Star Wars - X-Wing 06 - Aaron Allston - Iron Fist

Iron Fist

(Star Wars: X-Wing Series, Book 6)

by Aaron Allston

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DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The Wraiths

Commander Wedge Antilles (Leader, One) (human male from CoreIlia) l,ieuteuant Wes

Janson (Three) (human male from Taanab) Lieutenant Myn Donos (Nine) (human male from

CoreIlia)

Lieutenant Garik "Face" Loran (Eight) (human male from

Pantolomin)

Lieutenant Kell Tainer (Five) (human male from Sluis Van)

Hohass "Runt" Ekwesh (Six) (Thakwaash male from Thakwaa)

Ton Phanan (Seven)(human male from Rudrig)

Voort "Piggy" saBinring (Twelve) (Gamorrean male from

Gamorr)

Tyria Sarkin (Eleven) (human female from Toprawa)

Castin Donn (Two) (human male from Coruscant)

Shalla Nelprin (Ten) (human female from lngo)

Dia Passik (Four) (Twi'lek female from Ryloth)

Lara Notsil (Thirteen) (human female from Aidivy)

Rogue Squadron Support Personnel

Cubbet Daine (human male from CoreIlia, squad mechanic)

Chunky (Tyria's R5 unit)

Gate (Wedge's R5 unit)

Squeaky (3PO unit, squadron quartermaster)

Tonin (Lara's R2 unit)

Vape (Face's R2 unit)

New Republic Military

Colonel Atton Repness (human male from Commenor)

Captain Onoma (Mon Calamari male from Mon Calamari)

Captain Valton (human male from Tatooine)

Zsinj's Forces

Warlord Zsinj (human male from Fondor)

General Melvar (human male from Kuat)

Captain Todrin Rossik (human male from Coruscant)

Captain Vellar (human male)

Captain Netbers (human male)

Captain Raslan (human male)

Lieutenant Bradan (human female)

The Hawk-bats

General Kargin (human male)

Captain Seku (Twi'lek female from Ryloth)

Lieutenant Dissek (human male from Alderaan)

Lieutenant Kettch (Ewok male from Endor)

Qatya Nassin (human female)

Morrt (human male)

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1

He made no pretense at being fully human. He had probably been born human, but now

mechanical limbs-obvious pros-thetics 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 com-puter interface.

He made no pretense at being friendly, either. He ap-proached 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

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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

mus-tache, 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 con-trast. 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 condi-tioning, 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 at-tacker'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 semiper-

manent smoky haze hovering at chest level and above permit-

ted 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 in-

visible 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

straight-ened, obviously in pain.

Then the bar was filled with uniforms-a stream of men and women pouring in the main

entrance, dressed in the dis-tinctive 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 Corus-

cant. 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 represent-

ing Coruscant's sky, but all he could see were clifflike building

sides rising to infinity. Awnings, high roads, bridges between

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skyscrapers, and other obstacles blocked out any glimpse of clouds far above, yet still the rain

came down, much of it proba-bly 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 view-ports, 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 CoreIlia. 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 commit-tee" 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, imme-diately 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 pis-

tols clearing leather behind him. He grabbed the cyborg and swung around, hauling the

startled assailant into position be-tween 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 cy-borg

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.

Wedge got his hand on the blaster, swung around, snapped off a quick shot that took his other

guardsman, now rising, in the throat and threw him back to the grimy duracrete. That gave

Wedge a clear view of the impromptu battlefield, Wraiths struggling with military policemen.

"Nobody move!" That was Ton Phanan, miraculously unharmed, holding the blaster rifle

previously owned by one of their captors-that man, Wedge saw, was staggering away, his

eyes glassy, his hands clutching his own throat, trying fu-tilely to arrest the tide of blood

seeping between and around his fingers.

The MPs paused, saw the gun aimed at them... and, one by one, relaxed to drop their arms or

ceased struggling with the Wraiths.

Face Loran, his voice in a reasonable tone Wedge knew to be forced, answered, "He didn't

walk like a Corellian."

They were now in a debriefing room in Starfighter Com-

mand Headquarters, a room as spotlessly white and clean as

the bar and street had been filthy. A colonel Wedge didn't know

was conducting the interview, but Admiral Ackbar, commander-

in-chief of New Republic military operations, was also seated

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at the interrogators' table. Though Ackbar was a Mon Cala-marl, a species with huge, rubbery

features that seemed more fishlike than humanlike, he was a friendly presence in Wedge's

estimation.

"That's not enough justification to attack someone with proper credentials," the colonel said.

Face stiffened. "Respectfully, sir, it is when I'm correct."

"Don't be preposterous. You can't classify a man's home-

world just by looking at him." "Yes, I can, sir."

The colonel, a middle-aged man with a face creased by too many years of waging war against

the Empire, looked dubious. But without speaking, he stood, walked backward from the

table, and then walked back and forth a half-dozen paces.

"Hard to say," Face said. "If you had any distinctive walk-ing mannerism from your

homeworld, you erased it with mili-tary training. At Vogel Seven, if I'm not mistaken. I'd say

that you were injured at some time in the past and had to learn to walk again-or maybe it was

a disfigurement at birth, cor-rected by surgery? I can't really tell."

The colonel resumed his seat. Surprise was evident on his face. "Correct on both counts. How

do you do that?"

"Well, I was an acton On top of that, I'm trained to recog-nize, analyze, and assume physical

mannerisms-just as I am with vocal mannerisms and a dozen other things. More im-portantly,

I lived several years on Lorrd, where my family is originally from. The Lorrdians practically

invented the art of conscious communication through body language."

Ackbar finally spoke up, his voice a not-quite-human rum-ble. "You admit, Colonel, that

Lieutenant Loran is capable of recognizing when someone's physical mannerisms do not

match his professed planet of origin?"

The colonel considered. "Well, it's low for a statistical sampling, but I'd say he demonstrates

considerable skill in that regard."

"Between that," Face said, "and the speed with which the

MPs reached the bar-which, I remind you, is close to bedrock

level, and not a place sensible New Republic military personnel

are usually near-I concluded that it was a deception. The cy-

borg was trotted out to start the trouble and make an MP ar-rest look legitimate; many pilots

have been run into jail while on leave exactly this way."

The colonel ignored the statement and turned to Phanan. "You defused the situation by

putting down one of the ersatz military policemen and seizing his weapon."

Wedge saw Phanan struggling with a reply-probably something to the effect of the colonel

being able to recognize simple facts when they played out under his nose-but re-straining

himself. Phanan merely said, "Yes, sir."

"That man died. Trachea cut, carotid artery cut. Yet the commander here says the MPs

disarmed you before leading you out of the bar. What did you use?"

"A holdout, sir. A laser scalpel. Hard to distinguish from a writing tool without close

inspection . . . and up close, I'm pretty effective with it."

"I'd say so. Did you surrender this weapon to our guards before coming before me ?"

"What weapon, sir ?"

"The laser scalpel."

"Not a weapon, sir. It's a tool of medicine. I wasn't asked

to turn over my bandages, bacta treatments, disinfectant sprays, or tranquilizers either, but I

can kill a man with any of them, under the right circumstances."

The colonel glanced at Wedge, a beleaguered look Wedge knew well from his own mirror-it

asked, What sort of unit have you assembled here? Wedge merely shrugged.

The colonel closed down his datapad. "All right. Pending the results of further investigation

into this matter, I'm going to release your squadron."

Wedge said, "Thank you, sir."

"How are your injured squad members? Ekwesh, wasn't it, and Janson?"

"Both in sick bay," Wedge said. "Runt Ekwesh has a mild concussion, and is thoroughly

embarrassed that Phanan knocked him down to keep him out of the fight. Lieutenant Janson

got a blaster crease across the ribs; he's got a bacta patch on it and will be fit for duty in a day

or two."

The colonel rose; Wedge and his subordinates followed

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suit. The colonel said, "I wish them every luck in getting back to duty as soon as possible." He

left unstated the obvious fact that he far preferred them facing Imperial stormtroopers and

warlord forces than the civilians of the planet Coruscant. An exchange of salutes later, he

departed.

Admiral Ackbar came forward. "Before you go: What are your thoughts on this matter?"

Wedge said, "I'd prefer to see what General Cracken's people get out of the survivors, but my

guess is Zsinj. We hurt him pretty badly when we destroyed the Implacable." That ship, an

Imperial Star Destroyer, belonged to Admiral Apwar Trigit, a subordinate of the warlord

Zsinj, who was now the chief enemy and target of the New Republic. "He's shown a vengeful

streak in the past, and has enough intelligence and contacts to mount a plausible-looking trap

like that. I'd say that he's figured out who Wraith Squadron is and has decided to make us

pay."

Ackbar nodded. "My own conclusion as well. I will leave the matter of protection of your

subordinates to you, Com-mander Antilles-I am sure you are fit to decide whether to complete

your leave or return to duty and the safer confines of Starfighter Command's barracks and

facilities. But I do have orders for you." He tapped the bulge of the datapad in his pocket. "I

have transmitted them to your datapad. I think you will find them to your liking; they play to

the, how should I put it, improvisational strengths of your new squadron."

Wedge smiled. "Those improvisational strengths are be-ginning to give me gray hairs,

Admiral. But thank you in spite of that." He let the smile fade. "1 hope I'm not being

presump-tuous, sir, but I was wondering if you'd heard anything about Fel."

Ackbar pulled out his datapad and tapped at it. Wedge wondered if the admiral really was

accessing data, or whether this was a delaying tactic, a moment to give him time to pre-pare

an answer.

Baron Soontir Fel had been the Empire's greatest star-

fighter pilot in the years after Vader's death. Leader of the elite

181st Imperial Fighter Group, he had bedeviled Rogue Squadron

on occasion, and had been a lethal weapon used against the

New Republic on many missions. Later, he had changed his al-liance to the New Republic

and had even been a part of Rogue Squadron.

What wasn't as widely known was that Wedge's sister Syal was Fel's wife. Or that both Fel

and Syal had disappeared, years ago. The 181st was theoretically now under the com-mand of

another Imperial officer, serving the coalition of Moffs and military officers that now acted as

the unofficial heir to the rule of what was left of the Empire. And this made Fel's sudden

recent reappearance, commanding portions of the 181st as part of the complement of

starfighters aboard Star Destroyer Implacable, particularly unsettling. Fel and many of his

pilots had escaped Implacable's fate and their location was now un-known to the New

Republic... but Wedge had a suspicion that Fel would be found serving Warlord Zsinj.

Ackbar met Wedge's gaze again and shook his head. "We have no news on any official

cooperation between the remains of the Empire and Zsinj. No idea why the Empire would

loan the One Eighty-first to the warlord. No news of Fel, the details of his return... or his

family. I am sorry. I will let you know if his name crosses my desk."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it."

In the hangar temporarily assigned to the vehicles of Wraith Squadron-seven battered X-wing

snubfighters, two battle-scarred captured TIE fighters, and a comparatively pristine-looking

Lambda-class shuttle-they explained the colonel's decision to the Wraiths who had not been

called in for the sec-ond stage of interrogation. "I hate to say it," Wedge said, "but leave is

effectively canceled. I want volunteers to act as guards for Runt and Wes until they're

discharged. I want someone on duty here with our vehicles until we lift for our next assign-

ment, and I want everyone walking around with eyes behind as well as in front. Understood?"

The Wraiths nodded. "I'11 work out a duty roster," Face said.

"Why you?" Kell asked.

Face smiled at the big man. "Because Janson's not here to

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do it. Because I was promoted two minutes ahead of you, so I outrank you. Check back with

me in a few minutes and I'll have assignments ready to transmit."

As the Wraiths moved their separate ways, Phanan threw

his arm over Kell's shoulder. He looked at Tyria. "Tyria, if

you'd excuse us for a moment, I have a few words to say in pri-

vate to your toyfriend-"

She gave him an arch look. "My what?"

Kell straightened, causing the shorter man's arm to slide

off, and glared. "Her what?"

"What did I say?" Phanan shrugged. "A few moments."

She shrugged and moved to her X-wing.

"Did you catch the name of the colonel?" Phanan asked.

Kell's scowl turned from irritation to confusion. "I don't

think Commander Antilles mentioned it." "Repness."

Kell glanced over at Tyria, but she had one of her snub-fighter's engine ports open and was

intent on the machinery within. "That's the name of the trainer who tried to get her to steal an

X-wing. Before she joined the Wraiths."

"The same. I checked on him as we were marching back from the interrogation. He's still

training pilots, now here on Coruscant, though he's about to be assigned to the training frigate

Tedevium. He has other duties as well, mostly high-profile volunteer stuff not unusual for an

ambitious officer. He was officer of the day today for the subbase the military po-lice belong

to, which is why he debriefed us on the incident."

Kell took a deep breath. Atton Repness was an instructor for New Republic pilot trainees who

were on the verge of washing out of the training program. He had a reputation as being good

at salvaging pilots thought unsalvageable. But Kell and Phanan knew that he had secretly

altered Tyria's failing grades to make them passable, then tried to enlist her in an ef-fort to

steal an X-wing, and had used the revelation of the grade forgery to blackmail her into

silence. "You wouldn't have mentioned him if you didn't already have a plan," Kell said. His

voice was hard.

Phanan smiled. "That's what I like to hear. Acknowledg-

ment of my superior intellect along with a desire to hurt some-body else very badly. It's a

good day for me.

"Yes, I have a plan. We know of one and only one tactic he has used. He approached a

struggling pilot candidate, female, attractive-we don't know whether those characteristics are

important to his thinking, but let's put a skifter in the deck and make sure-and helped her two

ways. Extra training, for le-gitimate gains in her scores, and doctoring of her grades, to en-

sure she passed... and to ensure that she was in debt to him, or could at least be blackmailed

into silence. If we wave some bait around in front of him, maybe he'll snap at it."

"Bait." Kell scowled and leaned against the strike foil of the nearest X-wing. "Phanan, I don't

know about you, but I haven't had enough time to make enough friends and acquain-tances

that I can just snap my fingers and find someone with the qualities you're talking about."

"Ah, but you don't have my superior intellect, do you?"

"One more mention of your superior intellect and I'll make

it necessary for you to install a brain that's all mechanical."

Phanan leaned close, unfazed by or oblivious to the threat. "When I was in the hospital on

Borleias, the patient in the next room was a woman. A beautiful woman. A survivor off the

Implacable."

"So she's a military prisoner now? Ton, we can't break her

out of jail for your plan-"

"Not a prisoner now. She was a prisoner aboard the Im-placable. Admiral Trigit's mistress-

unwilling mistress. She was snatched off a planet colony Trigit bombarded into sand, she was

kept drugged... you can guess the rest." Kell grimaced.

"She had a whole lot to tell New Republic Intelligence about Trigit and his methods. A very

observant, intelligent young woman. Not to mention a beauty."

"You've already mentioned that she was a beauty."

"Yes, but I'm still not over her. I heard she was being

transferred to Coruscant for further debriefing. If we can find her and convince her to help..."

"We could sponsor her to pilot training and catch Colonel

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Repness in his same pathetic tactic." Kell glanced again at Tyria. "I'm in."

"Good. I'll see if I can track her down-Lara Notsil is her name-and then see if Face will keep

us off the duty roster long enough to talk to her."

"And if he won't?"

"I'll bring him in on the plan." Anticipating Kell's objec-

tions, Phanan hastily continued, "I won't mention Tyria by name. I can keep her out of the

story."

"Well... all right. Let's keep her out of this end of it, too."

"Done."

A day later, they reassembled in the same hangar, all the

Wraiths and more personnel besides.

Face looked over the newcomers with interest. Tallest among them was a human male, on his

head an untidy mess of straw-colored hair. Next was a dark-skinned woman with large, alert

eyes, a red bead tied to one lock of hair on her fore-head, and a broad smile that suggested

that every minute of every day she was thrilled to be alive. The last, and shortest, was a

Twi'lek woman, her features startlingly beautiful by hu-man standards but her red-eyed stare

forbidding, her brain tails hanging loose behind her instead of being draped over her

shoulders in the fashion of a Twi'lek among friends and allies. All three wore the standard

orange-and-white New Republic pilot's suit.

"Lots of news today," Wes Janson said, looking over his datapad. He was, Face saw, back to

his usual self, his eternally youthful features merry, no sign on them of discomfort from the

injury to his side. "Most of it good, some bad.

"Bad news: I'm back. Bad for me, because I was enjoying my rest, and bad for you, because if

some of you had been a lit-tle quicker, I wouldn't have been shot. Keep it in mind as I make

up assignments over the next few weeks."

He smiled at the chorus of groans that resulted. "Runt,

also, is fit for duty, which is probably both good and bad, be-

cause some of his personalities enjoy working and some

don't." The greatest mental peculiarity of Runt's Thakwaash species, now well known to the

Wraiths, was that most had multiple personalities-not caused, as they were among hu-mans,

by great emotional trauma, but occurring as a natural part of their mental development. Each

of Runt's personalities was adept at a different task, and new personalities tended to emerge as

he learned.

"We have new pilots to fill our roster." One of the Wraiths had died at the battle on the moon

of System M2398; two more had perished in the fight that destroyed the Implacable. "I

present to you Flight Officer Castin Donn, our new com-puter specialist." The blond-haired

man nodded cheerfully. Janson continued, "Castin is a native of Coruscant, so the next time

we decide to walk into a trap here, we'll take him along to make sure it's a better grade of trap.

"Flight Officer Dia Passik is a native of Ryloth." The Twi'lek woman nodded, looking among

the Wraiths as if to guess which one would attack her first. Janson said, "She has experience

with a broad variety of New Republic and Imperial vehicles, especially larger space vessels,

and knows quite a bit about criminal organization-she's a new resource for us where things

like smuggling, the slave trade, and mercenary opera-tions are concerned.

"Our third pilot is Flight Officer Shalla Nelprin-"

"Oh, no," Kell said. He banged his head against the fuse-

lage of Face's X-wing.

Janson looked vaguely amused. "You have something to say, Lieutenant Tainer?"

Kell stopped hammering the snubfighter for a moment.

"You're related to Vula Nelprin?"

The new Wraith's smile broadened, causing dimples to ap-pear. "She's my older sister."

"And your father trained you, too?"

"Yes... though I think I'm a little better than Vula."

Kell sighed. "I think I've told you all about my hand-to-

hand instructor in the commandos, the one who could throw me around as though I were a

dust rag without even letting me see her sweat-this is her sister."

- 10 -

Janson said, "This should come as no surprise to you, then: Nelprin is going to be our new

trainer in unarmed com-bat. You make her the best pilot she can be, and she gets to re-ward

you by beating the life out of you. But she's also well versed in Imperial Intelligence doctrine

and tactics, which is helpful to us, since Zsinj seems to be fond of employing Intelli-gence

personnel. Wedge ?"

Wedge said, "Make the new pilots welcome, Wraiths.

We're going to put them, and you, immediately to work on our new mission." He drew his

datapad from a pocket and punched in a command on its keys. "I've just transmitted to your

data-pads the details of our assignment... one which, unfortunately, won't take us off

Coruscant yet." He waved down the chorus of groans that resulted. "Sorry. But our results on

this task may determine where we're assigned next, so pay attention.

"Our efforts in tracking Admiral Trigit and insinuating ourselves into his confidence have

gone over very well with High Command. We've demonstrated that we have both skill and

luck on our side. But now we have to prove it beyond a doubt.

"We're going to divide ourselves into three groups. Each group is to ask the following

questions: What is Zsinj up to? What are his specific plans and strategies? Once you've

arrived at a set of theories, we'll put them to the test: We'll go out into the field and look for

evidence to corroborate the best of the theories.

"I'm choosing three of you to head these groups based on your ability with tactical thinking

and skill in getting into your enemies' heads." Wedge nodded toward three pilots in turn.

"Runt, you're Zsinj-One. Piggy, you're Zsinj-Two. Face, you're Zsinj-Three. Choose your

teams and confine yourselves, as much as possible, to research resources available here at

head-quarters. Questions?"

Janson's hand went up. "Are we going to be working with Rogue Squadron on this?"

Wedge nodded. "Once we're off-planet, yes, but not in the theoretical phase. The Rogues are

being assigned to General Solo on the Mon Remonda to look for Zsinj; once we get out into

the field, we'll work with them as circumstances demand."

Tyria was next. "Have they found out whether it was Zsinj who arranged the ambush on us?"

Wedge managed a sour smile. "The survivors of that little operation have been free with their

information. But none of them knew who they were working for except the organizer, who

assembled them as a team, trained them for this opera-tion, and led the mission. He was the

one whose throat Phanan cut."

Phanan didn't look abashed. "Oops."

"General Cracken's field investigators are trying to back-track their expenditures and

movements; maybe that will turn up some leads for them. Not our problem. Anything else?

No? Dismissed."

In the organizational chaos that followed, Runt chose Kell and Tyria as his partners; Face

took Phanan and Janson; and Piggy chose Myn, and rounded out his group by adding

Squeaky, the unit's 3PO quartermaster, to his roster. By silent agreement, each of the three

virtual Zsinjes took one of the new squadron members: Runt took Shalla, Piggy chose Castin,

and Face took the Twi'lek Dia.

"And may the best Zsinj win," Face said. "Until he runs into Wraith Squadron, that is."

Star Wars - X-Wing 06 - Aaron Allston - Iron Fist

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