Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

  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 regarded 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 de­ bris 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 block-

  ade 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 Re­ monda 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 Cap­ tain 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 if 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 at­ tention was fixed on the holo showing the damage Iron Fist had sustained and was continuing to suffer. The primary pro­ jection 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 momen­ tarily dimmed as a nearby torpedo strike momentarily over­ loaded 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. Be­ tween 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 lat­ ter case, he would send Solo yelping back to Rebel space . . . or, best of ail, 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 gun­ ners 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 wing­ man 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 fro
m 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 some­ thing 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 by­ pass 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 disen­ gage 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.

  "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 Gamor­ rean, 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 sup­ pressed 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, arid 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 sys­ tem howl with the confirmation of his enemy's targeting lock on him.