Star Wars: X-Wing V: Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  “That can actually look the same.”

  “Anyway, this morning, things had changed. For the first time, he didn’t become a tower of knotted muscles when I sat down to breakfast.”

  “Good.” They swept into the bridge. “Lieutenant Tabanne, put the compiled transmission up on the main monitor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Face sat at the comm officer’s chair, activated the voice and visual translators, and put them through the fastest possible diagnostic check. Both came up in the green. The computers controlling the comm center’s cameras thought they were tracking his body motions correctly.

  He sat back, thought for a moment about an aging prima donna of a leading man he’d worked with once, and was instantly in character for Captain Darillian. He turned toward the comm center’s main holoprojector, hit the button to activate transmission, and prepared to speak to Admiral Trigit.

  The three-dimensional image of Warlord Zsinj materialized before him.

  Face took an extra-deep breath and broadened his smile to cover his surprise. “My lord. I am honored.”

  Zsinj’s smile was one of condescension and amusement. “But not honored enough to do your job correctly.”

  Face let his eyebrows rise. How had Darillian responded to scorn in his memoirs? With outrage. But the man would never direct an angry response to Warlord Zsinj. No, hurt was the order of the day. “My lord … I have failed you in some way? You have called to tell me I no longer deserve your patronage. It’s the life of a pirate for Darillian …”

  “Oh, stop being such a baby. It leeches all the fun out of scolding you.” Zsinj heaved an annoyed sigh. “I received the relay of your report on the visit to Blood Nest.”

  Pretending not to be fully recovered from the wound to his pride, Face shrugged. “A pity they chose to reject your offer. But since my avoidance of their ambush was so brilliantly successful, I feel I have left them with something to think about. Perhaps they will be more cordial when I return.”

  Zsinj shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Blood Nest is gone.”

  Face leaned forward and assumed an incredulous expression. “They fled?”

  “No, and that’s the problem. Sometime after you departed, Blood Nest was destroyed. In fact, every site you’ve visited in the last several weeks has subsequently been visited … by Alliance pilots or agents.”

  “No.” Face knew he looked shaken and hoped Grinder’s program was up to having Darillian show the same expression. “At the next stop in my mission, I’ll pretend to jump out, then lie in wait for them. I’ll destroy them.”

  “Yes. But not yet. I have a more important mission for you.” Zsinj smiled. “You’re going to help that fool Trigit finish off the survivors of Folor Base.”

  Once everyone was reseated at breakfast, Piggy asked, “Can the Alliance muster enough firepower to Morobe in time to take out Implacable?”

  Wedge nodded. “That firepower is in place. We know which system Trigit’s going to strike, even though Zsinj, with his customary caution, hasn’t told us yet. If Zsinj were going in himself, we’d have to draw so many frigates, cruisers, and Star Destroyers away from other duty that Zsinj would be alerted … but, fortunately or unfortunately, Iron Fist isn’t joining in this mission.

  “We do have a real problem, though. He told our Captain Darillian to make rendezvous with the supply ship Hawkbat to replenish expended fuel and supplies. And to pick up a load of surveillance satellites we can deploy at our next scheduled stop so they can acquire data on our ‘pursuers.’ He also says he wants the Hawkbat’s master to come over for an inspection tour of the ship and a talk with Darillian.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” Kell said.

  “Also, if Night Caller is participating in the battle at Talasea, Zsinj is probably going to expect us to field our full complement of TIE fighters. Which is supposed to be four, not two.”

  “The TIE fighters are no problem,” Falynn said. “They’re all over the galaxy. Set the Wraiths down on any planet and we can steal two and fly them back.”

  “Speaking of which,” Janson said, “we have two more TIE pilots if we need them. Both Captain Hrakness and Lieutenant Tabanne are Imp Academy graduates. He’s done simulators and soloed, and she actually flew a few missions.”

  Wedge tried to keep any emotion from his face. “Kills?”

  “No. Only since defecting and joining the New Republic Navy.”

  “Good.” One of the problems with the New Republic was that many of its pilots had literally and violently been at odds in the past. It sometimes caused trouble when a pilot now under New Republic command had shot down other New Republic pilots. But some people Wedge absolutely trusted had been Imperials: Tycho Celchu, current leader of Rogue Squadron; Hobbie Klivan, who had defected with Biggs Darklighter and the rest of the crew of the Rand Ecliptic; even Han Solo had been an Academy graduate and briefly an officer.

  “The rendezvous is no problem,” Phanan said. At Wedge’s curious look, he said, “We simply need to get to the rendezvous site and say, Oh, no, we’re all down with the Tastiged Flu. Sure, come over. Hope you don’t mind when we have sneezing fits all over you and infect you.’ ”

  Wedge shook his head. “We’re dealing with an enemy who is proficient at intelligence work. I think that a sudden inconvenient contagion would tend to alert him.”

  Face smiled. It was a crooked smile better suited to a member of Black Sun, the criminal underworld of Coruscant. “What if it’s not us who gets contaminated?”

  “Go on.”

  “Zsinj transmitted us the Hawkbat’s current schedule so we could arrange a rendezvous at our mutual convenience. That means we know where they’re going to make planetfall over the next several days. We choose the planet where they’re most likely to be offering shore leave; we send the Wraiths over there; and we expose them to some sort of disease. Then it’s the Hawkbat’s captain who has to report we couldn’t meet physically because of an ‘inconvenient contagion.’ Zsinj can investigate all he wants … because he won’t be investigating us.”

  Wedge rubbed his chin and resisted the urge to say, “That’s crazy.” Instead, he asked, “Where do we get the contaminants?”

  Phanan said, “Every modern planet has a hospital, Commander. Some even have centers for disease containment. One of those would be a street market of disease for us.”

  Wedge stood. “Wes, Phanan, let’s go back to my conference room and see if we can actually hammer this into a plan. The rest of you—I think a day’s rest is in order. Get some sleep.”

  They broke into laughter at his words and he didn’t dare ask why.

  21

  As the world of Storinal grew in Narra’s viewscreen, the Wraiths still hadn’t finalized their plans.

  There were too many unknown factors, Wedge reflected. Storinal was still under Imperial control, but at the very edge of Imperial space, and said to be leaning toward possible alliance with the New Republic or Warlord Zsinj. The Wraiths could count on running into Imps, and might run across factions of the other two groups. Possible complications there.

  Exactly which disease agent they’d be using on the crew of the Hawkbat was an unknown. Phanan wanted to make that decision at the last minute, based on what was available on the planet’s surface and what they could find out about the crew of the Hawkbat. It wouldn’t do to use a biological agent that meant mild illness for most of the crew but death to others. Fortunately, many of Zsinj’s ships appeared to follow Imperial recruiting doctrine—employ no nonhumans if at all possible—which helped limit that danger.

  There was the matter of stealing a pair of TIE fighters. The planet was probably swarming with them … but how good was Imperial security? The mission called for the Wraiths to locate and select their target fighters and perform all steps of their acquisition except the actual theft … and then wait until other elements of the mission were completed before launching for space with their new acquisitions. In the middle would be a wait that co
uld be very dangerous.

  The whole mission offered little but questions at this stage. Fortunately, it will offer nice scenery while we’re chewing the details, Wedge decided. Night Caller’s library record of Storinal displayed image afer image of lushly green countryside, rivers cascading down stepped hillsides, forest-sized tropical flower gardens, and cities of graceful lines and dimensions occasionally interrupting the world’s natural vistas. The people of Storinal were said to be steeped in a philosophy of beautification that extended to their world, making it one of the most gorgeous in what was left of the Empire, and a favorite center of tourism among those who enjoy natural delights. Falynn, of course, had looked through the data and decided, “Looks humid.”

  Then there was the problem of clearing customs. Were they coming down to the planet aboard a cruise vessel or as part of the crew of a large military ship, they could blend in with fair ease and be accelerated through the routine inspection offered to large, precleared groups. But they’d be arriving in a private shuttle. They’d receive close, individual inspection. Face’s plan was to make them stereotypes, types very familiar to customs officials so their inspectors would dismiss them and give them the minimum likely inspection … but that could go wrong, too.

  There were even unknown factors among his own team. In the space of two days, things had shifted, changed as though a rock slide had come through. Donos was functional again. Falynn Sandskimmer was cozying up to him once more, but this time he seemed to be reciprocating the sentiment. Kell and Tyria, though they did not advertise it, made no attempt to hide the fact that they were together. Kell himself seemed looser, more at ease, his very presence no longer causing fits to Janson. All these changes seemed to be improvements, especially in light of how down the Wraiths had been after Jesmin’s death … but Wedge was slow to embrace so many changes all at once.

  At least they did have one piece of simple good fortune involving Storinal. The planet, despite its Imperial ties, had a small but visible population of Gamorreans. Most were guards whose chief role was to be visible and exotic for the entertainment of tourists. So Piggy would be able to move with the other Wraiths.

  “Routine planetary inquiry,” Kell announced. “Means we’ve wandered into their outermost sensor zone. Grinder, you’d better get under cover.”

  The Bothan heaved a much-put-upon sigh. He moved back into Narra’s cargo compartment and tapped an intricate rhythm against one of the bulkheads. A plate popped open along a weld line, swinging out as a lateral door … giving him access into the same scanner-shielded smuggling compartment Piggy had once used as a vehicle. With one last injured expression directed back toward the cockpit, he swung up into the compartment and pulled the access closed behind him.

  “Falynn,” Kell continued, “weld it shut. Make it airtight.”

  Falynn smiled but didn’t move from her seat.

  Wedge suppressed a smile. It was better for the government of Storinal not to know there was a Bothan on board; ever since the participation of an Alliance-friendly cell of Bothan code-slicers in the acquisition of the plans for the second Death Star, the Imps held all inhabitants or descendants of Bothawui under even more suspicion than other nonhumans. Grinder would serve best by staying an unknown, a wild card for them to draw when needed. Runt, too, was acting as a wild card, charged with the very uncomfortable duty of parking his X-wing on one of Storinal’s distant moons and waiting for an emergency signal. He could be there for three days, eating preserved food, breathing recycled air, and having only a plastic tube-and-bladder rig for a ’fresher, but he was determined to remain of use to the other Wraiths.

  “Transmitting passenger manifest,” Kell said. “By the way, not one of you has paid for his ticket.”

  “Take it up with a judge,” Phanan said. “You’re in an awfully good mood for a man putting his head in a noose.”

  “Maybe it’s because you’re in the next noose over. All right, we’re cleared for approach. Anybody forget his papers?”

  Everyone checked pockets or bags for the requisite identification cards, all forged by Grinder with data provided by New Republic Intelligence. Wedge saw Janson, ridiculous in his red carnival costume and long white beard, grow increasingly panicky as he checked pocket after pocket. “Something wrong, Wes?”

  “It’s here somewhere,” the lieutenant said.

  “Check your boot,” Falynn said.

  “Check under your seat cushion,” Phanan said.

  “Check your other boot, too,” Wedge said. “Falynn really meant both boots, but she doesn’t realize you wouldn’t necessarily understand that.”

  Janson straightened up from his searching long enough to shoot his commander a betrayed look. “Why isn’t Hobbie here to take this abuse?” A moment later he straightened again, wearing an abashed expression. “It was in my other boot.”

  “Yub, yub, Lieutenant.”

  “Thirty seconds to atmospheric entry,” Kell said. “Strap in, people.”

  Five minutes later they were gliding over those beautiful green vistas on a government-dictated course toward the spaceport of the entertainment-complex city of Revos. Grinder’s innocuous consultation of the city computer’s records indicated that ship’s crews enjoying rest and recreation there included the crew of Hawkbat.

  Narra’s scanners indicated that a fighter was pacing them, trailing them by a kilometer and a half and one klick higher in altitude. This would have been unfriendly attention on some worlds, but Donos said that many worlds with law enforcement agencies designed to maintain the tourism industry would employ such tactics as a matter of course; it didn’t mean anything.

  “Pretty,” Face said. He stared at the gleaming view of Revos appearing before them. The city seemed to be made all of tall, curving towers built of creamy pastel marble in a variety of colors.

  The spaceport, built outside the city walls, came into view a minute later. It did not share the idyllic architecture of the city; it was a duracrete circle two or more kilometers in diameter, with landing circles and wartlike ferrocrete bunkers, gaily painted but somehow no less ugly for it, scattered across its surface. The Wraiths counted several small cargo ships, shuttles of various types, light atmospheric craft, and even a few TIE fighters among the vessels clustered around the various bunkers.

  Kell landed where he was instructed, at one of the outermost ring of bunkers. A viewscreen on the bunker wall displayed primitive line graphics instructing Kell how to maneuver the shuttle to its exact landing pad and orientation. Two guards in stormtrooper armor were in position on either side of Narra’s nose before the shuttle had quite settled down.

  “Doran Spaceways welcomes you to Storinal,” Kell said in his most official voice. “Be ready to show your documentation to all officials of the planetary government, and enjoy your stay.” He lowered the shuttle’s main ramp. “First-class passengers first, please.”

  Wes Janson tugged at his lengthy white beard, a gesture that looked habitual but really served to assure him that it was still attached properly. He squared his shoulders, assumed a properly haughty attitude, and descended the ramp, his bodyguards flanking him—Falynn left, Lieutenant Atril Tabanne right, and Piggy, in the full regalia of a Gamorrean warrior, complete with vibro-ax, behind.

  The end of an inspection tube connected to the bunker swung out before the shuttle, and a planetary official stepped out from it to join the guards. Doubtless the man thought himself natty in his emerald-green longcoat and shining gold buttons, but Janson knew himself to be a far more brilliant, and possibly ridiculous, spectacle.

  Janson wore a glittering red coat cut in the style of a naval officer’s, complete with epaulettes and a double row of buttons, plus matching peaked cap and well-tailored black pants. White belt and gloves, shining black boots and blaster holster completed the ensemble. The clothing ensemble, that is; Janson also wore thick white hair, beard, and mustache, and makeup that roughened the skin on his face and hands. Wes Janson’s face was too well known
in Imperial-controlled space to risk a less elaborate disguise.

  His bodyguards, in contrast, were beacons of sobriety. Falynn and Atril wore body stockings in light-leeching black. Their leather accoutrements—boots, belt, bags, and blaster holsters—were matte black. Their hair was drawn back in severe braids, and Face had insisted both women dye it black, too, explaining that it was appropriate for the sort of all-controlling personality Janson was supposed to be to have matching bodyguards.

  Janson stopped before the government agent, who held out his hand. Janson cleared his throat in what he hoped was an appropriately blustery manner, and Atril handed the official four sets of identicards.

  The official slid the first one into his handheld scanner. “Senator-in-Exile Iskit Tyestin from Bakura,” he said. He frowned. “Bakura.”

  “Don’t bother to tell me that Bakura is hardly a friend to the Empire these days.” Janson struggled to keep that elusive element of harumph in his voice. “If she were, I would still be there, in my home, instead of here, loyally serving the Empire.”

  “Of course. What is your business on Storinal?”

  “Business. I’m raising funds for the Bakuran Loyalist Movement. We continue to put pressure on the government to sever ties with the Rebels and return to her true allegiance.”

  The official’s hand-reader pinged and he looked at it. “You are in our records. A loyal friend of the Empire.”

  Janson harumphed, straightened with pride. The Senator Tyestin identity matched a real person, one of the last of the Empire’s supporters to be elected to the senate of Bakura before that world decided to join the Alliance. The real Tyestin never made it offworld; his escape craft was destroyed when he attempted to flee, a fact that was not yet lodged in the Empire’s datanet.

  The official dropped each of the other cards into his reader. “My lady Anen of Bakura. Profession, bodyguard. Licensed to carry exposed and concealed weaponry. Please don’t use it, Mistress Anen; even the most legal and reasonable of shootings leads to tedious investigations. My lady Honiten, likewise, likewise, and likewise. And Guardsman Voort.” He peered at the Gamorrean. “Does it understand Basic?”