast again.
The sensors officer looked confused. "The signal changed. I think they're trying to jam us. They've certainly gone into that prominent canyon formation."
"Pilot, new course, due south. When you get to these coordinates"—Trigit tapped the point where their southern course would intercept the fissure—"hover. Weapons, prepare the tractor. We'll pluck them out of that ravine like a Gamorrean plucks morrts."
"Admiral, this is Tactical. The Rebel fighters at the main engagement are breaking off. We also show another transport well out ahead of them, clearing Folor's gravity well."
"Tell the interceptors to keep on their tail, pick off stragglers, plot their jump course if they jump."
"Sir, the interceptors are all gone."
Trigit l
ooked up. "Wait. There was another transport?"
"Yes, sir."
The admiral felt his stomach begin to sink. "Pilot, bring us to flank speed. I want us over that canyon now."
"Coming to flank speed, sir."
Janson's voice crackled over the comm unit, "Borleias reports she's away and within a couple of minutes of entering hyperspace."
Then Crespin's voice; Wedge was pleased to hear that the aging pilot was still among the living. "Blue Squadron, Wraith Squadron, break off and regroup. We'll reunite at Rendezvous One."
"Blue Leader, Wraith Leader. Acknowledged. Best of luck." Wedge, just having completed another head-to-head run-through of the most energetic swarm of fighters, began a long circle. "Wraiths, you heard him. Break off. Form up on me."
The surviving TIEs, reduced in number by half and never reinforced by the presence of the Implacable, let them go—all but a pair of overeager eyeballs who pursued and were vaped almost immediately by Janson and Piggy.
Wedge brought Wraith Squadron around to a southward course, toward base. "Wraith Five, Wraith Six, do you read?"
"We read, Leader. We're coming. Too busy to calculate ETA."
The Implacable slowed to a full stop with its main tractor array poised over the fissure.
The sensors officer immediately spoke up. "Four ships incoming along that geographical formation. But they're not target Folor-Three."
Trigit frowned. "What do you mean? Who are they?" "Two X-wings, two A-wings. No Corellian YT-1300s." No Millennium Falcon. Trigit closed his eyes. Twice. He'd been fooled twice in one day. Not even his own children, bright and malicious as they were, had ever done that to him. He rubbed his forehead, at the headache that had suddenly appeared there. "Forget the tractor," he said gently. "Maximum laser bombardment. I want them dead."
Kell finished his transmission with the Implacable almost directly overhead. Then the Star Destroyer's laser cannons began raining columns of pure destruction down on them.
The first blast hit the fissure wall less than a hundred meters ahead, filling the fissure and sky above with blinding light and melting stone debris. Kell headed to starboard of the blast's center, flying by memory while his sight and sensors were useless, and cleared the blast field, only to run right into another one. He heard stone shards hammer against his cockpit, against the side of his fighter. "Six, we're in trouble."
"Five, I'm taking lead." It was Runt's voice, but different, neither the polite Runt of ordinary conversation nor the inarticulate screamer who did his best flying.
Kell saw Runt overtake him, could barely pick him out visually and by sensor. Runt continued, "Blues, follow me in. This is an easy one."
Obligingly, Kell brought his fighter up on Runt's wing. Each debris cloud they cleared brought them into another one, more hammering sounds of stone shrapnel, more buffeting from the suddenly expanding clouds of gas that used to be ice and solid rock. But Kell maneuvered when Runt did and, miraculously, avoided tearing himself to shreds on the fissure walls.
Then, a sharp right turn and they were beyond the bombardment. Laser blasts the diameter of fighters hammered the fissure rim above them but did not reach the depths. Runt led them down to the fissure bottom and reduced their speed from insane to merely near-insane velocities.
"Great work, Six. Who was that?"
"The student. The one who remembers, who studies for tests."
"Tell him he just scored very high." Kell brought diagnostics up on his main monitor. They showed minor damage to both port strike foils and a slow leak, a very slow one, of cabin pressure. "Blue Nine, Blue Ten, status?"
"We're chewed up, Wraith Five. But we can make it back to the group."
"Good. This far from the Implacable, I think we'll save fuel and jump out of the Pig Trough, head in straight."
"Suits us."
Kell found his hands were shaking, that his heart was hammering like Twi'lek warrior music. He'd just led a Star Destroyer on a fruitless chase and survived its attempt at retribution—and that called for a celebration.
Just before they jumped out of the fissure, Kell set his comm unit to broadcast in the open. "Attention, Implacable," he said. "Be advised, you've just become the victims of Dinner Squadron!"
Runt's voice came in almost immediately: "And Silly Squadron!"
"Consider yourselves humiliated. And welcome to Folor. Out."
10
Ten X-wings and the squadron's Lambda-dass shuttle, the Narra, were already lining up for departure as Kell and Runt arrived. The late arrivals slid into formation with Phanan and Face, then Wedge brought the squadron up to speed and oriented them away from Folor.
Wedge's voice came over the comm unit. "Wraiths, I have the pleasure of reporting no losses among our forces. Ton Phanan has reported some minor injury; fortunately, he has our doctor with him. Everyone else has sustained some vehicle damage, none critical. For a unit's first engagement against a numerically superior force, that's brilliant fly-ing."
"Leader, Eight. How did Blue Squadron make out?"
"Not so well, Eight. Five lost, serious damage to most of the rest. We have two kills today for Face, which brings his total to six—you're an ace, Loran."
"Do I get a trophy with that?"
"No, but someone may buy you a drink. I also need to commend Wraith Five and Wraith Six for exemplary tactics in drawing the Implacable away from us—"
"Thank you, sir!""Pipe down, Five. Also to mention that I'm thinking of putting you two on report for that stunt with the clear-air broadcast to the Implacable. What were you thinking?"
"Uhhh ... I guess we weren't, sir. I was just shot through with adrenaline because I'd survived."
"Well, I expect it all balances out, and by way of reward and punishment I'll just hammer medals straight into your skulls."
"Thank you, sir. Uh—who's piloting Narra?"
Another familiar voice cut in. "It's Cubber, Five. I have Squeaky with me."
Wedge said, "That reminds me. Wraiths, be advised that instead of taking the first transport off this rock, Squeaky raided your quarters and lockers, bagging anything he thought would be of importance to you, especially personal items; they're all aboard the Narra."
There was a chorus of thanks, whistles, and short cheers over the comm. Then Squeaky's voice: "It was enlightened self-interest, I assure you. Had I not done this, I would have been barraged with requests for replacements for your lost goods. I'm far too busy to attend to such irrelevant requests."
"Leader, Five. What's our destination?" Folor had shrunk to a small coin-sized disk of silver-gray behind them; their current course was taking them around Commenor in a wide arc.
"As before, Doldrums. We're going to take the same navigational exercise as before. We'll be joining the rest of the Folor Base evacuees at Doldrums."
"They're going there, too? That's an odd coincidence."
"No coincidence, Five. When I reported the Implacable coming in, I also told General Crespin of our training mission and mentioned that Doldrums would be a good site to stage a regrouping. The rest of the evacuees are going there in one jump; we're going to do our exercise just because we can use the practice. Which reminds me—I need fuel reports from each of you."
Malicious cheer clearly visible on his face even through the wavering hyperspace connection, Warlord Zsinj's hologram smiled at Trigit. "Well?"
Trigit didn't bother to conceal his glum mood. "I have both good news and bad to report. The good news: the base on Folor is gone, and I think I gave it enough of a pounding to make it impractical for the Rebellion to reestablish it."
"Good! And?"
"Due to some unanticipated reconnaissance and some superior tactics on their part, the Rebel garrison got away without significant loss. We, on the other hand, had substantial losses. Twenty-six TIEs of various types destroyed, another eleven damaged so badly that they withdrew from the engagement. I've already transmitted a requisitions request to your bridge."
"Apwar, Apwar!
They outmaneuvered you with such ease, and you expect me to replace your losses?"
"Yes, of course. I don't ask for unnecessary excesses of supplies when I perform brilliantly for you, and I do ask for ordinary replacements on those few occasions I come up short. So far, I believe you have little to complain about." Trigit finally let a smile spread across his face. "Besides, I had already set some activities in motion to capture possible evacuees. With luck, I'll have some better news to report to you in the near future."
Zsinj sighed, rippling the holographic image. "Very well. I'll signal you when I have replacements available for you. In the meantime, keep—"
"—you informed. As ever, sir."
Zsinj gave him a frosty smile and wavered out of existence.
Before they made the jump to hyperspace, Wedge switched his comm over to give him a private channel with Janson. "Wes."
"I'm here."
"What was Piggy doing?"
"I'm not sure how to describe it. I think he was running like a tactical planning computer. In addition to doing all his own flying—he vaped one interceptor—he seemed to be keeping track of all the Wraiths and their current opponents. He offered a few suggestions at critical times and gave us a handful of kills we wouldn't have had otherwise."
"I've never heard of anyone able to do that."
"Well, he's not human. He's not even exactly Gamorrean."
"What's your assessment of the overall squadron?"
"They're not as good as Rogue Squadron was when you reorganized the squadron. But they're still pretty good. Why?"
"They're just . . . different. Hand them an ordinary set of instructions and they'll carry them out in an ordinary fashion. Hand them an objective without instructions and they accomplish it some strange way. Like that whole fake Millennium Falcon ploy, and what Piggy was doing, and the data they got off Commenor's planetary computer net. I'm having a hard time anticipating them."
"Hey, you picked them."
"I—I picked them? What were you doing during those pilot interviews?"
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