Zsinj looked up. He hardly ever jumped anymore. So disappointing. “What is it?” he asked.
“Word from Saffalore.” He set a datapad before the warlord. “Here’s the full report.”
“From Dr. Gast?”
“Not quite.”
Warned by something in Melvar’s tone, Zsinj sat back and laced his hands together over his prominent stomach. “Give me the short version.”
“There was a raid on Binring Biomedical about thirteen hours ago. As far as we can determine, it was by the Wraiths.”
“Were they killed?”
“No.”
“Were any of them killed?”
“We don’t think so. Survivors on the site think some of them were injured.”
Zsinj’s jaw clenched, then he forced himself to relax. “Go on.”
“They killed Captain Netbers.”
Zsinj sighed. “That’s a blow. Netbers was loyal and proficient. Is that it?”
Melvar shook his head. “They had Rogue Squadron with them, apparently flying support. Early reports indicate that Wedge Antilles was back flying with the Rogues, as our man on Mon Remonda suspected, so he was never in any real danger at the Binring site. They blew up the research center and apparently strafed one of the nearby air bases for fun.”
“And what does Doctor Gast have to say for herself?”
“They took her.”
Zsinj went absolutely still. Melvar waited, watching, but the man did not blink for long moments, and Melvar knew this was going to be a bad one.
Zsinj rose, slamming his chair into the wall behind him. “They took her alive?”
“Apparently. One of three stormtroopers who survived the bombing witnessed the Gamorrean pilot capturing her. Her body hasn’t been found.”
Zsinj made an inarticulate noise of anger. He twisted and seized one of the chamber’s decorations, a flagpole bearing a banner in the Raptors’ colors, red and black and yellow, and slammed its base onto the top of the desk, obliterating the datapad. “They took her? She knows all about Chubar! She knows all too much about Minefield!”
Melvar heard the door behind him hiss open. He heard it hiss shut almost instantly. The guards outside must be peeking in, and, seeing that the warlord was in no danger—only the general was—they’d returned to their posts.
Zsinj swung the flagpole laterally, narrowly missing Melvar, and slammed its base into a trophy case full of memorabilia from his many military campaigns. The case bounced off the wall and toppled forward, crashing onto the floor beside Zsinj’s desk.
Zsinj glared at the fallen case as though it were a new enemy. He threw the flagpole aside and, from a hidden pocket at his waist, drew a small but very powerful blaster pistol. He fired at the back of the trophy case once, twice, three times, blasting a crater into the expensive wood with each shot.
The room filled with smoke from the blaster emissions. The door slid open behind Melvar and then shut again.
Zsinj stood, shaking, glaring at the damage he’d done, then tucked the blaster away and sat heavily back in his chair. Melvar let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Well, we can’t have this,” Zsinj said. His voice was raw and sweat beaded his forehead. Sweat was also beginning to stain his white grand admiral’s uniform at his armpits and chest. “Activate our man on Mon Remonda. Tell him to kill Doctor Gast if he sees her. Whether or not she’s there, tell him to kill his primary targets. We’ll need to sacrifice some units as bait for Solo’s fleet if we’re to mop up the rest of them. And put Project Funeral on full speed ahead.” He held up a hand as if to curtail an argument, though Melvar did not feel like offering one. “I know, it’s a little premature, but all these Ranats biting at my heels are going to ruin my entire plan if we don’t do something about it now.”
“Understood, sir.” Melvar saluted. “Do you want your office restored, or will you be wanting to redecorate?”
Zsinj looked at him, puzzled, then glanced around at the damage he’d wrought. He managed a bark of laughter. “I’ll redecorate. Thank you, General. Dismissed.”
On faraway Coruscant, in one of the tallest of the planet’s towers at the heart of the old Imperial governmental district—a district as large, geographically, as mighty nations on other planets—Mon Mothma rose from the chair before her makeup table.
Not that the Chief Councilor of the New Republic’s Inner Council was overly fond of makeup. She made no effort to hide the gray creeping inexorably through her brown hair. She went to no particular lengths to hide her age—she’d earned every one of those years and would not insult others of her generation by suggesting that there was some shame in the accumulation of time.
Still, she needed a little matte to make sure that her face was not too shiny when the holocams caught her under bright lights, and these days she was a little too pallid to suit herself—a bit of color, even artificial color, suggested that she possessed more vigor and health than she actually felt.
She gave herself one last look in the mirror, adjusted the hem of her white gown, and marched with simulated energy to the door of her quarters.
They opened to admit her into the hall, and there waiting, as she knew they would be, were two members of her retinue.
The smaller was Malan Tugrina, a man of Alderaan—a man who’d lost his world long before Alderaan was destroyed, as he’d attached himself to Mon Mothma’s retinue in the earliest days of her work with the Rebellion. He was of average height, with features that would have been vaguely homely if not covered by a natty black beard and mustache, and the only thing striking about him were his eyes, which suggested intelligence and deep-buried loss. There was little striking about his abilities, too, except for his unwavering loyalty to Mon Mothma and the New Republic, and his skill at memory retention—everything said to him, everything that passed before his eyes, was burned into his memory as though he had a computer between his ears. He handled many of her secretarial duties with both the efficiency and the pedantic manner of a 3PO unit. “Good morning,” he said. “In half an hour, you have—”
“Wait,” she said. “I haven’t had any caf this morning. Can you expect me to face the horrors of my schedule when I’m not fully awake?” She swept toward the nearest turbolift. “Good morning, Tolokai.”
The other individual said, “Good morning, Councilor,” in his usual monotone. He was a Gotal, a humanoid whose roundish face was adorned with a heavy beard, a broad, flattened nose, and, most dramatically, two conelike horns rising from his head. The horns, Mon Mothma well knew, were sensory apparatus that made Gotals some of the most capable hunters and reconnaissance experts in the galaxy—not to mention bodyguards. With Tolokai beside her, she knew she’d always have warning of an impending attack, no matter how well prepared. It gave her an edge she needed in these dangerous times.
Mon Mothma summoned the turbolift as her companions stepped into place behind her.
Tolokai said, “If I may, Councilor, there was something I wished to show you.”
“It’s nothing I have to remember for too long, is it?”
“No, not too long. I do this in the name of all Gotals everywhere.” From beneath his tunic, he brought out a long, curved vibroblade and drew it back.
The world seemed to shift into a sort of slow motion, like a holocomedy slowed so everyone could see each twitch, each gesture. The vibroblade darted forward. There was a roar of noise, a voice, from beside Tolokai. Then Malan, arm outstretched, moving in a bizarre sort of flight, drifted into the path of the weapon. The blade point touched his chest and drove slowly in; then Malan’s momentum carried Tolokai’s arm out of line, bearing the Gotal into the wall.
Malan, the vibroblade buried to its hilt in his chest, his face turning ashen, wrapped his arms around Tolokai’s and turned to Mon Mothma. He spoke slow words she couldn’t grasp. Tolokai yanked in slow-motion frenzy at the weapon he’d driven into his friend’s chest.
Mon Mothma turned and found herself able to move at a nor
mal rate. Her hearing returned to normal. Malan screamed, “Run, run!” Tolokai’s words made less sense: “Stay, and accept the death you know you deserve!”
She reached the door to the nearest stairwell. She heard a thump and a gasp from behind; she hazarded a look and saw Malan sliding across the floor, Tolokai advancing menacingly toward her. She ran down the stairs as fast as she could.
Not fast enough. As she reached the first landing she felt something yank the back of her hair, and suddenly she was flying down the next flight of stairs—
Flying halfway down. She hit the stairs, pain cracking through her rib cage and chest, and rolled to a stop at the bottom of that flight.
Her wind gone, her energy gone, she could only stare up the steps to where Tolokai stood. His expression was as reasonable, as emotionless as ever—as it was with every Gotal. She tried to ask him why, but could only mouth the word; she had no breath with which to expel it.
But he understood. A Gotal would. “For my people,” he said. “To rid the universe of the scourge you call humankind. I’m sorry.” He descended the steps with meticulous care.
When he was halfway down, Malan, his tunic drenched with blood, came toppling over the rail from the first flight of steps and fell full upon Tolokai. Then the two males were falling and rolling, to the accompanying sound of cracking bones.
Mon Mothma tried to get clear, succeeded in rolling partway aside, and the two men landed across her legs, pinning her in place.
The men lay still, their eyes closed. Tolokai’s head was bent at an angle that was not survivable. Malan had frothy blood on his lips. Mon Mothma looked at them, trying to grasp what had gone so wrong in Tolokai’s mind … trying to understand how Malan had managed to surprise him with his attack. It shouldn’t have been possible.
Then Malan’s eyes opened. “Iwo,” he said. “Iwo, Iwo …” His words were mere whispers, barely audible.
Mon Mothma leaned closer to hear him.
“Iwo, I won’t be getting you that caf.” His eyes closed and his head fell back. But his chest still rose and fell, though there was a rattle in his breathing.
And once again, Mon Mothma had work to do. She brought out her personal comlink and thumbed it on. “Emergency,” she said. “Councilors’ Floors, Stairwell One. Emergency.”
Liquid rolled down her face. She wiped at it with her free hand and looked at it, expecting to see more of Malan’s blood, but her own tears glistened in her palm.
Galey was a massive man, all chest and muscle, with legs that were short enough to keep his height in the average range, though no one dared tell him he wasn’t proportioned like a holodrama idol. His hair was red and shaggy and his expression perpetually quizzical, as though he didn’t ever quite understand what was going on around him.
Which wasn’t the case. He understood his job well enough—programming menus for the cafeteria and officers’ dinners on Mon Remonda, making sure there was hot, fresh caf available at all the conferences and meetings and briefings, making special arrangements for dinners for important visitors.
This was an important job. He knew it to be at least as significant as any piloting position. A military force ran on its stomach, after all.
But the job didn’t pay well, and offered little respect, and so he was very attentive on his last leave on Coruscant when the men with intelligent eyes came to him and offered him a lot of money.
And now he was supposed to kill somebody. Somebody important. It would take precise timing and careful arrangement. It would take skill and knowledge.
So it pleased him that he had figured out just what the various requests for refreshments actually meant. They were like a code, and he had cracked it.
A request for one large pot of caf and a tray of sweet pastries for the captain’s conference room, for instance. That meant an unscheduled but routine staff meeting led by Han Solo, not by Captain Onoma. Onoma’s meetings were always smaller and didn’t call for quite so much caf.
The pilot briefings also called for caf, but if a request included both sweet pastries and meat rolls, it meant there would be a mission. So when the request came in this morning, he knew he had his opportunity to earn all that money.
He delivered the cart of refreshments to the pilots’ main briefing amphitheater and then loitered out in the hall with a datapad and a second cart of caf, offering cups to anyone who asked for them. Soon enough, the pilots of Mon Remonda’s four starfighter squadrons began filing in.
He waved at the huge Rogue, the one almost too tall to fit in his cockpit with the canopy down—Tal’dira, the Twi’lek. “Lieutenant, can I have a moment?”
Tal’dira frowned at this odd request. He glanced at the other Rogues, as though to gauge whether they, too, found it out of keeping, but they swept past him into the briefing chamber. “Well,” he said, “only a moment. The briefing is about to start. You’re Kaley, aren’t you?”
“Galey. And I have an important message for you. From someone who’s finally realized she’d like to meet you.” He beckoned Tal’dira and walked around the nearest corner.
The pilot followed, an intent expression on his face. “You don’t mean—”
“Here’s what she has to say. ‘Wedge Antilles hops on one transparisteel leg.’ ”
Tal’dira rocked back on his heels, his expression shocked. He swayed on his feet and reached out to steady himself against the wall. “No.”
“It’s true. He really does.”
The Twi’lek gripped his head as though to restrain some explosive force within it. “I hate that.”
“Me, too. We all do.”
Tal’dira stood upright again, with a new look in his eyes. “But I can put a stop to it.”
“And you should. But wait until after the meeting. Then you can do it in an X-wing.”
“You’re right.” The pilot slapped Galey on his shoulder, propelling him into the wall. “You’re a good friend.”
“As are you.” Galey thought about giving Tal’dira a return blow, then decided against it. “May the Force be with you.”
Tal’dira nodded briskly and turned back toward the briefing amphitheater.
Galey breathed out a sigh of relief and rubbed his shoulder where it still stung. He hoped the other Twi’lek wouldn’t be quite so violent.
“For the last few hours,” Wedge said, “we’ve been in hyperspace en route to the Jussafet system.”
A hologram starfield popped up to the left of the lectern where Wedge stood. It showed a cluster of stars near a fuzzy diamond-shaped nebula. One star blinked yellow in a decidedly mechanical fashion. Donos nodded; he remembered Jussafet from discussions of strategic moves into Warlord Zsinj’s territory.
Wedge continued, “Jussafet is in the nebulous border territory between Imperial and Zsinj-controlled space. Jussafet Four is a habitable planet with some mining businesses, but the system’s real wealth is in asteroid mining; they have an asteroid belt that is the remains of a large iron-core planet that broke up.
“Earlier today, Jussafet Four sent out a distress call to the Empire, talking about a full-scale invasion by Raptors, Zsinj’s elite troops. A Duros ship approaching the system to do some under-the-table trading heard the transmission and relayed it to the New Republic. We’re going in to stomp on the Raptors, and hopefully Iron Fist, as well as to do some good for the people of Jussafet.”
Donos raised a hand. “What are the odds that Imperial forces will also come in to stage a rescue? It’d be nasty to fight a three-way.”
Wedge nodded. “It would. Odds are low—the Empire’s having enough trouble with us and Zsinj that it is likely to mount a more meticulous response, determining enemy strength, assembling a precise task force, that sort of thing. But it’s possible. We’ll be taking some steps to keep them from knowing our full force strength, too. Mon Remonda is going into the system with a couple of the fleet’s frigates, but Mon Karren and the Allegiance will be waiting outside the system, ready to jump in if needed.”
<
br /> Corran Horn’s hand was up next. “And what are the odds that this is another Zsinj trap?”
“Again, possible but not likely. The Duros monitoring of the battle in the asteroid belt and on Jussafet suggests that we’re looking at a large force of Raptors, fully engaged, not just the whispers and rumors we’re used to.
“We’ll launch as soon as we drop into the system. Polearm’s A-wings will take point and make the initial flyover on Jussafet Four. Rogue Squadron and Nova’s B-wings will head into the asteroid belt to begin purging it of Zsinj forces. We have four flyers of Wraith Squadron active, and they’ll escort shuttles of New Republic ground forces in to Jussafet Four.”
Face Loran, leaning forward so as to keep his injured back from making contact with the chair, spoke up. His voice emerged as an uncanny impersonation of Tal’dira’s. “This time, the Wraiths can do the baby-sitting. Now, and forever.”
The pilots laughed. All, Donos noted, except Tal’dira, who kept his attention on the desktop before him and didn’t react. Corran Horn gave Tal’dira a curious glance.
“That’s it,” Wedge said. “Your astromechs and nav computers have your navigational data. Good luck.”
As they filed out of the amphitheater, Face and Dia caught up with Donos. “I wish I were flying with you,” Face said.
“I’m glad you’re not,” Donos said. At Face’s startled expression, he relented, smiling. “I so seldom get to he in charge of anything, the change is welcome. You just get injured anytime you like.”
“Thanks,” Face said. He stopped in the hall beside the caf cart and picked up a cup. “Thanks, Galey.”
“No problem, sir.”
As they continued down toward the starfighter hangars, Donos heard Galey say, “Excuse me, Flight Officer Tualin! A moment of your time?”
It was hard for Tal’dira to run down his preflight checklist. His thoughts were far away. How could Wedge Antilles, hero of the Rebellion, of the New Republic, fall so far as to hop on one transparisteel leg? Nothing short of the Emperor’s magic could have wrought such a change in him. Rage grew within Tal’dira and he struggled, as only a true warrior could, to keep it in check.
Star Wars: X-Wing VII: Solo Command Page 13