Star Wars: X-Wing VII: Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

Zsinj exchanged a blank look with Melvar, then shrugged. “Of course. We have a deal, then? Excellent. Welcome to Iron Fist, Lieutenant Petothel.”

  Lara shot to her feet, schooling her features to absolute blankness, and saluted.

  Zsinj looked startled for a moment, then chuckled. “I admire the way you switch gears, Lieutenant. You’re off duty until we come up with an itinerary for you. One of those pasty-faced ensigns out there will take you to your new quarters and act as your guide for your first few days. Wander as you will. And welcome.” At last, he returned her salute.

  “Thank you, sir.” With military precision, she spun on her heel and exited the office.

  The “pasty-faced ensign” awaiting her outside was anything but. Tall, dark-haired, and solemn, he had the hard look of a front-line soldier who’d received a field promotion. He identified himself as Ensign Gatterweld and led her first back to the hangar where her X-wing waited—so that she might pick up her R2 unit, Tonin—and then to her quarters. He spoke little.

  It was a long walk, and the finality of what she’d done finally hit Lara.

  She was surrounded by countless tons of machinery whose sole purpose was to rain death down on people she had ultimately chosen to protect.

  Except for one R2 unit, she was alone, a secret enemy of those who now employed her, a public enemy of those to whom she desperately wanted to return.

  She saw a trapezoidal little utility droid zipping along the hall, steering like a frightened animal out of the path of officers walking along the corridor, and imagined herself the human equivalent of such a machine—so small and inconsequential that she posed no threat, that she could not determine even the smallest detail of her own fate.

  Then, five steps later, she realized how she was going to destroy Iron Fist.

  “What do you think?” Zsinj asked.

  Melvar let his features go slack. All the menace and cruelty in them vanished. “Certainly, some of what she was saying was the truth. I just have difficulty trusting Intelligence types.”

  “Such as yourself.”

  “I was never with Imperial Intelligence. I just saw them as a likely enemy and schooled myself in their skills and tactics.” Melvar shrugged. “I’ve received early word from the technicians examining her astromech. It’s a new-model R2, very much state-of-the-art, and has received a recent memory scrub. It remembers the jump from Aldivy to our rendezvous point, but nothing else. It had a restraining bolt on it when she arrived.”

  Zsinj smiled. “Very appropriate. Innocuously appropriate. Keep a close eye on her. Extract every possible bit of information out of her. If she remains loyal, reward her. If she proves to be disloyal—”

  “I can guess the rest.”

  “Why me?” Janson asked.

  He lay on his bunk, hands behind his head, looking dubiously at his visitor.

  “I can’t go to a friend,” said Donos. He sat in Janson’s chair, leaning back on its rear legs so his shoulders rested on the wall. “I don’t have any.”

  “Not since you shot at the last one.”

  Donos managed a mirthless smile. “I can’t go to a subordinate officer. I’d just feel uncomfortable. Or to a superior.”

  “Which leaves the rest of us lucky lieutenants.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So talk. I’m game. It’s been years since I ruined the life of a fellow lieutenant. Well, weeks, anyway.”

  “I’m not sure where to begin. I don’t know whether I’m crazy or not. I just know that before Talon Squadron was destroyed, I was a different man. Self-control, self-composure were easy. Afterward, I had to work so hard to manage everything. If I didn’t …”

  “If you didn’t, what?”

  “I don’t know. I never found out. I was so good at managing everything. Except for that collapse. And the other day, with Lara.”

  “How many times did Lara slap you?”

  “Slap me? Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “I never gave her reason to.”

  “Right. Since you became a pilot, how many times have you been picked up by military police for being drunk and belligerent?”

  “Never.”

  “But you drink.”

  “In moderation.”

  Janson sighed. “You see, I was operating under the assumption that you’d actually died with Talon Squadron but had failed to notice. But I was wrong! You’ve been dead since you joined Starfighter Command. Maybe longer, maybe since you were with the Corellian armed forces.”

  Donos frowned. “I’d appreciate it if you’d explain that.”

  With a single, fluid move, Janson sat upright, spun ninety degrees to his right, and set his heels on the floor. “Sure,” he said. “It’s simple. You’re dead. I’m not. Let me demonstrate.” He stood up on his bed, then began bouncing up and down. “Did you ever do this as a kid?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you ever do it as a grown-up?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You say ‘of course’ a lot, and it’s always wrong. Tell me, Myn. How do I look?”

  “Well, stupid.”

  “Exactly!” With an exuberant bound, Janson leaped off his cot, smacked his head on the ceiling, and swore as he landed on the floor again. He rubbed his head and glared at the treacherous ceiling. “When was the last time you looked stupid?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Janson leaned in close to him. “Try to understand this. I’ll say it slowly. I want you to remember it for the rest of your life.

  “You can’t look dignified when you’re having fun.”

  “Assuming that’s true—so what?”

  “If you’re not having fun, you’re not enjoying your life. If you’re not enjoying your life—why even bother being alive?” Janson gave an eloquent shrug. “Myn, I’m living on borrowed time. I’ve nearly been killed more times than, than, well, more times than you’ve been slapped, certainly. If I wait until some imaginary distant point in my life to start enjoying it, I’ll be dead before I get there. But if I get killed tomorrow, at least I can be pretty sure that I enjoyed myself more than whoever’s killing me. You understand?”

  “Not really.”

  Suddenly deflated, Janson sat on his bed again. “Let’s try it a different way. You want to be in control so you don’t foul up some horrible way. But you’re so in control that you’re basically a walking dead man. Since you’re dead, you had nothing to offer Lara. You have nothing to offer Wedge—he’s got plenty of dead pilots, doesn’t need another one. Most of them are smart enough to stay where we plant them, though.”

  “So what do you recommend?”

  “Get drunk. Get slapped. Do something you always wanted to do as a child, especially if it’s something that would humiliate you today. If you’re going to get kicked out of Starfighter Command, make it for something you can be proud of.” Something beeped in one of Janson’s pockets. He pulled it out, a comlink, and held it up to his ear to listen. He brightened. “Automatic signal. The Rogues and the Millennium Falsehood are back. No losses. Sorry, I have to run, have to figure out what to razz Wedge about.” He darted for the door and was gone.

  Donos shook his head. “I’m asking career advice from a nine-year-old.”

  The door to the Falsehood’s hangar slid open before Janson reached it. Out came a repulsorlift cargo sled, pushed by a single Mon Remonda technician. On the sled was a crate, two meters long by one wide and high. The crate rocked on the sled and odd noises, like a faint and garbled voice, emerged from it.

  Wedge walked out behind the technician and stopped short when he saw Janson. He made a noise of exasperation and slapped the gloves he carried into his open palm. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  “See what?” Janson stared after the departing technician and cargo. “What was that?”

  “That was Lieutenant Kettch.”

  Janson gave Wedge a close look. Wedge certainly didn’t look crazy. “Um, please correct me if I’m wr
ong, but Lieutenant Kettch is fictitious. An Ewok pilot who doesn’t exist. I should know. I made him up.”

  “He’s not fictitious anymore.”

  “Now he’s real?”

  Wedge stepped out so the hangar door could close behind him. “On planetside, while we were waiting for the Falsehood to be spotted, Tycho found a store where they sold exotic animals to wealthy Zsinj supporters who enjoy that sort of thing. One of the ‘animals’ was a full-grown Ewok male named Chulku. When we were preparing to blast off and do our usual number on the pursuit, Tycho staged a jailbreak and we brought Chulku along. While we were flying back, I had an idea—if Zsinj ever does need to see the Hawk-bats, we could have an actual Lieutenant Kettch for him.” He nodded after the sled. “Chulku is pretty bright, and we think we can teach him which TIE interceptor controls to touch and which not to—I doubt we can teach him to fly without years of education, but we can make him look authentic in a cockpit.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Now we just need to build him those prosthetic hand-and-leg attachments Kettch is supposed to have so he can manipulate a starfighter’s controls.”

  “Still crazy.”

  Wedge smiled. “And since you had the bad luck to witness his arrival, you get to be part of the crew who takes him food. Welcome to the conspiracy, Wes.”

  Janson shook his head. “Now I’m crazy.”

  The TIE interceptor hurtling toward Lara in a head-to-head run juked and jinked in what seemed like a random pattern, but the maneuvers did not seem to throw the pilot off. His linked laser fire angled in ever more accurately toward Lara’s interceptor.

  She, too, threw her starfighter back and forth, up and down, in an effort to keep the enemy laser fire from hitting her. She was successful—the two fighters passed with no damage to her craft. But she hadn’t gotten off a single accurate shot at her enemy.

  The second she flashed past the enemy TIE, she hauled back on the flight stick, gaining relative altitude with such a sharp maneuver that she felt the g-forces pull her down into her pilot’s couch despite the ship’s inertial compensator. A moment later she was upside down and headed back the way she had come—

  Straight into the path of her opponent.

  The enemy pilot fired a split second before she could bring her lasers in line. Her TIE shuddered under the impact and slewed to port.

  But it held together. There was no shriek of hull breach, no warning of imminent detonation. She’d been grazed.

  “I’m hit!” she said. “I’m done for.” She jerked her control yoke to send her spinning in the direction she was already headed.

  She counted to two, then snapped her interceptor back around to face her opponent. The enemy TIE jittered in her targeting computer—

  But he was much closer than she would have guessed, a mere quarter kilometer away, and was already lined up for a shot. Before she could hit her laser trigger, the sensor system shrieked a recognition of her enemy’s targeting lock—

  Then her viewport went dead.

  The artificial gravity, which simulated zero gravity and high-angle maneuvers, turned off and she dropped at full weight into her pilot’s couch. She sighed.

  A voice crackled over her comm unit. It was deep, with a trace of the Corellian accent that occasionally crept into the speech of Han Solo and Wedge Antilles. “That was very good flying. And the last trick, pretending to be out of control, almost fooled me. I commend you.”

  “Who am I talking to?”

  “My name is Fel. Baron Soontir Fel.”

  Lara’s insides went cold. When she was a crewman aboard Implacable, she’d never even been aware of the presence of Fel and the 181st there, so secret had their mission been. Now, at last, she’d be able to meet the most dangerous pilot who served her enemies.

  With her fear, there was a rush of elation. With Wraith Squadron, Lara had flown in simulators against Wedge Antilles, the best the New Republic had to offer. Now she had flown against Baron Fel. She’d competed against the very best pilots two governments had to offer.

  Too bad she lost most of the time.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t offer you more competition.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “You’re very good. More work, and you might train up to the standards of the One Eighty-first. Shall I keep you in my records as a candidate for the group?”

  “I’d be honored. Can I buy the victor a drink?”

  “Unfortunately, I have more simulations to fly—and it appears that you don’t. Some other time, though.”

  The hatch behind Lara opened and Ensign Gatterweld thrust his face in. “Need any help?”

  “No, thank you.” She was getting sick of the ubiquitous Gatterweld. Except when she was in her quarters, in the tiny office where she wrote her commentary on her time with Wraith Squadron, and in simulators, Gatterweld was there. Her shadow.

  She undipped the netting that, in a real TIE interceptor, would have kept her bound in place on the pilot’s couch, and threw it to one side, then hauled herself backward and out of the open hatch at the rear of the ball-shaped simulator. Outside, the air was cooler and the omnipresent hum of Iron Fist’s engines was in her ears again.

  Gatterweld handed her the pack in which she carried her datapad and other equipment. He looked at the control board where her standings were displayed. “You did pretty well.”

  “Do you fly?”

  “I can pilot shuttles now. I don’t have the reflexes for starfighters. Hand to hand is my game. Where to now? The cafeteria?”

  Lara checked her chrono. “No, it’s late. I think I’ll just turn in.”

  As they walked past the banks of control stations set up to monitor the simulators, she saw what she needed—a device she would kill for. A set of monitor goggles and attached microphone. They lay unguarded on one of the control stations, their owner away, perhaps on break.

  As she and Gatterweld passed the station, she contrived to get her left foot tangled in his legs. He tripped forward, swearing, while she stumbled and fell sideways—snatching up the set of goggles and tucking them into her pack as she hit the floor.

  He scrambled to his feet. “I’m sorry. Are you hurt?”

  She took the hand he offered and let him half haul her to her feet. She winced as she put her weight on her left leg. “A bruise, maybe. Not your fault. I think I had a cramp from all the time in the simulator.”

  “Can you walk? I can summon a stretcher—”

  “No, I’d better walk it off. Thank you.”

  She maintained the pretense of her limp all the way to the door to her quarters, and inside as well—though she hadn’t spotted the holocam, she knew there had to be one. Or two, or three. She wasn’t trusted, and with Zsinj in charge, that meant there were holocams on her in her quarters.

  She set her pack down inside the closet and took a look around. She’d been given sizable quarters, appropriate to a naval lieutenant on track to promotion. She actually had a decent-sized bedroom with a full terminal and a closet, a small office, and a separate refresher chamber. Much better accommodations than she’d enjoyed on Mon Remonda.

  Tonin, her R2, sat in the middle of the bedroom. He came alive when she entered, offering up whistles and clicks that she interpreted as a polite interrogative. He was almost a stranger to her now, had been so since she’d wiped his memory on Aldivy.

  But that would change soon.

  “I’m fine, Tonin. Just tired.”

  Once in bed, she deliberately changed position every two or three minutes, tossing and turning, a show of insomnia for whoever was monitoring her holocams. She did this for an hour. Then she sat up and ran a hand through her catastrophically tousled hair.

  Tonin beeped another question.

  “Sorry, but I’m going to need the patch of metal where you’re resting. Scoot into the closet, would you?”

  With a series of musical tones suggesting that he was hurt by her suggestion, Tonin rolled into
the closet. He turned his head around so his main holocam eye could still observe her.

  Lara rose and pulled the mattress from her bed onto the floor, then redistributed pillows and sheets on it. She made sure that one of the sheets reached as far as Tonin’s wheels.

  She reached into the bag in her closet and hunted around for something within it with her left hand. With her right, she extracted the monitoring goggles and scooted them under the edge of the sheet on the floor, then plugged the goggles’ cord into a jack in Tonin’s side, hoping—nearly certain—that her body shielded the action from the viewpoint of most of the places holocams might be situated in her room.

  Finally she grasped the object that she’d pretended not to be able to find. She stood and stared at it, turning so the holocams could get a good look at it. A bottle of tuber liquor from Aldivy, nasty stuff the locals there adored.

  She stared at it for long moments, as if contemplating its medicinal qualities, then shook her head and placed it on the top shelf of her closet. A moment later, she slipped under the sheets over her mattress, rolled around a moment to find the most comfortable spot, pulled the sheets up over her head, and lay still.

  The very junior intelligence officer watching this display began typing, ever so tentatively, into his terminal. 24:00 hours, he typed. Subject situated herself on mattress on floor. Entered sleep state almost immediately. First considered alcohol as soporific, but decided against. Cause of sleeplessness unknown. Bed too soft? Guilt?

  “Don’t forget simple stress.”

  The voice sounded right in his ear and he jumped two handspans. He’d thought he was alone in the room. He looked up into the face of General Melvar. “Uhh, thank you, sir. We’d call that occupational anxiety or excitement from lifestyle transition.”

  “Do you get paid more for using more words?”

  “No, sir, but the medics like them.”

  Melvar snorted. “Well, add it any way you want to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Melvar spared one last look at the overhead view of Lara’s still bed, then left as quietly as he’d arrived.

  With movements almost imperceptibly slow, Lara drew the monitoring goggles onto her head and turned them on. The goggles, drawing power from the link with Tonin, activated with a faint hum.