Star Wars: X-Wing VII: Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

  Wedge nodded. “Correct. But here’s the answer to your question. To convince the Provisional Council, we’re all going to become geniuses.”

  “I vote we start with Elassar,” Lara said. “He has the farthest to go.”

  The Devaronian pilot winced. “No more. I surrender.”

  “What kind of geniuses?” asked Ven.

  “Prophetic ones. The kind who can tell the Provisional Council just what’s going to happen next. What’s Zsinj’s next step? If we can predict it, we can convince the powers that be that they’re dealing with a methodical plan of Zsinj’s … not a conspiracy of terror against humankind.” He looked among them. “Otherwise, in six months, a year, the New Republic consists of humans on one side, nonhumans on the other, no possible trust or interdependence between them … and Zsinj can march in and take whatever he wants.”

  “I have a thought.” That was Piggy. “A theory. About where I fit into Zsinj’s plan.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We know for a certainty that Zsinj has for some time been trying to create very intelligent examples of humanoids not known for their intelligence,” Piggy said. “The question, especially as it relates to your other theory, is why?”

  “Obviously,” Tycho said, “to have intelligent agents who could infiltrate those species, and therefore not look out of place in locations where those species are found.”

  “Correct.” Piggy nodded in the exaggerated way of Gamorreans. “But that’s only part of the equation. What does a leader require in an agent in addition to intelligence? More important than intelligence?”

  “Loyalty,” Lara said. Her voice seemed a little sad. Donos gave her a close look. She saw his sudden interest, shook her head to suggest that her momentary disquiet was nothing.

  “Correct,” Piggy said. “Yet I am not loyal to Zsinj. I underwent no indoctrination from youth, nothing like the teaching the stormtroopers receive. Why not? Was I just a laboratory test specimen? Was I to be purged when tests on me were complete?”

  Nawara Ven nodded. “Possibly so.”

  “Yes. But consider. Zsinj would not have embarked on a process like the creation of me and the other hyperintelligent humanoids without making some provision for loyalty. What if he found a way to instill it by force rather than through training?”

  “Like brainwashing.” Tycho’s voice was flat, hard. Donos noticed that the captain now sat absolutely still. Small wonder: Tycho had at one time been suspected of being a brainwashed agent of Ysanne Isard, the former head of Imperial Intelligence. “You think the assassins were brainwashed by this technique.”

  “Yes,” Piggy said. “But we know we’re not facing brainwashing as we have experienced it before. The Twi’lek who attacked me and Admiral Ackbar might have been brainwashed, but he was missing only for a week—a possible, but very short—amount of time to do such a thing. From the time he joined Rogue Squadron, what was the longest time Tal’dira was out of sight of the other members? His longest leave?”

  Tycho and Wedge conferred, and Tycho said, “About a day at a time. Various leaves on Coruscant.”

  “One day.” Piggy nodded. “If we assume that Tal’dira was a victim and not a conspirator, then he was brainwashed in less than a day. Surely such a treatment must leave evidence on the body of the victim. Signs of probes. Blood chemical imbalances from drug treatments. Neurological disorders. Something.”

  “Unfortunately,” Wedge said, “we don’t have Tal’dira’s body to examine. Or Flight Officer Tualin’s. We might be able to put in a request to Admiral Ackbar to see if he can perform autopsies on his attacker and Mon Mothma’s. And the two Gotal shooters.”

  “If only Doctor Gast had survived,” Piggy said. “I feel no sense of loss at her passing; in fact, I am met with relief. But in retrospect, I wish we had the knowledge she possessed.”

  Wedge and Nawara Ven exchanged a glance. “We’ll have to do without,” Wedge said. “All right, let’s get to work on these theories of ours … and see whether we can have successful careers as prophets as well as pilots.”

  It drifted off the bow of Mon Remonda, a saucerlike shape with two forward prongs signifying the bow and a small cockpit projecting from the starboard side to give the ship an off-balance look.

  To Wedge’s eye, it looked just like the Millennium Falcon, except that its top-hull dish antenna was much smaller. A shuttle occupied by Donos, Corran Horn, and the Wraiths’s chief mechanic Cubber Daine, Corellians all, plus Emtrey, the Rogues’s quartermaster, had escorted the battered-looking freighter from a scrapyard in the Corellian system, where such craft were most common … and cheapest to acquire.

  “Ugliest ship I think I’ve ever seen,” said Solo.

  Captain Onoma, standing on the other side of Solo at the bridge’s new forward viewport, wrinkled his forehead in a fair approximation of a human frown. “It looks like the Falcon to me.”

  “Nothing could look less like the Falcon,” Solo said. “You could slap a paint job on a desert skiff and it’d look more like the Falcon.” He sighed. “Still, with Chewie in charge of dressing her up, she might be able to fool Zsinj for a couple of minutes. What did our crew of Corellians pay for her?”

  “They traded that hyperspace-enabled TIE interceptor Shalla Nelprin took off Razor’s Kiss.”

  Solo looked at him, eyes wide. “That’s crazy. Trade a valuable combat-ready starfighter for that hunk of junk?”

  “No. They traded a valuable combat-ready starfighter for a chance to blow Zsinj up.”

  Solo’s features settled into calmer lines, though he still looked tired, stressed. “Oh. Well, that makes sense. She’ll never have the Falcon’s speed. Without a few years’s head start, Chewie won’t be able to make her insides work like the real thing.”

  “We don’t want him to,” Wedge said.

  “How so?”

  “Because if they count on this new ship being the Falcon, our modifications can trip them up. For example, the Falcon isn’t packed with high explosives.”

  Solo shuddered. “There’s a very good reason for that.”

  “Right. But since the Falcon isn’t packed with explosives, you’d never send her into a crash dive into the side of a Super Star Destroyer. With this hunk of junk, you wouldn’t feel any such compunctions.”

  “Except for not wanting to die.”

  “Well, that’s what escape pods are for. You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Solo returned his attention to the Corellian YT-1300 transport hanging off the bow. “All right. Secure Bay Gamma One to authorized personnel only and direct this flying trash receptacle there. Let’s get to work.”

  It drifted off the bow of Iron Fist, a nightmare vessel. Her bulk was an irregular oval of wreckage more than three kilometers long held together by thousands of kilometers of cabling. Around the wreckage was a superstructure—a cluster of engines at one end, a wedge-shaped bow at the other, a gigantic spar of metal connecting them and acting as a frame for the envelope of wreckage to hang upon. The name, barely visible on the bow, was Second Death.

  “Ugliest ship I think I’ve ever seen,” said Zsinj. His face shone with admiration. “Melvar, you have done a magnificent job.”

  The general gave him a little bow. “There are a dozen explosive pockets within the body of the wreckage; they will send the components of Razor’s Kiss out in all directions. There are more explosives in the engines and bridge, sufficient to remove most evidence that these extra components ever existed. It should be convincing. Unfortunately, she’s slow. She can’t be expected to keep up with Iron Fist or other elements of our fleet.”

  “Pity. Still, we’ll do what we can. How does the crew escape?”

  “Both bow and stern are equipped with a Sentinel-class landing craft. The crew has a chance not only to evacuate, but to fight their way out of pursuit.” Melvar offered a little sigh. “The crew doesn’t know that if a capital ship approaches within a kilometer before they’ve engaged the hyperdrive, th
ey, too, will detonate. The crew will not be captured, will not be able to betray your secret to the Rebels.”

  “Excellent. Fine work, as usual. Give her a station in the fleet, outside of visual range of any of the other vessels. I am so pleased.” Zsinj smiled. He hoped he’d never be forced to utilize the hideous amalgamation that had earned his approval and praise. Using it meant failure on his part—meant he’d been beaten and needed to hide to lick his wounds. But he liked to keep his options open. “Oh. What about the Nightcloak function?”

  “Working … mostly. Would you like a demonstration?”

  “Please.”

  Melvar held up his comlink. “Second Death, this is General Melvar. Activate and initiate Nightcloak.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the tinny voice from the comlink. “Deploying satellites.”

  Tiny flares erupted from Second Death, four from the bow and four from the stern, deploying at precise angles so they suggested the corners of a wire-frame box surrounding the junkyard vessel. After a few moments of flight, the satellites ceased their acceleration; their burn trails vanished and they became all but invisible in the starfield.

  “Nightcloak engaging,” said the comlink.

  And Second Death was suddenly gone.

  Where she had been, where the space around her had been, was blackness. Not starfield—not even the stars were visible through it.

  Zsinj offered a little exhalation of happiness. “Sensors, give me a reading on Second Death.”

  The sensor officer in the crew pit below examined his screen. He took on a stricken look as he raised his head to face the warlord. “Nothing, sir. We don’t even get a return on the active sensors. It’s a sensor anomaly.”

  “Fine, fine.”

  Out in space, stars briefly flickered through the darkness, then shone brilliantly again, and Second Death once more floated before them.

  Melvar frowned. “Second Death, I didn’t order an end to the test.”

  “Sorry, sir. System failure. It’s still not entirely reliable.”

  “Well, bring in the satellites and get back to work. Until it’s one hundred percent, it’s not adequate. Until it’s one hundred percent, we’re not happy with you. Melvar out.” The general pocketed the comlink and turned to his warlord. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be.” Zsinj waved his apology away. “It’s a fine demonstration. A wonderful adaptation of what we’re accomplishing at Rancor Base. They’ll have it done in time. Or else.” He smiled.

  In Mon Remonda’s pilots’s lounge, in stuffed chairs dragged against the viewports to suggest thrones, sat Wes Janson and Runt Ekwesh.

  Standing before them, Face said, “For intercepting great quantities of damage so the rest of us didn’t have to, your crowns, o mighty ones.” He took circlets made of flimsy material and placed one on each pilot’s head. “For enduring medical treatments without whining, for surviving days of bacta bath without crying, for emerging from your treatment without asking for extra cake and sweetening, your royal scepters.” He placed a wooden dowel, its end decorated with tassels and ribbons, into the hand of each pilot. “And now, receive the accolades of your subjects.”

  He stood aside, and the gathered Wraiths and Rogues hurled confetti upon them, a rain of color and rubbish.

  Janson blinked against the atmospheric assault and turned to Runt. “This is the last time, positively the last time, that I suggest to Face that the squad doesn’t always show enough appreciation.”

  Runt nodded. “We agree. Do all kings have to suffer this?”

  “Well, any king with Face Loran as his majordomo.”

  “And now,” Face said, “the two kings fight one another to the death, and we space the loser.”

  “Whoa, there.” Janson stood and shook confetti from his hair. “Try again.”

  “We space the winner?”

  “One more.”

  “We buy you a drink.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  As the pilots drifted back to their seats, Shalla dropped gracefully in a chair beside Piggy’s. “Tell me something,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “The other day, you said that you were relieved when Doctor Gast died. Why relieved?”

  Piggy took a few moments to answer. Shalla wondered whether he was considering his response, or debating whether to tell her to go to hell. Finally he said, “It takes pressure off me. Pressure of decisions.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “As far as I know, I am the only one of my kind. I am not fit to be among normal Gamorreans; I make them nervous and I am dismayed by their presence. Their violence, their simplicity. So I will never find a mate, a Gamorrean female, to my liking. I had sometimes wondered if Gast had created one … or if she might do so, if I compelled her. Even so, such a relationship would endure in frustration and sadness. If I understand it correctly, the changes made to me are not genetic; I could not pass them on to offspring. So I could not have children with my mental and emotional characteristics.” He raised his hand, studying the Churban brandy in the glass he held. “In that sense, I am alone … and should be alone. Doctor Gast’s continued existence led me to hopes I should not have entertained. Now that she is dead, I can be more responsible.”

  “I’m sorry.” On impulse, she reached out and took his other hand. “But in one sense, you’re wrong.”

  He sipped at the brandy before replying. “How so?”

  “You’re not just flesh and bone. You don’t just pass along your genes. If you had children, you’d be giving them your ideas, the example of your courage and commitment, all the things that come from the way you relate to the culture you’ve chosen. And those things you can pass along to others who aren’t your children. Intellectually, emotionally, your parents and children aren’t related to you by blood at all. I know that may be small consolation.”

  He downed the rest of the brandy, and after a moment his lips curled up in a near-human smile. “Well, it is some consolation.”

  “Would you like to dance?”

  “Would you like to have your toes smashed flat?”

  “I have fast feet.”

  “True. Well, the risk is all yours.” He heaved himself up, then helped her to her feet.

  Other dancers were already in motion on the portion of the lounge the pilots had cleared of furniture. Face and Dia had center stage, moving to a classical theme of ancient Coruscant, and Donos and Lara were now moving to join them.

  “They’re not really together,” Dia said.

  Face glanced over at Donos and Lara. “How do you figure?”

  “She’s tense. Keeping a little separation between them. Her expression keeps softening, she keeps smiling, as if she’s really enjoying herself. Then she tenses and withdraws. It’s a little cycle she keeps running through.”

  “Oh, you’re good at this game. But you missed when she gave him the opportunity for a kiss. A deliberate invitation.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “She did.” He gave her a superior little smile.

  “When?”

  “A moment ago. Did you see her lower her eyes, then raise them and make that little twirling motion with her finger?”

  “Yes. I assumed she was describing something. She was talking.”

  “She was describing something. That’s what makes it so subtle, the way she blended the cue in, the way you’re supposed to. It’s—” Then Face stiffened, nearly losing the rhythm of the dance, and looked back at the other couple.

  “It’s what?”

  “Coruscant charm signing.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s something like the language of flowers. You know how on some worlds the precise flower you give someone, the number, the arrangement, all has specific meaning.”

  Dia nodded. “It’s a human custom. A new way to miscommunicate so you can find reason to kill one another.”

  “That’s an interesting interpretation … anyway,
charm signing is sort of like that. It’s confined to the social class of Imperial officer trainees from wealthy families and their circles. It came out of Coruscant long before the rise of the Empire, but it’s mostly confined to the Empire these days; most of the former Imperial officers serving with the New Republic weren’t of that social order. Anyway, she gave him the correct sign for ‘I’d accept a kiss.’ He just didn’t know what it meant.”

  “Is that a reason for you to be so startled?”

  “Well, yes. Lara keeps saying ‘Coruscant’ to me, without meaning to. When she’s distracted, when she’s upset … not when she’s in control. Sometimes she’ll walk like a native throneworlder—you know the sort of hunched-in, ‘don’t touch me’ body language?”

  She nodded.

  Face thought back. “And then, things she knew about Coruscant commerce. Pretty elaborate for someone who’d been employed there only for a few weeks. And that incident at the Galactic Museum. The old man who thought she was—what was the name he called her?”

  “Edallia Monotheer.”

  Face looked at her with real surprise. “How did you remember that?”

  “A trick of the trade. When you’re a slave dancer, you remember the name of everyone you are introduced to by your owner. If you fail, you’re beaten … or worse.”

  “I’m sorry.” He pulled her to him, an embrace of apology. “I always seem to do something to remind you of those times.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Her voice was a whisper. “I can’t seem to give up on it. Sometimes I think I say things like that to remind other people of what I used to be—when I’m the only one who needs to remember.” She sighed, as if releasing some sorrow into the air. “What are you going to do about Lara? Ask her how she knows this charm signing?”

  He shook his head, brushing his cheek against hers. “I’m going to put in a request for information. To New Republic Intelligence.”

  “But later,” she said.

  “Later.”

  A couple of hundred meters away, Wedge trotted up the access ramp to the YT-1300 freighter hidden away in one of Mon Remonda’s hangar bays. Crashing and clanking noises drifted down from the freighter’s upper hull, accompanied by the deep rumbling of Chewbacca’s complaints. But no human words accompanied the rumbling.