Star Wars - X-Wing 07 - Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

  "Explain that, Wraith One."

  "On a private channel, if you please, Leader."

  The worry in Lara's stomach turned into fear. There were only so many reasons Face would refuse to let them return to the group. Most of them involved one or the other of them be­ing a danger to the group, such as if one of their X-wings were threatening to blow up.

  Face was protecting the group, Or someone in the group. And Lara was certain she knew who. He was protecting Wedge.

  From her.

  Face's voice was off the comm waves for a couple of min­utes. Then he returned. "Wraith Two, have you double-checked your nav course?"

  "No," she said. "You know, don't you, Face?" Her voice emerged as a choked whisper and she wondered if the comm unit would even pick it up.

  "I know that you're Gara Petothel," he said. His voice was quieter, more gentle than she expected it to be.

  She felt a snapping sensation in her chest, as though her breastbone had broken. And then there was the sensation of loss—of the sudden departure from her life of everything she considered important.

  But it didn't feel quite the way she expected it to. Pain there was, certainly, but she also felt a sudden relief, an absence of the weight she'd been carrying around since first she decided she no longer wanted to serve Zsinj, since she decided that her alliance with the Wraiths was fact, not fiction.

  Like an animal in a hunter's steel-jaw trap, she'd finally lost that part of her the trap held. The pain was indescribable. But there was freedom as well. And she knew that she didn't need to cry anymore.

  "I never betrayed you," Lara said. She was surprised at how calm her voice sounded.

  "I'm glad."

  "I tried so hard just to be Lara. But they wouldn't let me. The whole universe wouldn't let me."

  "Lara, I'm sorry," Face said. "I have to place you under arrest pending investigation of this whole mess. Power your weapons systems down. Set your S-foils to cruise position. Don't attempt any sudden maneuvers."

  "Understood, sir. I'm complying with your orders."

  Face felt sick to his stomach. He had wished, futilely, that he'd been wrong. But Lara had confirmed it.

  A sudden fear struck him. He had been on a private com­munications channel with Lara, had switched to squadron chan­nel to handle the Target Nu situation and then to respond to Wedge's order that he move back to the formation, had switched to a private channel for his quick talk with Wedge—and then had gone back to his private channel with Lara. Hadn't he?

  He looked at his comm board. He was now set to squad frequency. He'd spoken last to Lara on an open channel.

  His stomach suddenly got worse.

  Donos heard the words but didn't understand them. "I know that you're Gara Petothel." He knew that the name Gara Pe­tothel meant something to him but he still couldn't force his mind around the meaning of those words.

  Ah, that was it. Naval officer Chyan Mezzine, a commu­nications and intelligence specialist, had betrayed the New Republic by sending critical information to Admiral Apwar Trigit, a minion of Zsinj. Some of that information was what Trigit used to annihilate Talon Squadron—the X-wing unit com­manded by Donos. Only he had survived. Then, later, the New Republic had put out a bulletin on her, indicating that her real name was Gara Petothel, that she was actually a deep-cover agent for Imperial Intelligence. Later, she had been declared dead, another victim of the destruction of Trigit's Star Destroyer, Implacable.

  But Lara Notsil was Gara Petothel.

  Lara Notsil had destroyed his command. Had killed eleven pilots he had bound together.

  Suddenly he was back there, in the smoky skies above the volcanoes of Gravan Seven, as ally after ally was ripped from the sky by Trigit's pilots and their ambush. Again he felt the pain of their deaths. It was a selfish pain, part loss, part realiza­tion that he had failed them, part understanding that his life had changed in a way he could never set right.

  The howl that escaped him was no animal noise. It was the wail of a man who'd just lost everything dear to him . . . and who suddenly had the destroyer of his happiness in his sights.

  In spite of comm distortion, the howl made Face's skin crawl. He knew who it had to be, and a glance at his sensor board showed Wraith Three turning away from his course to the ren­dezvous point on an intercept course with Face and Lara.

  Wedge's voice did not sound amused. "Wraith Three, this is Leader. Return to your original heading."

  Donos did not deviate from his new course.

  Face said, "Wraith Two, come to three-three-two and accel­erate to full speed." He himself did as he'd ordered, turning away from Donos and running before him. Lara stayed with him.

  It's happening again.

  The words were a wail of anguish inside Tyria's mind.

  Once again a fellow pilot was making an assault on a friendly target.

  She turned in Donos's wake and returned her S-foils to at­tack position.

  Once again she had to put a fellow pilot in her weapon sights.

  But this time her target was not just an ally but a friend. A squadmate. "Myn," she said, "please don't do this."

  Wraith Three came on inexorably but could not gain on Face's and Lara's X-wings. But he could fire a proton torpedo, which would cross the distance between them in seconds and could achieve a lock on Lara.

  Face neatly sideslipped his X-wing behind Lara's. "Wraith Three, hold your fire. If you fire, I'm your primary target."

  "Wraith Three, power down or I'll be forced to fire." The words were being choked out, the voice identifiable as Tyria's.

  "Wraith Four, this is Wraith One. Do not fire, whatever happens. This is not the same as the Jussafet situation. Acknowledge."

  "Acknowledged, sir."

  Lara, her voice raspy with pain, said, "Maybe you ought to let him shoot me, sir. Get out of the way."

  "Shut up, Two."

  Face's sensor board howled, a new noise—the distinctive wail signifying a proton-torpedo launch. Donos had fired.

  "Wraith Three, detonate your torp now." Face made no effort to keep alarm out of his voice; that would have required concentration. He maintained his position immediately behind Lara's X-wing and put all available power to his rear shields. He kept his free hand on his ejection lever. "Three, blow the torp, I'm your target." From the moment of launch he had only a few seconds before the torpedo hit, and most of that time was already gone. "Detonate, dammit!"

  The universe behind Face filled with bright blue fire. His stern shuddered as though he'd been rammed and his cockpit was suddenly filled with smoke, the howl of damage alert sirens, Vape's mechanical shrieks of dismay, and the rumble and tremble of failing vehicle systems.

  But he was still alive. Either the proton torpedo had deto­nated at the very outer edges of his rear shields, or Donos had detonated it prematurely—barely prematurely.

  Bitter anger swelled within him. "Congratulations, Three," he said. "I may be your newest kill."

  Donos jerked upright in his cockpit, confusion clearing from his mind like smoke sucked into hard vacuum. On his sensor screen. Wraith One was maneuvering erratically as Two con­tinued on the straight-line course she'd been assigned. "Face— One. I'm sorry—" He tried to regain control of his voice, his thoughts. "Hold tight. I'm coming in for a flyover. I'll check ex­ternal damage."

  His astromech, Clink, shrieked at him and the shrill tone of an enemy targeting lock assailed his ears. That, and Tycho's voice, hard and cold as Donos had ever heard it. "Abort that maneuver, Wraith Three."

  "But Captain, I'm closest, I have to see—"

  "Deviate from your current course and 1 will blow you out of space." There was no questioning the deadly seriousness of Tycho's tone. "Wraith Four, do a flyby on Wraith One and re­port signs of damage. Wraith One, do you copy?"

  Face's voice was nearly as cold as Tycho's, but his words were harder to understand, drowned by the cockpit alarms from his damaged snubfighter. "I read, Rogue Two. My fighter's
holding together for the moment."

  "Good. Wraith Two, swing back around and form up with the group."

  There was a perceptible delay. Then Lara's voice came back, strained, but not racked with pain as it had been mo­ments ago. "I don't think so, Rogue Two."

  "That's an order, Wraith Two, a direct order."

  "I've already surrendered once," she said, "and have sub­sequently been fired on by an officer of this group. I no longer have any faith that I'll survive long enough to meet a court-martial."

  "Wraith Two, this is Rogue Leader. You know you'll make it now. The situation is under control."

  It was true; Donos was maintaining straight-line flight un­der Tycho's guns. He wasn't sure he was capable of doing any­thing but following orders. It wasn't fear of death at Tycho's hands that kept him in line—it was shock at what he was cer­tain he'd just done.

  "What I know is that you don't believe me," Lara said. "You don't believe that I'm a loyal Wraith. You don't believe that I've never done anything to compromise this unit."

  Wedge abandoned the formality of call numbers. "Lara, if what you're saying is the truth, the court will bear you out. I can confidently state that Nawara Ven will take your case. He's the best."

  "But that's it for me with the Wraiths. I'll never be able to fly with you again. I'll never be able to help you. To get you out of a jam. I can never undo what I've done. Never."

  "You're probably right, Lara. That's the way it is. Now come around."

  When her voice returned, it was not Wedge she addressed. "Wraith One? Can you hear me?"

  Face's voice was still strong, and this time was not accom­panied by alarms—he'd obviously taken steps to quiet the sirens in his cockpit. "I read you, Two."

  "I want you to understand something. I don't care if you understand it now. I want you to understand it later. I have never betrayed the Wraiths. I will never, ever betray the Wraiths. Do you read me?"

  "I... hear what you say."

  A moment later, she said, "Myn?"

  Donos jolted. He opened his mouth to answer, but he didn't know whom he'd be talking to. Lara, the woman he'd wanted to come to love, or Gara, the woman he'd sworn—and now attempted—to kill.

  "Myn?"

  He sat there, paralyzed by indecision, and did not answer.

  Lara's X-wing leaped out of sight and off the sensors as it made the jump into hyperspace.

  In the Rogue and Wraith squadrons's landing bay, Donos climbed down out of his cockpit. His back was so straight it hurt. He needed that pain. He needed the constant reminder that he had to get himself back under control.

  He'd lost control. He'd lost Lara. He'd lost everything.

  Wedge waited for him at the foot of the ladder. Donos turned to face him and took a step back without intending to. Wedge's body was as still as if carved from ice, but there was nothing cold about his eyes. They were full of anger, more in­tense anger than Donos had ever seen in them.

  "One reason," Wedge said. "I'd like to hear one reason why I shouldn't ship you off to Coruscant and put you up on charges of gross insubordination."

  Donos stood at attention, every muscle he was aware of locked into place. He kept his gaze fixed above Wedge's head and took a deep breath as he got his thoughts in order, "Logically speaking, 1 should not be tried for insubordination, sir, because insubordination is generally a deliberate act. I do not believe I was in my right mind when I fired upon Flight Officer Notsil. 1

  can't even remember doing that." He couldn't bring himself to refer to her as Gara Petothel, even in his own mind. His hard-won control might slip again.

  "Temporary insanity?" The tone of Wedge's voice sug­gested the frown Donos could see only in his peripheral vision. "That sounds like a dodge to me, Lieutenant."

  "I'm not sure it's temporary, Commander." Donos couldn't keep the dejection out of his own voice. "You and Face, Cap­tain Loran I mean, are aware of my ... earlier difficulty."

  "Difficulty" was something of an understatement. Weeks after the destruction of Talon Squadron, when Donos's R2 unit, Shiner, the only other survivor of the Gravan mission, had been destroyed, Donos had lapsed into a near-catatonic state. Only the intervention of Kell, Tyria, and Falynn Sandskimmer— herself now dead for many weeks—had brought him out of that withdrawal. "I submit," Donos continued, "that I was not in my right mind when I fired on her, and I no longer have any confidence that I'm in my right mind at other times. With re­spect, sir, I tender the resignation of my commission and of my place in Wraith Squadron."

  Wedge didn't answer immediately. Donos could see the top of his head as the commander looked right and left, com­municating with the other senior officers by what might have been a combination of shared experience and telepathy.

  "I'll consider your request," Wedge said, "while you con­sider a question I may oblige you to answer at some later time. If we encounter Lara Notsil in the future, in a combat situa­tion, which of the Wraiths would you prefer to vape her in your place?"

  The question was like a blade of ice thrust straight into Donos's gut. He opened his mouth to respond, but Wedge said, "Quiet. I don't require your answer yet. Dismissed."

  Donos turned away, past the eyes of the Rogues and his fellow Wraiths.

  He saw anger in some of them, confusion in others. A sort of sick pain in Tyria's. What he'd almost made her do—kill a second fellow pilot.

  She'd never forgive him.

  It didn't matter much. He'd never forgive himself.

  Behind him, he heard Wedge directing his anger against another target. "Captain Loran. You and I need to talk. My of­fice. Right now."

  Lara's first jump had just taken her clear of the Kidriff system. Her second, initiated after she'd had a chance to consult her as­tromech Tonin's memory, would take a while to complete. It would bring her back to the Halmad system, where she and the other Wraiths had once pretended to be a band of pirates called the Hawk-bats.

  In abandoned Hawk-bat Station, she'd be able to refuel, to initiate a new communication, to make some modifications to Tonin.

  But for now, she was left with her thoughts.

  Her one thought.

  Lara Notsil is dead.

  Lara had been a temporary identity. Something to keep her out of the hands of the New Republic while she figured out a way to persuade the warlord Zsinj to employ her. Then it had been a convenience, a means to infiltrate the Wraiths in order to improve her worth in Zsinj's eyes. Then, when she'd come to realize the depths to which her early teaching had programmed her to accept Imperial ideas of rule as infallible, when she'd real­ized that she could never serve Zsinj or the Empire again, Lara Notsil had become a gradually eroding shield between her and the day the Wraiths would turn against her.

  That day had come. Lara Notsil was no more.

  Who was she, then? Not Gara Petothel. That was the name she'd been born under, but Gara had been such an un­happy creature, a servant of Imperial Intelligence, a young woman with no goals of her own. With no future.

  No one, no family member or friend, who'd known her under that name still lived. So Gara Petothel was dead, too.

  But Kirney Slane—an identity she'd worn for a few weeks when she learned many of the techniques of the intelligence agent. Kirney was nothing but a young woman wandering through the wealthy-officer stratum of Imperial culture on Coruscant. She'd attended dances, flirted with officer candidates, shopped.

  She had been worthless. But she had been happy.

  Lara wondered if she could take that long-abandoned iden­tity and give her some worth. And even, perhaps, retain some of her naive cheer, her certainty that life was worth living.

  Gara Petothel is dead. Lara Notsil is dead. I will answer to those names. But they are no longer mine.

  I am Kirney Slane, I have no life yet.

  I will make one, or die in the attempt.

  She thought about Donos. He, too, had attempted to kill Gara, with at least as much reason as she had.

&nb
sp; He'd been right. They were more alike than she had realized.

  "You don't think," Wedge said, "it could have waited until we returned to Mon Remonda."

  "No, sir," Face said.

  "She had plenty of opportunities to vape me or any of the rest of us prior to today. That ranks her pretty low as a threat."

  "With all due respect, sir, I thought about that. If we think that way, we have to presume that Lara was not working for Zsinj or the Empire. Because if she was an agent, she could have been following her employers's plan or schedule. I mean, Galey the cook also had plenty of opportunities to stick a vibroblade in you or the general. So, if we follow your logic, the fact that he didn't attack someone between the day Mon Remonda re­turned to space and the day he killed Doctor Cast means he was trustworthy all those days." He offered Wedge an expression of regret. "Sir, I did what I thought was right for the unit."

  "What does your gut tell you?"

  Face looked away for a long moment, then returned his at­tention to Wedge. "My gut says she was telling the truth. That she was a loyal Wraith."

  "But you didn't believe your gut instinct."

  "Yes, sir, 1 did. But I didn't rely on it. If 1 had, and I'd been wrong, whatever she did would have been my fault."

  Wedge nodded. "All right. Face, off the record, I think you fouled up, and this situation could have been resolved in a less catastrophic fashion if you hadn't."

  Face nodded, his expression glum.

  "But there's nothing wrong with your logic. It wasn't en­tirely a bad call. Just one made on incomplete data. I need you to understand that an officer who can't rely on his own gut in­stinct is an officer who shouldn't be commanding others." Face considered that. "I imagine you're right, sir." "So work on it. Now get back to your unit and see if you can patch them up emotionally."

  Face had been gone only a moment when someone knocked. Wedge shook his head. This was not going to be a good afternoon. "Come in."

  Donos entered his office and stood at attention. Wedge let him remain that way. It had been a. very few months ago that Donos had entered one of his offices for the very first time, remaining stiffly at attention just like this. Now, as then, the pilot's features were expressionless; his gaze was carefully fixed on the wall over Wedge's head. "Yes?" Wedge said.