Wraith Squadron (47 page)

“Don’t change the subject, Darillian. You follow best.”

Finally words sprang up on the main monitor. Face glanced over them, tried to look relaxed. “You follow best by
following from in front. Thus your prey never knows that he’s not actually the predator. Standard Imperial Intelligence doctrine.”

“You’re rather slow with a catchphrase that is practically a reflex among former Intel officers from Coruscant.”

Face began to sweat. He hoped Grinder’s visual translation program would not pass that particular imagery along. He made his tone a sad one. “Do you know how long it has been since I saw my home, sir?”

“Two years, seven months.” Trigit glanced off to the side. “And six days. Thank you, Lieutenant.” He returned his attention to Face. “Why is it that you don’t know something that should be second nature to Captain Zurel Darillian?”

“Because I’m not Captain Darillian,” Face said. At Trigit’s expression of surprise, he continued, “Not the Darillian who left home two years, seven months, and six days ago. Everything changed after I left the last time.” Data began spilling across his monitor, pertinent facts about the real Captain Darillian, as
Night Caller’
s bridge crew tried to keep Face ahead of Trigit’s prying questions. “I’m not the Darillian I was before the
Lusankya
fled Coruscant and my wife died in the disaster that followed. I’m certainly not the compressed set of data in your memory that
you
think is Captain Darillian.”

“You’re evading the question—”

Face continued as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. He glanced away from Trigit’s face, tried to inject even more gloom into his tone. “An irony to that, of course. That one woman I adored killed the other woman I adored. I’m sure someone finds it funny.”

“You’re—what did you say?”

Face returned his attention to Trigit. “When Ysanne Isard launched the Super Star Destroyer
Lusankya
from its berth on Coruscant, the building in which my wife and I made our home was among those destroyed.”

“I know that. It’s a matter of Imperial record. What was that you were saying about one woman you adored?”

Face could have cheered. He’d finally pulled Trigit off the tracks of his interrogation. “Oh, there’s no use hiding the
truth anymore. It can no longer hurt anyone. I loved my wife, Admiral, but Ysanne Isard was a goddess to me.”

“You’re joking.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“Of course. Several times.”

“I, too. And I was dumbstruck each time. By her intelligence, by her power, by the sense that she had destiny wrapped around her like a cloak. I would have given up everything for her—my family, my honor, my command, my name.” He shook his head ruefully. “It could never have been, of course. I was an insect under her eyes. I think everyone but the Emperor was. But I could dream.” He took a deep breath, straining the seams of his uniform, and let his eyes drift as his memory ranged back through time. “Just the smell of her. As clean as if she were as meticulous and uncompromising in hygiene as she was in every other area of her life. And a touch of perfume, something with spice but lacking any sweetness whatsoever—”

The admiral nodded, his expression fascinated. “Leather-wood. A scent few women can carry off.”

“That was it.” Face managed a sad smile. “And now both my loves are dead. One more reason to wipe the stain of the Rebellion from the galaxy. My reason, anyway.”

“I understand.” Trigit’s tone was solemn, soothing. “Yes, of course your TIE fighters may escort
Implacable
. I’ll leave you to your preparations, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Trigit’s hologram vanished. A moment later the comm system popped. The noise that came across it was not a voice, but the applause and cheering of many crewmen.

The smile that sprang to Face’s lips was not Darillian’s but his own. “Thank you, thank you. Performances every hour, on the hour. Imperial madmen a speciality.”

The communications officer announced, “Cargo carrier
Red Feathers
is passing through Ession’s outer security belt.”

Captain Atril Tabanne nodded. “That’s our contact.
Patch it through to all stations and all fighters. And put it up on the monitor. I want to see what she is.”

A moment later the auxiliary bridge’s main monitor glowed with the image of a decrepit, ancient container ship approaching one of Ession’s warehousing space stations.

Atril hissed. “I know that ship.”

“That’s not
Red Feathers,
” Janson said. His tone was one of amazement. “That’s
Blood Nest.
”

Indeed, the container ship approaching Ession was the pathetic Super Transport Mark VI that had served the pirates of M2398-3 as a base.

“I can’t believe they got it flying,” Wedge said.

“You’d better get to your fighters,” Atril said. “But first, I’ve had a bad thought.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” Janson said.

“My current orders are to get clear as soon as the Wraiths are away. The sensor jamming from that relay dish should make it hard for
Implacable
to target me.”

Wedge nodded. “Correct.”

“What if they’re smart enough to blast the dish a few seconds into the engagement? We’ll be an easy target.”

“I hadn’t considered that.” Now Wedge did. “Well, there’s a maneuver you can perform that will also foul up both their sensors and visual targeting systems.” He described it to her.

Atril glanced at her chief pilot, who shook his head. “Sir,” she said, “I’m not confident we can do something that sophisticated. We haven’t had enough time with this class of ship.”

“Atril, you’re the most experienced pilot of Corellian craft aboard.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I’m not. There is one who’s a lot more experienced.”

Falynn, dressed in her TIE fighter piloting gear, waited beside the escape pod access hatch to her starfighter.

She heard booted feet coming at a run, expected to see Commander Antilles race past her to his own starfighter access
—was surprised when the black-clad pilot turned out to be Atril Tabanne.

“Captain? What happened to the commander?”

Atril skidded to a halt beside her hatch and pulled her helmet on. “We traded. I’m Gray One now.”

“Another last-minute foul-up?”

“No, I think we averted one.” Atril disappeared into her hatch. Falynn followed suit.

Kell flipped switches, announced, “Five here. Four engines lit and showing green. Weapon systems at full power. All systems nominal.”

He heard similar reports from the pilots around him, nestled in the metal brackets in
Night Caller’
s bow hold. Grinder, Runt, Phanan, Donos, and Tyria reported go conditions. Face would join them for initial launch if feasible, or launch subsequently if not. Wedge, Falynn, Janson, and Piggy were supposed to be readying themselves in the four TIE fighters for their own surprise assault on the Star Destroyer.

His breathing was already accelerating, and they were still minutes from launch. He tried to calm himself.

He looked rightward and down. In the next row over, in the bottom rack, Tyria was going through her own start-up and checklist. She glanced his way, saw he was looking, blew him a kiss.

He forced a smile for her, turned away as he felt it turn shaky.

Lieutenant Gara Petothel looked up from her station in the crew pit and caught Admiral Trigit’s eye. “I think the old container ship is their delivery mechanism, sir.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s reporting structural damage from planetary gravity. Possible breakup. I say it loses structural integrity, breaks up … and when it blows, it rains X-wings.”

Trigit chuckled. “Not a bad tactic. Whether or not you’re right about this assault, I’ll have to remember that.”

She smiled and turned away.

“Communications, put up on our speaker any transmissions you receive to or from the container ship
Red Feathers
. Sensors, give us a visual lock on that cargo hauler.”

“Switching to speaker, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

Almost immediately a voice came over the bridge’s main speaker: “Negative, Ession Control. We’re showing failure all along the keel. Fissures widening. Hold atmosphere venting. That’s making it worse. We can’t hold together until you get rescue craft up here.” The voice sounded pained.

“
Red Feathers
, do you anticipate debris entering our atmosphere?”

“I’m afraid that’s an affirmative, Ession. We’ll do what we can to limit it. We’re going to set our self-destruct for five minutes and eject in an escape pod.”

“What about the mass of your hull and containers—”

“Hull won’t be a problem. Our self-destruct will reduce it so everything will burn up on reentry. Containers, too. I’ve transmitted our manifest. We’re not exactly hauling hundred-ton durasteel ingots up here. You’re mostly going to get a rain of manure.”

“Planetary communications protocols don’t allow me to answer that statement properly,
Red Feathers.
”

Admiral Trigit looked down at his navigator. “Plot their course. Report where they will be at the end of their five-minute countdown.”

“Yes, sir.” The navigator worked at his control panel for a minute. “Grid seventeen thirteen.”

“I mean, in relation to the Pakkerd Light Transport plant.”

“Oh.” The navigator sounded abashed. “Laterally, within fifty kilometers, plus or minus another fifty. At an altitude of a few hundred klicks.”

The admiral settled back, satisfied. “Lieutenant Petothel, award yourself a three-day pass.”

“At once, sir.”

“All pilots to their fighters.”

·  ·  ·

On
Night Caller’
s main monitor, and piped to secondary monitors in all the fighters and common areas, the ancient container ship called
Red Feathers
tumbled helplessly, its hull already deforming, as it reached the outer edges of Ession’s atmosphere.

An escape pod ejected and drifted away from the planet.

A minute later the first explosion rocked the cargo ship’s surface. Portions of the hull gave way. As the ship continued to rotate, tiny rectangles, standardized cargo containers each capable of holding a hundred tons of raw goods, tumbled free. With them were smaller, more irregular shapes.

Wedge activated the ship’s intercom. “Rogue, Green, and Blue Squadrons are emerging.” Green Squadron was a unit of Y-wing bombers from General Salm on the world of Borleias; Blue Squadron was a unit of A-wings commanded by General Crespin. Between them and the X-wings of Rogue Squadron, this mission was being handled by a versatile set of attack craft. “Gray Flight, stand by for the command from
Implacable
. Wraith Squadron, are you ready?”

Kell’s voice: “R-ready, sir.”

“You all right, Lieutenant Tainer?”

“Fine, sir. Something caught in my throat.”

The containers that had been ejected first began to glow from friction with the atmosphere.

Wedge’s comm officer turned toward him. “Transmission from
Implacable
. ‘Launch all TIE fighters.’ ”

“Acknowledge.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wedge hit the intercom. “Launch Gray Flight.”

Atril, Falynn, and Janson launched smoothly. Piggy was a little slower, more tentative. He brought up the rear, acting as Janson’s wing, but seemed to handle his TIE fighter competently.

Above,
Implacable’
s belly hangar was disgorging flight after flight of TIE fighters, Interceptors, bombers. Atril led her group in a climb that carried them far to the side of the
emerging streams of fighters, past the starboard leading edge of the Star Destroyer, and over the bow until they came to a halt fifty meters ahead of and above the point of
Implacable’
s prow. “Gray Flight on station,” she transmitted, and was very pleased to note that there was no quake in her voice.

She sat in a laser-armed foil can and waited for her chance to destroy one of the most powerful vessels ever created.

Wedge watched the sensors as seventy-two TIE fighters sped along the half-million klicks that separated Ession from her largest moon.

Meanwhile, more explosions, blasts that looked to Wedge’s eyes like carefully placed munitions rather than a self-destruct array, broke
Red Feathers’
s hull into huge sheets that began to tumble, burning, into the atmosphere. The entire cargo of containment units and smaller pieces of wreckage also descended.

All those pieces ignited as they fell, but only someone looking as closely as Wedge was, with equipment as sophisticated, would see that thirty-six of those pieces ignited only at one end—their sterns—and descended in a controlled fashion that matched the fall rate of the debris.

The TIE fighters were nearly to the original site of
Red Feathers’
s destruction. Wedge activated the comm system. “Face, mount up. Wraiths, prepare to execute the Loran Spit-ball.” He stood and moved to the chief pilot’s seat; the officer yielded it to him and moved to the secondary weapons console. Wedge asked him, “Ready for tractor duty?”

The young man cracked his knuckles and grinned. “It’ll be the biggest thing I’ve ever tried to tractor in.”

Face galloped down the narrow metal stairs into the bow hold and down to floor level. The other pilots, already sealed in, stared at him from their X-wing cockpits.

His fighter’s canopy was already open, but mounted as it
was in the holding brackets, it couldn’t open all the way. He bounded up the ladder someone had left for him, squeezed into the cockpit like a snake seeking safety, and twisted until he was in position to close the canopy and start the engines. “Wraith Eight lighting up. We have four good starts.” Outside, Cubber emerged from the shadow of Runt’s wing, grabbed up the ladder, saluted, and ran to the hold exit.

Wedge’s voice came back immediately. “Preparing bow hold for departure.” The lights went out; only a glow from the open doorway out of the hold lit the edges of the X-wings. As soon as it shut behind Cubber, the hold went dark.

Face’s canopy suddenly creaked as air pressure changed outside it.