Wraith Squadron (52 page)

Ackbar turned one eye toward him. “Why?”

“I was ashamed.” He wouldn’t have been able to say it a
week ago. Now, the words were difficult, but not impossible to utter.

“For not being able to save Jesmin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I came to thank you. When I read what you tried to do for her … well, it is cruel to learn one you love has died so far away from the heart of her clan, but at least I knew she was in the midst of good friends. Friends close enough to try such a thing.”

“She was, sir.”

Ackbar took a last, long look at the water, then rose. “Enjoy your leave, Lieutenant. Come back strong and invigorated. Warlord Zsinj is still out there.”

“I have a special greeting ready for him, sir.”

Ackbar made a gravelly noise like a chuckle and walked away from the sea.

At the top of the hill, Wedge waited in his skimmer.

The admiral climbed awkwardly in. “You’re still fully dressed, Commander. Shouldn’t you be wearing a scrap and enjoying the weather and the water as they are?”

Wedge set the skimmer in motion, wheeling it around toward the flat field where the X-wings and shuttles waited. “I’m not really as close to the Wraiths as I am to the Rogues, sir. I think I’d make them uncomfortable.”

“So, you are not ‘one of the lads’? More like a real officer? As intimidating as a general?”

“Oh, yes, our bet. Actually, I was rather hoping you’d take this opportunity to acknowledge that the Wraiths had ‘proven their worth,’ as you put it.”

“Your three months aren’t up, General. You are still in danger.”

Wedge smiled. “Admiral, that’s the story of my life.”

About the Author

A
ARON
A
LLSTON
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of novels in the
Star Wars:
Fate of the Jedi, Legacy of the Force, New Jedi Order, and X-Wing series, as well as the Doc Sidhe novels, which mix 1930s-style hero-pulp action with Celtic myth. He is also a longtime game designer and in 2006 was inducted into the Academy of Adventure Gaming Arts & Design (AAGAD) Hall of Fame. He lives in Central Texas. Visit his website at
AaronAllston.com
.

Books by Aaron Allston

Galatea in 2-D
Bard’s Tale Series (with Holly Lisle)
Thunder of the Captains
Wrath of the Princes

Car Warriors Series
Double Jeopardy

Doc Sidhe Series
Doc Sidhe
Sidhe-Devil

Star Wars: X-Wing
series
Wraith Squadron
Iron Fist
Solo Command
Starfighters of Adumar

Star Wars: New Jedi Order
series
Rebel Dream
Rebel Stand

Star Wars: Legacy of the Force
series
Betrayal
Exile
Fury

Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi
series
Outcast
Backlash
Conviction

Terminator 3 Series
Terminator Dream
Terminator Hunt

STAR WARS—
The Expanded Universe

You saw the movies. You watched the cartoon series, or maybe played some of the video games. But did you know …

In
The Empire Strikes Back
, Princess Leia Organa said to Han Solo, “I love you.” Han said, “I know.” But did you know that they actually got married? And had three Jedi children: the twins, Jacen and Jaina, and a younger son, Anakin?

Luke Skywalker was trained as a Jedi by Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda. But did you know that, years later, he went on to revive the Jedi Order and its commitment to defending the galaxy from evil and injustice?

Obi-Wan said to Luke, “For over a thousand generations, the Jedi Knights were the guardians of peace and justice in the Old Republic. Before the dark times. Before the Empire.” Did you know that over those millennia, legendary Jedi and infamous Sith Lords were adding their names to the annals of Republic history?

Yoda explained that the dreaded Sith tend to come in twos: “Always two, there are. No more, no less. A Master, and an apprentice.” But did you know that the Sith didn’t always exist in pairs? That at one time in the ancient Republic there were as many Sith as Jedi, until a Sith Lord named Darth Bane was the lone survivor of a great Sith war and created the “Rule of Two”?

All this and much, much more is brought to life in the many novels and comics of the
Star Wars
expanded universe. You’ve seen the movies and watched the cartoon. Now venture out into the wider worlds of
Star Wars
!

Turn the page or jump to the
timeline
of
Star Wars
novels to learn more.

1

He made no pretense at being fully human. He had probably been born human, but now mechanical limbs—obvious prosthetics with no skinlike cover concealing their artificial nature—replaced his right arm and both legs, and the upper-right portion of his bald head was a shiny metal surface with a standard computer interface.

He made no pretense at being friendly, either. He approached the members of Wraith Squadron as they sat, crammed into their booth, and with neither threat nor comment he snatched a wine bottle from the next table over and brought it down on Runt Ekwesh’s head.

The bottle didn’t break. It offered a musical
toonk
sound and coughed up a little wine from its open neck, and Runt, the furred alien with the long, big-toothed face, slumped in his seat, his eyes rolling up in his head.

Most of the members of Wraith Squadron were pinned in place—with nine pilots crammed into a circular booth built for five, they had little room to move. But Kell Tainer, seated at the opposite end of the ring from Runt, scrambled to his feet.

Instead of diving toward his wingmate’s attacker, instead of charging with a fist cocked back to punch the man, he slid sideways toward his target, then came up in a side kick that caught the cyborg under his chin and lifted him clean off the floor, slamming him to the bar’s floor.

Most of the members of the squadron slid out of the booth in Kell’s wake. Other patrons of the bar, human and otherwise, also rose, their expressions suggesting they were unclear on whether to join in this traditional form of bar entertainment.

Commander Wedge Antilles, the squadron’s leader, stayed put. He turned toward the squadron medic, Ton Phanan—the man with the mocking manner, well-trimmed beard and mustache, and prosthetic plate over the left side of his head. “How is he?”

Phanan shook his head as he delicately moved his fingers across Runt’s skull. “I don’t think anything’s cracked. He’s probably just concussed. You knew he had a hard head.”

The cyborg was up now. He and Kell were an odd contrast. The cyborg looked like a fatal skimmer-and-pedestrian accident whose remaining parts had been cobbled together by an insane mechanic, while Kell, with his classic blue eyes and sculpted features, his formidable height and obvious conditioning, looked like a holoposter for military recruitment. But their smiles were identical: humorless, cold, threatening.

The cyborg reached into the next booth, past bar patrons who shrieked and ducked away, and yanked free the table bolted to the floor. He hauled it backward, then swung it faster than any human could manage, but Kell ducked forward, rolled under the table, came up on his feet a mere hand span in front of the cyborg, and planted one-two-three blows in his attacker’s gut. The cyborg staggered backward and Kell lashed out with a foot, kicking the table from his fingers with an ease that made the move look casual.

The other bar patrons seemed to settle on a consensus: They held back and began putting down bets. Wedge nodded over the wisdom of that choice. Though the Wraiths were in civilian clothes, it was obvious they were in good condition, and for all the patrons knew, Kell might be only typical of their fighting skill rather than one of their best hand-to-hand fighters.

Piggy, the Gamorrean pilot, leaned back against the Wraiths’ table to watch the proceedings—to the extent that the semipermanent smoky haze hovering at chest level and above permitted easy viewing. He glanced over his shoulder at Runt. “Is he hurt?” His voice emerged both as incomprehensible grunts and as electronic words, the latter being emitted by a nearly invisible speaker implanted in his throat.

“Everybody asks that,” Phanan complained. Through with his examination of Runt’s skull, he now shone a small light into Runt’s eyes one by one. “Nobody ever says, ‘What a mess! I hope the doctor is not emotionally harmed by having to deal with it.’ He’s coming around. He’ll probably be dizzy for a few days. I need to look up information on how his species deals with concussions.”

The cyborg’s next punch, the second part of a skillful one-two combination, connected with Kell’s midsection. The big man spun as he was hit, diminishing the punch’s power, and used that spin to add force to his reply, a snap kick. The cyborg took it in the sternum and staggered back, looking outraged. Kell bent over, holding his stomach where hit, and then straightened, obviously in pain.

Then the bar was filled with uniforms—a stream of men and women pouring in the main entrance, dressed in the distinctive outfit of New Republic Military Police.

Wedge sighed. “As deep as we are, they arrived pretty quickly.”

Phanan held a small rose-colored vial full of liquid under Runt’s broad, flat nose. The nonhuman’s nostrils flared and he jerked, reflexively trying to get away from the smell. “Easy, Runt,” he said. “We’re about to go somewhere you can relax for a few hours. In the company of some charming people, too, I’ll bet.”

Wedge grinned.

The military police led them out of the smoke-filled bar into the only slightly less oppressive atmosphere of street-level Coruscant. It was raining, a steady spray of liquid that felt like three-quarters rainwater and one-quarter vehicle lubricant. Wedge looked up, trying to spot some distant speck of color representing Coruscant’s sky, but all he could see were clifflike building sides rising to infinity. Awnings, high roads, bridges between skyscrapers, and other obstacles blocked out any glimpse of clouds far above, yet still the rain came down, much of it probably runoff from rain gutters, vents, and flues far above.

Tyria Sarkin, the slender woman with the blond ponytail, grimaced. “It would be nice to be posted to a clean world next,” she said. Then she saw the military policemen gesturing toward the waiting skimmer, a slab-sided model without viewports, used to transport prisoners, and she obligingly followed the other Wraiths in that direction. Phanan, supporting the still-dizzy Runt, fell in behind her, and Wedge and the cyborg who had caused all the trouble brought up the rear.

Toward the front, Face Loran, the once-handsome actor whose face was now creased by a livid scar from his left cheek to his right forehead, noted the nameplate on the nearest MP. “Thioro,” he said. “That’s a Corellian name, isn’t it?”

The officer nodded. “I’m from Corellia. Born and bred.”

Face turned back toward Wedge and smiled. “Ah. Just like our reception committee back on M2398, eh, Commander?”

Wedge managed not to stiffen. The “reception committee” on the moon of System M2398’s third planet had not been made up of Corellians. It had, in fact, been a trap, an invitation to land that turned out to be a fatal ambush. Wedge nodded. “Just like it, Face. And just like then, I’m your wing.”

Wedge saw casual little glances exchanged between the Wraiths and knew they had all just become alert and ready—except, perhaps, the dazed Runt. Face hadn’t been Wedge’s wingman at the time. Face now knew Wedge was waiting for his move.

Face walked a little faster within the crowd of Wraiths, until he was at the front of the double line of prisoners, immediately behind the first pair of military policemen. He reached the rear of the prisoner skimmer, nodded at their gesture to board—and struck, slamming his fist into the throat of one MP, jumping on the other.

Wedge saw Kell strike out almost instantly, his side kick connecting with the side of his guard’s knee—and saw that joint bend sideways, a direction it was never meant to take. That guard screamed and fell.

No time to watch things unfold—Wedge heard blaster pistols clearing leather behind him. He grabbed the cyborg and swung around, hauling the startled assailant into position between him and the guards.

The guards fired, their blasters converging on the cyborg’s chest, charring it black. Steam and the smell of scorched flesh rose from the wound. Wedge shoved the fatally wounded cyborg into the guards, continued pushing, bowled them over—and saw one guard’s blaster go skidding across the duracrete of the sidewalk. He dove after it.

Noises he knew well: the
whuff
Piggy the Gamorrean made whenever he struck at someone in practice, followed by the impossibly loud, meaty noise his fist always made when it hit. Two blaster shots in quick succession. A howl from Runt. The man with the broken leg still screaming. Shrieks from passersby and the clatter of their feet as they retreated from the danger zone.