Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  She straightened, became impassive.

  "I have only a little to offer you, Sarkin. Home One has delivered us a pair of X-wings to bring us back to full operational capacity. And that, plus the fact that your behavior has in recent weeks been exemplary, means I'm restoring you to full operations and to your own snubfighter."

  She smiled. "That's plenty to offer me, sir."

  Wedge took a step to the side. "Flight Officer Garik Lo- ran."

  Face looked startled, came to attention.

  "In our tour of duty since being made operational, you have consistently shown fine piloting skills and an exceptional aptitude for leadership, both in planning and in the field. For this reason, it is my pleasure to convey to you your promotion to the rank of lieutenant in the New Republic's Starfighter Command. Congratulations, Face." Wedge handed Face his new rank insignia and saluted.

  Face, looking surprised, returned the salute. "Thank you, sir."

  "Flight Officer Kell Tainer."

  Kell came to attention, looking uneasy.

  "Likewise, you have shown fine piloting skills and a facility for battlefield tactics that benefit the group. In fact, we have noted on several occasions your pursuit of unusual strategies that cost you the opportunity for personal gain but kept your fellows, and those you are charged with protecting, alive. So I'm happy to convey to you also a promotion to the rank of lieutenant." He handed Kell his rank insignia and saluted. "Congratulations, Kell."

  Kell returned the salute. "Thank you, sir." Wedge was surprised to see that the pilot was as pale and stiff as he had ever been when confronting Wes Janson.

  Wedge chose not to notice and took another step to the side. "Lieutenant Atril Tabanne."

  The sole surviving member of Night Caller's officer corps came to attention.

  "It is unusual for an officer of Starfighter Command to | be able to offer commendation to an officer of Fleet Command—even rarer for one to want to, given the history of rivalry between our services." That drew smiles from Atril and the pilots. "But our circumstances are exceptional ones. Your record, since joining the Navy, has been one of loyalty and service, and our only regret is that attrition is a part of the speed with which you receive this much-deserved promotion." He handed Atril her new insignia of rank and saluted. "Congratulations, Captain Tabanne. On your new rank, and on command of Night Caller."

  She returned the salute and looked as though she wanted to say something, but words choked up in her.

  "And finally, an award as well deserved as all these promotions. Lieutenant Tainer."

  Kell came to attention again. If anything, he looked more worried than before.

  "Recently, you were placed in the unenviable position of attempting to save a pilot who had suffered catastrophic damage. I'm not certain that you've ever resigned yourself to the truth that her death does not constitute failure on your part. As a matter of fact, a review of the recordings of the incident by Starfighter Command confirms the fact that your effort demonstrated both unusual courage and enviable piloting skills—a lesser pilot would have crashed in such an attempt. Therefore, I am pleased to be able to present you with a first for Wraith Squadron: the Kalidor Crescent."

  The assembled pilots oohed and broke rank to applaud. The Crescent, always granted for bravery and piloting skill used in unison, was a mark of prestige throughout the armed forces.

  Kell gulped a couple of times, did not lower his eyes to meet Wedge's gaze, and grew even paler.

  "Kell, lean down."

  Kell did so, and Wedge looped the ceremonial silk ribbon over his head, letting the award settle around his neck. The medal itself, showing the Kalidor bird of prey in inverted flight, its forward-curving wings bracketing a gleaming amber-hued gemstone, settled against his sternum as Kell straightened.

  "Congratulations, Kell." Wedge saluted.

  Kell managed to throw his return salute. He still did not meet Wedge's eyes, and his voice was hoarse. "Thank you, sir."

  Wedge stepped back and addressed them all. "Ladies, gentlemen, we return to space in an hour. I know that doesn't leave much time for celebration, but pack in as much as you care to. Not too much for you, Captain Tabanne. We'll see what sorts of decorative hardware the rest of you can earn when we're standing on top of the ruined hulk of Admiral Trigit and Implacable." He turned away and let their cheers follow him out of the lounge.

  Janson fell in step beside him.

  "Wes, what in the name of the Sith is wrong with Tainer?"

  "I wish I knew."

  "It's a citation for bravery. He's just made up for the mistake his father made. The day I picked up the Crescent, I could have flown without thrusters and knocked out TIE Interceptors just by spitting at them. But he looked like he was going to throw up."

  "He still confuses me, too. I say we just kill him," Janson deadpanned.

  Wedge snorted.

  Kell endured their well wishes and backslaps as long as he could, until a member of Night Caller's replacement bridge crew rolled out a keg of lomin-ale and glass tankards. While the others were distracted by the prospect of alcohol, he drifted to the back of the gathering and then escaped to his quarters.

  He sat shaking on his bed. When the knock came at his door, he ignored it.

  The door chirped acceptance of Kell's pass code and slid open. Tyria entered and closed it behind her. "How'd you do that?" he asked. "I got on the comlink and asked Grinder." "Damn him."

  She sat on the edge of the bed, her expression worried. "Kell, what's wrong?"

  He took a deep breath. "Look, you'll be better off if you just forget about me—"

  She leaned in close, almost menacingly, cutting off his words. "Do not continue that thought. Do not give me some line about how I'm better off without you. You do that, I'll make you wish you'd never been born, and I still won't leave, so you'll have soaked up a lot of hurt for nothing." She pinned him with her stare. "Do you think we stopped being friends when we became involved with each other?" "No, but—"

  "No, nothing. Kell, do you really want me to stop being your friend? Don't give me an answer based on what you think is good for me. Give me the truth. Set Honesty to On." Kell rocked as though in the grip of a wrestler as big as he was. Finally he slumped, defeated. "Honesty to On. No, I don't."

  Her expression softened. "Then tell me what just happened in there. You look as though Commander Antilles had called you the scum of the galaxy."

  "I am the scum of the galaxy. Because I accepted this, this—" He gestured at the medal, then pulled it off him and threw it across the room. "This lie."

  She looked at the medal where it lay, then turned back to him. "It's for superior flying skills and bravery. What part is the lie?"

  "Both."

  "You're not a good pilot?"

  "If I were that good, Jesmin would still be alive."

  "Oh, I wish I could just beat some brains into your head. If Commander Antilles was impressed with your flying that day, who are you to tell him he's wrong?"

  He looked away and didn't answer.

  "And you don't think your action was a brave one? I mean, no false modesty here, Kell. You don't see anything courageous in risking your life to save Jesmin's? Going through what amounted to a series of midair collisions, risking a crash with every one, getting half your fighter's systems shorted out, in trying to keep her alive?"

  "Maybe. Maybe just that one day. But every other time . . ." He rubbed his eyes. "Tyria, I'm my father's son. I'm scared to death all the time. And it's getting worse, not better. One of these days we'll be in an engagement, and I'll lose all pretense at self-control and run off for the stars, and Janson or Commander Antilles will shoot me down, and that'll be it. Or I'll be dragged back for court-martial and I'll have ruined our family name. The second name in two generations."

  She was silent. He hazarded a look. She was without expression, taking what he was saying as input, offering nothing back.

  "When I was a kid," he said, "I thought it
was a lie. I thought maybe Dad was a spy or something. He received orders at the last minute and had to rush off and carry them out. No one understood, and they shot him down. Or he was drugged, hallucinating. Or it was someone else in that cockpit and my real father was out there somewhere, alive. Then, when I went through pilot training, I found a couple of survivors of the original Tierfon Yellow Aces who'd talk about it, not knowing I was his son.

  "Some of them were scornful. Some of them were regretful. But they'd heard his comm traffic. It was him, he'd lost control, he'd left his honor behind in his thruster wash, and he died. And I've inherited whatever he had." He shrugged. "I don't want to get you or any of the Wraiths killed. I'm going to resign my commission."

  Tyria was a long time in answering. Finally she spoke, her voice low, serious. "Do you trust me, Kell?"

  "Sure."

  "With your life?"

  "Yes. Absolutely."

  "Will you trust me with something bigger than your life?"

  "What?"

  "I want you to trust me that you are wrong and I am right."

  "No."

  "Then you don't rank my opinion as equal to your own. My insights. My intelligence."

  "Sure I do. But I know myself better than you do."

  She shook her head. "No, you don't, and that's the problem. You've told me twice now that for years you've based your life on ideas that were just plain wrong. That your father didn't do what he did. That Lieutenant Janson was a cold-blooded killer. You were wrong about them. You've had the courage to admit it. You also had the courage to admit that you weren't really in love with me before, that you were wrong about that, too."

  He didn't answer.

  "I want you to have the courage to trust my opinion more than your own. Kell, maybe it's because part of you wants to get out of every fight, but you're always thinking your way around the current situation, and that's a good thing. Everyone who was on the Borleias will agree with me on that. And that's why I know I'm safer with you flying with us."

  He didn't answer. "Kell, please."

  He sighed and closed his eyes, cutting off her loving, merciless stare. "All right."

  They dropped out of hyperspace in the system that was Admiral Trigit's original rendezvous point. As they expected, Implacable was not there. From that system, they broadcast to Zsinj Captain Darillian's report of the New Republic ambush, of Trigit's "treachery" in abandoning them, of the set of brilliant maneuvers that brought them out of the ambush zone battered but alive.

  Their next jump was to the Obinipor system, deeper in the Outer Rim but still in the path of the New Republic's gradual expansion. Obinipor, the next stop on Night Caller's circuit, was a free colony with an admirable mix of natural resources: metals suited to the fabrication of power generators, and active vulcanism providing the colonists with ready power of their own. Their orders were to take two TIE fighters and buzz the largest set of corporate headquarters, much as they had on the world of Viamarr.

  As soon as they made their initial drop to normal space they queried Obinipor with a coded transmission on New Republic frequencies and soon received the compressed, encrypted data package from the Intelligence team already in place.

  Before they had a chance to decompress and study it, Night Caller received a transmission on the HoloNet.

  Face took his seat in the comm center and punched up onto the main monitor the new view of himself. With the modifications Grinder had made, it now showed him seated at a much less ostentatious command chair in the ship's auxiliary bridge. He glanced at Wedge waiting in the doorway. "I'm betting Zsinj."

  Wedge shook his head. "It's Trigit. Zsinj will have contacted the admiral for his side of the story before getting back in touch with us."

  "Ten credits?"

  "You're on."

  Face shrugged, then activated the link.

  Admiral Trigit's hologram swam into coherence.

  Face half rose from his chair. "You! I cannot believe you have the sheer, poisonous gall to contact me after that, that betrayal—"

  Trigit held up a hand. "Please, Captain. As soon as we realized it was a trap, we had to choose from among several tactics, none of which could please everyone."

  "Please everyone? Admiral, you salted us and hung us out to dry! If I hadn't been in the comm center, receiving your rather redundant message telling us it was a trap, I'd be as dead as my bridge crew. My bridge is a burned hole. I'm thinking of turning it into a garden." Face let his voice turn from sarcasm to bitterness. "I have to rely on relief officers, untrained officers, prematurely promoted officers—"

  Trigit nodded throughout his tirade. "I know. I don't contest your right to complaint. Tell me, though, what would you have done if you were in command of Implacable?"

  "Follow my fleet in and try to lead them back out again as fast as possible."

  "You're certain? You're sure you'd have no other agendas from the warlord that might limit your choices?"

  Face glared at him. "No, of course I'm not privy to any special instructions you received from him."

  "You may not trust me that I have such orders, but I can perhaps do something to convince you. Stand by for a new transmission."

  Face glanced down at the comm board, waiting for the telltale indicators that Trigit was sending data . . . but, instead, a second hologram materialized before him.

  Warlord Zsinj.

  Kell froze. If this was a separate transmission—and the fact that it resolved itself separately from Trigit's, rather than the warlord's image stepping out of blank space next to Trigit's, suggested this was the case—then Night Caller's computer was suddenly having to do almost double the work it was before. Two HoloNet links with different points of view meant two sets of Captain Darillian images being generated and transmitted. Neither the ship computer's graphical processors nor Grinder's hastily compiled code was set up for such a drain.

  If the Captain Darillian image suddenly broke down, lost resolution . . .

  Face gulped and leaned back very slowly. "My lord."

  Zsinj gave him a close look. "Zurel. It seems you're upset with the admiral."

  Face kept his body absolutely rigid. Perhaps, if the system only had to update his face, it might keep pace with the demands being put on it. "I think any commander would be, if he'd just gone through what I did."

  The warlord smiled. "I think you're correct. But you have much to be pleased about. I read your report. You did a fine job of getting your ship out of danger."

  "The Rebels probably did not appreciate my use of their own Ackbar Slash against them." The desperation maneuver, developed first in modern times by Admiral Ackbar, involved sending one's fleet between lines of opposing ships, causing them to fire upon one another if they missed their primary target. It made up a large part of the fiction of Night Caller's escape from Talasea.

  "Yes, but I appreciated it. Further—think about this. With Captain Joshi dead and Provocateur destroyed, whom do you suppose is next in line for command of Implacable?"

  One of the comm boards went completely dark. System failure, or a shutdown by the comm officer in the auxiliary bridge? Face sweated and tried not to think about it.

  Especially in light of the question Zsinj had just asked. Why was Trigit smiling instead of protesting the loss of his ship?

  Zsinj must have promised him something better. Command of the Iron Fist, perhaps, as Zsinj's personal captain? Face said, thoughtfully, "I actually hadn't considered that before."

  "You've been busy. And you're too busy now. Because I want you to join the admiral for one last mission. Then finish up your circuit and I'll send you rendezvous instructions to rejoin me. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "We have analyzed the data from the spy satellites you left behind," Trigit said. "Do you know who's been following you?

  "No."

  "Rogue Squadron."

  "Really." Face smiled. "I take it this mission the warlord mentioned involves them?"

&nb
sp; Trigit nodded. "We're going to destroy them, Darillian. Annihilate them even more thoroughly than I destroyed Talon Squadron."

  Face heard a noise, a muffled grunt, from the hallway outside the comm center. Sithspit, was Donos out there? He didn't dare look to find out. "I will gladly join you for such an operation."

  Trigit didn't appear to have heard the noise from the hallway. "Good. I'll rush to a position a few light-years from Obinipor. You just conclude your duties there . . . whatever they may be."

  Zsinj smiled.

  "Then," the admiral continued, "you'll jump to join me, and we'll reenter the system and position ourselves behind the planet's largest moon. When Rogue Squadron comes in to perform their usual escapade, we'll finish them."

  Face took a deep breath. "A good plan, sir ... but it lacks a little, I think, in ambition."

  Trigit smiled. "What do you mean?"

  "Between Implacable and Night Caller, between your TIE fighters and mine, we can destroy more than just one twelve-fighter squadron. If we had a bigger, better target, one for which the Rebels would bring in additional fighters, we could destroy several squadrons."

  Trigit shook his head. "Let's keep things simple. The destruction of Rogue Squadron will have a much bigger effect than just the loss of twelve fighters and pilots. Their reputation, their legend, will also be destroyed."

  But Warlord Zsinj looked thoughtful. "What sort of target do you mean, Zurel?"

  "The Rebels are fairly consistent in the materiel they allocate to various types of missions. If we wish to destroy three squadrons instead of one, we choose the type of site they'd use three squadrons to destroy." Face resisted the urge to shrug, though he felt his shoulder muscles growing tight from his rigid posture. "A rich target. One they figure is worth some risk in assaulting because of what it would cost you."

  Trigit's voice rose in protest. "Warlord, we don't even know exactly how the Rogues are tracking Night Caller. We can't be sure they will follow Darillian if we vary the corvette's routine. We have no indication that they followed Night Caller to Morobe." His holographic image was looking up and to the side, beyond Face rather than at Zsinj's hologram, but Face guessed that on his bridge he was staring straight at the warlord's image.