Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

"Project Minefield derived from Chubar. It involves a sec­ond, and much faster-acting, set of chemical treatments that af­fect the victim's mind on a much shorter-term basis. While the chemicals are at their maximum effect, Zsinj's agents can im­plant a delusion and a mission in the victim's mind. The delu­sion is usually that some awful situation is in effect and can't be stopped until the mission is accomplished.

  "Both the delusion and the mission are associated with a trigger, usually a code phrase. Until the phrase is used, the vic­tim is unaware of what has been done to him ... in theory. Some of the doctors's annotations indicate that the victims sometimes suspect that something is wrong. But when the phrase is used, the mission pops to the top and becomes the victim's number one priority. Um, this conditioning wears off after a while. The length of time it remains viable varies from species to species, but seldom exceeds one standard year."

  She scrolled through screens of data on her terminal. "The code phrase can have a variable in it. Let's say the mission is 'Kidnap someone' and the trigger phrase is 'I need a new speeder, someone broke mine.' You'd tell the brainwashed agent, 'I need a new speeder, Elassar Targon broke mine,' and the victim would interpret that as 'Kidnap Elassar Targon.' It's a fairly versatile setup." She skimmed through more screens of data. "So far, the treatment only works on mammalian species.

  "Project Funeral is Zsinj's major operation using the Mine­ field technique. Our brainstorming session pretty much nailed its purpose and intent—fomenting suspicion between the hu­mans and nonhumans of the New Republic. Addenda to the files suggest that the project has recently been suspended, pend­ing a new direction or a shutdown. In other words, it's been stopped dead, at least temporarily.

  "I'm going to do what I can for the test subjects on Iron Fist. I'll end their suffering, one way or another.

  "End Session Three." She switched off the recording and leaned back in her chair.

  She felt strange. Growing up on Coruscant, raised in the planet's long-standing traditions concerning other species, she'd always believed in the basic superiority of humans. Oh, it wasn't necessarily wrong to have affection for a member of another species—a household servant, or a reliable merchant who knew his role in life—but Coruscant was a world for and made by humans. Imperial doctrine solidified these traditions into some­thing like duracrete.

  Then, as an infiltrator in the Rebel navy and, later, Wraith Squadron, she'd run again and again into evidence suggesting that these traditions simply made no sense. With Wraith Squad­ron, her long-standing assumption of superiority over even the nonhumans she'd liked simply wilted away.

  And now, with only a droid—held by the Empire in even lower esteem than nonhumans—for a friend, longing to return to a society full of what she'd once considered aliens, she once again knew that the Gara Petothel that had been her childhood identity was dead. Dead and unmourned.

  And the nonhumans in their cages deep in Iron Fist's belly were beginning to haunt her dreams.

  Words popped up on her screen, are you sad?

  "No," she lied. "Just tired. But it's time to get back to work." She leaned forward again. "What's our situation with the hyperdrive?"

  WE HAVE UNITS IN PLACE ALL OVER THE ENGINES. THEY CAN BEGIN THEIR SABOTAGE AT ANY TIME. BUT THERE ARE NOT YET ENOUGH IN CRITICAL POSITIONS FOR US TO BE CERTAIN THAT THEY CAN DISABLE THE HYPERDRIVE.

  "Keep pouring on resources," she said. "We have to be able to bring those engines down when we want to.

  "Let's see here ... even though we have some access to the ship's computers, we can't afford to play around with them too much. We'll be detected. Zsinj's slicers aren't bad. So I've been thinking about the most efficient way to give Solo's force an advantage in any direct confrontation with Zsinj's fleet. To me, that suggests messing with Iron Fist's strategic coordina­tion of Zsinj's fleet. We might be able to flag friendly ships as enemies, temporarily, and enemies as friendly. Can we pro­ceed that way?"

  YES.

  "Chance of being detected?"

  VERY LOW, IN OUR INITIAL PHASE OF MANIPULATING THE PROGRAMMING. ONCE THE PROGRAM IS ACTIVATED, DETEC­ TION CHANCE IS 99% IN THE FIRST SECOND OF OPERATION, WITH ODDS INCREASING EACH ADDITIONAL SECOND. PROBA­ BLE DURATION OF PROGRAM ONCE IT IS RUNNING IS ABOUT TWELVE SECONDS.

  "Not good enough. How about something to lower the ship's shields?"

  PROBABILITY OF SUCH A THING SURVIVING EVEN IN LA­ TENT FORM FOR MORE THAN A FEW MOMENTS IS VERY LOW. THE MA!N COMPUTER'S SECURITY MEASURES LOOK FOR PROBLEMS THAT CATASTROPHIC.

  "So most forms of self-destruct are not even worth look­ing into."

  THAT IS CORRECT.

  "Well, then what—" She stopped as a new idea occurred to her. "Ooh."

  The document on Wedge's screen was labeled "Routine Ex­amination," but Wedge knew it to be anything but. It was a fit­ness report, the accumulated conclusions of Mon Remonda's most experienced medics and analysts.

  About Myn Donos.

  The review board had been unable to confirm or deny that the torpedo launch was an accidental discharge. That was a break in his favor.

  However, the medics collectively pronounced him border­ line. One medic said it was a certainty that he'd lose control again; the trauma from the loss of his squadron and his con­ flicting feelings concerning Lara Notsil made it inevitable. The others disagreed, but indicated that his stress levels made him a less than ideal candidate for missions.

  It was the sort of data-based torpedo that could sink a ca­reer. All Wedge had to do was accept their conclusions, scrub Donos permanently from the active flight list, and the problem he represented would go away forever.

  But one party hadn't voted yet, and that was Wedge's gut instinct.

  A knock sounded on his door. "Come," he said.

  Donos entered, saluted. "Reporting as ordered, sir." His expression was somber, but was not the rigid mask Wedge re­ membered from most of their earlier interviews.

  "Have a seat."

  Donos complied, then quirked a smile. "Shall I take off my boot, sir?"

  "Not this time. Lieutenant, I've asked you in here to find out what role you'd like to play in the Vahaba mission."

  "If I could do anything I wanted?"

  "That's right."

  "I'd be back in my X-wing. That's where I feel I belong."

  "And if that were denied you?"

  "I'd like to be put in command of the Millennium Falsehood."

  Wedge leaned back. Donos's comment had taken him mo­mentarily off guard, though he believed he'd kept his surprise from his face. "That has been my role."

  "I expect you'd rather be back in your X-wing, sir."

  "I don't recall inviting you to attempt mind reading, Donos."

  Donos's expression became more serious. "No, sir. But we've flown in the same squadron. Learning to anticipate the re­actions of your squadmates—emotional ones as well as physical reflexes—is a survival trait. Maybe you find it a gross insult for me to make predictions this way, sir, but I'd say you wanted to get back in your X-wing cockpit and were doing these Falsehood runs because of duty. Because you're most qualified—second, perhaps, to General Solo. If I can't fly my own snubfighter, I'd be happy to free you up to fly yours."

  "Very generous of you. What if you couldn't pilot at all?" "Then I'd volunteer for a gunnery position on the Falsehood."

  "And in any of these three roles, what would you do about Lara Notsil?"

  Donos hesitated, and his expression went from somber to melancholy. "I'd follow orders, sir." "What orders would you prefer?" "Let her go."

  "And if you were ordered to fire on her?" "I'd do it. I've sworn an oath to the New Republic. To hold its needs above my own."

  "And if you killed her? What would you do then?" "I don't know, sir." Donos's eyes lost focus as they stared off into the distance—perhaps to some future. His expression suggested that this future was not appealing to him. "I don't know who I'd be then, sir."

  "Fair enough." Wedge regarded the lie
utenant for a moment.

  This wasn't the Donos he'd met several months before. Not a man whose every worry, every crisis was kept bottled up inside.

  Wedge typed a few words into his terminal and sent the file on to the ship's central computer. "Donos, for your informa­ tion, you were right. I'd rather be in an X-wing, and for the up­ coming and future engagements I plan to be. And so will you. I'm certifying you fit to fly. You'll be back with the Wraiths at Vahaba."

  Donos's eyes opened wide. "Thank you, sir."

  "Thank me after you've performed your duties to my satisfaction. That's when I'll know I haven't made a mistake. Dismissed."

  Vahaba was a red giant circled by numerous planets. At some time in the past, a celestial catastrophe had destroyed the larg­est of those worlds and scattered its remains in a thin ring around the sun. The asteroids were spread across such an enormous distance that the Vahaba Asteroid Belt was not a hazard to navi­gation; any capital ship could blast through it at full accelera­tion with minimal worry about collision with one of the belt's misshapen stony satellites.

  Not that Mon Remonda was close enough for her han­ dlers to feel even that minimal worry. To Han Solo's eye, Va­ haba was a distant red dot, and none of the system's planets was visible to the naked eye. Solo's fleet hung in space so far out that no set of Imperial sensors within the planetary system would pick them up. Meanwhile, pairs of X-wings off Mon Remonda and his fleet's other cruisers scoured the system.

  And found nothing.

  He resisted the urge to gripe, to drum on his chair arm, to ask once more if there were any updates. Or to tell the new sen­sor officer to quit looking at him. He'd felt the woman's curi­ous gaze on him ever since Stellar Web joined his fleet.

  To the bridge crew, Stellar Web was an unknown, tagged Contact M-317. It hovered some considerable distance from the rest of the fleet, far out of the range of the most capable vi­ sual enhancer. Messages from Contact M-317 were supposed to be sent directly to Solo, and the communications officer was under direct orders not to monitor, not to record them.

  Solo and a few others knew the distant ship to be an Impe­ rial Interdictor-class cruiser, the new flagship of Admiral Ro­griss. But it would be best for that information not to spread.

  "New contact, sir." The sensor officer's quiet words nearly jolted Solo out of his seat.

  "Let me see," Solo said, and brought up his own chair's terminal screen.

  It lit up with a wobbly visual image. Distant ships, form­ing up slowly into an attack group. Solo nodded. Two Star Destroyers, one Imperial-class, one Victory-class. Two Dread-naughts. One smaller ship, a featureless needle at this distance; Solo couldn't recognize it.

  "Standard for a Zsinj group," Solo said. "The question is, is this all he's deploying to Vahaba, or is it just part of his fleet?" He raised his voice. "What's the source of this recording?"

  "A wingpair from Corsair Squadron, off Mon Karren," said the comm officer. "They recorded this, using only visual sensors so they'd be harder to spot. Then one of the pair returned with the data while the other stayed out there to monitor."

  "Where is this?"

  "At the approximate orbit of the outermost planet, on the approach from Halmad."

  "Reinforce the X-wings monitoring this group with another pair. As our reconnaissance units come in for refueling, assign half of them to concentrate on the orbit of the outermost planet, on the direct-line approaches from other surrounding stars."

  "Yes, sir."

  Solo settled back. His heart was pounding just a little faster.

  "Sick of it yet?" Face asked his temporary wingman.

  "We are growing absolutely sick of it, Face," said Runt. The need for hyperdrive-equipped reconnaissance pairs had placed him with Face for this mission.

  The starfield outside their cockpits was brilliant, unchang­ing. They cruised at sublight speeds at what would be consid­ered the boundary of the Vahaba system.

  "Good." Face changed the timbre of his voice, dropping it a register, making it smooth, insidious. "'Please don't insult my in­ telligence. Please don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about.'" He forced a falsetto. "'1 don't, I really don't. Please put down the blaster. You're frightening me.'" He dropped into the lower register again. "'Fright is the least of what you will suffer.'"

  "Are we wrong?" Runt asked. "Or is this as terrible as we think? The writing is awful. You are not improving on it."

  "Sometimes you rise above your material, sometimes you don't. I had to learn this when I was seven. It has never left me." He dropped his voice again. "'Now, tell me where the map is, or I—'"

  "New contact, course thirteen degrees, down eighty- two." Runt's voice was suddenly crisp, professional.

  "Roll for visual inspection, kill forward thrust, kill cock­pit lights, passive sensors only."

  "Acknowledged, One."

  Face rolled his X-wing upside down. It would have been an unsettling experience in a vessel not equipped with an iner­tial compensator, but to his perspective it appeared only that the universe rotated around him. He shut down most of his ve­hicle systems and visually scanned the area of space Runt had indicated.

  Nothing; the target was too far away. He brought up the visual enhancer on his sensor board and directed it toward the target area.

  A minute's worth of careful panning and searching yielded the target: a group of four ships in close formation. The small­ est of them was too tiny to identify by class, but the other three were not. Three Star Destroyers, one of them an ancient Victory- class, one an lmperial-class, and the other—

  "We have her," Face said. "Iron Fist. Give me a minute while I calculate range, Six."

  "Yes, sir."

  Face ran numbers through his navigational computer and compared them with what he knew about the likely sensor ranges of Imperial capital ships. "All right," he said. "Six, I want you to run ahead at one-third acceleration for ten minutes, then set your course to Mon Remonda's station and transit back there. You were recording, weren't you?"

  "Yes, sir! Wait, let us check. Yes, we have it."

  "Good. Go."

  "Recall all starfighters in close range," Solo said. "Launch our hyperdrive-equipped shuttles to the regions we sent recon units to and have them transmit the new coordinates."

  "Battle stations," Onoma said. "All spacetight doors to be closed in three minutes."

  "Transmit our course to Contact M-317," Solo said. "Dis­ patch Skyhook and Crynyd to form up with M-317. They're to shadow her at all times, protect her at all costs, not to interfere with her operations."

  "Bring our course to one-oh-six-point-two-two-four, ele­vation thirty-six-point-oh-nine-nine. Transmit same to fleet."

  "Tell the Falsehood crew to stand down and go to their secondary mission parameters; we won't need them as bait."

  A low, unsettling rumble filled the bridge. Solo felt the hair on his arms and the back of his neck rise. He swung around to see Chewbacca standing in the doorway, his expression happy, uttering the jubilant hunting call. "That's right, Chewie," he said. "It's our best shot yet."

  The news hit Mon Remonda's bridge like a concussion missile. Solo came up out of his chair, began issuing orders. Captain Onoma did the same. Often their words overlapped one another.

  15

  Lara was nearly jolted out of her seat by the high pitch and panic in the voice of the sensor officer, three seats down from her in the crew pit. "Contact, contact, a drop out of hyperspace, I read four, five, seven vessels cruiser size or better, total fleet size thir­ teen vessels. They're already deploying starfighters."

  Boots clattered on the command walkway overhead and Lara saw Zsinj, General Melvar, and Captain Vellar, the stern- faced man who would have been master of Iron Fist had not Zsinj chosen the vessel as his flagship, running forward, toward the main bow viewports. Zsinj skidded to a sudden stop halfway there and Melvar nearly crashed into him. It was obvi­ous that Zsinj could see the enemy with the naked eye—they wer
e close.

  Lara rolled her chair back to get a look at the sensor offi­ cer's terminal screen. It was filled with red blips, outnumbering Zsinj's group more than three to one.

  "Return to original course," Zsinj shouted. His face was red. "Prepare for hyperspace. Signal the group. Inform Groups Two and Three. Tell them our situation and instruct them to stand by to jump to the abort rendezvous locations."

  "Yes, sir."

  Lara rolled back into place and nudged the technician next to her, an Intelligence operative dedicated to analyzing pat­ terns in comm traffic. "Why is he running?" she asked. "They outnumber us, but they couldn't possibly destroy us before the rest of our fleet jumps in."