“Rogues, announce readiness by number.”
When his time came, Tal’dira said, “Rogue Five, four lit, three at full capacity, one at ninety-nine percent.” His starboard lower engine was still not optimal. He’d have to insist that it be brought up to a reasonable level of performance.
After he killed Wedge Antilles, of course.
A hangar Klaxon warned the pilots that they were dropping out of hyperspace. The twisting, whirling morass of color outside the magnetic shield between the hangar and vacuum abruptly snapped into a simpler image: a starfield. One small planet hung, bright and round, near the upper right corner of the magcon field.
One by one, the Rogues shot through the field and formed up a kilometer from Mon Remonda. Tal’dira, leader of Two Flight, settled in beside his wingman, Gavin Darklighter. He felt his heart race as the moment crept toward him.
One bit of comm traffic caught his ear, a transmission from a fellow Twi’lek: “Polearm Two to Polearm Leader. I have a critical failure of my sublight engine. I’m down to fifty-four percent. Forty. Twenty-eight …”
“Two, this is Leader. Drop out of formation and head on in. Maybe next time …”
On Tal’dira’s sensor screen, eleven members of Polearm Squadron leaped forward, drawing away from Mon Remonda, approaching distant Jussafet Four.
Tal’dira’s astromech transmitted the unit’s course to his navigation system and he absently reviewed numbers he would never use.
“Rogue Leader to group. On my count, ten, nine, eight …”
“Wraith Four, you are out of position.”
Tyria looked up, startled. She was out of position. She should be maintaining her distance from Mon Remonda and letting her fellow Wraiths—Donos, Lara, and Elassar—plus four shuttles, form up on her.
Then why had she heeled over and goosed her thrusters, heading toward the bow of Mon Remonda? Her hands had acted without her brain being engaged.
Ahead, she could see one lonely A-wing making a torturous, slow turn back toward Mon Remonda, an obvious case of engine failure.
Obvious … but false. Adrenaline jolted through her as she saw through the A-wing’s moves, through the cockpit, through the skin and blood of its pilot to the mind beneath. “Mon Remonda,” she shouted, “bring your shields up. Polearm Two—”
“—is firing on you!”
Han Solo didn’t hesitate. “All shields up full!”
The A-wing fired. The transparisteel viewport giving him and the bridge crew an unparalleled view of space darkened as it tried to cope with the A-wing’s linked laser blasts. Then it shattered.
To Solo’s eye, the shards of viewport floated into the bridge, then immediately reversed direction and fled to space … vanguard for the atmosphere of the bridge.
• • •
“Four.”
Tal’dira reached up to flip the switch setting his S-foils to combat formation. They parted and his targeting computer came online.
“Three.”
Tal’dira heeled over so his weapons aimed straight at the rear end of Wedge’s X-wing. He began to swing his targeting brackets over toward the starfighter.
“Two …”
“Leader, break off!” Horn’s voice.
Tal’dira, jolted by the interruption, fired before his shot was completely lined up. Wedge, impossibly, was already reacting to Horn’s warning, breaking to starboard. But Tal’dira was rewarded by the sight of his lasers, cycling two by two, chewing through the port rear of Wedge’s X-wing, blowing one fuzial thrust engine completely off, punching deep into the rear fuselage.
The comm system was suddenly loud with many voices, most of them distressed. Wedge’s snubfighter continued banking to starboard and lost relative altitude, and Tycho was keeping pace with him as only the most experienced of wingmen could.
Tal’dira smiled. This would be a challenge. Good.
A blast of air shoved Solo from behind—shoved him nearly out of his commander’s chair and toward the hole in the forward viewport. He hung on to the chair but moved toward the hole anyway—the armature from which the chair was suspended swung inevitably in that direction. He could see, a few meters over, Captain Onoma in a similar predicament, being guided by his chair as though it were a mechanical throwing device toward the fatal exit from the bridge.
An alarm Klaxon sounded, loud even over the shrill whistle of air escaping the bridge. Solo saw the main door out of the chamber closing, an automatic safety measure.
When it closed, he’d be dead. The last of the bridge atmosphere would be out there in deep space, and he’d experience the joys of explosive decompression. So would every other crewman on the bridge.
He got one foot down to arrest the swing of his chair armature. Fortunately, artificial gravity was still working and he stopped his forward motion.
Then he drew his blaster and aimed for the control panel beside the main door. He fired, was rewarded with seeing the panel buckle inward under the blast—
The door stopped.
Now the bridge crew had a chance to make it to the door. But air was being vented from one of the ship’s main corridors. They had to get through the door past that wind blast …
And the A-wing was still out there.
“And you’re in a position to speak for the New Republic,” Dr. Gast said.
Nawara Ven, Twi’lek executive officer for Rogue Squadron, nodded. “I have been so authorized by the Inner Council. And as soon as we can come to some arrangement, you can be free of all this.” His gesture took in the tiny, plain stateroom that served as Gast’s cell. Ven sat on the room’s only chair, while Gast stretched out on the bed, leaning back against the wall.
“Well, you know what I want. A million credits, free of tax. Amnesty for all crimes, known and unknown, that I am alleged to have committed. And a new identity.”
“No,” Ven said. “We can offer amnesty for all crimes you offer all details on. If you hold something back, it remains live. And we can offer one hundred thousand credits. Enough for you to make a good start for yourself. But you’re not going to be wealthy at the expense of the New Republic. Every credit we give you could mean the life of one of our people.”
“Every detail I give you could mean the life of ten of your people,” she said. “I’ll buy into the full confession thing. But one million credits stands.” Distantly, an alarm Klaxon began to sound. “What’s this? More warfare against Zsinj? I wonder who’s going to die today?”
Ven struggled to keep his voice under control. “We certainly don’t employ torture or murder like the Empire,” he said. “On the other hand, we could keep you in custody in some free-trade port while we assemble charges, and make no secret of the fact that we have you. How long would it take Zsinj to find you, do you suppose?”
Her expression became ugly. “For that, I hold back one detail you’ll never know about, and some of your oh-so-precious people die. How about that, you subhuman nothing? Give me a human negotiator.”
There was a sound beyond the door, an unmistakable one: two blasts in quick succession, two scrapes and thuds as bodies hit the floor.
Ven stood. He grabbed the side of Gast’s bed and yanked, precipitating her to the floor. He shoved the bed over on her, then slid to stand beside the door.
“Hey!” she said. The bed rocked as she struggled to free herself.
The door slid open. A blaster gripped in a large human hand entered first. Ven grabbed the blaster, twisted it up.
He had a brief glimpse of the man he was wrestling with: big but not tall, fleshy, with red hair. Then burning liquid washed into his eye. He yelped, instinctively turned away from the pain.
A meaty fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him to the floor. He shook his head to clear it, belatedly realizing that it was hot caf in his face.
Above him, the attacker looked at the wriggling bed and fired into it—twice, three times, four. There was a female shriek in the middle of that.
Then the assassin turned
to aim down at Ven.
Ven kicked out, shoving against the bed frame, and slid out partway into the hall. The assassin’s shot struck the flooring between his legs.
Ven found himself between the two door guards, both slumped, dead. He grabbed at the blaster pistol still in the hand of the one to his left. He brought it around, even as he saw the assassin aiming—
Ven didn’t bother to aim. He fired, heard the distinctive crackle of blaster beam frying flesh as his shot took the assassin in one ankle. The big man yelped, fell, his blaster aiming in straight at the Twi’lek—
Ven fired again. This shot took the assassin right in the nose, snapping his head back, filling the chamber with even more burned-flesh odor. The big man fired, whether intentionally or as a dying spasm Ven didn’t know, and his shot hit the doorjamb.
Ven rose. There was no more wiggling going on behind the bed. Knowing what he was likely to see, he pulled the bed from against the wall and looked at what lay beyond.
“Polearm Two,” Tyria said, “power down and announce your surrender or I’ll blow you out of space.” She toggled her S-foil switch and felt a hum as the foils assumed strike position.
The A-wing heeled over and accelerated, moving behind the protective bulk of Mon Remonda, out of her sight.
Tal’dira smiled as he heard the pure tone of a good targeting lock on Wedge’s X-wing, but the noise garbled as Tycho slid in between target and prey. Tal’dira dropped relative altitude, hoping for a quick shot under Tycho, but the captain mimicked his move, remaining an obstruction.
Now Tycho was an easy target, and so close—a proton torpedo would turn him into a billion fiery specks. But Tal’dira shook his head at the notion. Tycho wasn’t his enemy. Tycho wasn’t the traitor. “Captain Celchu, get out of the way,” he said. “I have a job to do.”
He spared a glance for his sensor board. The other Rogues were staying in position—all but Rogue Nine, Corran Horn, who was moving out to a position some distance from the Rogue formation but not approaching.
Tycho’s voice came back. “Rogue Five, power down all weapons systems and return to Mon Remonda immediately or we will be forced to regard you as an enemy. And destroy you.”
“I’m not the enemy! Wedge Antilles is the enemy, that one-leg-hopping maniac! Celchu, clear my field of fire!”
Wedge, his X-wing moving sluggishly, continued his loop around to starboard. Tycho kept on him, keeping stubbornly between him and Tal’dira. The Twi’lek pilot gritted his teeth, sideslipped port, then starboard, but Tycho was always there, in the way.
Solo pushed off from his chair armature and staggered toward the door. Captain Onoma, approaching from the other side of the bridge, reached him and grabbed him.
They made two steps, three, but then, as they neared the doorway, the wind increased—channeled tightly by the doorway, it was more ferocious the closer they got. Solo felt his forward motion stop; then his left leg slipped out from under him and he went on one knee. His ears popped as the air pressure continued to drop and his head felt as though it would burst.
So close, so close—he and Onoma could reach out almost to the doorframe. But the roaring air stopped them dead.
Dead.
Then light from the corridor was partially blocked off and a long, hairy arm reached from the other side of the door to grip Solo’s. It was like a fur-covered vise clamping over his wrist. It hauled and suddenly Solo and Onoma were both through the doorway, staggering into the corridor, still battered but no longer endangered by the howling wind.
“Chewie.” Solo turned back to his rescuer. He grabbed the doorframe with one arm, Chewbacca’s waist with the other, helping pin the Wookiee in place.
Chewbacca reached in again and hauled, dragging the bridge communications officer out. Then again, and again, yanking each bridge officer into the comparative safety of the corridor. There was an explosion from the bridge or from beyond it, and Chewie lurched backward, bleeding from the chest from what looked like shrapnel. The Wookiee shook off the sudden shock and looked back in. He bellowed, noises that would sound like an animal roar to most people but which Solo knew to mean “All out.”
“No, there’s one left,” Solo said. He looked around. “Golorno, sensors.”
“Dead,” Onoma said. Even with the gravelly tones of Mon Calamari speech, Solo could make out the pain, the regret in his voice. “Out the viewport.”
Solo grimaced. “Chewie, let’s get this door closed.” He heaved against the metal barrier. Chewie flexed one arm and slammed the door closed.
Tyria’s sensors weren’t much use. This close to Mon Remonda, she couldn’t even detect Polearm Two as an individual ship. He had to be hugging the hull pretty closely.
Perhaps if machinery couldn’t help her, the Force could. She concentrated on Polearm Two, on his A-wing—
No, that was wrong. She leaned back, cleared her thoughts.
Closed her eyes.
Mission, he had a mission. He was going to destroy the bridge or someone in it.
She opened her eyes and banked toward the bridge, amidships and topside …
As she cleared the horizon of the ship’s curved hull, she saw the A-wing lining up for another shot at the bridge. Her targeting computer announced a clean lock on him.
“Don’t,” she said. But there was no time for a lengthy plea, for words that might get through to reach this madman. A few more degrees of turn, and he was in line, poised, a beautiful target—
She fired. Her proton torpedo hit and detonated before she registered that it was away. Polearm Two was suddenly nothing more than a bright flash and thousands of needles of superheated metal hitting Mon Remonda’s skin and heading into outer space.
“Captain, please,” Tal’dira said. “It is not in my nature to beseech. I beg you get clear of my shot before I have to kill you, too.”
But the voice that answered was Corran Horn’s, not Tycho’s. “Tal’dira, this isn’t honorable. You shot him in the back.”
Tal’dira checked his sensor board. Wedge’s maneuver was leading him back and around toward Rogue Nine. In just a few moments, he would be forced to run a head-to-head against Horn. Tal’dira shrugged. He could take the Corellian pilot. He could take anyone.
Dishonorable. But that word burned at him. His first shot had been dishonorable. How could he have done that?
Because Wedge, that one-transparisteel-leg-hopping traitor, had to die.
But Tal’dira couldn’t betray his honor to kill him. It was impossible.
Yet he had. And he knew, deep in the portions of his mind still functioning, that he would again. He’d throw away his honor to kill Wedge Antilles. And he’d never turn away from his quest to kill his former commander.
He heard a groan, knew it to be his own. That meant he would die without honor, shaming his family, shaming his world.
No. He shook off the thought, raised his head. Honor above all.
Wedge and Tycho were now heading straight for Corran Horn, Tal’dira tucked in neatly behind them. In another few moments, he’d be within good firing range of the Corellian.
He adjusted his shields, then switched to lasers and opened fire on Tycho.
Far ahead, Rogue Nine fired.
There was a brilliant flash from behind Wedge. He glanced at his flickering sensor board.
Rogue Five was gone.
In other circumstances, he would have had words of praise for such accurate shooting. But no Rogue would accept praise for downing one of their own. Wedge felt sick. When he spoke, he was not surprised to find that his voice was raspy with his effort to keep his emotions in check. “Rogue Nine, are you fit to fly?”
There was a moment’s delay. “Fit, sir.”
“Rogue Two, take the group in. You’re in command. I’m going to swap out X-wings and rejoin you.”
“Yes, sir.” Tycho didn’t sound any less pained than Wedge.
“Thanks, Two.”
“You’re welcome, Leader. Rogues, Novas, for
m up on me. We’re going in.” Tycho banked away and Corran moved up in formation with him.
8
The mission, which had begun in disaster, ended in disaster, but not for Solo’s forces.
The A-wings of Polearm Squadron identified and strafed numerous sites of Raptor activity on the ground at Jussafet Four. Raptor shuttles were caught on the ground and shot to pieces, their occupants scattered, easier prey for the Jussafet ground forces. Soldiers deposited by shuttles, with air support provided by Wraith Squadron, overran and took the Raptor base camp near the Jussafet capital.
Rogue and Nova Squadrons, led initially by Captain Celchu, then by Wedge Antilles once the commander returned to the combat in Wes Janson’s X-wing, cruised through the asteroid belt, wreaking havoc on the sparse units of TIE fighters and single corvette Zsinj’s forces had deployed.
By monitoring the escape vectors of the smaller vessels chased off by Rogue Squadron, the crew of Mon Remonda, working from the vessel’s auxiliary bridge, was able to determine the position of the assault fleet and give chase. The fleet consisted of two sturdy Carrack-class cruisers and a heavily modified cargo vessel … and as these three vessels detected the approach of the Mon Calamari cruiser, they turned spaceward and entered hyperspace.
No words of thanks came via comm from the Jussafet defenders—small wonder, since this was an Imperial world, its defenders doubtless looking on their liberators with as much suspicion as gratitude—but most of the starfighters picked up anonymous transmissions expressing thanks, sometimes wrapped in profanity directed against the New Republic.
Han Solo directed the soldiers on Jussafet Four to appropriate any Raptor vehicles and prisoners they could, leaving the rest for the planetary defenders.
Wedge, bone-weary—and not from the hours he’d spent in the cockpit—had the Rogues lined up for final approach to Mon Remonda when the word came. “Sensors show an Imperial Star Destroyer leaving hyperspace and entering the Jussafet system. It’s still outside the system’s mass shadow and can turn and run at any time. It’s approaching slowly.”
Star Wars: X-Wing VII: Solo Command Page 14