Star Wars: X-Wing VII: Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

  She whispered, “Tonin. Aldivian colloquialism. Definition: Little Atton.”

  Then she waited.

  If she was right, if she’d done her work correctly, the passwords she’d just spoken would be causing events to transpire deep within her R2 unit. The extra hardware she had buried within his power unit would be activating. The memory backup it contained would be pouring out across the droid’s circuitry, appending itself to and overwhelming Tonin’s current programming.

  And in a few moments, once again, she would have a—

  A single word, READY, appeared before her eyes. It looked as though it were sculpted out of metal and floating in darkness a meter from her, but she knew that it was merely being projected onto the goggles she wore.

  “Don’t communicate audibly,” she whispered, though Tonin’s transmission of his first query as text suggested that he understood the need for secrecy. The fact that all data being transmitted between them was going across a direct wire connection made it very unlikely that her observers would be able to detect their communication. “Before we do anything, I want to apologize.”

  FOR WHAT?

  “For being selfish,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have brought you. I’ve put you in danger. I may get myself killed here, and if I do, the same will probably happen to you.”

  I’M GLAD I’M HERE.

  “Me, too. You’re my only friend, Tonin.” She closed her eyes for a moment, all too aware of how pathetic that sounded. Then she forced them open. “I also have to apologize for what I’ve done to you. I wiped your main memory on Aldivy. Anytime anyone but me puts a restraining bolt on you or opens you up, your memory will wipe. Anytime I say the right words, your backup memory will reload. So you may experience some memory gaps. I’m sorry. It’s the only way to keep you safe.”

  I UNDERSTAND, LARA.

  “I had an idea as to how we can destroy Iron Fist. You’ll have to do most of the work. But if we succeed, you may become the most famous R2 unit ever. Well, maybe second, after Artoo-Detoo.”

  THAT WOULD BE NICE. WOULD THE WRAITHS LIKE YOU AGAIN?

  “No. They’ll never like me again. So I have to do this for myself. I have to do this because it’s right. I have to do this because I have nothing else to do.”

  WHAT DO I DO?

  “Well, Zsinj, except when he’s paying for really good employees and mercenaries, is notoriously cheap. Which means he probably won’t have my quarters monitored when I’m not in them. If I stay away from my quarters all day long, that gives you plenty of time to work. I’ll tell you what you need to do. But first … when we’re alone like this … could you call me Kirney?”

  YES, KIRNEY.

  12

  Half an hour after Lara’s departure from her quarters the next morning, Tonin became active. He rolled out of the closet to the door, deployed and extended his fine-work grasper arm, and got to work on the door controls. Within minutes, he had rewired the controls and mechanism so he could open the door and close it fractionally as well as fully.

  He opened the door a bare three centimeters and extended his video sensor through it nearly at floor level, giving him a 360-degree view of the corridor. A passerby was not likely to notice the slight gap in the doorway or the protrusion from it.

  He waited.

  It was nearly an hour before his first opportunity arose. Certainly, in that time, many of the trapezoidal MSE-6 utility droids passed his doorway, but always under the eye of a passerby. This time, one little droid, rodentlike in its scurrying motion and nervousness, was alone, unobserved.

  Tonin signaled it, a chirp that constituted a come-here order. The droid stopped its forward progress, turned toward the doorway, ran the request through its very simple processor, and determined that accepting this new order was not likely to delay accomplishment of its standing orders significantly. It approached the door.

  Tonin snapped his heavy grasper arm out through the gap and snared the little droid. It gave a squeal of alarm and spun its wheels into reverse, but he hauled it up off its wheels. Tonin opened the door wide enough to accommodate his prey, then dragged the little droid through and closed the door.

  Then he got to work.

  He laid the utility droid on its back. Its wheels spun in helpless panic. With his fine-work arm, he popped open the access hatch on the droid’s underside and extended his scomp-link into the opening.

  As new programming flooded its tiny brain, the utility droid quieted.

  By day’s end, Tonin was in command of three of the utility droids, and one had managed to bring him some of the components—magnetic track strips to replace wheels—he needed to begin their modifications.

  Wedge’s four squadrons—Rogue, Wraith, Polearm, and Nova—executed mission after mission, one after another, sometimes two in a single day. Most missions involved only one squadron. In others, one squadron would escort and protect the B-wings of Nova, or Wraith Squadron would be inserted at ground level and then ground-guide the precise bombing runs of one or two of the other starfighter units. Some missions involved nothing more than carefully inserting the Falsehood, then very publicly escorting the ship, usually with Wedge and Chewbacca at the controls, out into space and safety.

  By the end of one week, the fighter pilots of Mon Remonda began to lose track of what day of the calendar it was, and had little time left to them for anything but mission briefings, the missions themselves, and sleep.

  By the end of one week, between Wedge’s missions and those an Imperial admiral was executing in another part of the galaxy, the Warlord Zsinj had lost more millions of credits than any New Republic fighter pilot could ever hope to accumulate.

  • • •

  Melvar entered the warlord’s office as silently as ever. Zsinj, turned to stare into his terminal, didn’t react. Melvar took the chair before his desk, no longer bothering to keep his movement quiet, and still there was no reaction. Finally, Melvar coughed.

  “They’re killing me.” Zsinj shook his head sorrowfully as he stared at the data on the terminal screen beside his desk. “They want me dead, Melvar.”

  “Of course they do,” the general said. “You’re their greatest enemy. It is to your considerable credit that they want you dead.”

  “Look at this. My businesses are being seized up and down Imperial space—and Rebel space. The Counterpunch puts in at Vispil and is blown out of space by planetary authorities who refused to stay bribed. A half dozen of my best earners bombed out of existence on worlds within my own borders. Eight percent of my income eliminated in a week. And everywhere, the Millennium Falcon flitting around, fomenting more rebellion.” He sighed. “And my Funeral Project crews around Coruscant? Suddenly, completely ineffectual. A half dozen acts of terrorism or sedition closed down almost before they’re enacted. The rifts between humans and nonhumans in the Rebel government are healing. All my work, years of work, coming undone.”

  “Mere setbacks, sir.”

  “No. Can’t you feel it? The hordes of my enemies are drawing closer, their claws outstretched, reaching for me.” Zsinj heaved a sigh. “I think, I really think, they are poised to undo me. I think Doctor Gast talked before she died. I think the Rebels and Imperials are cooperating.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Not impossible. You yourself said I was their greatest enemy. What else could give them the incentive to cooperate?”

  Melvar was silent for long moments. In all the years he’d worked with the warlord, this was not the saddest he’d seen him, but it was the most resigned, the most fatalistic. It was a startling change. The warlord had always been an unstoppable force of optimism and will. Now, despite the fact that his girth had not diminished, he seemed somehow reduced.

  “Do you think they’ll win?” Melvar asked.

  Zsinj took a deep breath, then nodded. “I think, in a sense, they already have. They’ve stopped my processes. They’ve set their own in motion. Theirs are replacing mine, and I can’t seem to do anything about i
t.”

  “So what will it take to pull a victory out of this? Tell me the minimum you need. We’ll achieve that, and more.”

  Zsinj switched off his terminal screen and thought. He swung ponderously around to face Melvar and began counting off on his fingers. “One. We retain Iron Fist.”

  “Count on it.”

  “Two. We retain enough businesses to start again.”

  “That will be harder. As much as we’ve done to keep your businesses isolated from one another, some leakage of information has obviously occurred. The more they capture, the more they seem to be able to capture. But, statistically, they can’t find everything. We’ll have a solid core left.”

  “Three. We have time to rebuild, repair, recover.”

  “For that, we’ll definitely have to use the Second Death for her intended purpose. But we can do that.”

  “Four. We come up with our next plan for the elimination of the New Republic.”

  “I think that means Rancor Base and the Force-witches. We have to learn what they do and how they do it. Another path we can take, weapons the Rebels and the Empire can’t cope with.”

  “And Five. Which actually takes place before Three. We kill General Han Solo and as many of his friends and aides as is humanly possible.”

  “That,” Melvar said, “will be the most enjoyable part of the operation.”

  Zsinj showed up at Lara’s new work station in the bridge pit, as apparently cheerful as usual. “Lieutenant Petothel. How are you settling in?”

  “Very well,” she said. “I can’t describe how good it is to be doing this kind of work again.”

  “Good, good. But the first few days you looked, if I may be indelicate, a little tired. Rings under the eyes. A general malaise.”

  She nodded. “It took me a while to get used to ship’s routine. I had to make some adjustments to my sleeping patterns.” Not surprising, as it had proved difficult to get any sleep when she was talking and programming with Tonin all night long. “But I’m over it.”

  “Have you had a chance to look over the data package I transmitted to you this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your conclusions?”

  Lara became aware that the operatives at the consoles on either side of her, though they were continuing to do their work, were listening intently to this exchange. She smiled. Intelligence operatives were the same everywhere. “Well, first, whoever compiled that data did an inadequate job of making the events anonymous. I recognize the first mission as the Millennium Falcon escort to Kidriff Five. I was there, after all. Which means that Prime Target is the Falcon, and Secondary Target is, roughly, Commander Antilles’s entire command of Rebel starfighters.”

  Zsinj nodded, his expression glum. “So much for secrecy. What do you conclude from their behavior?”

  “General Solo is trying to separate you from the income that sustains your fleet, and is personally rabble-rousing while he’s at it.”

  “Why?”

  Lara gave him a smile that suggested contempt for their subject matter. It was easy; she only had to let her contempt for Zsinj rise to the surface. “He thinks he’s an important man. That his presence is the only thing that can inspire Rebel sympathies in the population. Based on what I’ve personally observed of the man, I’d say he’s desperate. He hasn’t had any real success in his mission against you. If he fails, he gets replaced; if he gets replaced, he loses all his status.”

  “I never had the impression that he cares about status.”

  “He doesn’t.” She almost hesitated on the enormity of the lie she’d concocted, the one that Zsinj, in all his ego, must inevitably accept. “But the woman he loves does.”

  “Ahhh.”

  “He knows that as a dirt-poor smuggler, he can’t keep a princess’s affection. But as a Rebel general, he can.”

  “But only if he’s successful.”

  “Correct.”

  “Interesting interpretation.”

  “There’s more.” Lara pressed on, hoping Zsinj would not detect the queasiness she was feeling.

  She had an idea, based on the pattern the Millennium Falsehood was demonstrating, as to which world or worlds the ersatz Han Solo would visit next. But was this a conclusion that Zsinj and his intelligence people were supposed to have drawn, or had she come to a conclusion based on her superior knowledge of the Wraiths, a conclusion that would endanger her former squadmates? She didn’t know, and the uncertainty ate at her. She had to trust her instincts, though, and her instincts said that the Falsehood’s mission profiles came about from meticulous planning that Zsinj was eventually supposed to interpret.

  “They’re progressing from world to world in your territories based on a number of factors. The degree to which a world is known outside the borders you control. Estimated planetary production that can be applied to your fleet funding. Proximity to New Republic space so they can make quick escapes. Comparative morale value of hitting specific targets. Suspected presence of pro-Rebel factions.”

  “I know that. Unfortunately, considering how many worlds I control, that still doesn’t give us a pattern.”

  “Yes, it does. There’s one more factor. Former trade relations, direct or indirect, with the planet Alderaan.”

  Zsinj rocked back on his heels. “That would make sense.”

  “Yes, sir. On such worlds, there’s a higher likelihood that there will be people who sympathize with Princess Leia and the other Alderaanians who were off-world when the first Death Star destroyed that planet. Also, in my opinion, they’re more likely to be planets that Princess Leia will have heard of, thereby increasing her recognition of Solo’s deeds when he tells her of them.”

  “Very good, very good.” Zsinj’s eyes lost focus as he considered Lara’s words. “What does that suggest Solo’s next target will be?”

  “I give a very high probability to Comkin Five, and just slightly less high a likelihood to the Vahaba Asteroid Belt.” Comkin was a Zsinj-controlled world known for its candies and medicines—two industries inextricably tied together on that world—and Vahaba was known not only for its asteroid-mining operations but for the skill of its metal fabricators. She knew a little about Vahaba; it was in a well-populated cluster of stars, not far from Halmad, where the Wraiths had acted as pirates not long ago.

  “Well. Interesting speculation. Thank you, Lieutenant.” Still distracted, Zsinj turned to depart the bridge, not even seeing Lara’s salute.

  General Melvar caught up with Zsinj in the corridor just outside the bridge. “Well?”

  “There’s a proper query to give a superior officer. It’s not ‘Well?’ Something more like, ‘Sir, a moment of your time, I wished to inquire about your recent interview with the subject under observation.’ ”

  Melvar said, “I can phrase all such requests so as to waste a maximum amount of your time, of course.”

  Zsinj smiled. “Never mind.” He told him of Lara’s speculations, then said, “What I don’t know is whether she came to this conclusion honestly, or whether she was privy to some of their mission profile before she left Mon Remonda and is now presenting it as a sudden realization on her part.”

  “Either way, the information is valuable … so long as she’s not leading us into a trap.”

  “We’ll find out. Dispatch half the ready fleet to lie in wait at Vahaba, and we’ll take the other half personally to Comkin.”

  • • •

  Donos lay waiting on the craft he had fabricated from rubbish.

  Portions of the thing had begun their existence as the gravitational unit in a TIE fighter simulator. When coordinated with the simulator’s computer, they would exert artificial gravity around the pilot, drawing him left, right, down, up, all in artful mimicry of the sort of g-forces the pilot would experience in sharp turns and other maneuvers.

  But the simulator had grown old, had become too unreliable even for recreational use, and it had been dragged to a corridor outside a refuse chamber. There Dono
s, doing a tour of the unfrequented portions of Mon Remonda, a habit that had recently become part of his regular routine, had found it.

  He’d liberated still-functioning portions of the gravitational unit. He’d installed computer gear to ensure that the unit would exert appropriate force downward even when the unit was tilting, would detect obstacles, would exert repulsorlift power against obstacles. To this he had added a padded layer that was part of the simulator’s pilot’s couch and a battery to supply power.

  Now, in one of the ship’s lonely cargo areas, he lay on his stomach atop the junk he had assembled. It hovered a half meter above the floor, humming, motionless.

  Of course it was motionless. It had no engine, no motivation.

  Except for him. And to set it into motion, to make it do what it was designed to do, would be to look stupid.

  His legs extended off the back of his jury-rigged vehicle. He brought them down to gain purchase with the floor and kicked off, setting his craft into motion. He kicked again and again, building up speed as he floated between shelves of stored materials toward a distant bulkhead. Halfway down, he kicked once more, sideways, setting his craft into a spin, and drew himself into a ball atop it.

  His floating sled spun haphazardly, coming within half a meter of a shelving unit before the sled’s repulsor unit reacted to the proximity of the thing and bounced him back the other way. Like a ball, he careened from shelf to shelf across the open space in between, coming within handspans of impact but never quite hitting, while he floated toward the bulkhead wall.

  Eventually, forward momentum almost spent, he floated to within a half meter of the bulkhead and came to a stop.

  “Well, that looked good.”

  Donos rolled onto his side to get a look at the speaker. Wes Janson stood a few meters away. He must have approached up the walkway that ran along the bulkhead wall.

  “I’m amazed it held together,” Donos said. “I expected to have the whole thing fail halfway through and toss me into a stack of crates.”