Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

She gave him a look that suggested she didn't know. But she had to be shamming. She had to be in on it. Perhaps she'd even been the one who put the Ewoks up his nose.

  Seized with a sudden fear of what she was, what she might do to him next, he drew his duty blaster and fired on her. It was point-blank range; he would have had to go to some effort to miss. His shot took her in the side and she fell over.

  But it wasn't a blaster shot. He looked curiously at his issue sidearm. It was set on kill, but a stun-level beam had emerged. Curiously, he flipped the switch between blast and stun, but no sound emerged. Perhaps the mechanism was broken.

  No matter. She was unconscious, and she would stay that way long enough for the ship to crash. And relief would be his.

  But the Nebula Queen's control board now showed her al­ titude gaining, not dropping. He stared curiously at the num­bers, then took the pilot's controls again.

  They didn't respond. The cruise liner began climbing back up into her proper orbit. He ran a quick diagnostic. It indi­ cated that the auxiliary bridge currently had control.

  He brought up the ship's intercom and called the auxiliary bridge. When the picture swam into focus, it showed that bridge's control seat. In the command chair was another Sul­lustan, a very junior officer Rostat knew. "Nurm," he said. "What are you doing?"

  Nurm looked uncomfortable and glanced off-screen. "I've seized control of the ship," he said.

  "Return control to the main bridge," Rostat said. His nose was really itching. The Ewoks had to be mounting a ma­ jor celebration in there.

  "No," Nurm said.

  "Give me control right now," Rostat said.

  "Make me," Nurm said.

  "However you want it. Your career is at an end." Rostat switched off.

  He waited for a moment, settling his temper, and then made a sudden motion, driving his finger into his nose as fast and deep as he could.

  No good. The Ewoks got away, leaping up above his prob­ ing finger, as they always did. He sighed, took up his blaster, and headed aft.

  Moments later, he charged into the auxiliary bridge with his blaster at the ready.

  There was no one in the control chair. But there was mo­tion to his right. He spun—

  Too late. Nurm fired first, his stun blast washing across Rostat's chest. Rostat felt his body go numb and watched with a detached sort of interest as the floor angled up and knocked at his head.

  Then he knew only blackness.

  Nurm looked anxiously at the fellow officer he'd just shot "Will he be all right?"

  The man to whom he spoke, a human in the uniform of a colonel, rose from behind the communications console. He moved over to Rostat's body and prodded it with his toe. "He should be. If we can figure out what's wrong with him."

  "I couldn't believe it. You showed it to me, and I still can't believe it. He wanted to crash us."

  "I don't think he did. There's something very wrong going on in his head, though. But you've saved him from scandal, or death, or both."

  "Why did you want me to shoot him? I've barely qualified with blaster pistols! I'm a civilian!"

  The officer gave him an enigmatic smile. "It's important. Believe it or not, the fact that you shot him instead of me may save additional lives. Just remember the story as I've given it to you."

  He brought out his comlink to summon members of ship's security to take Rostat into custody, then transmitted a few words, a mission-accomplished code, to his commander.

  In an orbital station in high orbit above the far side of Corus­cant, General Airen Cracken, head of New Republic Intelli­gence, received the officer's signal. He responded with a few words of congratulation and signed off. He'd get the full report and offer more appropriate words of praise later.

  He returned to the ancient, scarred desk that served him as a reminder of his many campaigns and years of service, and felt the first stirrings of relief. Suddenly, a picture once made up of shadows and inexplicable shapes was beginning to assume a form he could understand.

  On his personal terminal, he called up a communications file, a full holo, and advanced it to a mark he'd placed earlier.

  Wedge Antilles's face and upper body appeared at one- third scale just above Cracken's desk. The pilot seemed to be seated behind a desk of his own, and there was nothing but white bulkhead wall behind him.

  "Now that the Warlord has persuaded the New Republic to institute measures that can be used as precedents when dealing with future incidents, his next step must inevitably be to make a breach between the New Republic and one of the member species that has contributed significantly to our success.

  "Logic suggests that the Mon Calamari would be the best choice, since without their engineering expertise and their heavy cruisers we would have had a much harder time of this war than we've had. But we suspect that this brainwashing treat­ ment may be confined for now to mammalian and near- mammalian species—it would be much, much harder to devise a treatment that was equally functional across the wide range of all sapient species types. So our prediction is that it won't be Mon Calamari or Verpines at this time.

  "Our best guess is that the next attack will come from Sul­ lustans or Bothans. And we have some ideas about that." Wedge typed something into the datapad before him; Cracken supposed that he was consulting notes.

  "Gotals are known as expert hunters. And for the last sev­eral years, Twi'leks, who have traditionally been thought of by Imperial humans as traders, and not particularly bold beings in general, have been trying to impress on human cultures the im­ portance of their warrior tradition. We think it's significant that the Twi'lek and Gotal disasters have involved single war­riors wreaking havoc. In our opinion, the assaults to come will correspond in some way to popular stereotypes and miscon­ ceptions about the species whose members initiate them. If the next attack is Bothan, it will involve computer slicing—such as, perhaps, falsified data transmissions that cause disasters. If the next attack is Sullustan, it's likely to involve a piloting or navigating mishap costing hundreds or thousands of lives. Ei­ther way, if it is remotely possible, it's important that the agents of these attacks be taken alive. Our hope is that they are under compulsion to do what they're doing, and that the brainwash­ing technique leaves some consistent physiological evidence that New Republic medics can detect."

  Antilles shut his datapad. His gaze, unsettlingly enough, seemed to seek out Cracken's. "That's the best we have to offer, General. But if our predictions come anywhere close to the reality of the next set of mystery terrorist activities, you can rely on it being an attempt by Zsinj to create more chaos within the New Republic, and you can head off the damage his effort might otherwise cause.

  "Thank you for your time, General. Antilles out." The hologram of Wedge faded.

  Cracken sat motionless for long moments. The first time he'd heard this transmission, he'd shaken his head and wished, once again, that flyboys would just keep their attention on their cockpits and out of Intelligence affairs. The second time, after Cracken had reviewed the evidence on the Twi'lek and Gotal assaults, it had made a frightening kind of sense ... and Cracken had begun devoting resources to an investigation based on the possibility that the Antilles theory was correct.

  Now, Cracken wished that one flyboy, Wedge Antilles, would pay less attention to his cockpit and devote some more of his thinking to Intelligence affairs.

  Perhaps he could be lured out of Starfighter Command and over to Intelligence.

  Cracken made an exasperated noise and shut down his terminal. No, not in this lifetime.

  He turned his attention to the ongoing search for evidence of an upcoming Bothan code-slicing effort that would end in disaster.

  Face Loran woke to the sound of passerby conversation out in the corridor. He stretched, enjoying the luxury that was to be his—a few minutes of lazy rest before his alarm went off.

  Then he glanced at the chrono beside his bed. The time was half an hour after his alarm should have awakened him. He ha
dn't set it.

  He swore and threw his sheets off. He had just enough time to clean up and dress before mission briefing, if he hurried.

  A portion of his terminal's screen blinked at him—sign of new mail, not yet reviewed. He typed in a command to transfer it all to Vape, his astromech—he'd read it when nothing else was going on during the Kidriff mission.

  The launch bay assigned to the Rogues and Wraiths hummed— not just with activity, but with the bone-cutting whine of X-wing repulsorlift engines being tested as pilots went through their prelaunch checklists. And it was cold, the launch door opened to space, only the magnetic-containment field keeping the atmosphere safely within . . . and magcon fields did an in­ adequate job of retaining heat.

  Wedge watched the activity, looking for undue stress or worry on the part of his pilots.

  Gavin Darklighter. The young Rogue would be flying with­ out a wingmate. He'd been sobered by Tal'dira's death, and still looked unusually serious, but showed no sign of distraction.

  Corran Horn. It had been only days since he'd killed a squadmate, and the speculation that Tal'dira had been brain­washed, not a traitor, and therefore theoretically possible to save, had to be eating at him. He showed no sign of it, his real emotions safely hidden behind the mask of professional civility that CorSec and other police personnel wore when dealing with strangers.

  Tyria Sarkin. She'd also been forced to kill a fellow pilot. She made no secret of her distress, and even now, as she donned her helmet and climbed into her X-wing cockpit, there was a sad look to her eyes. But, unlike Horn, she hadn't had to kill a squadmate, a friend. And she hadn't been as isolated as Horn; Kell had been there for her. Kell had even persuaded her to talk to Wes Janson, the man who had been obliged, many years before, to kill Kell's own father under not dissimilar cir­ cumstances. Janson had said it had helped her. Though Tyria wore her emotions very close to the surface, Wedge felt he had little to worry about with her.

  Dia Passik. She would not be flying today; the decision handed down by the Provisional Council made it impossible for her to come along. But it didn't prevent her from participat­ ing in other ways; she was present, out of uniform, moving from starfighter to starfighter, offering a recommendation here, a wish for good luck there. And, when she thought no one was look­ing, a kiss for Face.

  Elassar Targon. The Devaronian pilot was busily sticking figurines made of hard-baked bread on various portions of Runt's X-wing's hull while the Thakwaash pilot ineffectually tried to shoo him away. More charms. Wedge sighed.

  "You can't just stay here and avoid it," Janson said.

  Wedge looked at the Wraiths's XO. "Come again?"

  "You can't just hang around here, Commander. You have to get to the Falsehood and face your mistake."

  "What mistake is that?"

  Janson grinned. "Well, of course, you're taking Han Solo's place in piloting the Falsehood because he really can't keep on relinquishing command of the fleet for joyrides."

  "Correct. No mistake I can see so far. I have more experi­ ence with Corellian freighters than anyone on Mon Remonda, excepting Han Solo."

  "And you asked him if Chewbacca would be interested in coming along as copilot and mechanic. He has all that experi­ence keeping disintegrating junk together as it flies."

  "Correct so far."

  "And the general said, sure, Chewie would be happy to come along."

  "You're three for three." . "Wedge, you don't speak Wookiee."

  "I—oh, Sithspit." Wedge felt some color rising into his face. Janson was right: In all the mission planning they'd done, he'd failed to remember that he wouldn't be able to understand anything his copilot said, though Chewbacca could certainly understand Basic.

  Janson just stood there, his expression merry.

  Wedge sighed. "Check with Squeaky and Emtrey. 1 can't issue orders for them to go, but if either is willing to volunteer, I'd appreciate it. Preferably Squeaky." Though 3PO units normally had protocol skills as part of their programming, including diplomacy and instantaneous translation of a stag­ gering number of languages, Emtrey's programming was opti­mized for military functions; Squeaky's was better suited to this mission.

  "Will do."

  "You haven't mentioned this to the pilots?"

  "Well, yes, I sort of blurted it out when it occurred to me."

  "And what did they say?"

  "They put down bets on what you'd do. So then I had to go to all the other pilots so they could get their own bets down."

  "Who won?"

  "Tyria Sarkin. She said you'd say 'Sithspit.'"

  "You know, you've finally earned my gravest revenge."

  "You don't ever take revenge. That's beneath Wedge An­ tilles, Hero of the New Republic."

  Wedge gave him a smile, one full of teeth, and Janson's own grin faltered. Wedge said, "Dismissed."

  Kell took point, Elassar tucked in behind and beside him as wingman, and led his TIE interceptor unit in toward Kidriff Five. The other wingpair, Janson and Shalla, stayed off to their starboard at the distance prescribed by Imperial regulations.

  The world called Kidriff Five gradually grew in their view­ports. The planet, at least the hemisphere they could see, seemed to be dominated by three colors: blue for seas and rusty red for vegetation, and a lesser amount of gray-white where the planet's greatest cities lay.

  Comm traffic also increased as they neared the planet. First was an automated signal directing them into one of the preapproved approach vectors. As soon as that signal arrived, Kell transmitted a tight-beam signal back to the Falsehood in­dicating where they could expect first comm contact.

  As they entered the approach vector, they could see, far ahead of them, tiny lights—at the distances shown on their sensors, these had to be massive cargo vessels approaching the planet.

  When they were close enough to the planet that Kell could see nothing but its surface unless he leaned much closer to his viewport, they received the first live transmission. "Incoming flight, four Sienar Fleet Systems interceptors, this is Kidriff Pri­ mary Control. Please identify yourself and your mission."

  Kell activated his comm unit. "This is Drake Squadron, One Flight, out of the Night Terror, Captain Maristo com­ manding. We're here for rec-re-a-tion." The emphasis he put on the final word suggested a pilot who'd been away from any sort of entertainment for too long. "Inbound to Tobaskin to see how much rec-re-a-tion a cargo bay full of credits will buy."

  "Acknowledged, Drakes. Transmitting your revised ap­proach vector. Will your ship be arriving later?"

  "Negative, we're here solo." And that lie conveyed a sec­ond lie to the traffic controllers on Kidriff Five: that Drake Squadron consisted of hyperdrive-equipped TIEs. This sug­gested, in turn, that its pilots were very important people. It wasn't uncommon for high-ranking officers to take their per­sonal TIEs, with a lower-ranking officer as theoretical com­mander to act as a shield of anonymity for them, on a junket like this.

  "Understood. Leave your transponders on at all times, by planetary ordinance. Enjoy yourselves, and welcome to Kidriff Five."

  Kell compressed the exchange and transmitted it, and the point in space where he'd received the opening words of the greeting, back to the Falsehood.

  "I do receive combat pay, don't I?" The speaker was Squeaky, situated behind Wedge's seat on the Millennium Falsehood.

  "If we're fired upon, yes," Wedge said. "Otherwise, you just get hazardous-duty pay."

  Chewbacca grumbled something. Squeaky said, "Shut up, you."

  Wedge grinned. He'd never met a 3PO unit as verbally abusive as Squeaky. Most of them, because of standard pro­gramming and because they knew themselves to be defenseless, attempted to ingratiate themselves with everyone they met— usually with so much talk they ended up aggravating those they wished to befriend. But Squeaky was a manumitted droid, owned by no one, and had a few quirks. "What did he say?"

  "I don't have to translate comments like that."

  "Transla
te everything. I'll decide what's important and what's not."

  "He said he could guarantee I receive combat pay by pull­ing off my legs and hitting me with them."

  "Well, that was very generous of him. You should have said 'Thank you, maybe later.'"

  "Sir, I think you lack an understanding of this Wookiee's violence-laden humor."

  As soon as they dropped to within twenty kilometers of the planetary surface over Tobaskin Sector, which was already un­der nightfall, Kell and his fellow Drakes began receiving trans­ missions from sector businesses—some data, some sight and sound, all extolling the virtues of various entertainment spots in the region. One transmission was the city government's visi­tor's package, including maps of the region with hundreds of clubs, bars, hostels, and other businesses highlighted.