Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  Kell ignored Runt's persistent, annoying inquiries and continued to wrestle with his stick.

  Finally it cooperated. He regained control, saw open starfield in front of him, and relaxed.

  His sensor monitor showed those millions of red dots a closing on the position of Implacable and Night Caller. Behind him. Increasingly behind him as he headed toward open space.

  His breathing began to slow. That was better. Always bad to be in a starfighter when the controls failed. He was lucky he'd survived it so many times.

  "Leader, Narra has tractored Gray One," Janson reported.

  "Good to hear, Gray Three. Gray Two, your usual wing-man is underneath Implacable's keel. He could use some help."

  "I'm already there, sir. Sir, I see an opportunity to do some real harm to Implacable. Request permission to enter through the hole we've made in her keel."

  "Gray Two, negative, repeat, negative. Too much loose material in there, and we have Implacable's TIE fighters returning. Set up for them."

  "There's not that much material. You've slagged so much of it. I think you're hitting internal bulkheads now, though. If I can get in there, I can direct fire laterally, hit machinery at an angle you can't match."

  "That's still a negative, Gray Two."

  "Leader, I'm not reading you. My comm unit—" Crackling and buzzing followed.

  Wedge made a noise of exasperation. She was rubbing her gloves together over the mike, just as he'd done a dozen times during his career. "Wraith Four, can you prevent her?"

  Wraith Four responded with crackling and buzzing.

  Kell's R2 unit shrieked as his sensor display lit up with a new threat: a torpedo lock on his stern.

  Kell read the information, puzzled. "Wraith Six, is that you?"

  "We are."

  "Are you going to shoot me?"

  "No, Five. We're just trying to get your attention. To get the attention of Kell. Not of the bad mind." Runt's voice was slow and sad, even across comm distortion.

  "What do you want?"

  "We just wanted you to know we're leaving you. We're returning to the fight."

  "Don't do that. It's nasty back there."

  "Good-bye, Kell." Wraith Six vectored away, looping around to head back toward the Implacable.

  Kell felt a keen sense of loss at his friend's departure.

  Well, at least Runt hadn't vaped him.

  Of course, somebody would be along soon to do that.

  Probably Janson.

  Janson was in a TIE fighter. He could catch up to Kell's X-wing. Kell checked his sensor board and saw no sign that any craft was pursuing him. With his lead, he could be in hyperspace before anyone caught up to him. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  He was safe for now. Pursuit would come some other day.

  Maybe it would be Face. Or Phanan. Or Tyria— The shock of that idea hit him like a snap-kick to the chest. What if Tyria had to come shoot him down?

  What would it do to her, knowing she had sent her own lover to oblivion? She had lost everyone she loved on Toprawa and would now lose him, too. It would be Kell's own fault, Kell's signature on the scars she would carry— As though he were rising to the surface after a deep dive, his mind came free of the thoughts in which it had been submerged. Tyria. He was klicks away from her and the distance was growing every second. TIE fighters were now reaching the fight.

  He looped around and put all his vehicle's discretionary energy toward acceleration.

  Falynn rose smoothly toward the largest hole the Wraiths' series of attacks had made in Implacable's keel. It was broad enough to accommodate her TIE fighter, even broad enough to allow the passage of Grinder's X-wing behind her.

  Falling debris bounced off her bow viewport. Some of it came at her from an angle, clattering off her solar wing arrays.

  She eased through the gap into the darkness beyond. Above would be the giant array of power cells that enabled Implacable to move. Without them, the mighty Star Destroyer would be a gigantic mass of worthless junk.

  No one, so far as she knew, had ever done this. Flown into an enemy Star Destroyer and reamed it out from the inside. She would be the first. Number one, for all time.

  Carefully, she rotated so that she was pointing to the side and upward.

  She fired.

  Seventy-two TIEs—four squadrons of fighters, one of Interceptors, and one of bombers—swept into the engagement zone, firing as they came.

  Face looped and dove, trying to keep clear of the incoming fire from both the cloud of TIEs and the still-mighty Star Destroyer. He rolled out a few hundred meters below and arced up again, got an immediate green flash on his targeting brackets, and fired. His target, a fast-moving Interceptor, took the blast as a graze across its top viewport and kept coming, still in control. He saw Phanan's lasers pass above him, hitting the next Interceptor at the juncture of its fuselage and its wing pylon, separating them. The squint rolled, out of control, and began its dive toward the moon's surface. "Nice shooting, Seven."

  Janson and Piggy roared down on the nearest TIE squadron, looping in from behind and opening fire before the squad had a chance to break and engage individual targets.

  Janson's first shot entered his target's port ion engine, vaping the eyeball in a spectacular explosion. Piggy's first blast missed his target below, but he continued to fire, tracking up and left, until a burst hit the vehicle's port wing. The TIE spun out of control and Piggy's next shot hulled its cockpit.

  Janson heard confused chatter on the Imperial comm channel. "Let's go right down the middle, Twelve," he said, and accelerated until he was in the midst of the breaking squadron formation. The Ackbar Slash, starfighter style. Let them fire now, he thought.

  They did.

  Donos gritted his teeth and abandoned his attack run on Implacable. On the murderer of Talon Squadron. He veered toward the oncoming TIEs. A full squadron of eyeballs was coming in at him and Tyria. "Ten, we are in trouble." Tyria was firing already. She didn't answer.

  The A-wings flashed through the screen of TIE fighters, shooting continuously as they came, snap-shots not a detriment in the target-rich field of battle. Kell saw them both on screen and through his canopy as he approached.

  He got laser lock at maximum range on an Interceptor, fired his quad-linked lasers, saw his shot carve away the upper half of a solar wing. The Interceptor, damaged but still in control, arced away from him.

  "Who's that? Five? Is that you?" "That's right, Eight. How're you doing?" "It's unpleasant as a Hutt's butt in here! Where were you?"

  "It's my sister's birthday. I had to take her a present. Hold tight." Kell aimed at the thickest concentration of TIEs and dove in, firing as fast as his lasers would cycle.

  Suddenly there were new blue dots among the red on the sensor board, friendlies overtaking the TIE fighters from the rear. Wedge said, "Blue Squadron, is that you?"

  "Good to hear you're among the living, Wraith Leader." These were clipped, precise tones, the voice of General Crespin. "We thought we'd show you the virtues of A-wing speed."

  "For once I don't mind. But I'm transmitting you our sensor profiles. Four, correction, three TIE fighters are our people. Fire only when you confirm they're red."

  "Acknowledged."

  Wedge saw the communications officer jump to the task of transmitting the proper blue and red designations to the incoming force. Wedge concentrated on sending a different kind of message, a series of turbolaser blasts against Implacable's weapon batteries.

  The hair stood up on his head and arms and all monitors flickered as an ion beam struck within forty meters of Night Caller's position.

  Another near miss. Another charge against the credcard where he banked his luck.

  30

  "Admiral, we're going to lose Implacable."

  Trigit fixed Gara with a cold stare. "With the TIE fighters now chewing the attackers to pieces? I don't believe it."

  "Something is in the power cell section. Methodically destroying ev
ery cell. We've already lost computer backup power. In ten minutes, maybe less, we're going to lose all main power, and that's the end of Implacable, even if every one of those Rebel pilots dies."

  He brushed past her and looked at the damage report.

  She was right.

  He felt faint for a moment. All these years of loyal service, the skill he'd shown Ysanne Isard and then the warlord, were suddenly worth precisely nothing. Destiny was balancing accounts and he was coming up short. He was about to lose his ship. His true love.

  "Do we surrender, sir?"

  Still dizzied by his sense of loss, he shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous. We've lost . . . but we're not going to give those Rebel scum another operational Star Destroyer they can repair and use for their own purposes. Implacable will take as many of them with her as she can."

  "Sir . . . that will be more than thirty-five thousand people dead."

  "And how many dead can we count on if the Rebels repair this ship and turn her guns on the Empire? Really, Lieutenant. Yes, we preserve the lives of those who depend on us ... but only until their continued existence threatens even more lives."

  Her response was a stony silence.

  He leaned in close. His voice dropped. "But for those who are most necessary to me, there are ways to survive. Tell me, can you fly an Interceptor?"

  Wary, she shook her head. "I always wanted to go through pilot training. I never had an opportunity. They put me in intrusions instead."

  "Pity. I have my personal Interceptor standing by. It is equipped with a hyperdrive, as are its two escort Interceptors. I was going to offer one of them to you. Instead, I must recommend you make your way to the launch bay and take out a shuttle. At least you will survive that way."

  "Thank you for thinking of me. But, sir ... the Rebels don't recognize Warlord Zsinj or you as a legitimate government. They won't treat me as an Intelligence operative and trade me back . . . they'll try me as a traitor and execute me." She looked regretful. "I won't let them have that satisfaction. I'll stay here, sir."

  "You're a brave woman, Lieutenant." Unwilling to show her the sense of loss he felt, Trigit turned from her. "Attention! I'm moving to the auxiliary bridge to complete our victory there. Don't inform the officers there: I want to see how they're doing as I walk in." His officers nodded.

  He gave Gara Petothel one last solemn look, a nod of respect from one officer to another, and then he entered the turbolift.

  Kell twisted, dove, sideslipped, all to avoid the mass of TIE fighters and Interceptors in his path. He fired as he came on, paying no attention to sensor readings of his hits or misses— there was no time for anything but firing and dodging.

  Suddenly the next vehicle in his sights was an A-wing. Kell rolled into a loop so hard that it exceeded the power of his inertial compensator and pressed him down in his seat. He had to grunt out his next words: "Is that Blue Squadron?"

  "Blue Nine here to save your tail, Wraith Five." The A-wing shot through the space Kell had just occupied and fired, vaporizing the TIE Interceptor that had been dogging him.

  "You know some of these TIEs are friendlies—"

  "We know."

  Kell finished his loop lined up once again with the heaviest concentration of TIEs. He dove in again, this time on Blue Nine's tail, using rudder to slew to starboard and port, scattering fire in a cone around the A-wing now breaking trail for him.

  Admiral Trigit walked at a fast clip toward the cluster of Interceptors remaining in the now cavemously empty TIE hangar. He spoke into his comlink. "Main computer. Verify identity by voiceprint. Code omega-one, prepare self-destruct."

  "Verify self-destruct."

  "Apwar Trigit commands self-destruct."

  "Confirmed. Verify timing."

  The mechanic on duty opened the access port to Trigit's Interceptor. The admiral climbed in, still talking. "Five minutes from mark. Mark."

  "Confirmed. Timer running. Verify resources."

  "All remaining power. All weapon systems capacitances. All fuel reserves."

  "Confirmed. Self-destruct operational."

  The sky brightened behind Face.

  He twisted to look. Phanan's X-wing was still tucked in behind and to the starboard of his, but its entire stern was ablaze and burn marks peppered his cockpit. The starfighter that had hulled him, an Interceptor with a set of distinctive horizontal red stripes on the upper and lower portions of its wing arrays, was roaring by at an angle. Now well past Face and Phanan, it began looping around for another pass. "Seven, punch out—"

  Phanan did so, firing up and away from his crippled fighter. An instant later, it blew. Face felt debris hammer into his stern. "Wraiths, Seven is EV, repeat, EV. Narra, can you pick him up?"

  "If he doesn't land in Night Caller's dust cloud, will do."

  A TIE fighter dropped into position behind Face. Face saw his sensor board try to light up with a laser lock. He rolled left and dove toward the gigantic cloud of smoke concealing the corvette's position.

  His sensors showed a clear laser lock. Then the red dot of his pursuer lost resolution and disappeared. "Who did that?"

  "You owe a drink to Rogue Two, son."

  "Drink, hell, I'll buy you a distillery!"

  The dozen blue dots of Rogue Squadron lit up the sensors, and suddenly the odds against the Wraiths didn't seem quite as deadly.

  Lieutenant Gara Petothel, her shoulders set with anger, recorded two quick messages on her comm console, then took the next turbolift up.

  She exited at the deck of officers' quarters, picked up a sealed package from her small room, and took another lift to the level where the admiral kept his chambers.

  Those doors were unguarded. No surprise; Trigit would have taken his favorite bodyguards to be his escort pilots. Gara told the doors, "Emergency override zero seven nine seven Petothel."

  The doors slid open.

  She entered, shut them behind her, and quickly peeled out of her uniform and undergarments. Let Trigit remember me as a willing sacrifice, she thought. Let him regret an affair he wanted but never had time for. Let him think whatever he wants. He'll he dead in ten minutes.

  How dare he? Thirty-seven thousand men and women.

  Angry, she pulled off her black wig. It was the color her hair used to be, at the length she wore it when she entered service with the New Republic fleet and then joined the Implacable's crew, but now her real hair was much shorter, a downy blond. She threw the wig atop her clothes.

  She tugged at the mole on her cheek. It came free. There had once been a mole there, a real one, but she'd had it removed by a Rebel ship's doctor and replaced it with an item of makeup. She tossed it onto the pile.

  Now, the container. She opened it to reveal clothes—if you could call them that. Lingerie, sheer stuff made from Loveti moth fiber, the garment would have cost her six months pay had she not stolen it.

  She put it on. Beneath it in the case were datacards, her choices for a new identity. Beneath them, a makeup case; she'd use it once she was in the pod.

  Beside the makeup case was an injector unit already filled with an illicit substance. She picked it up, hesitated. It was a necessary part of the deception. She just had to make sure she was clearheaded enough, in spite of the drugs, to finish what she was doing here. She jabbed herself with the unit, felt the flow of alien fluids into her vein.

  Before the drugs took hold, she spoke aloud, a variation on the code that had given her access to this chamber.

  A portion of one wall slid aside. Beyond was the access to Trigit's personal escape pod. The one neither she nor anyone else but Trigit was supposed to know about.

  She ignored the feeling that swept through her, the sensation of drifting, long enough to grab up her identicards and makeup case and stagger into the pod.

  Had Wedge's vision not been obscured by the dust cloud he was maintaining, he would have seen the tiny flight of three Interceptors leave Implacable's launch bay and angle away from the crippled Star Dest
royer.

  The Wraiths, Blues, and Rogues battling for their lives against a numerically superior force also paid the flight no attention. Those Interceptors weren't entering the fight. They'd be dealt with later.

  Gara Petothel's voice came across Implacable's intercom. "Attention, crew. Implacable is losing power and will crash in five minutes or less. Abandon ship."

  All over the Star Destroyer, officers and crewmen looked at one another.

  Only the ship's commander was authorized to issue such an order. But the chain of command could be breaking down just as the ship's systems were.

  Crew members began racing toward the escape pod accesses. Only the most loyal, the most foolhardy, remained behind at gunnery positions.

  Kell completed his third pass through the TIEs, alone this time—Blue Nine was off again with her wingman, Blue Ten. There were fewer of the TIEs this time around. Much of that was Rogue Squadron's fault; he'd never seen such coordinated skill, such squadron-wide competence in dogfighting, as the Rogues had demonstrated while eating away at the TIE fighters' numbers. But the odds were still bad and he knew his luck could not continue to hold.

  It didn't. He heard Runt's voice, "Five, roll out—"

  He snapped up on his starboard wing, but the crossfire from an oncoming TIE Interceptor, a gray craft sporting rakish red stripes on the outer surfaces of its wings, struck him with casual accuracy. The first laser blast battered at his stern shields; the second penetrated, burning its way into his fuselage behind his R2 unit.

  His flight stick locked up and his control board went dead. All electronics gone ... he swore to himself as he began a slow, graceful plunge toward the moon below. The interceptor pilot waggled his wings, then rose toward a distant cluster of A-wings.

  Kell opened the panel to his left and hit the button for a cold start. Nothing happened.