When it was done, Face said, “I take full responsibility for Castin’s death, sir.”
Wedge gave him a look of surprise. “You take full responsibility.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So Castin Donn played no part in his own death. None of the blame falls on him.”
“Well—”
“I knew even better than you of his history of insubordination, of rebellion. And I’m the commanding officer of this unit. Yet I bear no responsibility? It somehow is all yours?”
“Well—”
“Face, what do you think you could have done to prevent his death?”
“I could have ordered the smuggling compartment searched, rather than just looked into.”
“Why would you have, when looking into it showed that he wasn’t there?”
“I could have accounted for his whereabouts before we took off.”
“But you did. You accounted for his whereabouts as they pertained to your mission. He wasn’t with you, so far as you could tell, so the rest of the information about his whereabouts was irrelevant. He was just one step ahead of you, ahead of all of us. Did you know he’d rigged the duty roster so he wouldn’t be on duty until after your return, that he’d set up a dummy and mechanism on his bunk to make it look and sound as though he were there sleeping?”
“Not at the time, sir. Lieutenant Janson told me about that.”
“Castin Donn wasn’t your responsibility. And though his death was very unfortunate, and took place in association with your mission, it’s not your fault. Now, you tell me who is your responsibility.”
“Well, me, sir. And Kell and Dia.”
“What have you done about them?”
“I’ve asked the other Wraiths and support crews, and especially her roommate, Shalla, to keep an eye on Dia. She doesn’t seem suicidal anymore, but she seems … different. Like a shelled animal that’s suddenly had the shell ripped away. Injured and frightened and a lot more vulnerable.”
Wedge nodded. “Your measures seem appropriate. And Kell?”
“I don’t understand. What do I need to watch out for with Kell?”
“He was the one who searched the smuggling compartment. He didn’t detect Castin. How do you suppose he feels?”
Face winced. “About like I do, I suppose.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“Talk to him, I suppose. Make him understand that it’s not his fault.”
Wedge waited, not speaking, just watching the young lieutenant, until Face finally looked startled. “Yes, sir,” Face said. “The same way it’s not my fault.”
“Correct. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. I can’t stress enough that I felt there was something very significant about the look Zsinj and Melvar exchanged when I was discussing Piggy’s background. In the guise of Lieutenant Kettch’s background, I mean. That really spooked them. Either they’re involved with a project like that, or they know of one and are very interested in it.”
“I’ll assume that this is very significant, then, and see what I can make of it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That’ll be all for now.” As Face was leaving, Wedge added, “Oh, by the way …”
“Sir?”
“You’re a good officer, Face, but you have to know that means you’ll be doing this again. This was a successful mission. It may be the key to Zsinj’s undoing. If I’d known, if I’d been absolutely sure, that to accomplish it would mean the life of one of my pilots, I’d have to have set it in motion anyway. You would, too.”
Face looked as though he was considering that possibility, then gave Wedge a brief nod. “Yes, sir. I suppose I would.” He closed the door behind him.
Wedge sat, motionless, long enough for Face to get thirty or forty paces away from the cargo module that served as the command office. Then he slammed both hands on his desktop and swept every pointless datapad, document, and knickknack from the desk surface.
Another pilot dead, this one for no good reason. Another letter to write. Another report in which he had to explain just why it was that two subordinates had died under his command in just a few days.
He came out of his office at a fast walk and headed for the hangar area. On the other side of the Trench, Janson, sitting alone on the mess patio, rose and trotted to catch up. “How did it go?”
“As well as it could.”
“So, what’s with this sudden brisk exercise?”
“I’m not ready yet to begin analyzing the data Zsinj gave us.”
“Ah.”
“I don’t want to write Castin’s folks.”
“Ah.”
Both men returned a salute from Runt, who was headed the other way. “Unit morale is bound to take a serious hit from this.”
“Ah.”
“I’m leading children, and I’m getting them killed.”
“That’s true.”
Almost at the door into the hangar, Wedge skidded to a stop. “What did you say?”
“It’s true.” Janson shrugged. “Wedge, you asked for misfits. You had to have known that even with the ones who made the grade, they were going to take losses that were heavier than in a normal unit. So many of them are dragging around these weights of emotional problems. It makes it tougher for them to hop in the right direction at the right time.”
“Well … maybe.”
“Even with that, as a group they’re doing better than they ever had a right to. Some of them are fit to eat with real people. Even to fly with other units. That wasn’t the case when you founded the Wraiths.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Wedge suddenly felt weary, all the manic energy of a minute ago having left him. He turned back toward his office. “What’s the situation with Lara?”
“She’s doing pretty well for someone whose brother just tried to kill her. Donos is keeping an eye on her.”
“Those of us who still have family …” Wedge waited as memories of his surviving relative, his sister Syal, missing for so long—as her husband, Soontir Fel, had also been missing—rose and abated. “We need to notify them. Just in case Zsinj tries to get at another of us through family connections. That would be just like him.”
“It would. I’ll inform the Wraiths, let them know what they need to tell their people.”
“Yes, but not yet. I want you to work with me on the Zsinj data.”
“Ah, thank you. The adventures of Wes Janson, Ace Statistician …”
Wedge and Janson spent most of the rest of the day working on the data Zsinj had provided to Face.
The planet that was their target was of average size and mass, according to the planetary radius and gravity information provided. And it was heavily guarded. Ten Imperial Star Destroyers and seven Mon Calamari cruisers were shown on-station, supported by impressive numbers of planet-based starfighter squadrons—including an unusually high number of A-wing fighters.
Janson gave him a bleak look. “This is Coruscant. He’s going to hit Coruscant.”
Wedge shook his head. “That’s what the data tells us if you dig down from the top layer. But I don’t understand some things. Zsinj’s mission will take place soon—otherwise he wouldn’t give us this much information about it. Yet this complement of ships isn’t an exact representation of Coruscant’s defenses—I was just there, and he’s got the strengths wrong. So is he wrong because his intelligence is incomplete, inadequate?”
“That doesn’t sound like him, does it?”
Wedge sighed. “Then there’s the question of what sort of cargo Zsinj is going after. Our task is to protect Zsinj’s forces while they load a cargo ship—why not wait until the goods are already loaded? What does the government of the New Republic store on Coruscant’s space stations that can’t be acquired on the surface, or in transit?”
Janson thought about it. “The Inner Council?”
“What? No. It would be a real coup to capture or kill them, of course. But they hold all their meetings
on-planet.”
“Do you know that for sure?”
“No, but I have no reason to suspect otherwise. And holding meetings on a space station would be more problematic, less secret, and less secure than doing so on the surface. I think you’re speculating wildly.”
“All right, then, your turn. What’s on space stations that isn’t better found on-planet or between worlds?”
“Well, the stations themselves. Maybe they plan to tow one out to space.”
Janson snorted.
“Big cargo carriers.” Wedge frowned. “You know, scuttlebutt has it that Princess Leia’s big, secret mission involves bringing back additional resources for the fight against Zsinj. If he’s aware of that, if he knows what those resources are, if he knows when they’re coming back to Coruscant—”
“Now you’re speculating wildly.”
“True. Then there are cargo ships.” Wedge frowned as a shadow of a new idea crossed his mind. He stared down at the statistics on the datapad before him. “Wait a second. I have an idea of what he’s after.” He found a scrap of flimsi and a writing instrument and scribbled a very brief note, then folded it several times and handed it to Janson. “Tuck that away. Take it out when we have our answer and it will make my reputation as a military wizard.”
Janson pocketed the note. “You already have that reputation.”
“Well, then, I’ll have two. Now tell Castin to come in here.”
“Uhh, Castin’s, uhh …”
Wedge put his face in his hand. “Right. I’m tired, too. With Castin gone, who’s our best code-slicer and computer handler?”
“Probably Lara Notsil.”
“Get her.”
She was slightly out of breath when she arrived, probably having run the distance from her quarters to Wedge’s office. “Flight Officer Lara Notsil reporting, sir.”
Wedge waved her a casual salute. “No need for all the formality now, Notsil. Tell me something. With what you know of our computers on hand, how good is our ability to translate statistical data of large military forces—their strengths, capabilities, that sort of thing—into the equivalent forces of other cultures? Say I had the statistics for a New Republic strike force and wanted to come up with a Corellian force with exactly the same characteristics?”
Janson looked at him, confused.
Lara considered. “I don’t think our translation efforts would be very good, sir. That calls for specialized programs, and we don’t—” Then she looked startled. “Depending on the forces involved, sir, I think we can do a pretty good job.”
“That’s quite a switch of opinion.”
She smiled. “I forgot. We have X-wing and TIE simulators on base, sir, and they’re already linked. And already set up to analyze ship statistical data and translate into precise strength values of enemies. I can adapt that programming to do what you want. It wouldn’t be too hard.”
Wedge copied the Zsinj information to a fresh datapad and handed it over. “I want all this information translated into the nearest equivalent force of vessels and vehicles that are purely Imperial in origin. Then come back here and we’ll compare that with some planetary defense data. How long will that take you?”
“I’m not sure. Half an hour, twelve hours—I’ll know more when I’ve had time to look over the simulators and this data.”
“Let me know as soon as you can.”
Wedge stretched his legs again while waiting for her initial estimate.
Outside, something odd was going on at the mess and patio. The thermal blanket normally used as an awning over the mess picture viewport had been lowered, indicating that it was closed, and all the patio’s chairs and tables had been drawn aside. A hand-painted sign decorated the main door into the module: MESS CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE PIRATE RUNT.
Runt now stood in the middle of the newly open space, goggles over his eyes as he used one of the maintenance crew’s backpack paint sprayers to put a layer of matte-green paint down on the stone floor.
Wedge wandered over and watched for a while as Runt finished transforming a large oval of gray stone into a green surface. Then Runt removed his goggles and switched off the sprayer.
Wedge asked, “Runt, what are you doing?”
Runt looked at him levelly. “Painting, sir.”
“Ah. Why?”
“For the ritual, sir.”
“You’re going to have a ritual.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Something your people do?”
Runt had to consider that one, blinking a few times before he answered. “Something some of our people do, sir.”
“And you thought you had to close the mess to conduct this ritual?”
“Yes, sir. The food is still being prepared. That is a necessary part of the ritual.”
“And who is going to be part of this ritual?”
“Well, we wanted to talk to you about that, sir. It would be a help to us if you would issue an order for all pilots to be here at eight hundred hours in full dress uniform.”
Wedge resisted the urge to laugh. Runt seemed so earnest, so sincere. “It would, would it?”
“Yes. Also, all civilian crewmen not on duty should be here in formal dress.”
“Why should I do this?”
“Because I ask little and will deliver much.”
“Ah. Can you tell me what this is about?”
“Well, no, sir.”
“I see. Carry on.”
It took Lara only two hours to translate the data, and took her and Wedge less than five minutes to get a close match in their comparison of the new data with sites in Imperial space.
“You’re joking,” Janson said. “Kuat?”
Wedge pointed to the other man’s pocket. Janson retrieved the note and unfolded it. There was a single word scrawled on it: Kuat. He whistled.
“It’s Kuat, all right,” Wedge said. “Zsinj is making a raid on a space platform at Kuat.”
“How did you know?”
“Zsinj is so devious it’s sometimes predictable. He gave us information intended for very limited circulation, and yet he still concealed his real purpose a level or two down. I’m sure others he’s working with are very pleased with themselves that they’ve identified the target as Coruscant. They’re going to be very surprised when they come out of hyperspace in the Core Worlds.”
“So his objective isn’t cargo,” said Lara. “He’s after a Star Destroyer.”
Wedge nodded. “A Super Star Destroyer. Just as Face predicted, weeks ago.”
With deliberate slowness, Janson leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and put his feet up on Wedge’s desk. He smiled. “Zsinj has delivered himself into our hands.”
“Not yet, he hasn’t,” Wedge said. “In what sense do we have him? He shows up with his fleet at Kuat and—what? We drop in out of hyperspace and attack him? It would take a large portion of the fleet of the New Republic to menace him and defend itself against Kuat’s defenses … and the defenses they could bring in on short notice. We’d lose far too much.”
“Maybe we just alert the government of Kuat,” Lara said.
“No … Zsinj has spies in place already. Our intelligence says that the shipyards, especially the orbital ones, are rigged to explode in case of invasion. Zsinj has to have provided for that, and his spies will notice any sudden preparations for invasion.” Wedge sighed. “I think we have to let Zsinj get away with his new toy … and then jump them later.”
“How can we be sure where they’ll be?” said Janson.
“Lara, you know about Castin’s plan. About the program he was going to slice into the communications system aboard Iron Fist.”
She nodded.
“Can you adapt that for this new Super Star Destroyer?”
“Unless Castin’s slicing style is so idiosyncratic that no one can make sense of it, yes, sir.”
“See to it, then.” Wedge turned his attention to Wes. “I’m going to draw up a preliminary plan of operation for this
mission and see if I can get Admiral Ackbar to sign off on it.”
“For my part,” Janson said, “I’ll get some sleep.”
“You’ll calculate which routes Zsinj is likely to take in his escape from Kuat and suggest some fleet deployments that give us the best likelihood of being able to encounter him.”
“Which is something like sleep, but much less interesting.”
Wedge smiled. “As for you, Lara, good work, and thanks.”
Runt’s preparations of the galley area became more and more elaborate.
He pressed several of the astromechs into service as painters. The little R2s and R5s, with paintbrushes held in their clamps, meticulously added black crisscrosses and hatchwork to the green floor paint, making it look like a child’s impression of grass.
He rigged an overhead spotlight that would bathe his green oval in light but extend not much beyond that.
To the same pole he attached speakers whose cables snaked all the way to the base communications center, farther down the Trench.
He occasionally entered the closed galley, and Wraiths passing by could see him, through the partially opened door, exchanging words with Squeaky. The 3PO unit, who was a more than adequate chef when he could be persuaded to cook, looked more agitated than usual.
Wedge did remember to issue his command, and shortly before eight hundred hours the Wraiths did begin to assemble.
“I can’t believe you got me out here in full dress,” said Janson, his tone a deliberate whine. “Just because Runt asked you to. You’ve known me longer. You should like me better than him.”
Wedge snorted. “Let’s just say I was intrigued by the mystery.”
“Mystery? I’ll give you a mystery. I’ll spend tomorrow with my feet and forehead painted red and never tell anyone why. Is that mysterious enough?”
“Anything to stay out of dress uniform, is that it?”
“Anything.”
By ones and twos the Wraiths assembled. Several obviously felt as Janson did about dressing up, or at least took the summons with less than total seriousness. Piggy scratched unhappily. Shalla asked each person present—separately—what it was all about, then stood off by herself and fidgeted. Face had added to his dress uniform a sand-colored Tatooine scarf, giving him the look of an officer who’d been stationed too long on the desert world and had partially “gone native.” Some of the mechanics were still working on their hands with cleanser-cloths, trying to remove the last stubborn patches of oil stains.
Star Wars: X-Wing VI: Iron Fist Page 25