Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  "Gray One, you're about a second from me turning around and giving you six laser cannons' worth of dental work—"

  The voice of Velery Station cut in again. "Blackwing Flight, break off and return to station. That's an order."

  "Sir ..." Blackwing One's voice was sulky, frustrated.

  "That's straight from the governor. Or do you want your pilots' licenses transferred to tractor operations?"

  "No, sir." With no further taunts for the TIE fighters, Blackwing One reduced speed, then punched up through the light canopy of tree branches. On the sensor screen, Black-wing Two was also headed toward the Velery Station coordinates.

  "Good flying, Gray Two. Now, let's buzz their administrative buildings."

  "Sounds like fun, One."

  Jesmin leaned back from the comm station. "Lieutenant, we're receiving a communication from Velery House. That's their capitol building. They're asking for a specific encryption that's in our computer. Obviously they've talked before."

  Janson, lounging in the captain's seat, looked confused. "There's no provision in the mission profile for this. They weren't supposed to call. They were supposed to batten down hatches and ride out the TIE fighters' overflight."

  Jesmin gave him a very human shrug. "I know."

  "Well, take the call. Tell them the captain is taking a bath or something."

  "Sir, Night Caller followed Imperial protocols under Captain Darillian."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning it wouldn't have a Mon Calamari communications officer."

  Janson uttered an irritable hiss. "Well, I can't take the call. My face is fairly well known."

  They both looked at Face, seated at the navigational console. He straightened up. "Uh, even with my scar, they might recognize me. Some of the Wraiths did."

  Janson didn't bother to conceal his frustration. "Face, you're an actor. Do something."

  Face stood, looked frantically around the bridge. There wasn't much on hand: items dropped by the bridge crew behind consoles, plus Cubber's toolkit over where the mechanic had been cutting the sharp edges away from the hole in the floor, preparatory to putting down a metal sheet.

  He ran to the toolbox, pulled out Cubber's welding goggles. Then a cylinder of orange paint used to mark spots on a ship's exterior where repairs were necessary. He sprayed the interior of the goggles until they were opaque.

  Containers of grease, hydrospanners, cables, sensors, tubing . . . He took a tube half the length of his forearm, inserted one end in his nose, the other in his right ear. Then he put the goggles on, resting them on his forehead, and hunted up one of the bridge crewmen's hats. "Give me the chair."

  Janson vacated it. Face settled in, pulled the goggles over his eyes, pulled the hat down low on his brow. "How's that look?"

  He couldn't see their faces, but Jesmin responded with gales of laughter. He could barely hear Janson's reply: "It's disgusting."

  "But they won't recognize my features. All right, put him up on the screen." He turned toward the bridge's main view-screen.

  He could dimly see the light intensity in the room change, then he heard a voice: "Captain D— Oh, my."

  Face took a deep breath and ran his voice down into the bass range where it could vibrate rocks and desktops. "Captain Darillian is having his bath. I am Lieutenant Narol. Who are you? What do you want?" He injected both boredom and contempt into his voice.

  "Um, I am Governor Watesk. I would very much like to speak with Captain Darillian." The man's voice was a plea.

  Face angled his head down so he could peer between the top of the goggles and the bottom of his officer's hat. The face on the viewscreen was of a graying, bearded man, dressed in rustic brown tunic but with expensive wood paneling behind him. "Was Basic your first language? Do you not understand? The captain is in his bath."

  "You could give me voice-only access."

  "He's dictating his memoirs and doesn't want to be disturbed."

  "In the bath?"

  "Of course, in the bath!" Face's tone was an explosion of anger. "Where else? The captain is a very busy man! He's not some deskbound colony governor with enough time to pick his nose with one hand and skim the cream off taxes with the other! If you have anything to say, you can say it to me. Or perhaps we'll just jump on to our next destination and I'll give the captain a report of your bad manners. And the manners of your pilots, who for some unknown reason decided to play tag with ours."

  "No! Lieutenant, please forgive me." The governor looked appropriately contrite. "Our air force is very new, the pilots not yet very experienced. They acted on their own ini- tiative. They will be punished. But that's not what I'm calling about."

  Face contrived, with posture and the set of his mouth, to look bored. "Go on."

  "I'm calling about the agreement. I'm ready for Viamarr to become a signatory. A proud signatory."

  Face glanced at Jesmin. Her fingers flew over her communications console. Then she began a wild pantomime that said clearly to Face that there was nothing about this in the ship's records.

  "It has been a while," Face said smoothly. "What makes you think that the original offer is still available?"

  The question caught Governor Watesk off guard. The man had to take a couple of gulping breaths before he answered. Before he could reply, the wall panels behind him vibrated and Face could clearly hear the sound of a TIE fighter screaming by near the governor's position. The governor tracked the TIE fighter's movement with his eyes, then returned his attention to Face. "Sir, the warlord said I'd have until your next visit to decide."

  Face gave him a cold smile. "And what did the warlord say after the last time he talked to you?"

  The governor looked stricken. "I don't know, sir. I couldn't possibly know."

  "Correct. Well, you tell me what you think the warlord offered and I'll tell you what part of it is still on the table."

  Janson smiled broadly and gave Face a thumbs-up of approval.

  "Uh, yes." The governor glanced down, apparently looking at a datapad or documents the screen didn't show. "We are to provide his army with supplies equivalent to one-tenth our exports."

  "And?"

  "And you are to ... and you would give us a location where we could transmit requests for aid in case of attack or invasion. You'd protect us."

  "And?"

  "And we would of course provide you with information about any dealings with the New Republic, the Empire, other warlords."

  "Of course. And?"

  The governor's lip trembled. "That was all."

  Face looked steadily at him. There was something in the governor's manner, something that said obsequiousness was his nature but that he was actually simulating it now. That suggested he was holding something back.

  Face turned to the side. "Ensign Ack—" He coughed. "Ackran, inform Gray Flight that they should blow a few things up before returning to us. We'll be jumping out of system as soon as they return."

  "No, wait!" The shrill desperation in the governor's voice seemed real. "Sir, you have to realize, the warlord told me not to talk about the last part with anyone but him."

  "Well, after you've convinced me, I will support your claim to the warlord that you told me nothing. Now, go ahead."

  "The land is ready."

  "Ah, good." Face waited.

  The governor looked more confused. "That was all."

  "No. Does the land conform to the warlord's specifications? Location, size, documentation?"

  "Of course it does!"

  Face slammed his arm down on the armrest. "Of course it doesn't! It doesn't until I know it does! I don't see the file appearing on my datapad, Governor. Where are those specifications?"

  "But—"

  "But nothing. Unless you transmit me that information, I have no way of knowing whether you've given him exactly the location he wanted. And you've probably sliced back the dimensions of the property to save yourself a few credits—"

  "No, sir!" The governor's voice was at fu
ll bellow, the yell of a new soldier inductee just learning to fear the noncommissioned officers. "I'm transmitting that information now, sir!"

  Face glanced over at Jesmin, waited until she nodded to indicate that she'd received the file. "Lieutenant, does this data match what we're supposed to be getting?"

  She shrugged, at a loss for how to answer. Out of the corner of his eye, Face saw Janson nodding. Jesmin said, "It does, sir."

  "Good." Face turned back to the governor. He made his voice pleasant, soothing. "Watesk, I commend you. You are unusually cooperative and forthcoming for a planetary governor."

  "I am?" The man sagged in relief and used his sleeve to blot at the perspiration sheening his forehead.

  "You are. And the warlord will be pleased. We'll forward to him the information of your acceptance, and he will arrange for a formal document to be delivered that everyone can sign. Will that be satisfactory?"

  "Oh, yes, Lieutenant."

  "Good. I look forward to sampling some of your fungus. Narol out."

  Jesmin cut the signal.

  Face slumped and pulled off the hat and goggles. "I hate improvisation."

  They gathered in the ship's conference room.

  "What in the name of the Sith is Zsinj up to?" Wedge asked. "A trade of supplies for protection I understand. But land deals?"

  "There's more," Jesmin said. "The records they sent us have the land transfer registered to a person named Cortle Steeze. I must assume that's an alias for Zsinj, but we should look for the name anyway. Whoever Steeze is, he has his choice of how the land is to be subdivided and zoned."

  "How much of it is there?"

  "A good-sized island. Fifty klicks long by about thirty wide."

  "Interesting." Wedge glanced at Face. "Good work. By the way, you still have some of that paint on your face." Around the lines and spots of paint, the unscarred portion of Face's skin was red from scrubbing.

  held a hint of complaint. "It "I know." Face's voice won't come off."

  Cubber snorted. "It's not supposed to. It's supposed to mark work sites. Very reflective, and shows up very well under ultraviolet. You need the solvent to get it off."

  "Solvent? Do you have some?"

  There was malice in Cubber's smile. "Sorry. Used the last of it cleaning out my goggles."14 When they jumped into the Doldrums system, two ships were on station waiting for them: the transport Borleias and the Mon Cal MC80 Star Cruiser Home One.

  Wedge, piloting Night Caller, whistled as he saw the smooth, almost organic lines of the cruiser. "Admiral Ackbar's command ship. Maybe our recent communications struck a nerve."

  Ton Phanan, at the sensors station, snorted. "Let's hope we can off-load a whole lot of whining, mewling, boring prisoners and take on some decent food to replace the slop they stock their galleys with."

  "Communication from Home One," Jesmin Ackbar said. "A request from the admiral to come aboard. He's sending a shuttle over."

  "Acknowledge, with permission and greetings, of course. Starboard docking station, please."

  Wedge's tour of Night Caller began and ended at the bridge. Admiral Ackbar looked off through the viewports at his own vessel in the distance and said, "Am I mistaken, or are your methods becoming even more unorthodox?"

  Wedge smiled. "I think you're mistaken. It may just look that way because the new unorthodox methods are stacking on top of the old ones."

  Ackbar's barbels twitched with amusement. "So. Well, I come with news in addition to congratulations." From a pocket he pulled a datapad; Wedge brought his own out in case Ackbar decided to transmit files.

  "First," Ackbar said, "based on this training squadron's exemplary performance at Folor, Xobome, and Viamarr, I have the pleasure of declaring you fully commissioned and operational."

  Wedge rocked back on his heels. "I'm . . . delighted to hear that. Thank you."

  "You are also worried that it is premature?"

  "No, sir. The Wraiths are a little rough around the edges, but they perform like a unit that has completed training. I'd just forgotten that we weren't officially operational."

  "Ah. How anticipatory of you, General Antilles."

  "How anticipatory of you. It's still Commander Antilles, sir."

  "Of course. Second, we are in the process of alerting the armed forces about the small parasitic droids you described. We'd already had reports of rectangular apparatuses with melted parts aboard some ships; it appears the devices do have a self-destruct mechanism that fuses their interiors when they are forcibly detached from their host vehicles. But with your examination of the one you captured—and the device itself, if it is still intact—"

  "I'll have Grinder deliver it to you, sir. And one or more of the Empion bombs."

  "With a sample to examine, we should be able to capture more of the parasites 'alive' and begin releasing others with false data. Use them as a tool against Zsinj instead of simply suffering their effects. And with the Empion bombs, we may be able to equip our ships with shielding against the precise frequencies they emit, in order to reduce damage.

  "Third, we have brought you some replacement equipment and supplies. Including gear, suited to commandos, from Special Forces and Intelligence."

  "I'm glad to hear it. Do we have a replacement X-wing, sir?"

  "No, not yet. None to spare, but you're at the top of the replacement list. The Borleias will deliver to you one of the X-wing simulators and backups of all your astromechs' memories. We also have food, fuel, X-wing replacement parts, and a piloting and maintenance crew for this corvette so you can free up your own pilots. Have your supply officer transmit requisitions for further items."

  Wedge nodded. "I know we've needed some vacuum-rated tools. I'll have Squeaky get on that."

  "Not Squeaky the 3PO unit? Of the Runaway Droid Ride?"

  Wedge nodded.

  Ackbar shuddered, then returned to his list and continued. "Fourth, your plan for retaining Night Caller and continuing on with its orders—that has neither been approved nor disapproved. I must know, what end do you hope to serve?"

  "After some additional thinking, sir, my plan is to let Night Caller go through her assigned duties, but in those systems that are obviously in collusion with Zsinj, Wraith Squadron jumps in shortly afterward and makes strikes against the collaborators. Eventually Zsinj or Trigit should get the idea that somebody is following Night Caller around. My hope is that we can lure Zsinj out that way—have him arrange a trap for us and trap him in it instead."

  "How appropriately vague." Ackbar considered. "For the time being, consider your plan approved. But how long do you think you can keep up this deception?"

  "Quite a while, sir. The fact that Warlord Zsinj obviously had some special, unrecorded instructions for Captain Darillian is a problem; it may trip us up. But we're going to try to compensate with a trick or two of our own. For instance . . . Flight Officer Ackbar, is the demonstration ready?"

  "Standing by, sir."

  "Orient it toward us instead of the captain's chair and initiate."

  Jesmin went through a series of control manipulations. Then the air hummed as a hologram appeared before Admiral Ackbar and Wedge.

  The hologram showed a man in a control chair, his uniform black and nattily spotless, his manner energetic and haughty. He looked up as if startled and said, "Who in the hells of the Sith are you?"

  Ackbar glanced at Wedge, who gave him no cue to go by. "I am Admiral Ackbar of the New Republic. Identify yourself."

  "I am Captain Darillian, master of the private yacht Night Caller. I demand to know why you have interrupted me." The captain glared at the Mon Calamari officer; his anger was so palpable that if holograms had been able to project energy Ackbar would have been struck dead by lasers.

  Ackbar turned back to the commander. "I thought you said he was dead."

  Before Wedge could speak, Captain Darillian roared an interruption: "Dead! I'll show you dead! Ensign Antilles, kill this intruder."

  Wedge barked a laug
h. "Ensign Antilles, now? I'm all over the rank chart today. That'll be enough, Face."

  Captain Darillian smiled. He reached to his right farther than the sensor on him could track and his hand disappeared. He must have manipulated something, for his image wavered . . . and became that of Face Loran. "Yub, yub, Commander." Then he disappeared.

  Ackbar turned both eyes toward Wedge. "A holographic overlay of some sort."

  Wedge nodded. "That's right. Captain Darillian was such a massive egotist that he kept his ship's journal and personal journal in full holo. That gave Grinder Thri'ag a huge sample that he could encode. He compiled a computer model of Darillian's body from the waist up, and his voice into an overlay, both of which we can project over Face. We have near-instantaneous translation of sight and sound. As long as we don't have to let anyone meet Darillian in person, and as long as Face can bluff his way through situations where the enemy knows more than we do, we can keep fooling them."

  "I see. Very encouraging." Ackbar consulted his datapad again. "Fifth . . . Could you relieve Flight Officer Ackbar of duty for a few minutes, so that my niece and I might visit?"

  "Consider it done, sir."

  There weren't many places to go on the cramped Night Caller. Jesmin led her uncle first to the bow lounge and was lucky enough to find it unoccupied.

  "You will understand my surprise," the admiral said, "when first I hear that Commander Antilles is assembling a squad of pilots who are chronic misfits . . . and shortly thereafter I see your name on the list of pilots assigned to that squad. I am not displeased to see you serving with him . . . but I do not understand. Your record is spotless, exemplary."

  Jesmin gave him the barbel-twitch of knowing amusement. "My record shows I am a complete failure, Uncle."

  "No."

  "Try to understand. I was first in my class on graduation. Then, whatever unit I was assigned to, whatever type of fighter or field of engagement, I ended up flying routine scouting missions ... or desk assignments."

  "With your marks?"

  "With my name, Uncle. My commanders were afraid of putting me in the line of fire, for fear that I'd be killed . . . and that you'd blame them."