Solo Command (24 page)

“And the general said, sure, Chewie would be happy to come along.”

“You’re three for three.”

“Wedge, you don’t speak Wookiee.”

“I—oh, Sithspit.” Wedge felt some color rising into his face. Janson was right: In all the mission planning they’d done, he’d failed to remember that he wouldn’t be able to understand anything his copilot said, though Chewbacca could certainly understand Basic.

Janson just stood there, his expression merry.

Wedge sighed. “Check with Squeaky and Emtrey. I can’t issue orders for them to go, but if either is willing to volunteer, I’d appreciate it. Preferably Squeaky.” Though 3PO units normally had protocol skills as part of their programming, including diplomacy and instantaneous translation of a staggering number of languages, Emtrey’s programming was optimized for military functions; Squeaky’s was better suited to this mission.

“Will do.”

“You haven’t mentioned this to the pilots?”

“Well, yes, I sort of blurted it out when it occurred to me.”

“And what did they say?”

“They put down bets on what you’d do. So then I had to go to all the other pilots so they could get their own bets down.”

“Who won?”

“Tyria Sarkin. She said you’d say ‘Sithspit.’ ”

“You know, you’ve finally earned my gravest revenge.”

“You don’t ever take revenge. That’s beneath Wedge Antilles, Hero of the New Republic.”

Wedge gave him a smile, one full of teeth, and Janson’s own grin faltered. Wedge said, “Dismissed.”

Kell took point, Elassar tucked in behind and beside him as wingman, and led his TIE interceptor unit in toward Kidriff Five. The other wingpair, Janson and Shalla, stayed off to their starboard at the distance prescribed by Imperial regulations.

The world called Kidriff Five gradually grew in their viewports. The planet, at least the hemisphere they could see, seemed to be dominated by three colors: blue for seas and rusty red for vegetation, and a lesser amount of gray-white where the planet’s greatest cities lay.

Comm traffic also increased as they neared the planet. First was an automated signal directing them into one of the preapproved approach vectors. As soon as that signal arrived, Kell transmitted a tight-beam signal back to the
Falsehood
indicating where they could expect first comm contact.

As they entered the approach vector, they could see, far ahead of them, tiny lights—at the distances shown on their sensors, these had to be massive cargo vessels approaching the planet.

When they were close enough to the planet that Kell could see nothing but its surface unless he leaned much closer to his viewport, they received the first live transmission. “Incoming flight, four Sienar Fleet Systems interceptors, this is Kidriff Primary Control. Please identify yourself and your mission.”

Kell activated his comm unit. “This is Drake Squadron, One Flight, out of the
Night Terror
, Captain Maristo commanding. We’re here for rec-re-a-tion.” The emphasis he put
on the final word suggested a pilot who’d been away from any sort of entertainment for too long. “Inbound to Tobaskin to see how much rec-re-a-tion a cargo bay full of credits will buy.”

“Acknowledged, Drakes. Transmitting your revised approach vector. Will your ship be arriving later?”

“Negative, we’re here solo.” And that lie conveyed a second lie to the traffic controllers on Kidriff Five: that Drake Squadron consisted of hyperdrive-equipped TIEs. This suggested, in turn, that its pilots were very important people. It wasn’t uncommon for high-ranking officers to take their personal TIEs, with a lower-ranking officer as theoretical commander to act as a shield of anonymity for them, on a junket like this.

“Understood. Leave your transponders on at all times, by planetary ordinance. Enjoy yourselves, and welcome to Kidriff Five.”

Kell compressed the exchange and transmitted it, and the point in space where he’d received the opening words of the greeting, back to the
Falsehood
.

“I do receive combat pay, don’t I?” The speaker was Squeaky, situated behind Wedge’s seat on the
Millennium Falsehood
.

“If we’re fired upon, yes,” Wedge said. “Otherwise, you just get hazardous-duty pay.”

Chewbacca grumbled something. Squeaky said, “Shut up, you.”

Wedge grinned. He’d never met a 3PO unit as verbally abusive as Squeaky. Most of them, because of standard programming and because they knew themselves to be defenseless, attempted to ingratiate themselves with everyone they met—usually with so much talk they ended up aggravating those they wished to befriend. But Squeaky was a manumitted droid, owned by no one, and had a few quirks. “What did he say?”

“I don’t have to translate comments like that.”

“Translate everything. I’ll decide what’s important and what’s not.”

“He said he could guarantee I receive combat pay by pulling off my legs and hitting me with them.”

“Well, that was very generous of him. You should have said ‘Thank you, maybe later.’ ”

“Sir, I think you lack an understanding of this Wookiee’s violence-laden humor.”

As soon as they dropped to within twenty kilometers of the planetary surface over Tobaskin Sector, which was already under nightfall, Kell and his fellow Drakes began receiving transmissions from sector businesses—some data, some sight and sound, all extolling the virtues of various entertainment spots in the region. One transmission was the city government’s visitor’s package, including maps of the region with hundreds of clubs, bars, hostels, and other businesses highlighted.

As if unsure as to which of the city’s many offerings to choose, Kell led his group out over one of the sector’s deeper forest tracts. As his pilots exchanged banal comm traffic about which sites would offer the most recreation, Kell scanned the forest floor for life. And when he’d chosen a spot that included a clearing large enough for the
Falsehood
but was so deep within heavy forest that it seemed humans did not frequent it, he transmitted that data back as well.

They found a personal-vehicle landing zone near a district full of brilliantly lit entertainment businesses. They came to rest there and emerged from the top hatches of their interceptors.

Kell pulled his helmet free, dropped it onto his pilot’s couch, and began removing other pieces of piloting paraphernalia he wouldn’t be needing. “Drake Two, Drake Four, keep all your gear on. You’ll be staying with the interceptors.”

Shalla nodded. She slid down to the ground in full gear and stood at attention before her starfighter, a guard on duty.

“Aw, no.” Elassar sounded heartbroken. He clutched his chest as though someone had shot him. “Why me? I’m the youngest, I’m in the greatest need of fun.”

Dressed only in his black jumpsuit, Kell slid down to his wing pylon, then dropped to the ground. He clambered up Elassar’s interceptor and leaned in close to the younger pilot. “Let me ask you something, Elassar.”

“Fire away, sir.”

“You go into one of these wonderfully diverting bars.”

“Yes.”

“You put down your credits.”

“Sounds good so far, sir.”

“You take off your helmet.”

“Well, I’d certainly want to at some point. Even if I were only getting a drink.”

“What do the other patrons see?”

“Well, they see the galaxy’s best-looking—oh.”

“Devaronian pilot.”

“Right, sir, I get it.”

“How many Devaronian TIE interceptor pilots do you suppose there are in the Empire?”

“I understand, sir, I really do.”

Kell shook his head and dropped to the ground.

Wedge set the
Millennium Falsehood
down so gently that not even he was fully aware of the transition between repulsorlift support and the settling of the hydraulic landing skids.

Chewbacca rumbled something.

Squeaky said, “Well, of course that was a good landing. He can’t afford to set this flying trash heap down any harder. Pieces would fall off.”

Chewie’s grumbling became louder, more eloquent.

“What do you mean, this is a good ship? Just this morning you were calling her names that would peel new paint off a hull. You’re disagreeing with me just to be disagreeable.”

“Captain’s leaving the bridge,” Wedge announced. “Chewbacca, the controls are yours.”

He trotted back to the top of the loading ramp and found his passengers gearing up, ready to leave. One man and one woman, both with dark hair and unmemorable, average features, dressed in black pants and tunics decorated with dazzling bright zigzag stripes—this season’s very definition of tourist in certain portions of the Empire.

They’d never told Wedge their names. He thought of the man as Bland One, the woman as Bland Two.

Bland One turned to him, extended a hand. “Thanks for a smooth flight. Much better than some insertions we’ve been through.” Bland Two nodded; Wedge couldn’t remember her saying a word.

Wedge shook his hand, then activated the ramp control. The access ramp whined but did not budge.

“I have one pilot,” Wedge said, “who’d be certain that you jinxed it with the compliment.” He stomped down on the nearest portion of ramp. The mechanism’s whine increased in volume, then the ramp lowered. “Good luck.”

Then they were gone, and the ramp closed again with less complaint.

By the time Wedge returned to the bridge, Tycho had decoupled from the top hull and his X-wing was settling to the ground just ahead of the
Falsehood’
s cockpit. Then the X-wing appeared to vanish as its lights faded. Suddenly they were in darkness, the trees all around them acting as an impenetrable wall between them and the city lights. Their only illumination was the two spots of gold light marking Squeaky’s eyes.

“Well,” said Squeaky, “what shall we do now? I know many mnemonic games. Compare Storerooms is a good one.”

Chewbacca rumbled something.

“No, I don’t know Droid-Crushers.”

Rumble.

“What do you mean, you’d be happy to demonstrate? Oh, ha, ha.”

Wedge sighed. For such a short flight in, this was going to be a long mission.

It was long after the Rogues and Wraiths settled into their parking orbit around Kidriff’s moon that Face remembered his unread mail.

“Vape, put that new storage through to my comm screen. In order of reception, please.”

First was a letter, text only, from his sister, now at school on Pantolomin. It was chatty, full of details of everyday life, much as Face remembered it. A bright bit of home to distract
him from the bleak lunar scape that was his sole viewing pleasure right now.

The second, and last, item was from New Republic Intelligence. He had to wade through screen after screen of standard admonishment that he was not to distribute this material, upon pain of trial and incarceration, before he got to the meat of the message and remembered what it was all about: his recent query concerning Lara Notsil and Edallia Monotheer, the name she’d been called by the old man on Coruscant.

The enclosed material was all classified secret; nothing had a higher secrecy rating. He hoped the answers he was looking for weren’t hiding behind a more stringent level of classification, a level he couldn’t access.

The file on Lara Notsil contained little information he didn’t already know. Much of it she’d told him and the other Wraiths at one time or another. Born on a farm in Aldivy. Decent grades in school. No indication of special aptitudes other than agriculture. Then, the data derived from her own accounts and a little independent verification: how her community refused to offer aid to the enemy by turning over stockpiles of grain and meats to a former Imperial admiral by the name of Trigit, how Trigit’s ship
Implacable
had bombarded the town out of existence. How follow-up troops had found a survivor, Lara Notsil, and taken her up to the ship. How Trigit, taken with the girl, had kept her half-comatose on a steady diet of drugs and made her his unwilling mistress. Until Wraith Squadron and allied troops had destroyed
Implacable
. Until Lara had escaped in Trigit’s personal evacuation pod.

A rather sparse account. But colonists like the Aldivians, given to raising their crops and children, didn’t devote a lot of time to more extensive personal records. On some colonies, they didn’t even carry identification.

Then the file on Edallia Monotheer. For all that she was born on Coruscant, a planet notable for the extent and quality of its citizen records, her account was scarcely longer than Notsil’s. It had been reconstructed from interviews; all primary sources about her appeared to have been destroyed.

Born about fifty years ago. Trained to be an actress. She’d
caught the eye of Armand Isard, father of Ysanne Isard; he was the head of Intelligence throughout most of the reign of Emperor Palpatine. Monotheer had trained as an Intelligence agent and had executed many successful missions for her superiors.

Then, according to this account, she had been arrested and convicted of treason, along with her husband. Both were executed for funneling information about Imperial Intelligence to anti-Imperial factions on Chandrila. An opinion annotated by some anonymous New Republic Intelligence analyst suggested that this was a standard technique to cause the death of a subordinate who had committed some less significant offense, and that Monotheer had had nothing to do with the Rebel Alliance.

Husband
. Face found the link to data on Monotheer’s immediate family and brought it up.

There was not much of interest there on her husband. He had a history similar to hers. There were rumors that the two of them had had a child, but there was no data on file about this.

But far more interesting than the husband’s history was his name.

Dalls Petothel.

Face felt his stomach sink.

“Dawn,” said Squeaky.

The one word, emerging out of blackness, jolted Wedge out of his light doze. He looked around but could still see no illumination other than the droid’s eyes. He rubbed his eyes and swung his booted feet down off the command console. “It doesn’t much look like dawn.”