Star Wars: X-Wing VII: Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

  He set his course from large asteroid to large asteroid. Some of them were the size of small moons, the others merely as large as good-sized houses.

  His comm unit crackled. “Group Leader, this is Wraith One. Wraith Squadron in position to begin assault run.”

  “Wraith One, Leader. Good flying. Stand by until all squadrons are in position.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Rogue Squadron finished a half orbit around one of the larger asteroids and suddenly Iron Fist was in full view again—less than a kilometer below. Other than the bow guns being used to clear a path for her, the ship’s weapons were not active. A few large asteroids floated between the Rogues and their target, partially obscuring Wedge’s view.

  “Maintain this orbit,” Wedge said. “Rogue Squadron in position.”

  “Shadow Squadron in position.”

  “Corsair Squadron in position.”

  A minute later, the remaining units had reported in.

  At the end of another quick orbit, Wedge said, “Leader to group. Set S-foils to attack position. Begin your assault runs.” He looped away from his orbital path and dove toward the Super Star Destroyer.

  • • •

  As Wraith Squadron formed up to begin its assault run, Donos suddenly felt uncertain. More than that, he felt awash in unreality.

  He’d been here before. He knew he had.

  The last time he’d felt this way—above a moon circling the third planet of solar system M2398—he’d witnessed the destruction of his astromech, Shiner. Then the sense of unreality had claimed him and he’d found himself back in the ambush at Gravan Seven, the one that had cost him his squad … and his sanity.

  It was happening again—

  He clamped down on his feeling of desperation. But neither Gravan Seven nor M2398 had had an asteroid field. Neither resembled the space around him. What was here that threatened to send him back into a state of collapse?

  “Break off, break off! It’s an ambush!”

  Wedge grimaced. The voice was that of Donos. Wedge had been wrong. The pilot’s mind had snapped back to the Gravan system ambush yet again.

  “Group Leader, this is Wraith Three.” Donos’s voice was in control again. “Please order an abort on the assault run. This is an ambush.”

  “Group, abort. Pull back and regroup.” Wedge hauled back on his yoke, veering away from Iron Fist. “Wraith Three, this better be good.”

  Abruptly the Star Destroyer’s gun batteries went active, pouring laser blasts into the asteroid field all around it. Wedge could see bright flashes as dozens of asteroids detonated. Comm traffic told the story of the other pilots’s conditions. “This is High Flight Three. I’m hit by debris. Experiencing engine shutdown.”

  “Shadow Twelve is gone, repeat, is gone! He ran right into a chunk of asteroid.”

  “Wraith Three, that’s two casualties and all we did was break off,” Wedge said. “You’d better have a good reason.” Well out of range of Iron Fist’s guns, he put Rogue Squadron into orbit around another planetoid.

  “Yes, sir. I thought I was going crazy for a minute. I distinctly remembered going through this exact raid once before. I hadn’t, really—it was a simulator run back when I was first getting pilot training with the Alliance.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The sim was based on a story, a lesson from one of my instructors. He’d been a Y-wing pilot. His unit encountered an old Victory-class Star Destroyer in a debris field like this one. Took the same kind of approach in, island-hopping from big asteroid to big asteroid to minimize damage from debris. When they got close enough, the destroyer opened up—shooting the asteroids they were nearest. The rock debris superheated and exploded like bombs. It was a disaster for the Y-wing unit. I ran through the simulation of it several times. It was a nightmare.”

  Wedge thought about it. Their target’s barrage had seemed to hit a lot of the asteroids near his starfighters. “Which Victory-class Star Destroyer was it?”

  “Iron Fist, sir. The original one. Zsinj’s first command.”

  “Good work, Wraith Three. Group, we have a new plan. Squads who feel up to it can still approach laterally, but stay away from any asteroid large enough for them to target and blow up—say, anything half the size of your vehicle or larger. The rest, drop down into Iron Fist’s wake, into the path they’ve already cleared out for us, and strafe her stern. Resume your assault runs.” He heeled his X-wing over, choosing a path between asteroids, and began another run, Rogue Squadron following close behind.

  Deep in the automated processes of Iron Fist’s main computer, a watchdog program, recently activated, detected the fact that the ship’s laser batteries had recently fired on targets in a non-drill fashion. A timer associated with the program started up, counting down from three minutes.

  Zsinj offered up a heavy sigh. “The starfighter trap appears to have failed,” he told Melvar. “Bring back our own starfighters from Mon Remonda. We’ll need them.”

  “They suffered substantial losses before they understood what they were facing there,” the general said. “It’ll be even worse when they have to disengage and run home.”

  “I know.” Dispirited, the warlord looked down at his feet, a neutral image that could bring him no bad news. “I’m getting tired, Melvar. Making mistakes. Not anticipating my opponents’ moves the way I should. And I’m going to have to sacrifice more if I’m to win this engagement. I’m pouring credits on this problem instead of solving it with ingenuity.” He looked up at his general. “Bring them back.”

  The four medics lay with their limbs tied, their mouths gagged, as Lara assembled the humanoids she’d freed. There were two pachydermal Ortolans, three Ewoks, male and female Gamorreans, three bilars looking like large children’s toys, two knee-high Ranats with suspicious eyes and frequently bared incisors, one huge, white-furred Talz with four pain-racked eyes, and five waist-high Chadra-Fan whose ears flicked back and forth between listening to Lara’s words and to the struggles of the medics.

  “We can get you out on escape pods,” Lara said. “Unless—can any of you pilot a shuttle?”

  One of the humanoids raised a paw.

  The Ewok.

  Lara stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “No,” he said. “Doctors put me in sim-u-la-tors. See if Kolot can learn to fly.”

  “And you can.”

  “Yes.”

  “Kolot, you can’t even reach all the controls.”

  “Warlord had mechanics make me pros-the-tics. For hands and feet—”

  “Stop it!” The words emerged from Lara as a shout and she buried her face in her hands. “I know this joke already.”

  “Joke?”

  After a moment, she uncovered her face and knelt before the Ewok to look at him from his own altitude. “Kolot, we’re the same thing, you and I. We’re both lies that eventually became the truth.”

  The Ewok shook his head, not comprehending.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll understand someday. Let’s go.”

  Tonin was still in the turbolift, his scomp-link inserted into the lift controls. He uttered a relieved whistle when he saw Lara returning safely.

  She counted heads as her rescuees entered the turbolift and came up two short. “Where are the Gamorreans?”

  She saw them now, down at the end of the corridor, coming toward her at a trot. As they got closer she could see something different about them.

  Blood. It was splashed across their chests and dripped from their tusks.

  She looked at the viewport into the zoo. She couldn’t see much of the containment chamber, certainly couldn’t see where she had left the bound medics, but she could see the splash of blood across the inside of the near corner of the viewport.

  She looked at the Gamorreans and could think of nothing to say. How could she protest their actions, not knowing what was happening behind their eyes, not knowing what the medics had subjected them to? As they entered the turbolift, they regarde
d her steadily, with no hint of regret or apology in their eyes.

  Her voice emerged in a whisper. “Let’s go.”

  Zsinj’s fleet moved out over the broad portion of Selaggis’s debris ring, then turned back toward Solo’s. Two of the ships, the antistarfighter frigate and the bulk cruiser acting as a TIE carrier, continued on toward the inner edge of the ring. The stream of TIE fighters fleeing Mon Remonda and the starfighters pursuing them caught up with the two smaller ships, passed them by, then dove into the debris ring.

  “That’s where they’re making their stand,” Solo said. “All right. Bring up Allegiance, Crynyd, Tedevium, Etherhawk, and Ession Strike to engage and hold Zsinj’s fleet. The rest of our fleet will bounce around them and head on straight for Iron Fist. Except Warder—keep the medical frigate out of the engagement zone.”

  Solo’s two Imperial-class Star Destroyers, one of the frigates, his Marauder-class corvette, and his Corellian blockade runner surged ahead, a spearpoint aimed at Zsinj’s fleet. Solo waited until they were well ahead, then directed the navigator to enter the angled course that would take the three Mon Cal cruisers, remaining Star Destroyer, and Quasar Fire carrier toward Zsinj himself.

  Within Iron Fist’s computer system, the three-minute countdown ended.

  The program looked for and found the fleet diagnostic data being piped to the ship’s bridge—damage analysis from each ship in Zsinj’s fleet. It was already assembled in a convenient package to be displayed as a holoimage for Zsinj’s use.

  The program took the package and encrypted it under a Wraith Squadron communications scheme. Then it checked Iron Fist’s threat board, identified the distant target Mon Remonda as the chief designated threat, and broadcast the package to that cruiser as an ordinary data stream.

  “Comm transmission from Iron Fist, sir.”

  “Chewie, your favorite correspondent is calling you again.”

  “No, sir,” the comm officer said. “It’s a data stream.” His voice indicated confusion. “It’s diagnostic data, sir. For all the ships in Zsinj’s fleet. It’s being broadcast under a recent Wraith Squadron encryption on New Republic frequencies.”

  Solo looked up at his comm officer, then glanced at Captain Onoma, who regarded him with one eye turned back toward him. “That would be Notsil again,” Solo said. “Probably. Are all our ships getting this data?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Send it to all our ships. They’re to use the data until I say otherwise.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Solo allowed himself a smile.

  Zsinj’s comlink beeped. He brought it up. “Yes?”

  “Sir, Engineering. We have the hyperdrive functional again.”

  Zsinj checked his chrono. “Thirty-eight minutes. Excellent. Continue with repairs. Perhaps you can get some of the redundant systems functional and improve the odds that we’ll survive a hyperspace leap.”

  “Already on it, sir.”

  Zsinj pocketed the device. “Put him down for extra leave time and a raise in pay. I approve of efficiency.”

  Melvar nodded, but did not look at the warlord. His attention was fixed on the holo showing the damage Iron Fist had sustained and was continuing to suffer. The primary projection showed a series of wire-frame renderings of the destroyer as shown from above; blinking red zones indicated damaged areas. A secondary list indicated system failures. “We have a radiation leak on Deck Four.”

  Zsinj grimaced. “I see six radiation leaks.” There was a tremendous bang from overhead and the bridge lights momentarily dimmed as a nearby torpedo strike momentarily overloaded some ship’s systems. “Ah. Seven, now. Deck Four is the least of our troubles.”

  “Yes, sir. Still, I want to check it out personally. On a hunch.” The general bowed and headed back toward the bridge exit.

  Zsinj followed him but stopped at one of the secondary communications consoles in the security foyer. He leaned over the shoulder of the man there.

  The officer didn’t turn, but said, “Our TIEs have returned to Iron Fist. Now making an attack on the squadrons assaulting us.”

  “Good. Is any of the units assaulting us now confirmed as Rogue Squadron?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, sir. Eighty-three percent probability. We haven’t cracked their current transmission scramble code, but based on performance we still get a better than fifty percent probability that Antilles is leading them.”

  “Excellent.” Zsinj pulled out his comlink again. “Zsinj to Baron Fel.”

  “Fel here.”

  “Prepare to launch. Don’t worry about defending Iron Fist. We’ll give you a course that will take you within visual range of Rogue Squadron, then you can head out to an engagement zone of your own choosing. Do whatever it takes to draw them away—far away.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll send a support squadron a couple of minutes later. Between your pilots, your special systems, and this support, you should be able to kill Antilles. Please do so.”

  “Warlord, it will be a pleasure.”

  Zsinj pocketed the device and moved slowly back up to his preferred station on the command walkway. It was time, almost time to decide. The next few minutes would show him whether Solo’s fleet or his own would prevail in this battle. In the latter case, he would send Solo yelping back to Rebel space … or, best of all, kill him. In the former, he would have to destroy Iron Fist.

  Temporarily, at least.

  Solo’s Star Destroyer group closed with Zsinj’s force. Even at this range, Solo could see the needles of laser light flash between ships engaged in that action.

  His sensor operator kept data on the status of all his ships projected as holos up on one of the bridge viewports. But now those images were smaller than usual, joined by similar data being broadcast from Iron Fist.

  Solo saw red areas creeping through the engine compartments of the data screen labeled Flash Fire. The captains of his own ships Tedevium and Etherhawk began concentrating their fire on the stern of the Dreadnaught and the redness spread even faster.

  That engagement was visible through his starboard viewport. Ahead was the glorious color pattern that was Selaggis Six. Below was the debris field that, from a distance, was just a ring, an attractive ornament for the planet.

  “We’re above Iron Fist now,” the navigator said.

  “Very well,” Solo said. “Make your course straight for Iron Fist. Bow shields to maximum. Sensors, relay data to gunners on all asteroids in our path that could conceivably harm us. All other ships in the group are to line up behind Mon Remonda. We’re going to drill a hole straight to Iron Fist, and we’re going in fast.”

  Wedge and Tycho whipped across a massive stone ridge on a city-sized asteroid; the instant they knew the pursuing TIEs had lost sight of them, they decelerated.

  Their pursuers came around at full speed, hugging the asteroid’s surface more closely than they had, and overshot the two X-wings. Wedge fired, saw his twin-linked lasers hammer the side of his target. The TIE, not penetrated, struggled to return to its original course, but the blast had sent it tumbling too close to the asteroid surface. It veered straight into a hill-sized projection and detonated.

  Wedge glanced at Tycho, then at his sensor board. His wingman was intact; the other TIE was a ball of orange-and-yellow gases half a kilometer back. The other starfighters of his group were holding up well in spite of the sudden arrival of several TIE fighter squads—and not all the new arrivals were enemies. Some were friendlies off Skyhook.

  Wedge looped back around toward Iron Fist for another strafing run—or another head-to-head with TIEs.

  A new cloud of TIEs, two squads of interceptors, rose from the destroyer’s belly and veered off into the asteroid field. All wore red horizontal stripes on their solar wing arrays.

  Wedge checked their course. It took the interceptors away from Iron Fist, away from Solo’s engagement, toward Selaggis Six’s once-occupied moon.

  “Leader, Two. I don’t like the sight of
that.”

  “Me either, Two.” He switched his comm unit to the group frequency. “Group, this is Leader. Polearm One, take command of the group. Rogues, Wraiths, form up on me. We have something to check out.”

  Lara pushed open the access hatch just a few centimeters and peered out into the corridor beyond. It was empty, echoing with a radiation alarm, flashing with the red lights appropriate to such a dangerous condition. Opposite the hatch was the door into the hangar bay she wanted.

  She stepped out and helped haul Tonin over the hatch lip. “Give us a minute to get the door open,” she told the nonhumans crowded into the access shaft. “Then look both ways to make sure no one is coming, and join us.”

  They nodded, a little excited but confident, like a roomful of businessfolk just before an important meeting. She was left with the unsettling impression that she was leading a horde of humans dressed up for no particular reason in humanoid suits.

  The hangar door opened to their approach. She breathed a sigh of relief; she and Tonin wouldn’t have to run a lengthy bypass on the door controls. She toggled the control so the door would remain open for the humanoids following; despite their human-level, or genius-level, intelligence, they might still be startled by the suddenness with which ship’s doors tended to shoot up into their housings.

  Within the hangar, only three vehicles remained: Lara’s X-wing, a Lambda-class shuttle, and a larger shuttle of similar design, an Imperial landing craft. “We’ll give them the landing craft,” she told Tonin. “I’ll get it prepped for launch. You still have the file on my X-wing?”

  Tonin tweetled an affirmative.

  “Open it up, disable all transponder systems, and disengage whatever else the file says they’ve done to it. I don’t want them to be able to detonate it remotely.”

  “They won’t need to.” The voice, cultured and self-assured, came from behind her, from the hangar corner nearest the door.

  She whirled. General Melvar stood there, a blaster pistol in his hand, and Ensign Gatterweld, looking surly and betrayed, held a blaster rifle at the ready beside him. Both men moved toward her.