Wraith Squadron (35 page)

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?”

“A few words,” Janson said, his tone a grumble. “Too few.”

“Please observe the signs outside each establishment about who and what may enter.” He returned the cards to Atril with a polished smile. “Welcome to the fair world of Storinal. Enjoy your visit.”

Ton Phanan, wearing false prosthetics to conceal even more of his flesh, and playing the part of a test pilot obviously down on his luck—and running ever lower on human components—passed inspection easily, as did Tyria, portraying his long-suffering wife. Then it was time for Wedge, Face, and Donos … potentially the most dangerous part of the deception, as Wedge’s face was on holographic wanted memoranda all over Imperial space.

Wedge tugged at the furious mustachios he wore. They were nowhere near as elaborate a disguise as the set of false prosthetics he’d worn to penetrate customs on the world of Coruscant, but he shouldn’t need such difficult and expensive measures here. And the continuations of his disguise on either side of him should draw attention away from his features.

He and his two companions wore nearly identical clothes. Their rough-country ponchos were woven from a
heavy brown cloth that looked gritty and sand-filled even when scrupulously cleaned. Their trousers and shirts were a lighter weave of the same stuff, hard-worn—aged in just two days by having the Wraiths take turns marching across them for hours. Their broad-brimmed hats had received similar, though less extensive, treatment. Their hair and false mustaches were cut to identical lengths. Face again wore false skin to conceal his scars and had managed to mold it to make his features a bit more like Wedge’s. All in all, Wedge knew they looked like three yokels who’d blown their savings on a single trip to a more civilized world.

They descended the ramp and handed their identification cards to the official with an identical flourish. The man looked at them, an expression somewhere between amusement and horror on his face.

He recovered enough to slide the first card into his reader. “Dod Nobrin of Agamar.”

Agamar, an Outer Rim colony world, was a rough place whose inhabitants had to be equally rough to survive. Not surprisingly, the rustic ways, stubbornness, and durability of the men and women of Agamar earned them an undeserved reputation for stupidity across the Old Republic and the Empire. Even today, half of the jokes told in Basic about stupid people cast them as men and women of Agamar. Face had developed the trio’s clothing style and mannerisms after careful consultation with Captain Hrakness, a native of Agamar, to match the most common stereotypical depiction of the people of that world.

Face nodded, a head-bobbing motion more suited to a carrion bird than to a man. Wedge duplicated the motion. A moment later Donos caught on and did the same. The official looked between them as if mesmerized.

“I’m Dod,” Face said. He jerked his thumb at Wedge. “This is my brother Fod. Also from Agamar.” He gestured at Donos the same way. “This is my brother Lod.”

“Also from Agamar.”

“Oyah. That’s right. You’re pretty sharp for a city man.” The official shook his head with the motion of someone
resigning himself for a long, long day at work. “Your business on Storinal?”

Face beamed. “Women.”

“Entertainment, then.”

Face looked indignant. “No.”

“Business?”

“No! That’s not the sort of business we’re in.”

Wedge said, “Brides.”

Donos, keeping his voice low, repeated, “Brides.” He stretched the word out as though it had some cosmic significance.

Wedge said, “There are only six beautiful women on all Agamar. And they’re all married.”

Face said, “There are only five.”

Wedge shook his head adamantly. “Six.”

“Five. Ettal Howrider got shot.”

“Gentlemen …”

“Who shot her?”

“Her cousin, Popal Howrider.”

“I thought he was still laid up from getting bit and the wound festering and all. That awful smell …”

“Gentlemen!” The official’s color had risen. “I’m going to put ‘Entertainment’ on your temporary visa. If you’re not here to do financial transactions with someone, you’re here for ‘Entertainment.’ You understand?”

Face nodded agreeably, and again Wedge and Donos matched his bobbing motion. “Oyah. We understand.” Then Face caught sight of something off to the side. “Look at that!”

Everyone, the guards included, looked in the same direction, but the only thing to see was the motion of people walking inside the near bunker, just on the other side of a gallery-length window.

The official asked, “What?”

Face grabbed his tunic, pulled him close, pointed. “Her, her! She’s nearly naked!”

One of the passersby was in a golden, reflective garment that showed a considerable quantity of leg and shoulder.

The official tried to pull himself free. “That’s merely summer wear, sir—”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know.” The man tried to pry Face’s hand off but made no headway. He cast a beseeching look over his shoulder toward one of the guards, and Wedge tensed, but the armor-plated trooper didn’t move. He was, Wedge saw, shaking with laughter.

“You don’t know her name? You live in the same village with her!”

The official finally got Face’s hand free. “It’s a city, not a village, and it’s too large for me to know everybody.” As quickly as he could, he cycled Wedge’s and Donos’s cards through the reader.

“That’s not very neighborly.” Face accepted the cards and passed them out among his brothers. “Say, if you could direct us to where the beautiful women looking for husbands are, it’d be worth a credit to you.”

The man looked at him, too drained to be stunned. “A whole credit.”

“Oyah. Always pay for the best, that’s what I say.”