Star Wars: X-Wing V: Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  Jesmin burst out in gales of laughter, then clamped both hands over her mouth while she shook. When she had herself under control, she said, “Face, that’s horrible.”

  Face grinned. “That was the old propaganda machine. So I got a trip to Imperial Center, I mean Coruscant, to meet the real Emperor. But he’d been called away to deal with some problem—I heard later that he had just received one of the early reports informing him of the degree of organization the Alliance actually had, and he wasn’t in a very good mood. So I saw Ysanne Isard instead, and she sat me in her lap and told me what a good boy I was.”

  Kell finished with his hair and slung the towel over his shoulder. “What was that like?”

  “Something like being stroked by a poisonous reptile wearing a human suit, only not quite so comforting.” Face shuddered. “The most crushing blow I ever felt after joining the New Republic was learning that Rogue Squadron had killed Isard—meaning that I wouldn’t be able to. Anyway, Captain Darillian is nothing in comparison. He was just a petty guy who reached his ultimate level of usefulness driving a minelaying barge for a warlord and then had to be scraped off the floor.”

  Jesmin said, “You’d better finish getting ready, Kell. We take off in half an hour.”

  “How are we doing that? I mean, with most of us returning to the X-wings, who’s going to pilot Night Caller and who’s going to deal with the prisoners?”

  “We landed four X-wings in the topside hold, strapped them down tight almost on top of one another so they’d fit,” Jesmin said. “And the Narra is hooked up to the corvette’s port docking station. Commander Antilles will be piloting the corvette—he says he used to pilot Corellian freighters—and Phanan, Face, Grinder, Squeaky, Cubber, and I will be aboard.” Her voice turned sarcastically sweet. “I think we will be able to manage.”

  “Well … all right. You have my permission.” Kell reflected. “Say, since we’re sending messages to Warlord Zsinj, why can’t we just track them along the HoloNet and find out where he is?”

  Jesmin said, “Face asked the same thing. And it might be that simple if we had regular communications with him in the usual fashion. But Night Caller is not actually using the HoloNet for reports. We’re to send hypercomm transmissions along specific courses.”

  “Meaning Zsinj’s ship, or just relay satellites, can be anywhere along those courses … across hundreds or thousand of light-years.”

  Jesmin nodded.

  “That’s why I’m Demolitions and not Communications. Much simple just to blow things up.” Kell gave them a mock salute and left.

  In the corridor leading back to the temporary quarters, Kell saw Wes Janson headed his way. The two men passed without comment, each moving as close to the opposite side of the corridor as decorum would allow.

  At his quarters, he nearly bumped into Donos emerging from the cabin next door. “Myn. How is Shiner?”

  Donos looked rested and uncharacteristically cheerful. “Shiner? He’s fine. Why?”

  “Well, you seemed so concerned about him the other day, I was wondering if he’d suffered some sort of physical damage I’d need to repair.”

  Donos shook his head. “No. I, uh, we just …” He stopped for a moment and appeared to be organizing his thoughts. “Kell, we leave them hanging out in hard vacuum. I just think we need to protect them.”

  “Right.” Kell tried to relate that answer to Donos’s behavior of a few hours ago and couldn’t. “Well, I’m glad to hear he’s in good shape.” He pushed into his quarters and escaped the peculiarly uninformative lieutenant.

  It took them the better part of two days to retrieve the three undetonated Empion mines and return them to Night Caller’s belly hold. The X-wing pilots were rotated through duties on the corvette so that everyone got an almost-adequate amount of sleep.

  Kell suggested some changes to Wedge and ended up pulling a succession of corvette shifts while he and Cubber implemented them.

  They welded metal sheets approximately the size of TIE fighter solar array wings between the escape pods hanging from the corvette’s flanks. They stowed two of the ball-shaped escape pods in the belly hold and painted the others the same dark Imperial shade as TIE fighters. Then Wedge personally flew the two remaining TIE fighters to dock them at the empty escape pod hatches. The end result was that from any scrutiny except close examination, the TIE fighters looked like escape pods—and would actually be faster and safer to launch than out of the bow hold.

  With the TIE fighters out of the bow hold, Kell and Cubber disassembled the braces designed to hold them. They used that metal and more from the belly hold to fabricate a new set of braces and rails, three rows of them, one above the other, built at the very rear of the hold.

  It would require delicate piloting, but an X-wing could now use repulsorlifts to back into the bow hold and accept instructions from a ground-guiding crew member to slide into rails spaced to accommodate their strike foils. Once they reached the rear of the rails they could be locked there by metal brackets lowered into place.

  This gave them an array of three X-wings by three, the strike foils on each row overlapping one another slightly. With the bow doors open, the X-wings in the center column could launch quickly and in relative safety; the six along the sides would have to launch a little more slowly, but the guidance rails would probably keep accidents from happening.

  With nine X-wings in the bow hold and two more up in the top hold, Night Caller could now carry eleven X-wings and two TIE fighters.

  Cubber cackled and rubbed his hands together. “More than a squadron’s worth, by virtue of superior engineering.”

  Wedge said, “Not bad. Not bad at all.” He reached out to grasp the nearest vertical brace and heaved against it. The bracketing rig didn’t budge. He smiled.

  Night Caller was ready for action.

  13

  The records said Viamarr 4 was an agricultural world, somewhat higher in gravity than Coruscant standard; its chief export was a subterranean fungus whose offshoots and tubers sometimes grew to the diameter of a kilometer or more. The fungus, inaccurately called Viamarr Blackroot for its color, was well liked for its meaty texture and nutrient balance.

  “Who has TIE fighter experience?” Wedge asked. “Even in simulators?” He held up his own hand.

  So did Piggy, Falynn, Face, and Janson.

  “Piggy, how were the simulator cockpits for you?”

  “Terrible, sir.”

  “All right. I want Wes to remain on Night Caller. Falynn, suit up. You and I are going to buzz the capital of Viamarr 4.”

  The somber woman from Tatooine gave one of her rare smiles.

  Wedge continued, “Squeaky informs me that there’s a TIE fighter simulator in the stern lounge. Not too surprising, since this corvette is trying very hard to be a pocket carrier. I recommend that the rest of you get some experience in it. We may be flying a number of TIE fighter missions.”

  · · ·

  Wedge looked over the half-familiar array of controls and monitors, let out an irritated sigh, and flipped two switches. The TIE fighter immediately hummed, indicating it was powering up. “We have two lit and in the green,” he said. Automatically, he glanced to port and starboard, a visual check of his surroundings, and bit back another annoyed remark. There were no windows to the sides; had there been any, their view would only have been of the fighter’s wing pylons and large, hexagonal solar array wings. The TIE’s only viewports were forward and above. They showed endless starfield, reminding Wedge that he was hanging from what until a few days ago was an escape pod dock.

  No shields. No ejection seat. TIE fighters were disposable attack vehicles for disposable pilots, and Wedge never cared to feel disposable. “Laser cannon readings nominal. How am I transmitting?”

  Jesmin came back, “Sir, until you launch, your communications are coming in over direct connections.”

  Wedge grinned. “Sorry. I’ll ask again after launch. Gray Two, what’s your status?”


  Falynn’s voice sounded a bit nervous. “Twin ion engines are live and running at optimal. Ship’s systems all in the green. Two laser cannons at full power. Shields—damn. I mean, uh, sorry, sir.”

  “That’s all right, I feel the same way.”

  “And I don’t look forward to landing this thing. Sir, even in the simulators, I’ve never landed straight onto a docking station.”

  “You’ll do fine. Just remember to crank the hand yoke over to minimal responsiveness. That’ll make you feel like you’re crawling along centimeter by centimeter, but you won’t crash into anything on landing. Watch what I do.” Now, he had to match action to words. He cranked the knob on his control yoke down as far as it would go, then cut the connection with Night Caller and kicked in the ion engines.

  He drifted free of the corvette. When the rangefinder said he was fifty meters from the ship, he rotated in place, looking back across Night Caller’s belly. On the far side, Falynn’s TIE fighter was also in a slow, smooth descent relative to the corvette’s keel. “Good,” he said. “Ready to fly?”

  “Ready, sir.”

  “Gray Flight away.” He pulled back on the yoke and twisted its adjustment knob, feeding more power into the engines. The TIE fighter glided smoothly forward; he heeled it over toward the distant planet of Viamarr 4. He was pleased to see Falynn follow him with adequate skill; apparently her simulator time had been put to good use.

  A while later they dove into the atmosphere of Viamarr 4 and headed toward Velery, the planetary capital, a community of a hundred thousand on the largest continent of the southern hemisphere. The land surrounding the capital was largely forested, with numerous tiny communities of wooden buildings.

  Finally someone was alerted to their presence: “Incoming craft, this is Velery Station. Please identify yourself. Do you read?”

  Wedge switched his comm to broadcast in the clear. “Velery Station, this is Gray Flight, escorting private yacht Night Caller.”

  “Ah, yes.” The voice became noticeably more agitated. “Gray Flight, please come to heading two-five-five and make landing here at Velery Station.”

  “Can’t do it, sorry. Not in our mission parameters.” The mission assigned to Night Caller’s TIE fighters was a simple one: Buzz the town of Velery a couple of times, spook any air traffic, ignore attempts by the local government to impose its authority, and return to the corvette. Simple. The agrarian settlers of the planet didn’t have any significant defenses—nothing even to make TIE fighters worry.

  “Uh … may I inquire as to what those parameters are?”

  “Stay where you are and you’ll see them in just a minute.” He could see the interruption in the forest ahead that had to herald the presence of Velery.

  The sensor board beeped a strident signal Wedge recognized. He switched to Night Caller’s frequency: “Follow me, Two, someone’s trying to paint us for laser fire.” He pulled back on the yoke and went skyward.

  As he climbed and then looped backward, he could see their pursuers through the viewport atop the TIE fighter’s cockpit. Two stubby fighter craft, their noses similar to X-wings except for the bubble canopy—“Headhunters,” he said. Evidently Viamarr had picked up some fighter defenses when Zsinj wasn’t looking.

  “Mark Ones,” Falynn said. “See the swing wings? They’re pretty old.”

  “Maybe, but they’re as good as TIE fighters in atmosphere, and their lasers can cause you to have a bad, bad day.” Wedge saw the Headhunters climb in an effort to stay on the TIE fighters’ tails.

  Then they were on the comm: “Gray Flight, this is Blackwing One. You need to comply with Velery Station’s instructions. Right now.” The voice was male, young, rustic.

  Wedge shook his head. Farmboys in Headhunters trying to point laser cannons at him. “Oh, we can’t have that.”

  He snap-rolled and dove, pushing the TIE fighter’s atmospheric capabilities to their limits in an effort to come down in firing position behind the Headhunters. Atmospheric drag on the solar arrays caused him to slew to port, but he kept the fighter in line through experience and brute strength.

  He had a moment’s worry wondering if Falynn could keep up with him, tried to spot her visually and couldn’t, then caught sight of her blip on the sensor monitor. She had lost ground to him, but was in control.

  Mere meters above the treetops, he rolled upright and began another climb, this time with the port-side Headhunter in clear sight. He brought up the TIE fighter’s targeting equipment and immediately had the Headhunter’s jittery silhouette bracketed. “Blackwing One, if I were in an irritable mood, one of you would be dead now.”

  “So you say. These things can take a lot more punishment than those pasteboard boxes you’re flying.” The Headhunter in his brackets juked left, then rolled up on its starboard wing and began a tight roll to starboard.

  “And they’ll do just that if you don’t stop annoying me.” Wedge easily stayed on the Headhunter’s tail, anticipating the fighter’s banks and turns, gaining on the older vehicle until he held at a mere fifty meters back.

  He glanced at his sensor board. Falynn wasn’t talking, but she was still behind the other Headhunter, mimicking its maneuvers. Finally her voice came across on Night Caller’s channel: “Sir, it won’t be hard, but I really don’t want to vape these plow-pushers.”

  “Keep your guns on them and outfly them, Two. Maybe they’ll grow a brain stem.”

  Wedge’s target rolled left and suddenly lost altitude, diving straight toward the trees. Wedge followed him in, blinked in amazement as the Headhunter crashed down through the top layer of branches.

  Follow or break off? That pilot was young and arrogant, but didn’t seem suicidal. Wedge followed.

  He felt his solar arrays tear through branches, then suddenly he was below the level of the treetops. His target was angling to starboard, following the course of a low river. Wedge tucked in right behind him. “Blackwings, are you ready to break off and go home?”

  “Gray One, you’re about a second from me turning around and giving you six laser cannons’ worth of dental work—”

  The voice of Velery Station cut in again. “Blackwing Flight, break off and return to station. That’s an order.”

  “Sir …” Blackwing One’s voice was sulky, frustrated.

  “That’s straight from the governor. Or do you want your pilots’ licenses transferred to tractor operations?”

  “No, sir.” With no further taunts for the TIE fighters, Blackwing One reduced speed, then punched up through the light canopy of tree branches. On the sensor screen, Blackwing Two was also headed toward the Velery Station coordinates.

  “Good flying, Gray Two. Now, let’s buzz their administrative buildings.”

  “Sounds like fun, One.”

  · · ·

  Jesmin leaned back from the comm station. “Lieutenant, we’re receiving a communication from Velery House. That’s their capitol building. They’re asking for a specific encryption that’s in our computer. Obviously they’ve talked before.”

  Janson, lounging in the captain’s seat, looked confused. “There’s no provision in the mission profile for this. They weren’t supposed to call. They were supposed to batten down hatches and ride out the TIE fighters’ overflight.”

  Jesmin gave him a very human shrug. “I know.”

  “Well, take the call. Tell them the captain is taking a bath or something.”

  “Sir, Night Caller followed Imperial protocols under Captain Darillian.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning it wouldn’t have a Mon Calamari communications officer.”

  Janson uttered an irritable hiss. “Well, I can’t take the call. My face is fairly well known.”

  They both looked at Face, seated at the navigational console. He straightened up. “Uh, even with my scar, they might recognize me. Some of the Wraiths did.”

  Janson didn’t bother to conceal his frustration. “Face, you’re an actor. Do something.”

&n
bsp; Face stood, looked frantically around the bridge. There wasn’t much on hand: items dropped by the bridge crew behind consoles, plus Cubber’s toolkit over where the mechanic had been cutting the sharp edges away from the hole in the floor, preparatory to putting down a metal sheet.

  He ran to the toolbox, pulled out Cubber’s welding goggles. Then a cylinder of orange paint used to mark spots on a ship’s exterior where repairs were necessary. He sprayed the interior of the goggles until they were opaque.

  Containers of grease, hydrospanners, cables, sensors, tubing … He took a tube half the length of his forearm, inserted one end in his nose, the other in his right ear. Then he put the goggles on, resting them on his forehead, and hunted up one of the bridge crewmen’s hats. “Give me the chair.”

  Janson vacated it. Face settled in, pulled the goggles over his eyes, pulled the hat down low on his brow. “How’s that look?”

  He couldn’t see their faces, but Jesmin responded with gales of laughter. He could barely hear Janson’s reply: “It’s disgusting.”

  “But they won’t recognize my features. All right, put him up on the screen.” He turned toward the bridge’s main viewscreen.

  He could dimly see the light intensity in the room change, then he heard a voice: “Captain D—Oh, my.”

  Face took a deep breath and ran his voice down into the bass range where it could vibrate rocks and desktops. “Captain Darillian is having his bath. I am Lieutenant Narol. Who are you? What do you want?” He injected both boredom and contempt into his voice.

  “Um, I am Governor Watesk. I would very much like to speak with Captain Darillian.” The man’s voice was a plea.

  Face angled his head down so he could peer between the top of the goggles and the bottom of his officer’s hat. The face on the viewscreen was of a graying, bearded man, dressed in rustic brown tunic but with expensive wood paneling behind him. “Was Basic your first language? Do you not understand? The captain is in his bath.”