Star Wars - X-Wing - Iron Fist

by Aaron Allston

  "Well... that would be correct, sir."

  "I'm sorry, Donn, but I'm afraid this is something you're

  just going to have to get used to. Whenever it bothers you, you need to ask yourself, 'I wonder what I smell like to them?'"

  Castin's voice dropped and came close to but did not quite cross into the realm of surliness. "I don't smell at all, sir. I keep myself very clean."

  "But their senses aren't like yours. If you ever get up the nerve, ask them sometime if they can smell you and what it's like. You might be surprised by the answer."

  Castin's expression became one of distress. "But, sir, we

  have plenty of room here at base-"

  "But not everywhere we're going. I'll modify room assign-ments when there's a genuine reason to do so. Not before."

  "Sir-"

  "That's all, Donn."

  It looked just like the bridge of the Iron Fist. It had its own command walkway facing the forward viewports, the ones that stared out into depthless space. It had its crew pit below, with its numerous crew stations.

  But it was actually a portion of Warlord Zsinj's private

  quarters, a replica of the true bridge, and it had no crew. The

  viewports were actually screens receiving holocam views from

  the real viewports. The viewscreens at the crew stations showed

  the data or visual feeds the crewmen on duty would be accessing

  if they were here; commands flickered across the screens and were executed as though the station operators were in place. But sounds from the console speakers-beeps, dialogue, noises indicating errors or computer achievements-were the only ones to be heard. No one spoke.

  Warlord Zsinj moved among the ghost stations, peering over the shoulders of imaginary crewmen as if to evaluate their performance. A small man whose waist outperformed his chest in dimension and magnificence, he looked like a holo come-dian pretending to be an officer His spotless white uniform was that of an Imperial grand admiral, while his bald head, luxuriant mustache, florid complexion, and too-cheerful man-ner suggested a backwater bandit.

  He bent over the back of a chair; the screen before him showed a fleeing Y-wing attack craft as if seen through the viewport of a pursuing TIE interceptor. The background was a busy battlefield; Zsinj recognized the chaos of the battle above Endor's sanctuary moon, just under four years ago.

  He leaned closer to see the name of the crewman logged onto the computer. "Ah, Ensign Sprettyn," he said. "Running attack simulators again while on duty. Shirking your responsi-bilities again."

  "Perhaps he wants to become a pilot."

  The voice, smooth and reassuring, came from behind

  Zsinj. The warlord straightened and turned. "General Melvar.

  What have I told you about creeping up behind me?"

  The general, a tall man with features that were elegant when he was paying attention but impossibly bland and un-memorable when he lost concentration, smiled. "Not to."

  "And what did you just do?"

  "I stomped up to you with all the silent grace of a gut-shot

  rancor. You were so intent on your observation of poor Ensign Sprettyn's activities you failed to notice me."

  "It's the sign of pure concentration. The ability to shut out all other concerns." "Of course."

  "What do you want?"

  The general handed him a datapad. Lines of data were al-

  ready up on its screen. "A private communication for you.

  Through Admiral Trigit's old routing system."

  Zsinj gave him a look that was all raised eyebrows and curi-osity, then scanned the text. "Hmm. Lieutenant Gara Petothel. Expects to be a member of one of Antilles's squadrons within a few weeks. 'Would you be interested... ?' I see she has a fine sense of irony. What do you have on her?"

  "I've put her file in there with the communiqu& In short, she's an Imperial Intelligence prodigy who was orphaned-she was in deep cover as a Rebel mission coordinator when Ysanne Isard was killed. Her controller was a member of Isard's sup-port staff and also died. Petothel managed to get in touch with Apwar Trigit, offered her continued services to him, and fed him information that led Trigit to some important temporary provisioning centers and allowed him to annihilate an entire Rebel X-wing squadron. She joined his crew and was pre-sumed dead when the Implacable was destroyed."

  "Oh, she's that one. So she eluded capture. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she was captured, then turned, and is being used to flush us." Zsinj shrugged. "Where's her holo?"

  "We found that holos of her in both Imperial and Rebel records show the wrong woman. She has covered her tracks well. I'm having a simulation assembled from people who were in her Rebel academy class... which will take some time and caution."

  "Very well." Zsinj handed the datapad back. "Pursue this. Have an agent or a cell on Coruscant try to do independent verification of what she's saying. Find out what identity she's currently wearing. Once that's determined, we must find out where her loyalties lie before we commit any real resources to her."

  "Done. And Ensign Sprettyn?"

  "Do you want to handle that? It's a task for his executive officer."

  "I'd be happy to."

  "Very well. Sprettyn is under direct orders not to waste time

  with the simulators, but he just wants to fly too much. So spirit

  him off into the night. Tell the rest of the crew he's been executed

  for disobeying orders. But tell him that he's being taken aside for pilot evaluation. Put him through the simulators."

  "And if he turns out to be a good pilot trainee?"

  "Weren't you listening?" Zsinj looked regretful. "I de-plore the waste of good crewmen, I really do. But we can't have pilots who disobey orders. Evaluate his piloting performance, chastise or compliment him as appropriate, then execute him."

  "The evaluations of the three Zsinj theories have come back from Admiral Ackbar's office," Wedge said.

  They were in the briefing room temporarily assigned to Wraith Squadron. This was an office far enough down in the building that there were no viewports; viewports would only have shown a depressingly bleak vista of dark, grimy duracrete corridor between the lower reaches of skyscrapers. Instead, the orange walls were decorated with large holoscreens that tran-sited between views shot from planetary orbits, vistas of dis-tant and beautiful worlds, and promotional images of hotel resorts belonging to the same chain that had once owned this facility. The Wraiths were all seated near Wedge's lectern, ex-cept for Shalla Nelprin, who paced at the back of the hall- until Wedge caught her eye. She quickly sat in the seat nearest to her.

  "Before I get to the admiral's conclusions," Wedge contin-ued, "I think we ought to let the writers of the three reports synopsize their conclusions; not everyone has heard these. Runt?"

  The long-faced alien stood up. His body language changed;

  his posture became that of a human carrying a fair amount of

  extra weight and he folded his hands over his belly in the fash-

  ion of a well-fed senator. "In our considered opinion," he said,

  once again taking on the mellow voice of the ersatz Zsinj, "the

  warlord's overt and covert tactics suggest that he will continue

  to add resources, industrial and planetary, with as much cost-

  effectiveness as possible. This means continuing the expansion

  of the secret financial empire whose edges we detected... and

  a more direct appeal to the unaligned governors that previ-

  ously belonged to the Empire and now belong to the Empire's

  successors. I think this means using Iron Fist in actions of di-

  rect interdiction that benefit these governors more than Zsinj

  himself, an effort to bind the governors to him in debts of

  gratitude."

  "And your recommendations for ways to counter this?"

  "Examine the resources of unaligned governors, find out

  which
one it would best serve Zsinj to court, and cause that governor problems only Zsinj can solve... luring him to that system and confronting him directly."

  "You're very erudite in this mind, Runt."

  Runt's body language changed back to normal; he once again s eemed lanky, overtall, a little awkward. "But it makes our ego puff up like a gas giant." He sat. "Piggy ?"

  The Gamorrean stood. He cleared his throat. Once upon a time, that would have blasted the Wraiths with a burst of sta-tic, but his throat translator had since been reprogrammed to squelch a wider variety of irrelevant sounds. "In the last few weeks, as we were nibbling at the edges of Zsinj's organization, we found three anomalies. One was the network of manufac-turing corporations owned within unaligned and even Alliance-controlled space by Zsinj under false identities. One was his attempt to hire a pirate nest made up of outlaws somewhat un-der his usual standards. And the third was the presence, at one of his companies, of prison-cell components identical to the cell where I was raised after Imperial scientists altered my bio-chemistry." The scientists' alterations were what gave Piggy his unusually temperate personality-for a Gamorrean-and his inhuman mathematical acumen, both traits that allowed him to become a proficient New Republic pilot.

  Piggy waved, his gesture taking in Myn Donos, the 3PO

  unit Squeaky, and Castin Donn. "My group feels that the

  industrial connection is something better suited for New Re-

  public Intelligence to pursue, so we eliminated it from our rec-

  ommendations. Of the two that remain, the site where I was

  scientifically modified and reared is of great interest to me per-

  sonally, but we all feel that we would have a greater chance of

  discovering Zsinj by disguising ourselves as a pirate band and

  trying to impress Zsinj enough for him to employ us. This

  would keep us in close association with starfighters and play to the strengths that I think we demonstrated in the pursuit of Ad-miral Trigit and the Implacable." "Well put, Piggy. Face?"

  The onetime actor stood. "Well, first I have to admit to a certain dissension in my own group. Lieutenant Janson and Ton Phanan here think that Runt's idea is best. Dia Passik and I both favor Piggy's pirate scheme. But since I was obliged to come up with a tactic, I have.

  "Intensive analysis of Zsinj's history suggests that he draws much of his inspiration from the performances of small theatrical companies. I suggest that we pose as a traveling troupe of players performing the sorts of works he seems to have the most affection for."

  Confused, Wedge scanned his records of the proposals the group leaders had generated. Face's was on top, but its con-tents did not match what he was saying.

  "I've discovered that Kell has a pleasant tenor singing

  voice, and Runt is actually an accomplished mime, a skill that

  few know is widespread on his homeworld of Thakwaa. By in-

  tegrating modern holographic technology with traditional

  song-and-dance routines, we could capture the warlord's

  attention-"

  By now the other Wraiths were snickering. Wedge caught Face's eye and glowered. "Perhaps you could give us the set of conclusions you turned in to me, Loran?"

  Face had the gall to look surprised. "Oh, those. Sorry." He sobered. "I think the Iron Fist is of tremendous importance to Warlord Zsinj, not just as a powerful weapons platform but also as a symbol, both of his career and his power. If Warlord Zsinj were more like us than he were like himself, I think he'd launch an expedition deep into the territory governed by Ysanne Isard's successors, make a strike on the Kuat Drive Yards building facilities, and steal the next Super Star De-stroyer in production."

  Wedge gave him a look of amusement. "That presupposes

  that Kuat is working on another Super Star Destroyer. They're

  horribly expensive. And even though they can do an incredible

  amount of damage, they can be destroyed by a much less ex-pensive enemy force... though usually at a tremendous cost of life."

  Face nodded. "Correct. But Zsinj doesn't admit anyone is his equal in military intelligence, so he thinks he can keep it in-tact. And I keep remembering that he, Zsinj, hinted that he was promoting Admiral Trigit to a better position. We all thought maybe he meant captain of the Iron Fist, but what if he meant another Super Star Destroyer?"

  Phanan spoke up. "Don't forget your goofy ideas that never made it into your final proposal."

  Face waved him away, but Wedge asked, "What goofy ideas?"

  Face looked unhappy. "Just an idea. Ysanne Isard is alive."

  "What?" Wedge looked as stunned as if someone had picked up a chair and broken it over his head.

  Ysanne Isard had been the head of Imperial Intelligence when Emperor Palpatine died years ago. She survived Palpa-tine's successors, a consortium of Palpatine's advisers, and gradually assumed control of the Empire herself-though not in name. Months ago, she had died, killed fleeing the planet Thyferra in a battle-equipped shuttle, shot down by Rogue Squadron's Captain Tycho Celchu.

  "Follow me on this," Face said. "Months ago, Ysanne

  Isard is chased off the world of Coruscant. Actually, she aban-

  dons it voluntarily to let the Krytos Plague infect the non-

  human population and lock up all of the New Republic's

  resources when we occupy Coruscant. But she actually stays on Coruscant for quite some time after she pretended to flee. Eventually she really does leave, goes to Thyferra, takes over there, and is finally wiped out by the Rogues.

  "Except-she was never seen climbing into the shuttle she was supposed to be using for escape. Except-it was not par-ticularly intelligent for her to run off in a vehicle slower than the X-wings she had to have suspected would follow her.

  Except-she'd already shown a tendency to hide out with her

  head down when she was supposed to have fled. It raises the

  question What if she actually wasn't on that shuttle, and was communicating with the Rogues 'chasing' her through a remote-control link ?"

  Wedge said, "You've got to be wrong. There was no lag time in her transmissions, nothing to suggest she wasn't there."

  "A shuttle she'd personally fitted as an Emperor's escape vehicle might have a miniaturized hypercomm system. With instantaneous transmission and reception, there wouldn't be any lag time."

  "Face, do you believe she's alive?"

  Face shook his head. "Sometimes I hope she is. I'd still like

  to kill her myself. But I believe Captain Celchu actually killed her. Still..." He shrugged and resumed his seat.

  Wedge gave him an exasperated stare. "Well, here's your punishment for nearly giving me a heart attack. Write this theory up and I'll route it on to the new Thyferran government and to General Cracken at Intelligence. Between them, they should be able to sniff out any other evidence for Iceheart's survival... if there is any."

  His expression cleared. "All right. As I said, Admiral Ack-bar has evaluated these theories and made a decision. He's ask-ing Intelligence to step up any operations involving Kuat Drive Yards to find out if, in fact, they are building a new Super Star Destroyer. But that's low priority and not our concern. For us, he wants to combine both Runt's and Piggy's ideas. We'll be founding our own pirate band, Wraiths, and then assaulting a planetary system that Zsinj is courting-or should be, if he isn't. Officially, we'll be assigned to the Mon Remonda with Rogue Squadron; funny, though, the other pilots will never see us in the ship's corridors.

  "We have a little reorganization to do to accommodate our new pilots. Flight Officer Donn, you're now Wraith Two, and my wingman."

  The pilot with the unruly blond hair smiled. He couldn't have known that the position of Wraith Two, by Wedge's policy, usually went to a raw pilot, one in need of additional in-struction or protection.

  "Wes, you're now Wraith Three, with Dia Passik, Wraith

  Four, your wing." Janson waved at the Twi'lek female,
who gave him a grave nod.

  "Kell, Runt, you're still Five and Six. Runt, incidentally, is in training to be our new communications specialist. Phanan, Face, still Seven and Eight. I'd hate to break up the best comedy team this side of the janitor's closet."

  "I love an understanding commander," Phanan said.

  "Know where I can get one?"

  "Myn Donos, still Nine. Flight Officer Nelprin-can you still hear me back there?-- you're his wing, Wraith Ten. Piggy, you're still Wraith Twelve, and Tyria, you're now on his wing as Wraith Eleven. I lead Group One, Face leads Group Two, and Donos leads Group Three. Questions?"

  Wedge waited for the inevitable reaction from Kell. Previ-

  ously, Kell had led Group Two and had been very twitchy

  whenever Face received recognition that might affect his

  own-Kell's-position, and now Face had replaced him as

  group leader.

  But Kell looked easy with the new arrangement, which surprised Wedge considerably.

  It meant-Wedge wasn't sure. Either Kell was content to let Face have a go at command, or Kell's goals had changed and command was not so high on the list.

  Wedge would wait. The truth would come out eventually. "Intelligence gives us a good candidate for our new piratical occupation. The world is called Halmad. It's an Outer Rim world not far from the loose border to what we consider Zsinj-controlled space. It's also a trade center at the hub of several well-traveled trade routes. A century or so back, their mining industry-ground, lunar, and asteroid belt-failed, leaving a number of facilities abandoned there. New Republic Intelli-gence has a team already in-system to check them out for us; if they haven't found us a base by the time we arrive, they will at least have found us a place from which to stage."

  Kell asked, "Do we get the Night Caller back? Since we'll be pirating in 'FIE fighters, I assume we'll have to have some-thing to haul us around when we hit sites out of our home system."

  Wedge shook his head. "Not the Night Caller. Think about it. Admiral Trigit is destroyed by a covert fighter squadron supported by a Corellian corvette, and then a pirate squadron pops up supported by a Corellian corvette? That would probably set of f at least one alarm bell in Zsinj's mind." He gave Kell a grim smile. "No, we'll receive hyperspace trans-port from an old Xiytiar-class transport. Unarmed. Slow.