Star Wars - [X-Wing 06] - Iron Fist (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)

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

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

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

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

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

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 g ave 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

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."

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 o f 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."

Gara Petothel rechecked the code for the last time, her atten-tion skipping back and forth across screens

of data, then sent the command to compile the ungainly-looking mess into what she hoped would be the

final version of her program.

A work of art, it was. It would transfer a number of pack-ets of encrypted data from her terminal deep in

the low-rent warrens of the city-planet of Coruscant to public computer repositories, disguising the data

as ancient archives of account-ing data. Then, once the trail back to Gara's terminal was cold, it would

transmit the data out across the New Republic Holo-Net, to HoloNet addresses Gara had committed to

memory weeks before... addresses that would lead eventually to the communications station of the

warlord Zsinj.

lf he a smart man, she thought, and by all accounts he is, within a few weeks I'!! have gainful employment

again. Away from this cesspool and away from the Rebel police and Intelli-gence agents-

A heavy knock fell on the door. She jumped. Sign of a guilty conscience, she thought, and tried to school

her features back into an expression of innocent curiosity. She switched off power to her terminal's

screen.

As she rose to answer the door, she looked into the mirror

to make sure she looked the part she was supposed to be play-ing. Her downy white-blond hair, cut

very close, still seemed odd to her, as was the absence of a mole she'd carried on her cheek since

childhood-a mole she had secretly had removed when preparing this identity. No, this identity shared

only a certain delicacy of features with Gara Petothel, and hair and makeup were sufficiently different that

no one should recog-nize her in the time it would take her to leave. She opened the door.

Two Rebel pilots stood outside, both in pilot's jumpsuits topped with transparent slickers more suited to

Coruscant's frequent thunderstorms. One had saturnine features and a prosthetic faceplate over the upper

left half of his face, a red glow where his left eye would have been. The other would have been startlingly

handsome, with luxuriant dark hair framing intelligent, active eyes and features suited to raising heart

rates, but his face was marred by a puckered scar-a blaster graze, she guessed-running from his left

cheek to his right forehead.

She knew the one with the faceplate, and it was he who spoke first. "Lara Notsil." It was a statement, not

a question.

"Yes." She looked beyond them, to the pedestrian traffic in the tenement hallway. Though her tiny

quarters were on the fortieth floor of a building, this hallway was part of a tube ac-cess allowing people

to walk across kilometers of Coruscant at this altitude, and traffic was always heavy. Her hallway was a

place of thefts and assaults, but also a way for her to lose her-self quickly in a crowd, which is why she'd

chosen it.

She returned her attention to her visitors. "It's Lieutenant Phanan, isn't it? From the hospital on Borleias?

Please, come in before someone sticks a vibroblade in you." She backed away and allowed them to

enter, then shut the door against the ceaseless stream of humanity outside.

"Actually, it's just Flight Officer Phanan," her visitor said.

"The smart one here is the lieutenant, Garik Loran."

She froze in mid-handshake and gave the other pilot a closer look. It was him, and it embarrassed her,

the way she suddenly felt light-headed. "The Face? You're still alive?"

Face gave her a smile. She knew it was an actor's smile,

carefully rehearsed to suggest amusement, comradeship, and

attraction, but despite the fact it did not fool her, she was still half washed away by the emotions it

caused. She felt as though she'd just been invited into his intimate acquaintance. Her light-headedness

worse than ever, she sat heavily at her termi-nal chair.

"That's me," Face said. "I get that a lot. No, the story of my death was a sort of propaganda thing

cooked up by the Empire to make people think the Rebel Alliance was full of evil people who'd kill a

child actor. I'm a pilot these days."

"Obviously." She struggled to bring herself under control. Remember, she thought. You're Lara Notsil

now. Farm girl from Aidivy. Former prisoner of Admiral Trigit. That what they're here for, more

debriefing on Trigit. Phanan had been there, one of the Rebels shooting at Implacable-shooting at me.

"Please, sit down. I'm sorry about the mess-it's hard to keep anything clean here. How did you find me?"

Phanan sat on the edge of the bed. Face took the only other chair. Phanan said, "Anyplace you can walk

or sit with-out sticking to everything is very hygienic by low-level Corus-cant standards. Believe me, we

know. As for finding you-we asked around New Republic Intelligence. They said you'd been discharged

and had declined transportation back to your home-world. We ran a search on the worldnet looking for

your name and recent employment application. You're working as an in-formation processor for a

shipping concern?"

"Yes. It pays"-she gestured at the tidy squalor around her-"for all this."

Face said, "How would you like a better job and the chance to live in better conditions?"

"I'd like that. What would I have to do?"

"Go through New Republic pilot training. The full academy

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DRAMATISPERSONAETheWraithsCommanderWedgeAntilles(Leader,One)(humanmalefromCoreIlia)l,ieuteuantWesJanson(Three)(humanmalefromTaanab)LieutenantMynDonos(Nine)(humanmalefromCoreIlia)LieutenantGarik"Face"Loran(Eight)(humanmalefromPantolomin)LieutenantKellTainer(Five)(humanmalefromSluisVan)Hohass"Runt"Ekw...

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Star Wars - [X-Wing 06] - Iron Fist (by Aaron Allston)

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