DRAMATIS PERSONAE
The Wraiths
Commander Wedge Antilles (Leader, One) (human male from CoreIlia) l,ieuteuant Wes Janson (Three) (human male from Taanab) Lieutenant Myn Donos (Nine) (human male from CoreIlia)
Lieutenant Garik "Face" Loran (Eight) (human male from
Pantolomin)
Lieutenant Kell Tainer (Five) (human male from Sluis Van)
Hohass "Runt" Ekwesh (Six) (Thakwaash male from Thakwaa)
Ton Phanan (Seven)(human male from Rudrig)
Voort "Piggy" saBinring (Twelve) (Gamorrean male from
Gamorr)
Tyria Sarkin (Eleven) (human female from Toprawa)
Castin Donn (Two) (human male from Coruscant)
Shalla Nelprin (Ten) (human female from lngo)
Dia Passik (Four) (Twi'lek female from Ryloth)
Lara Notsil (Thirteen) (human female from Aidivy)
Rogue Squadron Support Personnel
Cubbet Daine (human male from CoreIlia, squad mechanic)
Chunky (Tyria's R5 unit)
Gate (Wedge's R5 unit)
Squeaky (3PO unit, squadron quartermaster)
Tonin (Lara's R2 unit)
Vape (Face's R2 unit)
New Republic Military
Colonel Atton Repness (human male from Commenor)
Captain Onoma (Mon Calamari male from Mon Calamari)
Captain Valton (human male from Tatooine)
Zsinj's Forces
Warlord Zsinj (human male from Fondor)
General Melvar (human male from Kuat)
Captain Todrin Rossik (human male from Coruscant)
Captain Vellar (human male)
Captain Netbers (human male)
Captain Raslan (human male)
Lieutenant Bradan (human female)
The Hawk-bats
General Kargin (human male)
Captain Seku (Twi'lek female from Ryloth)
Lieutenant Dissek (human male from Alderaan)
Lieutenant Kettch (Ewok male from Endor)
Qatya Nassin (human female)
Morrt (human male)
He made no pretense at being fully human. He had probably been born human, but now mechanical limbs-obvious pros-thetics with no skinlike cover concealing their artificial nature- replaced his right arm and both legs, and the upper-right portion of his bald head was a shiny metal surface with a standard com-puter interface.
He made no pretense at being friendly, either. He ap-proached the members of Wraith Squadron as they sat, crammed into their booth, and with neither threat nor comment he snatched a wine bottle from the next table over and brought it down on Runt Ekwesh's head.
The bottle didn't break. It offered a musical toonk sound and coughed up a little wine from its open neck, and Runt, the furred alien with the long, big-toothed face, slumped in his seat, his eyes rolling up in his head.
Most of the members of Wraith Squadron were pinned in place-with nine pilots crammed into a circular booth built for five, they had little room to move. But Kell Tainer, seated at the opposite end of the ring from Runt, scrambled to his feet.
Instead of diving toward his wingmate's attacker, instead
of charging with a fist cocked back to punch the man, he slid
sideways toward his target, then came up in a side kick that
caught the cyborg under his chin and lifted him clean off the floor, slamming him to the bar's floor.
Most of the members of the squadron slid out of the booth in Kell's wake. Other patrons of the bar, human and otherwise, also rose, their expressions suggesting they were unclear on whether to join in this traditional form of bar entertainment.
Commander Wedge Antilles, the squadron's leader, stayed put. He turned toward the squadron medic, Ton Phanan-the man with the mocking manner, well-trimmed beard and mus-tache, and prosthetic plate over the left side of his head. "How is he?"
Phanan shook his head as he delicately moved his fingers across Runt's skull. "I don't think anything's cracked. He's probably just concussed. You knew he had a hard head."
The cyborg was up now. He and Kell were an odd con-trast. The cyborg looked like a fatal skimmer-and-pedestrian accident whose remaining parts had been cobbled together by an insane mechanic, while Kell, with his classic blue eyes and sculpted features, his formidable height and obvious condi-tioning, looked like a holoposter for military recruitment. But their smiles were identical humorless, cold, threatening.
The cyborg reached into the next booth, past bar patrons who shrieked and ducked away, and yanked free the table bolted to the floor. He hauled it backward, then swung it faster than any human could manage, but Kell ducked forward, rolled under the table, came up on his feet a mere hand span in front of the cyborg, and planted one-two-three blows in his at-tacker's gut. The cyborg staggered backward and Kell lashed out with a foot, kicking the table from his fingers with an ease that made the move look casual.
The other bar patrons seemed to settle on a consensus They held back and began putting down bets. Wedge nodded over the wisdom of that choice. Though the Wraiths were in civilian clothes, it was obvious they were in good condition, and for all the patrons knew, Kell might be only typical of their fighting skill rather than one of their best hand-to-hand fighters.
Piggy, the Gamorrean pilot, leaned back against the Wraiths'
table to watch the proceedings-to the extent that the semiper-
manent smoky haze hovering at chest level and above permit-
ted easy viewing. He glanced over his shoulder at Runt. "Is he hurt?" His voice emerged both as incomprehensible grunts and as electronic words, the latter being emitted by a nearly in-visible speaker implanted in his throat.
"Everybody asks that," Phanan complained. Through with his examination of Runt's skull, he now shone a small light into Runt's eyes one by one. "Nobody ever says, 'What a mess! I hope the doctor is not emotionally harmed by having to deal with it.' He's coming around. He'll probably be dizzy for a few days. I need to look up information on how his species deals with concussions."
The cyborg's next punch, the second part of a skillful one-two combination, connected with Kell's midsection. The big man spun as he was hit, diminishing the punch's power, and used that spin to add force to his reply, a snap kick. The cyborg took it in the sternum and staggered back, looking outraged. Kell bent over, holding his stomach where hit, and then straight-ened, obviously in pain.
Then the bar was filled with uniforms-a stream of men and women pouring in the main entrance, dressed in the dis-tinctive outfit of New Republic Military Police.
Wedge sighed. "As deep as we are, they arrived pretty quickly."
Phanan held a small rose-colored vial full of liquid under Runt's broad, flat nose. The nonhuman's nostrils flared and he jerked, reflexively trying to get away from the smell. "Easy, Runt," he said. "We're about to go somewhere you can relax for a few hours. In the company of some charming people, too, I'll bet."
Wedge grinned.
The military police led them out of the smoke-filled bar into the
only slightly less oppressive atmosphere of street-level Corus-
cant. It was raining, a steady spray of liquid that felt like three-
quarters rainwater and one-quarter vehicle lubricant. Wedge
looked up, trying to spot some distant speck of color represent-
ing Coruscant's sky, but all he could see were clifflike building
sides rising to infinity. Awnings, high roads, bridges between
skyscrapers, and other obstacles blocked out any glimpse of clouds far above, yet still the rain came down, much of it proba-bly runoff from rain gutters, vents, and flues far above.
&nb
sp; Tyria Sarkin, the slender woman with the blond ponytail, grimaced. "It would be nice to be posted to a clean world next," she said. Then she saw the military policemen gesturing toward the waiting skimmer, a slab-sided model without view-ports, used to transport prisoners, and she obligingly followed the other Wraiths in that direction. Phanan, supporting the still-dizzy Runt, fell in behind her, and Wedge and the cyborg who had caused all the trouble brought up the rear.
Toward the front, Face Loran, the once-handsome actor whose face was now creased by a livid scar from his left cheek to his right forehead, noted the nameplate on the nearest MP. "Thioro," he said. "That's a Corellian name, isn't it?"
The officer nodded. "I'm from CoreIlia. Born and bred."
Face turned back toward Wedge and smiled. "Ah. Just like
our reception committee back on M2398, eh, Commander?"
Wedge managed not to stiffen. The "reception commit-tee" on the moon of System M2398's third planet had not been made up of Corellians. It had, in fact, been a trap, an invitation to land that turned out to be a fatal ambush. Wedge nodded, "Just like it, Face. And just like then, I'm your wing."
Wedge saw casual little glances exchanged between the Wraiths and knew they had all just become alert and ready- except, perhaps, the dazed Runt. Face hadn't been Wedge's wingman at the time. Face now knew Wedge was waiting for his move.
Face walked a little faster within the crowd of Wraiths, until he was at the front of the double line of prisoners, imme-diately behind the first pair of military policemen. He reached the rear of the prisoner skimmer, nodded at their gesture to board-and struck, slamming his fist into the throat of one MP, jumping on the other.
Wedge saw Kell strike out almost instantly, his side kick connecting with the side of his guard's knee-and saw that joint bend sideways, a direction it was never meant to take. That guard screamed and fell.
No time to watch things unfold-Wedge heard blaster pis-
tols clearing leather behind him. He grabbed the cyborg and swung around, hauling the startled assailant into position be-tween him and the guards.
The guards fired, their blasters converging on the cyborg's chest, charring it black. Steam and the smell of scorched flesh rose from the wound. Wedge shoved the fatally wounded cy-borg into the guards, continued pushing, bowled them over- and saw one guard's blaster go skidding across the duracrete of the sidewalk. He dove after it.
Noises he knew well the whuff Piggy the Gamorrean made whenever he struck at someone in practice, followed by the impossibly loud, meaty noise his fist always made when it hit. Two blaster shots in quick succession. A howl from Runt. The man with the broken leg still screaming. Shrieks from passersby and the clatter of their feet as they retreated from the danger zone.
Wedge got his hand on the blaster, swung around, snapped off a quick shot that took his other guardsman, now rising, in the throat and threw him back to the grimy duracrete. That gave Wedge a clear view of the impromptu battlefield, Wraiths struggling with military policemen.
"Nobody move!" That was Ton Phanan, miraculously unharmed, holding the blaster rifle previously owned by one of their captors-that man, Wedge saw, was staggering away, his eyes glassy, his hands clutching his own throat, trying fu-tilely to arrest the tide of blood seeping between and around his fingers.
The MPs paused, saw the gun aimed at them... and, one by one, relaxed to drop their arms or ceased struggling with the Wraiths.
Face Loran, his voice in a reasonable tone Wedge knew to be forced, answered, "He didn't walk like a Corellian."
They were now in a debriefing room in Starfighter Com-
mand Headquarters, a room as spotlessly white and clean as
the bar and street had been filthy. A colonel Wedge didn't know
was conducting the interview, but Admiral Ackbar, commander-
in-chief of New Republic military operations, was also seated
at the interrogators' table. Though Ackbar was a Mon Cala-marl, a species with huge, rubbery features that seemed more fishlike than humanlike, he was a friendly presence in Wedge's estimation.
"That's not enough justification to attack someone with proper credentials," the colonel said.
Face stiffened. "Respectfully, sir, it is when I'm correct."
"Don't be preposterous. You can't classify a man's home-
world just by looking at him." "Yes, I can, sir."
The colonel, a middle-aged man with a face creased by too many years of waging war against the Empire, looked dubious. But without speaking, he stood, walked backward from the table, and then walked back and forth a half-dozen paces.
"Hard to say," Face said. "If you had any distinctive walk-ing mannerism from your homeworld, you erased it with mili-tary training. At Vogel Seven, if I'm not mistaken. I'd say that you were injured at some time in the past and had to learn to walk again-or maybe it was a disfigurement at birth, cor-rected by surgery? I can't really tell."
The colonel resumed his seat. Surprise was evident on his face. "Correct on both counts. How do you do that?"
"Well, I was an acton On top of that, I'm trained to recog-nize, analyze, and assume physical mannerisms-just as I am with vocal mannerisms and a dozen other things. More im-portantly, I lived several years on Lorrd, where my family is originally from. The Lorrdians practically invented the art of conscious communication through body language."
Ackbar finally spoke up, his voice a not-quite-human rum-ble. "You admit, Colonel, that Lieutenant Loran is capable of recognizing when someone's physical mannerisms do not match his professed planet of origin?"
The colonel considered. "Well, it's low for a statistical sampling, but I'd say he demonstrates considerable skill in that regard."
"Between that," Face said, "and the speed with which the
MPs reached the bar-which, I remind you, is close to bedrock
level, and not a place sensible New Republic military personnel
are usually near-I concluded that it was a deception. The cy-
borg was trotted out to start the trouble and make an MP ar-rest look legitimate; many pilots have been run into jail while on leave exactly this way."
The colonel ignored the statement and turned to Phanan. "You defused the situation by putting down one of the ersatz military policemen and seizing his weapon."
Wedge saw Phanan struggling with a reply-probably something to the effect of the colonel being able to recognize simple facts when they played out under his nose-but re-straining himself. Phanan merely said, "Yes, sir."
"That man died. Trachea cut, carotid artery cut. Yet the commander here says the MPs disarmed you before leading you out of the bar. What did you use?"
"A holdout, sir. A laser scalpel. Hard to distinguish from a writing tool without close inspection . . . and up close, I'm pretty effective with it."
"I'd say so. Did you surrender this weapon to our guards before coming before me ?"
"What weapon, sir ?"
"The laser scalpel."
"Not a weapon, sir. It's a tool of medicine. I wasn't asked
to turn over my bandages, bacta treatments, disinfectant sprays, or tranquilizers either, but I can kill a man with any of them, under the right circumstances."
The colonel glanced at Wedge, a beleaguered look Wedge knew well from his own mirror-it asked, What sort of unit have you assembled here? Wedge merely shrugged.
The colonel closed down his datapad. "All right. Pending the results of further investigation into this matter, I'm going to release your squadron."
Wedge said, "Thank you, sir."
"How are your injured squad members? Ekwesh, wasn't it, and Janson?"
"Both in sick bay," Wedge said. "Runt Ekwesh has a mild concussion, and is thoroughly embarrassed that Phanan knocked him down to keep him out of the fight. Lieutenant Janson got a blaster crease across the ribs; he's got a bacta patch on it and will be fit for duty in a day or two."
The colonel rose; Wedge and his subordinates followed
/> suit. The colonel said, "I wish them every luck in getting back to duty as soon as possible." He left unstated the obvious fact that he far preferred them facing Imperial stormtroopers and warlord forces than the civilians of the planet Coruscant. An exchange of salutes later, he departed.
Admiral Ackbar came forward. "Before you go What are your thoughts on this matter?"
Wedge said, "I'd prefer to see what General Cracken's people get out of the survivors, but my guess is Zsinj. We hurt him pretty badly when we destroyed the Implacable." That ship, an Imperial Star Destroyer, belonged to Admiral Apwar Trigit, a subordinate of the warlord Zsinj, who was now the chief enemy and target of the New Republic. "He's shown a vengeful streak in the past, and has enough intelligence and contacts to mount a plausible-looking trap like that. I'd say that he's figured out who Wraith Squadron is and has decided to make us pay."
Ackbar nodded. "My own conclusion as well. I will leave the matter of protection of your subordinates to you, Com-mander Antilles-I am sure you are fit to decide whether to complete your leave or return to duty and the safer confines of Starfighter Command's barracks and facilities. But I do have orders for you." He tapped the bulge of the datapad in his pocket. "I have transmitted them to your datapad. I think you will find them to your liking; they play to the, how should I put it, improvisational strengths of your new squadron."
Wedge smiled. "Those improvisational strengths are be-ginning to give me gray hairs, Admiral. But thank you in spite of that." He let the smile fade. "1 hope I'm not being presump-tuous, sir, but I was wondering if you'd heard anything about Fel."
Ackbar pulled out his datapad and tapped at it. Wedge wondered if the admiral really was accessing data, or whether this was a delaying tactic, a moment to give him time to pre-pare an answer.
Baron Soontir Fel had been the Empire's greatest star-
fighter pilot in the years after Vader's death. Leader of the elite
181st Imperial Fighter Group, he had bedeviled Rogue Squadron
on occasion, and had been a lethal weapon used against the
Star Wars - X-Wing - Iron Fist Page 1