Star Wars: X-Wing VI: Iron Fist

by Aaron Allston

  “I presume,” said the warlord, “that I’m addressing the so-called General Kargin of the Hawk-bats.” His expression became merry. “As you can see, the rules around Halmad have changed. The planet belongs to my alliance now, and you will not be permitted to stay here and continue causing trouble.

  “Now, what you must understand is that a lesser man would be most angry with you. I’m not. To be honest, I’m impressed. The two pincers of your movement annihilated two entire squadrons of my fighters against minimal losses of your own. That’s quite admirable. Oh, certainly, you’ve lost, but my victory was far more costly than it should have been, testimony to your own skill and ferocity.

  “So, you now have a choice to make.

  “You can stay here and continue to try to prey on Halmad. In between all my other activities, I will eventually hunt you down and kill all of you. My guess is that this will be very costly to me, but it’s what I’ve promised to do. The problem with this choice is that everybody loses, though you lose more.

  “You can leave and set up operations in an area of space not yet controlled by Zsinj. This isn’t a costly choice, but nobody gains anything. And I’ll have lost two squadrons with nothing—well, other than alliance with this planet—to show for it.

  “Your third option, however, includes potential gain for both of us.

  “I’d like to meet you. Attached to this holo is a data stream that includes a hyperspace navigational course. Send a ship with a representative who can speak for you along that course. You will meet a navigational beacon that will direct you further. We will meet, and I will make it worth your while to come to terms with me.

  “I will not give you my word that you will not be harmed. Not that I don’t have a word to give; I simply don’t think you would believe it. But this you can trust: Zsinj is a businessman, and it just makes good business sense for us to join forces. Take it under consideration.

  “Zsinj out.”

  The corpulent warlord’s image faded away.

  Wedge leaned back, unaware until then that he’d leaned forward during the warlord’s recitation. “Wraiths,” he said, “it may have cost us dearly … but the Hawk-bat operation has just begun to pay off. We’re going to need a contact team.”

  He glanced among the Wraiths present. “I can’t be on the team, nor can Wes. We’re just a little too well known to Imperial forces. Not even a good disguise would necessarily prevent us from being recognized.” He didn’t add that this was especially true with their most proficient artist of disguise, Face, being missing or dead.

  “Castin, before the liberation, you were considered a criminal on Coruscant, an insurgent, so information on you is probably in Zsinj’s files.”

  The code-slicer nodded. “I tried to wipe out my records wherever I could find them, but they just propagated too fast for me.”

  “Kell is a possibility, but you’re pretty distinctive.”

  The big man smiled. “I like to think so.”

  “Myn, not a chance for you. You’re a casualty of being well known as a decorated member of the Corellian armed forces and then a New Republic squadron commander. Runt, you’re right out, at least until midget Thakwaash number more than one in the ranks of starfighter pilots across the galaxy. Piggy, however—”

  The Gamorrean pilot nodded. “I can dress up as a barbarian and simply be appropriate scenery.”

  “Correct. Though Zsinj, as a product of the Imperial school of thought, may be unhappy with the presence of a nonhuman in the Hawk-bat party. We’ll have to think that one over. Dia, Shalla, Tyria, Lara, all of you are distinct possibilities. I’ll need a little time to work out the best mix for the greeting party.”

  Shalla said, “But it sounds as though it’s a go.”

  Wedge nodded. “It is. This is what we’re here for. Such a mission would have to be a volunteer operation, though, so anyone who does not wish to be included, send me a note. Dismissed, everybody.”

  Wedge noticed that they filed out with their backs a little straighter, with more energy in their steps, than they’d had when they arrived for the conference. Yes, they’d probably lost friends down on Halmad … but they hadn’t lost their sense of purpose.

  Castin Donn was the last in line to leave, but he shut the door before him and turned back to face Wedge. “Sir, I’d like to be part of this operation.”

  “Castin, you yourself agreed that you were probably too well known in Imperial records.”

  “That’s right, sir. But I want to go in unknown, undetected. I have an idea.”

  Wedge gestured for him to sit. “Let’s hear it.”

  Castin took a chair again. “I’m familiar with a wide variety of Imperial computer systems.”

  “I know.”

  “What if I put together a program that induced Iron Fist’s computer to broadcast an occasional signal saying, ‘Here I am, come and get me’?”

  “One that Zsinj wouldn’t detect?”

  “Correct, sir. This program would piggyback its message to outgoing signals so there would be no extraneous broadcasts for the ship’s crew to detect. Now, given a capital ship’s protocols for scans of its programs, for frequent memory flushes, and so forth, even with maximum stealth characteristics, a program like this couldn’t last too long. Maybe a month, maybe a week or two less or more. But in that time, we could build up a database of the ship’s movements.”

  “Like Admiral Trigit tried to do to us with his Morrt Project.”

  “Correct. We might even get a break. Find the Iron Fist staying in one place long enough for elements of the fleet to arrive and hit it.”

  “What would you need?”

  “Well, I already have the programming simulators here. I’d just need a full set of stormtrooper armor for disguise, and a datapad portable terminal with a standard ship’s computer interface. I’d go in Narra’s smuggling compartment—if it can hold Piggy in a pilot’s suit, it can hold me in stormtrooper armor.”

  Wedge considered for a long moment. “Castin, I want you to work up this program.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Castin saluted and started to rise.

  “Wait, now. I’m not going to authorize your mission, not this time.”

  “What?” Castin sank back into place, looking as angry as though he’d been slapped.

  “Zsinj is no fool. We’re already flying in a crew of pirates he doesn’t know. They are going to be under constant scrutiny. This first encounter is not the time to try such a stunt. Later, when meetings become more routine and security gets lax, that’s when we try your plan.”

  “Sir …” Castin’s jaw trembled as he visibly tried to bring himself under control. “Sir, I’m better than any security they can offer. I don’t tell you how to fly—you’re the best at that. Please don’t tell me what sort of security I can and can’t breach.”

  “Now you’re being impertinent. Tell me the name of Zsinj’s chief security man.”

  “I don’t know that, sir.”

  “Then how do you know that you’re better than he is? That he doesn’t have measures in place against the sort of program you’re planning to introduce?”

  “Because I’m better than everybody, sir.”

  Wedge sighed. “Flight Officer Donn, I’m giving you a direct order. Design your code. But take your time and do a very clean job on it. Because you will not be accompanying this mission to Iron Fist. We will use your program at some later time. Dismissed.”

  Castin flushed red and looked as though he wanted to argue the point, but stood, saluted with a military precision that was, for him, obviously an exercise in sarcasm, and retreated.

  Phanan’s TIE fighter had apparently hit the ground in a soft glade, bounced like a rock skipping across the surface of a pond, and crashed into a line of young trees. Now it rested, its port solar wing array crumpled, its cockpit canted forward, so its main viewport was half-buried in the dirt, against a trio of trees bent almost to the ground, their roots half up in the air. The twin ion eng
ines at the vehicle’s rear were now encrusted with a foamy substance—probably a fire-extinguishing foam sprayed on by those who had come later.

  Now a stormtrooper stood guard on the damaged vehicle, and was engrossed in conversation with two men in the distinctive uniform of Zsinj’s Raptors. Two speeder bikes in Raptor colors hovered beside the starfighter’s intact wing.

  Face, a few dozen meters away, in the heavy underbrush characteristic of the light forest of the area, insects crawling across his back and sides, wiped more stinging sweat from his eyes and crawled forward to hear what they were saying.

  The stormtrooper’s voice, amplified by the electronic speaker of his helmet, was easiest to make out. “… see here. Spots of blood. He was crawling here, but we didn’t get any units … ground at this site for half an hour, so he wasn’t crawling for stealth; he was hurt. We have men on speeder bikes … now. They say his trail goes a little less than a kilometer and just disappears on stony ground where things get hilly.”

  The two Raptors looked at one another. The first, the taller of the two, said, “Is there any sign of repulsorlift dust-up along the trail?”

  “Ehh, no. They would have mentioned it. They’re assuming he’s out there hiding in the hills.”

  “I don’t think so. They would have found more blood. Even if he’d bandaged himself, he’d be cutting his flesh to pieces on that hard ground—unless he stopped crawling and started walking. Which isn’t likely. Scanning isn’t doing any good?”

  “There are a lot of people, humans, in the region. Professional hunters. And some large game they hunt. We’re ushering them out as fast as we come across them, but they’re playing havoc with our scanners.”

  The Raptor sighed, testimony to the stormtroopers’ incompetence, and turned back toward the speeder bikes.

  The other one said, “We’ll find him. Then we’ll tell your people how it was done.” He followed his partner.

  Face crawled forward as fast as he could manage while remaining fairly quiet. The stormtrooper was watching the Raptors, his body language suggesting that perhaps he’d enjoy beating the two men senseless with the stock of his blaster rifle, and did not turn in Face’s direction.

  The Raptors mounted their speeder bikes, talking to one another, their low, amused tones and occasional chuckles making it likely that the stormtrooper and his fellows continued to be an object of derision. They fired up the bikes’ thrusters and headed out.

  Face stood up from behind a bush in their path. His first blaster shot took the right-hand Raptor in the chest, sending him tumbling from the back of the vehicle. Face traversed left and fired just as the second Raptor came abreast of him. His shot took the man in the side of the head and the dead or injured man passed so close that Face could feel the wash from his repulsors and smell the char from his helmet.

  Ahead, the stormtrooper was raising his blaster rifle’s stock to his shoulder. Face threw himself to the ground, once again partially concealed by the bush, and squeezed off three shots. The first two went wide, with the stormtrooper’s return shot charring soil less than a meter in front of Face, but the third blast took his target in the gut, where sections of white armor were connected by flexible black material. The stormtrooper let out a moan and fell forward.

  There was an explosion from behind Face. He rolled over and brought his blaster up, but there were no enemies to confront—the second speeder bike had slammed into a broad-based tree and exploded. Fiery fragments rained down upon the tree and surrounding underbrush.

  No time to worry about that. Face hurried to Phanan’s TIE fighter, clambered up one broken wing pylon, and peered into the cockpit. No sign of Phanan, as the conversation he’d overheard had suggested, but it would be good to deny Zsinj’s forces any information they might glean from analysis of the craft. He fired several blaster shots into the cockpit, and when the pilot’s seat and control board were fully ablaze, he dropped again to the ground.

  The first speeder bike had fetched up against a tree, but had not detonated. Still, the forward outrigger looked bent, even from this distance, and that wasn’t good; it would seriously restrict the vehicle’s speed and maneuvering capabilities.

  Face took the stormtrooper’s blaster rifle and hurried toward the bike. En route, he passed the bodies of both Raptors. Both men were dead. He took their blaster pistols, comlinks, and various cards and datacards.

  As he’d feared, the outrigger of the surviving speeder bike was twisted out of alignment. A repair job was out of the question with the tools he had on hand. He swore to himself, mounted the vehicle, and set it into motion.

  The thing’s thruster engine rattled and coughed, and the bike showed an immediate tendency to pull down and to the right—the new bend to the forward directional vanes made that inevitable. Still, it would be faster than walking. By brute force, he kept in line with the still-distinct trail Phanan had made and set out along that route.

  Distantly, he could hear the roar of other speeder bikes. He snapped on his vehicle’s comlink, and that of one of the Raptors. The airwaves were active with communications: “May have some sign of passage here, looks something like crawling. But there’s no blood.” “Ay Dee Seven Four Two, have Ajaf and Matham reported in to you yet?” “Grid Two-Four secure. No large life-forms here except us.” “Too bad we can’t scan for intelligent life-forms, Dofey, that would let you out right away.” “No personal remarks, Private.”

  The damaged speeder bike carried Face along Phanan’s trail of crushed underbrush and scored mud. Phanan had managed to crawl a fair distance, Face decided. He traveled a quarter kilometer through this forest, then a half kilometer, and finally reached a narrow, shallow river that must have been the one mentioned by the stormtrooper.

  On the other side of the river, Face could see that the forest thinned, and not much farther it graduated to rocky hills that were thick with underbrush but not much for trees. Face shook his head. It didn’t make sense for Phanan to head for terrain like that, where it would be easier to spot him from above—and as he watched, a TIE fighter swooped by over the nearest ridge of hills, flying slowly enough that it had to be on reconnaissance detail. Still, Phanan’s crawling trail emerged on the other side of the bank, more obvious than ever, and headed toward those hills.

  Face paused, sensing some of Phanan’s innate perversity at work. The stormtrooper had said the trail disappeared on stony ground, and the searchers hadn’t had any luck finding Phanan. No luck finding an injured pilot who was limited to crawling.

  Phanan knew as well as Face did that a downed pilot who found a river would, under most circumstances, be much better off following it downriver. Human settlements tended to be built along rivers. Rivers tended to join other rivers. Rivers usually meant fresh water.

  What if—More obvious than ever. What if Phanan had crawled as far as the first batch of terrain that would no longer carry sign of his passage, then had crawled back to the river? It was a sensible strategy. It might throw off his pursuers. It had thrown off his pursuers.

  Face turned rightward, the direction the river flowed, and began cruising slowly above its surface.

  This was a much better route. Trees along the riverbanks shielded long stretches of the water from view from above. Long grasses beside the water draped the banks, sending leaves into the river itself—did they drink as roots did? Face shook his head; now was not the time to worry about botanical studies of the planet Halmad.

  Then there were the river’s larger inhabitants. Far ahead and sometimes far behind, Face saw large splashes and roilings in the water that suggested the human-sized amphibians he had glimpsed before. Perhaps they were keeping their distance because they were easily frightened. That was much more soothing than the possibility that they might be stalking him.

  A kilometer downriver, Face felt a blinding flash of pain to the side of his head. He almost fell off the speeder bike. He came upright fast, blaster in hand, aiming at the elegant drapery of grasses to his left. />
  Grasses—and one pale hand sticking out beyond them, waving.

  He brought the speeder bike around, hopped off into the thigh-high water, and shoved his way through.

  It was Phanan, sweating, paler than usual, leaning against the bank in the shade of the leaves. His gray TIE-fighter pilot’s suit lacked its breathing gear, helmet, and gloves, and was torn in the front—a tear Face suspected Phanan had inflicted to help cool himself.

  “I’m glad to see you,” Phanan said. His voice was weak, very hoarse.

  “So glad you decided to brain me with a rock.”

  “I can’t shout.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  Phanan nodded.

  “Badly?”

  Another nod. “I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding internally. I don’t think I’m going to get much farther.”

  “You’re going to get to Hawk-bat Base. Can you ride on the back of the bike?”

  Phanan was long in answering. “I think so.”

  “Let’s get you up on it. You’ve thrown off pursuit pretty well. I’m going to get us out of their search area before they decide to range out this far.”

  Face helped Phanan up on the back of the bike. It wasn’t easy. Halfway up, Phanan let out a bark of pain and curled up into a knot and stayed that way, shuddering, several long moments while Face held him up. Then, finally, Phanan could uncurl enough to take a normal rider’s position on the back of the bike. Face noted that Phanan began sweating heavily as soon as he left the cooling water of the river, and the sweating did not stop.

  Face climbed up in the driver’s seat and goosed the thrusters.

  The thruster engine let out a more vigorous cough than ever, shuddered once, and died.

  “It take it you bought this used,” Phanan said.

  Phanan lay on his back on the bike. In his hand he held the bike’s sensor unit, which Face had pulled from its post, leaving it attached only by wires.

  The bike’s repulsorlift was fine. So Face, finding a rope in the vehicle’s small cargo compartment, had tied the rope off to the outrigger and was now a couple of meters ahead, dragging the bike by the rope while Phanan rode.