“You had to come back here for your souvenir X-wing,” Melvar said. “Perhaps your only mistake in a skillful escape attempt. I knew your arrival was pending when you or your droid falsified the radiation leak for this deck.”
Lara saw shadows congregating behind the two men, at the door into the bay. She raised her hands. “That’s why the hangar doors were not secured. You were waiting for me.”
“Correct.”
“Will you be killing me now?”
“No. That’s the warlord’s prerogative.” Melvar looked sad, and Lara had the unsettling feeling that the emotion was genuine. “I do wish you’d been faithful. You could have helped the warlord lock down this quadrant of the galaxy. He’s generous with those he respects. You could have owned a world.”
“I wish I had something witty to say to you,” she told him. “But the thought of helping Zsinj is turning my stomach.”
The humanoids moved forward, a nonhuman mob, the sounds of their passage masked by the alarm sounding in the corridor.
“I think—” Melvar stopped, his eyes darting right, where one of the Gamorreans had just moved up within his peripheral vision.
He turned, brought the blaster around. The other Gamorrean, the female, grabbed his forearm and slammed him to the hangar’s metal floor. Gatterweld spun, panic on his face—
And then the nonhumans were all over the two men, pounding them, raking claws across their faces, biting at limbs and heads and torsos.
“Stop it!” Lara yelled.
The humanoids looked up at her.
“Just bind them. Leave them. They’ll die when Iron Fist is destroyed.”
They looked at each other, then rose from the downed men.
In minutes, she and Tonin had the two vehicles ready for departure. She fitted a ladder to the side of her X-wing. “You’re sure you can fly this thing.”
The Ewok, standing at the base of the shuttle’s boarding ramp, nodded. He carried the objects he’d brought with him from the hidden medical facility—four prosthetic extensions, two with articulated hands at the ends, two with long-toed feet.
Tonin rolled up to her and whistled a question.
She didn’t have to know the musical speech of droids to understand. “No, Tonin. You’re going with them. You have to broadcast all that data I recorded about Zsinj’s projects. The medical data.”
He whistled again, more urgently, shrilly, a complicated message.
She drew her goggles from her pack, put them on, plugged the trailing wire into Tonin’s side.
WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
“I’m going to rejoin my unit.”
YOU SAID THEY HATED YOU. THEY WILL BE YOUR ENEMIES. THE WARLORD’S FORCES ARE YOUR ENEMIES. YOU’LL DIE IF YOU DO THIS.
“Maybe,” she said. “Probably.”
DON’T.
She stared down into his holocam eye, and suddenly found it, and Tonin’s stance, to be as expressive as any human mannerism. “Oh, Tonin. I have to. I have to do this to be who I decided I want to be. Do you understand?”
NO. YOU’VE ALREADY REPROGRAMMED YOURSELF. THAT’S ENOUGH.
“I wish it were. But an intention isn’t anything unless you carry it out.” She knelt, wrapped her arms around the droid, gave him a squeeze she knew he could not feel.
YOU WILL TELL US IF YOU NEED HELP. WE WILL HELP.
“I have my comlink,” she said. “I’ll tell you.” Tears blurred her vision for the first time in days. She rose, pulled her goggles free of Tonin’s jack, and hurriedly climbed up into her cockpit, unable to face the droid again.
Tonin wheetled one last, sad sound and rolled toward the landing craft.
17
On Wedge’s sensor board, the interceptors of the 181st had a commanding lead; they were already entering the atmosphere of the moon, once home to Selaggis’s colony.
Four friendly starfighters trailed the 181st, not losing ground to them—Kell, Elassar, Shalla, and Janson, flying four of Wraith Squadron’s own TIE interceptors. The X-wings of Rogue and Wraith Squadrons trailed by a distance that increased with every minute.
“Wraith Five to Leader. They’re descending toward the west coast of the primary continent. I think that’s where the colony used to be. Atmospheric conditions not helpful. Heavy rain, heavy winds.”
“Acknowledged, Five. Do not engage. Continue to update us on their progress. Transmit us your sensor data.” Wedge suppressed a curse. He preferred the X-wing to every other starfighter ever made, for its nearly ideal balance of ruggedness, speed, and firepower, but sometimes—such as now—he devoutly wished for more speed.
“They’re banking toward a set of ruins—the colony, I guess. No sign of life in the ruins—they’re strafing! There has to be a living target down there, Leader. Permission to engage.”
Wedge closed his eyes. He’d already confirmed that there was no native comm traffic from Selcaron. Mon Remonda’s records had reported no survivors from Zsinj’s barrage of five months ago. And yet Zsinj was dedicating his best pilot, his best-trained starfighter unit, to pound those ruins flatter.
It had to be a trap. Had to be. But if it wasn’t …
The New Republic wasn’t here to protect itself, but to protect innocents. There might be colony survivors down there. It was that simple.
He opened his eyes again. One second had clicked by on his console chrono. “Permission granted.”
Kell banked and dove toward one of two rearmost pairs of interceptors. It was difficult to see them; the sky was overcast, and fierce winds blew sheeting rain almost horizontally across his path. His heart hammered—in his throat, it felt like—and he knew that he might at any moment introduce his lunch to the inside of his helmet.
The old fear. It had paralyzed him at the Implacable fight. In the months since, it had never entirely left him. It might never leave him.
It made him feel like hell. He decided to take it out on the enemy.
The rearmost interceptor of the wingpair he’d targeted chittered for a split second in his targeting brackets, then broke to starboard. Its wingmate made a sudden deceleration, seeming to blast backwards past Kell’s port side, preparatory to setting up for an attack on him—
It exploded, vanishing from his sensor screen. “Good shot, Nine.” He banked tighter, trying to stay inside his target’s turn radius, but the enemy interceptor’s maneuver was sharper than any Kell had ever made. A moment later the interceptor came up behind him, a quarter klick back. Kell heard his sensor system howl with the confirmation of his enemy’s targeting lock on him.
He dove toward the ground—a two-tone surface, gray seas to his port, brown soil to starboard, the wreckage of prefabricated dome buildings where the two colors met. Lasers flashed above him, visible through his top viewport. He angled over toward the sea, dropping almost straight toward the shoreline.
As the range meter dropped, he felt wind kicking him to port. He struggled with the piloting yoke, heard the howl of his sensors again, and juked to throw off his pursuer’s aim. He was kicked to port again, and from the sensor’s unmusical complaints, this time it had to have been from a laser graze rather than atmospheric conditions.
At a mere couple of hundred meters from the ocean’s surface he fired his lasers and hauled back on the yoke. The lasers hit the water’s surface, boiling it, sending up a column of steam. He flashed through it, actually felt the drag of the mist as his interceptor hit the column, and banked to port, a maneuver so fast and tight his vision began to gray out.
His pursuer emerged from the column of steam, not banking instantly—its pilot had to be taking a moment to find Kell.
That was the moment he needed. He held his turn, struggled against the centrifugal forces trying to slam him into the starboard side of his cockpit, and came around behind his enemy. The TIE vibrated in his targeting brackets and he fired.
The TIE exploded spectacularly, transformed into the biggest fireball Kell had ever seen yielded by an interceptor’s detonation, a hun
dred-meter-diameter ball of destruction. Kell climbed to stay above the rising cloud of smoke and flame, then shook his head to try to clear his vision. “Two down,” he said. “Twenty-two to go.”
“Twenty.” That was Janson’s voice. “But they’re changing tactics.”
Kell looped around, back toward the ruined town, and Elassar fell in beside him.
Ahead, the interceptors of the 181st continued with their low-level strafing runs against the ruins. They seemed to have no particular target; their aim seemed to be the transformation of the entire set of ruins into smaller rubble and dust.
Kell saw Janson and Elassar come in from the east, aiming for a pair of interceptors near the ruins’s border. Their targets shied away toward the colony center; two more turned in the direction of Janson and Elassar for a head-to-head. Janson and Elassar banked toward the newcomers, but those targets, too, looped away as a third pair maneuvered to engage the Wraiths.
It was a deadly game of keep-away, fliers of the 181st turning to engage the Wraiths just long enough to get their attention, then breaking away to return to their strafing. As Kell and Elassar neared shore, two interceptors turned toward them.
“If they come at us,” Kell said, “standard head-to-head. If they bank away, don’t follow.”
“Acknowledged,” Elassar said.
Their enemies banked away well before they were in targeting range. A new pair angled in from the north, timing their approach so they’d hit Kell and Elassar from the side if the Wraiths continued their straight-line approach.
“Up,” Kell said, and drew back on his yoke. His interceptor rose at a dizzying pace. “I don’t get it. They’re playing defensively.”
“They’re waiting,” Janson said. “For the rest of the Rogues and Wraiths.”
Zsinj watched in mounting disbelief as his fleet’s damage displays grew ever redder. “Melvar,” he said.
Captain Vellar looked over from his position on the command walkway. “He’s not back from his errand. Did his errand involve a shuttle launch? We have a landing craft taking off from the personal-vehicles bay. It seems to be in pursuit of an X-wing.”
Zsinj shook his head, unconcerned. “Never mind that. Vellar, are they that good? Oh, Sithspit, we just lost Venom.” Red flashes crossed and crisscrossed the display of the Victory-class Star Destroyer like a flash fire.
“They seem to be, sir,” the captain said. There was tension in his voice, but his expression was unwavering. “Mon Remonda is almost in position to engage us.”
“Your opinion?”
The captain gave the sensor holoprojections a long look. “Our group isn’t going to defeat their secondary group. They’re being pounded to pieces. Solo’s main group, which is almost unhurt, is going to hit us in just a minute. We’re damaged, and we don’t know the extent to which we may have been further sabotaged. Eventually Solo’s secondary group will reinforce the main group.” He turned a regretful face to Zsinj. “Sir, we’re not going to win this fight.”
“All ahead full,” Zsinj said. “Get us out of the debris field. Set your course for Second Death’s position. Bring in all starfighters from all ships—except the 181st and their support—to harass Solo’s group.”
“Sir, that will accelerate the damage the rest of our group is taking.”
“You don’t think I know that?” Zsinj couldn’t keep the venom out of his tone. “As soon as we’re free of the debris ring, issue orders for the ships that survive to flee at their discretion.” He felt something sharp in his chest, a pain that had everything to do with the sudden loss of his reputation for infallibility on the battlefield.
Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron broke through the high cloud over into a dark world lashed by rains. They dove toward the colony ruins, breaking by wingpairs, each pair of pilots seeking out prey—starfighters that were frailer but far faster than theirs. They saw the enemy interceptors scatter by pairs, each trying to find an advantageous angle to repel the X-wings’s assaults.
Wedge tried to pick out by eye which of the enemies was Baron Fel. He needn’t have bothered. A pair of interceptors rose straight toward him and Tycho.
“Fel, is that you?”
“Antilles,” came the familiar voice. “So good to see you at last. Again at last.”
“Iron Fist isn’t doing so well. You can save yourself some trouble by surrendering.”
The interceptors came on straight at them. The range meter dropped below two kilometers and the interceptors fired. Wedge sideslipped, sending his X-wing into a defensive dance, and pressed his own laser’s trigger.
Then the TIEs were past, roaring back the way Wedge and Tycho had come. Oddly, they didn’t immediately loop around to gain an advantageous position on the X-wings’s tails. They continued their run eastward, then looped around south, headed once again toward the coastline.
Wedge and Tycho turned to pursue. The maneuver was made a little more difficult by a ferocious crosswind that threatened to drive them eastward. “Fel, let’s not do this. You’ve been a Rogue. I really don’t want to kill you.”
“Why ever not, Wedge? I don’t share any such sentiment about you.”
Wedge gritted his teeth. Because you haven’t yet told me where my sister is. Tell me that, and I may lose all compunction about vaping you where you fly.
Kell and Elassar veered in opposite directions, the Devaronian to rejoin Face, his regular wingman. Kell swung around and came up behind Runt’s X-wing.
“Welcome back,” Runt said.
“Good to be home. Let’s get ’em.”
They turned toward a new pair of interceptors. The 181st seemed to have abandoned their defensive, scurrying tactics; now they seemed eager for runs against the Rogues and Wraiths. A pair veered toward Kell and Runt, accelerating.
Kell dropped behind Runt, constantly adjusting his position to keep the X-wing between him and the oncoming interceptors. As the range closed to nearly two kilometers, he popped up above Runt for a snap shot against the rear interceptor, then dropped below his wingman for sustained fire against the lead TIE. Incoming laser fire hammered against Runt’s forward shields, diffusing to a pastel green as it failed to penetrate.
Kell’s sustained fire finally tracked on the ball of the interceptor. He saw the green of his own lasers stitch the fuselage. There was no visible change to the interceptor’s exterior, but the lead enemy dropped on a ballistic course toward the ground below. His wingman veered off at an angle seemingly impossible even for a TIE and headed back toward the colony center.
• • •
“He’s running away,” Onoma said.
Beyond the forward viewport, they could see wave after wave of TIE fighters making suicidal runs against Mon Remonda. Three had already come within tens of meters of crashing into the cruiser’s side; only brilliant gunnery by the turbolaser handlers had prevented collisions. Solo’s TIEs were helping, but they were outnumbered by the enemy force, which had been bolstered by squadrons diverted from the other engagement zone.
And Zsinj’s choice of a battlefield was proving to be a good one for the warlord. Solo’s Y-wings, tough as they were, weren’t nimble enough to handle the debris field at dogfighting speeds—report after report came in of pilot loss because of an injudicious turn into the path of an asteroid. Between the speed Mon Remonda had to make to catch up to the destroyer and the necessity of diverting most of the gun batteries to anti-starfighter use, the cruiser didn’t have enough laser power to clear the path ahead entirely of asteroids; every few moments, stones, some the size of R2 units and some the size of X-wings, would hammer into the cruiser’s shields or penetrate and crash into her hull.
Though Mon Karren and Mon Delindo followed in Mon Remonda’s wake, Solo knew they had to be suffering worse. Their shields and hull were not up to Mon Remonda’s specs.
“We’re in range,” said the sensor officer.
“Bow batteries, open fire on Iron Fist.” Solo breathed a sigh of relief. At last they were in co
ntact.
The topside stern of the destroyer lit up under Mon Remonda’s barrage. But Iron Fist’s own batteries opened fire and suddenly space before the forward viewport was bright with laser flashes.
Mon Remonda shuddered under impacts against her shields.
Ahead, Fel and his wingman lost speed. Wedge and Tycho rapidly overtook them. In a moment, Wedge could see them again, two dots that grew into interceptors blurred by rain and distance. There was only ocean beneath them, shore a mere kilometer or two off to starboard.
One of the interceptors dropped behind the other, losing ground rapidly, but maintaining the high-speed side-to-side maneuvering that was so effective at throwing off a pursuer’s aim. Wedge and Tycho squeezed off ranging shots.
Then the interceptor decelerated further, right into Wedge’s path. Reflex took over, twitching his yoke to port so that he veered out of its path.
Tycho veered in skillful mimicry of Wedge’s move—right into the interceptor’s path.
It should not have been a problem. At their relative speeds and courses, no collision was possible; he should have been well clear of the interceptor. But the decelerating vehicle exploded into a brilliant ball of fire and debris—and Tycho’s X-wing flew straight through the heart of the detonation.
Tycho emerged from the explosion, his X-wing trailing smoke, its S-foils shuddering. He rapidly lost ground on Wedge.
“One to Two, come in.”
There was no answer. Tycho banked to starboard, back toward land.
“Tycho, come in. Are you all right?”
His comm unit hissed, then words, partial words, emerged. “… failure … hold her … repulsorlifts out …”
As Wedge watched, Tycho’s starboard lower S-foil began to shake more ferociously, then to crumple under air friction. Ahead, the other TIE interceptor began to loop around for a head-to-head.
“Tycho, don’t try to hold her together. She’s a wreck. Get over land and punch out. Do you understand?”
Star Wars: X-Wing VII: Solo Command Page 33