Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

  "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 ex­ plosive 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, they, 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 Night-cloak 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. "Deploy­ ing 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 Cast'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 cy­ cle 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 sup-

  posed 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 Im­ perial 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 Cor­ uscant 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 Re­ monda'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 ac­ companied the rumbling.

  He found Han Solo in the vessel's cockpit. He dropped into the copilot's seat beside the general.

  "I thought you'd be at your pilots's welcome-back party," Solo said. He didn't turn his attention from the forward view­port. Across the floor of the hangar, cluttered with tools and re­pair carts, was the rectangle of lights outlining the hangar's magnetic containment field. Beyond that, dim because of the hangar's light, were stars.

  "I stopped in," Wedge said. "I didn't stay too long. It tends to make the children nervous."

  Solo managed a faint smile. "I know what you mean. I used to be one of the guys. Now I walk into a room and all con­ versation stops. I didn't imagine, when I accepted this job, that I'd become some other thing. An outsider."

  "Sometimes that's what an officer is. Someone who's 'one of the guys' can't maintain discipline."

  "I suppose."

  A furious hail of metallic banging made conversation im­ possible for a moment. It was followed by an unusually lengthy and articulate stretch of grumbling from Chewbacca.

  Solo said, "He hates this wreck almost as much as I do."

  "Why do you hate it more?"

  "Because, despite everything I said, it's just enough like the Falcon to make me homesick."

  "For the Falcon} Or for Leia?"

  Solo rubbed his face, easing away some of the lines of tiredness. "Yeah."

  "I never really understood why you left the Falcon on Rebel Dream when she went on her mission. You could have stored her on Mon Remonda."

  "It's just... I'm not sure." Solo stared off into the distance of space. "The Falcon is the thing I value most. Not the person I value most, but the thing. I think I left her with Leia so Leia would know."

  "That you trusted her with what you valued most."

  "Something like that. And I wanted her to remember me."

  "As if she'd forget."

  "Sometimes I think she should." Solo was silent a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "I don't deserve her. And someday she'll realize that. When she's away from me, I think, 'Maybe today's the day. Maybe today she'll figure if out and get on with her life.'"

  Wedge shook his head. "That's ridiculous."

  "No, it's not. She's the one with the goal, the plan for her life. She's a driving force in the New Republic. Without her, I don't have a place. I'm just a drifter with an irresistible dose of roguish charm. And someday she'll get tired of the charm and there won't be anything else for me to offer her."

  "You know," Wedge said, "I can't do it myself, because you're my superior officer. But I could call Chewie down here, and tell him what you've just said, and then he'd beat you nearly to death with a hydrospanner. Maybe then you'd figure out how wrong you are."

  Solo managed a smile. "I think maybe that's why 1 volun­ teered for this Zsinj assignment. I thought it was because of how I felt when I heard about his bombardments. His assaults on defenseless worlds. I could just see myself as a child on the streets, looking up to see the turbolaser blasts coming down to destroy the little bit of world I could call my own. But, really, it might have been just to show Leia, 'Here I am, see, I

  can function in your world.' But after months of it, I just get tireder and crazier. I find myself wishing I could leave Zsinj be, and Leia could come home right now, with her mission unfin­ished, so things could go back to the way they were. And if she knew that, she'd be ashamed of me."

  "It's a natural human emotion. And I have a three-stage plan to let you get back to the way things used to be."

  That caught Solo's attention; he looked at Wedge for the first time since he'd boarded the freighter. "How?"

  "Stage One." Wedge opened a comm channel on the co­ pilot's control board. "YT-1300 to bridge. This is Commander Antilles. Please cut all lights in Bay Gamma One."

  A few moments later, the overhead lights darkened. Chew­ bacca made a noise of complaint.

  Wedge said, "Including the magcon shield indicator, please, bridge." -

  The rectangle of light around the magcon field faded. Now they sat in near-perfect darkness, illuminated only by the stars outside the field. They hung there, perfect, not blinking because
there was insufficient atmosphere to make them twin­kle, a perfect space vista.

  Solo fell silent, just staring at the view for a long moment. "That's nice," he said. "I think you're right. I could use more of that. What's Stage Two?"

  "Well, you're not the only member of the crew who could benefit from some blissful irresponsibility right now. So I'm going to stage an insurrection and seize control of Mon Remonda."

  Solo gave a curt laugh. "Wedge Antilles, mutineer. That I have to see."

  "Bring your Wookiee and I'll show you."