Star Wars: X-Wing V: Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  “Sensor data on Provocateur. Where are her shields weakest?”

  “Uh, wait a second. Uh—”

  “Face, hurry.” The frigate’s guns were beginning to converge on the X-wing formation. A graze from one of Provocateur’s stern laser cannons missed Kell’s X-wing but came close enough to blow through its bow shields, dropping them to zero power. Kell swore and redirected power from aft shields and acceleration to bring them back on-line and shore them up.

  “If I’m reading this right, topside, just astern of the short-range communications array.”

  Kell gained altitude relative to the frigate, saw the Wraiths following him smoothly through the maneuver, and dove toward the frigate’s topside. His targeting brackets went red as soon as they passed over the frigate, but he carefully positioned them over the antenna rig. “Wraiths, three, two, one—mark.”

  He watched the reddish trails of ten proton torpedoes leap away from the X-wings and slam into the frigate’s topside. The next four torpedoes were away before the detonation and debris cloud began to clear; he saw their trails enter the expanding ball and disappear within. The ball continued to swell as the X-wings pulled up and arced away.

  “Five, this is Eight. Sensors show shield failure and four hull hits. I—wait a second, something’s wrong, I’m reading two Provocateurs—” Dead silence for a moment. Then: “Five, Eight. The frigate has separated amidships. She’s in two pieces. Her threat index is zero. Do you read?”

  “We read you, Eight, and thanks.” Kell tried to wipe away the sweat stinging his eyes, but his hand encountered the eye shield of his helmet. He banged the shield up and mopped at his eyes.

  His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  27

  “Foolish of us,” General Crespin said, “to bring along Rogue Squadron, all those A-wings, Home One, and a pair of frigates when all it takes is Wraith Squadron and a battered corvette to deal with the enemy.”

  They were in the inflatable dome that served the temporary Talasea camp as an officers’ mess, unwinding over beer and brandy that tasted something like ship’s fuel. The general’s words were sarcastic, but his tone was more regretful than anything.

  Wedge said, “If Implacable had come through, we’d have been dead without those extra forces. As it is, we had the element of surprise—a couple of different ways—going for us. Even so, we lost a good, experienced bridge crew.”

  Crespin nodded. “I didn’t mean to be facetious. I was just itching to give Trigit back some of what he gave us on Folor.”

  “You may yet.” Wedge took another pull from his petrochemical-flavored brandy. “We hit their communications systems hard and fast. They never got off a reply to Trigit. As soon as we’re able, Night Caller is going back out … and we’ll tell Zsinj a story of survival against terrible odds. I’m going to do whatever it takes for us to sidle up next to Zsinj or Trigit and stick a vibroblade in his kidneys.”

  The general smiled. “If you have any opportunity to set up a real engagement—”

  “Yours and Rogue Squadron will be the first units I call on, sir.”

  The general took a look around as though to make sure no one was listening. He leaned close. “By the way, Antilles, about your pilot, Face Loran …”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re about to receive some news pertaining to him. Now, I’ve had my problems with him, but I’ve also been keeping track of his progress. So, when you receive that news, keep in mind that I had nothing to do with it—one way or the other.”

  “Very well.” Wedge gave the general a quizzical look, but the older man merely rose and departed.

  Wedge took a look around. The table where Lieutenants Wes Janson and Hobbie Klivan had been swapping stories was empty. Wedge would track down the Rogues again later to catch up on their news. For now, it was time to check up on Night Caller’s progress. He headed out into Talasea’s fogmuted sunlight.

  The New Republic encampment was a creeper-overgrown field surrounded by trees. The field was now dotted with inflatable domes and various forms of fighter craft and fighting vessels. All were dimmed by the near-permanent haze that shrouded the planet.

  In the middle of the field were the two corvettes, Night Caller and Constrictor, both ships showing considerable damage.

  Night Caller’s bridge had been cored, leaving behind a blackened hole with peeling edges. Work crews were hard at work welding armor plates and a single transparisteel sheet across the gap. Wedge had insisted that the repairs look sloppy, unsophisticated; they were supposed to be all his crew had been able to throw together in a few hours.

  Constrictor’s bow hold doors were gone. In fact, the hold itself was gone, its hemispherical outer hull torn away by explosions from within; the bow now looked eerily like a skull whose lower jaw had been lost. The ship also had scoring damage along its sides.

  Provocateur had been unrecoverable. Internal explosions and venting atmosphere had claimed the lives of any crewman surviving the torpedo attack. The frigate was a drifting tomb well before New Republic rescue forces could reach her.

  “Commander Antilles.”

  Wedge turned toward the source of that familiar, gravelly voice. “Admiral.” He saluted.

  Admiral Ackbar, accompanied by a major, approached. He returned the salute. “My crews tell me you are almost ready for space. Are you sure you want to go back after Trigit so soon?”

  “The more time he has to think, the greater the chance he’ll see through our disguise.”

  “I’ll leave that decision to your initiative, then.” The Mon Calamari lowered his voice. “I did want to thank you for your kind words regarding my niece.”

  “You’re very welcome, sir. I wish—” The extent to which Wedge wished stopped him short. I wish we could have saved her. I wish I could have found words to help your family hurt less. I wish a bad-smelling pocket of womp rats shaped like men hadn’t been there to endanger her. I wish every legacy of the Empire were wiped clean from the galaxy. He gave the admiral a regretful look. “I wish.”

  “I understand.” Ackbar looked around, at the people moving between vehicles and vessels, at the areas where inflatable domes were already being brought down. “I, myself, wish I could find the pilot who went to such efforts to save her life. I would like to offer him my thanks.”

  “I’ll make sure Flight Officer Tainer wanders across your path.”

  Ackbar held out his hand to the major, who placed a large case upon it. This Ackbar handed to Wedge. “It has taken some time for the New Republic bureaucracy to catch up to Wraith Squadron’s exploits. Even this morning I had to modify the contents of this package. I thought it most appropriate for you to issue these items.”

  Wedge opened the case and whistled at what he saw.

  Wedge had the Wraiths and Lieutenant Atril Tabanne line up in Night Caller’s forward lounge. From their faces, it was evident that no one felt much like celebrating; some of them were somber, others looked more than ready to head spaceward and get back into their fighter cockpits.

  “Your sins have caught up with you, Wraiths,” Wedge said. “And just as significantly, High Command has not managed to lose my reports on our mission progress, and appears actually to have read them. Flight Officer Tyria Sarkin.”

  She straightened, became impassive.

  “I have only a little to offer you, Sarkin. Home One has delivered us a pair of X-wings to bring us back to full operational capacity. And that, plus the fact that your behavior has in recent weeks been exemplary, means I’m restoring you to full operations and to your own snubfighter.”

  She smiled. “That’s plenty to offer me, sir.”

  Wedge took a step to the side. “Flight Officer Garik Loran.

  Face looked startled, came to attention.

  “In our tour of duty since being made operational, you have consistently shown fine piloting skills and an exceptional aptitude for leadership, both in planning and in the field. For this reason, it is my pleasure to conve
y to you your promotion to the rank of lieutenant in the New Republic’s Starfighter Command. Congratulations, Face.” Wedge handed Face his new rank insignia and saluted.

  Face, looking surprised, returned the salute. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Flight Officer Kell Tainer.”

  Kell came to attention, looking uneasy.

  “Likewise, you have shown fine piloting skills and a facility for battlefield tactics that benefit the group. In fact, we have noted on several occasions your pursuit of unusual strategies that cost you the opportunity for personal gain but kept your fellows, and those you are charged with protecting, alive. So I’m happy to convey to you also a promotion to the rank of lieutenant.” He handed Kell his rank insignia and saluted. “Congratulations, Kell.”

  Kell returned the salute. “Thank you, sir.” Wedge was surprised to see that the pilot was as pale and stiff as he had ever been when confronting Wes Janson.

  Wedge chose not to notice and took another step to the side. “Lieutenant Atril Tabanne.”

  The sole surviving member of Night Caller’s officer corps came to attention.

  “It is unusual for an officer of Starfighter Command to be able to offer commendation to an officer of Fleet Command—even rarer for one to want to, given the history of rivalry between our services.” That drew smiles from Atril and the pilots. “But our circumstances are exceptional ones. Your record, since joining the Navy, has been one of loyalty and service, and our only regret is that attrition is a part of the speed with which you receive this much-deserved promotion.” He handed Atril her new insignia of rank and saluted. “Congratulations, Captain Tabanne. On your new rank, and on command of Night Caller.”

  She returned the salute and looked as though she wanted to say something, but words choked up in her.

  “And finally, an award as well deserved as all these promotions. Lieutenant Tainer.”

  Kell came to attention again. If anything, he looked more worried than before.

  “Recently, you were placed in the unenviable position of attempting to save a pilot who had suffered catastrophic damage. I’m not certain that you’ve ever resigned yourself to the truth that her death does not constitute failure on your part. As a matter of fact, a review of the recordings of the incident by Starfighter Command confirms the fact that your effort demonstrated both unusual courage and enviable piloting skills—a lesser pilot would have crashed in such an attempt. Therefore, I am pleased to be able to present you with a first for Wraith Squadron: the Kalidor Crescent.”

  The assembled pilots oohed and broke rank to applaud. The Crescent, always granted for bravery and piloting skill used in unison, was a mark of prestige throughout the armed forces.

  Kell gulped a couple of times, did not lower his eyes to meet Wedge’s gaze, and grew even paler.

  “Kell, lean down.”

  Kell did so, and Wedge looped the ceremonial silk ribbon over his head, letting the award settle around his neck. The medal itself, showing the Kalidor bird of prey in inverted flight, its forward-curving wings bracketing a gleaming amber-hued gemstone, settled against his sternum as Kell straightened.

  “Congratulations, Kell.” Wedge saluted.

  Kell managed to throw his return salute. He still did not meet Wedge’s eyes, and his voice was hoarse. “Thank you, sir.”

  Wedge stepped back and addressed them all. “Ladies, gentlemen, we return to space in an hour. I know that doesn’t leave much time for celebration, but pack in as much as you care to. Not too much for you, Captain Tabanne. We’ll see what sorts of decorative hardware the rest of you can earn when we’re standing on top of the ruined hulk of Admiral Trigit and Implacable.” He turned away and let their cheers follow him out of the lounge.

  Janson fell in step beside him.

  “Wes, what in the name of the Sith is wrong with Tainer?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “It’s a citation for bravery. He’s just made up for the mistake his father made. The day I picked up the Crescent, I could have flown without thrusters and knocked out TIE Interceptors just by spitting at them. But he looked like he was going to throw up.”

  “He still confuses me, too. I say we just kill him,” Janson deadpanned.

  Wedge snorted.

  · · ·

  Kell endured their well wishes and backslaps as long as he could, until a member of Night Caller’s replacement bridge crew rolled out a keg of lomin-ale and glass tankards. While the others were distracted by the prospect of alcohol, he drifted to the back of the gathering and then escaped to his quarters.

  He sat shaking on his bed. When the knock came at his door, he ignored it.

  The door chirped acceptance of Kell’s pass code and slid open. Tyria entered and closed it behind her.

  “How’d you do that?” he asked.

  “I got on the comlink and asked Grinder.”

  “Damn him.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, her expression worried. “Kell, what’s wrong?”

  He took a deep breath. “Look, you’ll be better off if you just forget about me—”

  She leaned in close, almost menacingly, cutting off his words. “Do not continue that thought. Do not give me some line about how I’m better off without you. You do that, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born, and I still won’t leave, so you’ll have soaked up a lot of hurt for nothing.” She pinned him with her stare. “Do you think we stopped being friends when we became involved with each other?”

  “No, but—”

  “No, nothing. Kell, do you really want me to stop being your friend? Don’t give me an answer based on what you think is good for me. Give me the truth. Set Honesty to On.”

  Kell rocked as though in the grip of a wrestler as big as he was. Finally he slumped, defeated. “Honesty to On. No, I don’t.”

  Her expression softened. “Then tell me what just happened in there. You look as though Commander Antilles had called you the scum of the galaxy.”

  “I am the scum of the galaxy. Because I accepted this, this—” He gestured at the medal, then pulled it off him and threw it across the room. “This lie.”

  She looked at the medal where it lay, then turned back to him. “It’s for superior flying skills and bravery. What part is the lie?”

  “Both.”

  “You’re not a good pilot?”

  “If I were that good, Jesmin would still be alive.”

  “Oh, I wish I could just beat some brains into your head. If Commander Antilles was impressed with your flying that day, who are you to tell him he’s wrong?”

  He looked away and didn’t answer.

  “And you don’t think your action was a brave one? I mean, no false modesty here, Kell. You don’t see anything courageous in risking your life to save Jesmin’s? Going through what amounted to a series of midair collisions, risking a crash with every one, getting half your fighter’s systems shorted out, in trying to keep her alive?”

  “Maybe. Maybe just that one day. But every other time …” He rubbed his eyes. “Tyria, I’m my father’s son. I’m scared to death all the time. And it’s getting worse, not better. One of these days we’ll be in an engagement, and I’ll lose all pretense at self-control and run off for the stars, and Janson or Commander Antilles will shoot me down, and that’ll be it. Or I’ll be dragged back for court-martial and I’ll have ruined our family name. The second name in two generations.”

  She was silent. He hazarded a look. She was without expression, taking what he was saying as input, offering nothing back.

  “When I was a kid,” he said, “I thought it was a lie. I thought maybe Dad was a spy or something. He received orders at the last minute and had to rush off and carry them out. No one understood, and they shot him down. Or he was drugged, hallucinating. Or it was someone else in that cockpit and my real father was out there somewhere, alive. Then, when I went through pilot training, I found a couple of survivors of the original Tierfon Yellow Aces who’d talk about it, not knowin
g I was his son.

  “Some of them were scornful. Some of them were regretful. But they’d heard his comm traffic. It was him, he’d lost control, he’d left his honor behind in his thruster wash, and he died. And I’ve inherited whatever he had.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to get you or any of the Wraiths killed. I’m going to resign my commission.”

  Tyria was a long time in answering. Finally she spoke, her voice low, serious. “Do you trust me, Kell?”

  “Sure.”

  “With your life?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Will you trust me with something bigger than your life?”

  “What?”

  “I want you to trust me that you are wrong and I am right.”

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t rank my opinion as equal to your own. My insights. My intelligence.”

  “Sure I do. But I know myself better than you do.”

  She shook her head. “No, you don’t, and that’s the problem. You’ve told me twice now that for years you’ve based your life on ideas that were just plain wrong. That your father didn’t do what he did. That Lieutenant Janson was a cold-blooded killer. You were wrong about them. You’ve had the courage to admit it. You also had the courage to admit that you weren’t really in love with me before, that you were wrong about that, too.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I want you to have the courage to trust my opinion more than your own. Kell, maybe it’s because part of you wants to get out of every fight, but you’re always thinking your way around the current situation, and that’s a good thing. Everyone who was on the Borleias will agree with me on that. And that’s why I know I’m safer with you flying with us.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Kell, please.”

  He sighed and closed his eyes, cutting off her loving, merciless stare. “All right.”

  · · ·

  They dropped out of hyperspace in the system that was Admiral Trigit’s original rendezvous point. As they expected, Implacable was not there. From that system, they broadcast to Zsinj Captain Darillian’s report of the New Republic ambush, of Trigit’s “treachery” in abandoning them, of the set of brilliant maneuvers that brought them out of the ambush zone battered but alive.