Solo Command Page 15

  A meaty fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him to the floor. He shook his head to clear it, belatedly realizing that it was hot caf in his face.

  Above him, the attacker looked at the wriggling bed and fired into it—twice, three times, four. There was a female shriek in the middle of that.

  Then the assassin turned to aim down at Ven.

  Ven kicked out, shoving against the bed frame, and slid out partway into the hall. The assassin's shot struck the floor­ing between his legs.

  Ven found himself between the two door guards, both slumped, dead. He grabbed at the blaster pistol still in the hand of the one to his left. He brought it it around, even as he saw the assassin aiming—

  Ven didn't bother to aim. He fired, heard the distinctive crackle of blaster beam frying flesh as his shot took the assassin in one ankle. The big man yelped, fell, his blaster aiming in straight at the Twi'lek—

  Ven fired again. This shot took the assassin right in the nose, snapping his head back, filling the chamber with even more burned-flesh odor. The big man fired, whether intention­ally or as a dying spasm Ven didn't know, and his shot hit the doorjamb.

  Ven rose. There was no more wiggling going on behind the bed. Knowing what he was likely to see, he pulled the bed from against the wall and looked at what lay beyond.

  "Polearm Two," Tyria said, "power down and announce your surrender or I'll blow you out of space." She toggled her S-foil switch and felt a hum as the foils assumed strike position.

  The A-wing heeled over and accelerated, moving behind the protective bulk of Mon Remonda, out of her sight.

  Tal'dira smiled as he heard the pure tone of a good targeting lock on Wedge's X-wing, but the noise garbled as Tycho slid in between target and prey. Tal'dira dropped relative altitude, hoping for a quick shot under Tycho, but the captain mimicked his move, remaining an obstruction.

  Now Tycho was an easy target, and so close—a proton torpedo would turn him into a billion fiery specks. But Tal'dira shook his head at the notion. Tycho wasn't his enemy. Tycho wasn't the traitor. "Captain Celchu, get out of the way," he said. "I have a job to do."

  He spared a glance for his sensor board. The other Rogues were staying in position—all but Rogue Nine, Corran Horn, who was moving out to a position some distance from the Rogue formation but not approaching.

  Tycho's voice came back. "Rogue Five, power down all weapons systems and return to Mon Remonda immediately or we will be forced to regard you as an enemy. And destroy you."

  "I'm not the enemy! Wedge Antilles is the enemy, that one- leg-hopping maniac! Celchu, clear my field of fire!"

  Wedge, his X-wing moving sluggishly, continued his loop around to starboard. Tycho kept on him, keeping stubbornly between him and Tal'dira. The Twi'lek pilot gritted his teeth, sideslipped port, then starboard, but Tycho was always there, in the way.

  Solo pushed off from his chair armature and staggered toward the door. Captain Onoma, approaching from the other side of the bridge, reached him and grabbed him.

  They made two steps, three, but then, as they neared the doorway, the wind increased—channeled tightly by the door­way, it was more ferocious the closer they got. Solo felt his for­ward motion stop; then his left leg slipped out from under him and he went on one knee. His ears popped as the air pressure continued to drop and his head felt as though it would burst.

  So close, so close—he and Onoma could reach out almost to the doorframe. But the roaring air stopped them dead.

  Dead.

  Then light from the corridor was partially blocked off and a long, hairy arm reached from the other side of the door to grip Solo's. It was like a fur-covered vise clamping over his wrist. It hauled and suddenly Solo and Onoma were both through the doorway, staggering into the corridor, still bat­tered but no longer endangered by the howling wind.

  "Chewie!" Solo turned back to his rescuer. He grabbed the doorframe with one arm, Chewbacca's waist with the other, helping pin the Wookiee in place.

  Chewbacca reached in again and hauled, dragging the bridge communications officer out. Then again, and again, yanking each bridge officer into the comparative safety of the corridor. There was an explosion from the bridge or from beyond it, and Chewie lurched backward, bleeding from the chest from what looked like shrapnel. The Wookiee shook off the sudden shock and looked back in. He bellowed, noises that would sound like an animal roar to most people but which Solo knew to mean "All out."

  "No, there's one left," Solo said. He looked around. "Go­lorno, sensors."

  "Dead," Onoma said. Even with the gravelly tones of Mon Calamari speech, Solo could make out the pain, the regret in his voice. "Out the viewport."

  Solo grimaced. "Chewie, let's get this door closed." He heaved against the metal barrier. Chewie flexed one arm and slammed the door closed.

  Tyria's sensors weren't much use. This close to Mon Remonda, she couldn't even detect Polearm Two as an individual ship. He had to be hugging the hull pretty closely.

  Perhaps if machinery couldn't help her, the Force could. She concentrated on Polearm Two, on his A-wing—

  No, that was wrong. She leaned back, cleared her thoughts.

  Closed her eyes.

  Mission, he had a mission. He was going to destroy the bridge or someone in it.

  She opened her eyes and banked toward the bridge, amid­ ships and topside ...

  As she cleared the horizon of the ship's curved hull, she saw the A-wing lining up for another shot at the bridge. Her targeting computer announced a clean lock on him.

  "Don't," she said. But there was no time for a lengthy plea, for words that might get through to reach this madman. A few more degrees of turn, and he was in line, poised, a beau­tiful target—

  She fired. Her proton torpedo hit and detonated before she registered that it was away. Polearm Two was suddenly nothing more than a bright flash and thousands of needles of superheated metal hitting Mon Remonda's skin and heading into outer space.

  "Captain, please," Tal'dira said. "It is not in my nature to be­ seech. I beg you get clear of my shot before I have to kill you, too."

  But the voice that answered was Corran Horn's, not Ty­ cho's. "Tal'dira, this isn't honorable. You shot him in the back."

  Tal'dira checked his sensor board. Wedge's maneuver was leading him back and around toward Rogue Nine. In just a few moments, he would be forced to run a head-to-head against Horn. Tal'dira shrugged. He could take the Corellian pilot. He could take anyone.

  Dishonorable. But that word burned at him. His first shot had been dishonorable. How could he have done that?

  Because Wedge, that one-transparisteel-leg-hopping trai­tor, had to die.

  But Tal'dira couldn't betray his honor to kill him. It was impossible.

  Yet he had. And he knew, deep in the portions of his mind still functioning, that he would again. He'd throw away his honor to kill Wedge Antilles. And he'd never turn away from his quest to kill his former commander.

  He heard a groan, knew it to be his own. That meant he would die without honor, shaming his family, shaming his world.

  No. He shook off the thought, raised his head. Honor above all.

  Wedge and Tycho were now heading straight for Corran Horn, Tal'dira tucked in neatly behind them. In another few moments, he'd be within good firing range of the Corellian.

  He adjusted his shields, then switched to lasers and opened fire on Tycho.

  Far ahead, Rogue Nine fired.

  There was a brilliant flash from behind Wedge. He glanced at his flickering sensor board.

  Rogue Five was gone.

  In other circumstances, he would have had words of praise for such accurate shooting. But no Rogue would accept praise for downing one of their own. Wedge felt sick. When he spoke, he was not surprised to find that his voice was raspy with his effort to keep his emotions in check. "Rogue Nine, are you fit to fly?"

  There was a moment's delay. "Fit, sir,"

  "Rogue Two, take the group in. You're in comma
nd. I'm going to swap out X-wings and rejoin you."

  "Yes, sir." Tycho didn't sound any less pained than Wedge.

  "Thanks, Two."

  "You're welcome, Leader. Rogues, Novas, form up on me. We're going in." Tycho banked away and Corran moved up in formation with him.

  8

  The mission, which had begun in disaster, ended in disaster, but not for Solo's forces.

  The A-wings of Polearm Squadron identified and strafed numerous sites of Raptor activity on the ground at Jussafet Four. Raptor shuttles were caught on the ground and shot to pieces, their occupants scattered, easier prey for the Jussafet ground forces. Soldiers deposited by shuttles, with air support provided by Wraith Squadron, overran and took the Raptor base camp near the Jussafet capital.

  Rogue and Nova Squadrons, led initially by Captain Celchu, then by Wedge Antilles once the commander returned to the combat in Wes Janson's X-wing, cruised through the asteroid belt, wreaking havoc on the sparse units of TIE fighters and single corvette Zsinj's forces had deployed.

  By monitoring the escape vectors of the smaller vessels chased off by Rogue Squadron, the crew of Mon Remonda, working from the vessel's auxiliary bridge, was able to deter­mine the position of the assault fleet and give chase. The fleet consisted of two sturdy Carrack-class cruisers and a heavily modified cargo vessel... and as these three vessels detected the approach of the Mon Calamari cruiser, they turned spaceward and entered hyperspace.

  No words of thanks came via comm from the Jussafet defenders—small wonder, since this was an Imperial world, its defenders doubtless looking on their liberators with as much suspicion as gratitude—but most of the starfighters picked up anonymous transmissions expressing thanks, sometimes wrapped in profanity directed against the New Republic.

  Han Solo directed the soldiers on Jussafet Four to appro­ priate any Raptor vehicles and prisoners they could, leaving the rest for the planetary defenders.

  Wedge, bone-weary—and not from the hours he'd spent in the cockpit—had the Rogues lined up for final approach to Mon Remonda when the word came. "Sensors show an Imperial Star Destroyer leaving hyperspace and entering the Jussafet system. It's still outside the system's mass shadow and can turn and run at any time. It's approaching slowly."

  "Thanks, bridge. Rogues, form up on me. We'll cruise out that direction." Cruise was about right—the Rogues didn't have enough fuel left for another protracted trip and dogfight. The Rogues took up position and headed out at a pace that, for them, was quite leisurely.

  A few minutes later, a new voice took the comm, Solo's. "Rogues, return to Mon Remonda. Star Destroyer Agonizer is communicating. They want to have a face-to-face with you, Rogue Leader."

  Wedge raised an eyebrow. "Is Agonizer a Zsinj unit or Imperial?"

  "According to our latest records on this ship, about a year old, she's Imperial."

  "Interesting. I guess I'd better go over and see what they want."

  "Negative, negative. You're too likely a prospect for as­sassination. Me, too. I've transmitted a recommendation that Captain Onoma make the visit. Wait a second." The delay was nearly a minute. "They didn't like that idea. Probably because he's Mon Calamari. They're willing to accept someone out of your squadrons."

  Wedge ran a roster review in his mind. His Rogues were bone-tired, and he really needed to gauge their reaction to Tal'dira's death ... and find out what had led up to it. "Ask Face Loran to volunteer. I think he'll satisfy their requirements." "Done. Come on back in."

  Face had been part of a mission that had landed aboard a Star Destroyer before—in his case, the Super Star Destroyer Iron Fist—but then he'd been in disguise, an apparent ally of the people he was visiting. This time he came as an enemy under temporary truce, and he could feel his heart rate increase as his X-wing rose into the hangar bay in the underside of the gigan­tic vessel. On repulsorlifts, he drifted laterally toward the Im­perial officer waving the glow rods, and set down where the man directed, between two half squadrons of TIE fighters.

  As he climbed down the ladder from his cockpit, an Impe­ rial naval lieutenant bowed to him. "Captain Loran? The ad­ miral is waiting."

  "Good." Face returned the bow. Then he looked up at his R2 unit. "Vape, if anyone comes within three meters, activate self-destruct."

  His astromech gave him a happy beep in the affirmative. With luck, none of these Imperials would actually risk such an approach to determine that, in fact, this X-wing had no self-destruct mechanism.

  Two halls and two turbolifts later, the lieutenant led Face into a conference room. The oval table overflowed with food— cooked dishes, platters of fresh fruit, containers of wine, vases stuffed with fresh flowering plants. Struck by the ostentatious-ness of it, Face laughed before he could check himself.

  The room's sole occupant, a lean man, clean-shaven, of graying middle age, smiled from his chair behind one of the flower arrangements. "It is a bit pretentious, isn't it?" He rose, revealing that he wore an admiral's uniform, and approached, his hand out. "Still, appearances must be maintained. Admiral Teren Rogriss."

  "Garik Loran, Captain, New Republic Starfighter Com­mand." Face shook his hand.

  "And let me say I thought your holodramas and comedies were puerile, badly written things—though you rose above your material."

  "Of course they were puerile. They were Imperial produc­ tions. But thank you."

  The admiral barked a laugh. His amusement seemed genu­ine. He gestured for Face to sit. "Please, help yourself. Protocol demands I put it out, so we should eat it. But I won't keep you long. Time presses for me as I'm sure it does for you." Follow­ing Face's lead, he sat, and immediately helped himself to what looked like a plate of small boiled eggs drenched in some sort of syrup. "What I'm going to tell you is entirely unofficial. Make announcements about it, transmit queries to us along of­ficial lines, and we'll denounce it as typical Rebel lies. On the other hand, it does come down from the highest levels."

  "Go ahead." Face tried one of the eggs. The fluid dressing was tart and not sweet at all; the yolk had been replaced by some sort of meat filling, though he had not seen a seam on the boiled surface of the egg. It had the rich taste of something that took a fair amount of preparation and cost a lot, so only the wealthy forced themselves to think they liked it.

  "Our differences, Imperial and Rebel, are not going to go away. We'll be enemies until we die."

  "Probably."

  "But we both have a mutual enemy. It would profit us both to be rid of him. I am, in a sense, the counterpart of your General Solo."

  "You lead a task force whose goal is to get rid of Zsinj."

  Rogriss nodded. "Once we're done with him, we can go back to our very personal ideological differences, without hav­ ing to invite anyone else to play."

  Face snorted. "You're not like most of the Imperial officers I've talked to."

  "True. What do you think?"

  "I think it's a grand idea. But 1 can't speak, even unoffi­cially, for the New Republic. Or even for this fleet. All I'm au­thorized to do is listen, and to report what I hear to my commanders."

  The admiral smiled. From a pocket, he produced a data­card and slid it to Face. "Once we're out of system, you can reach me via HoloNet on the frequency and at the times this file indicates. If I receive a transmission from General Solo, di­rected personally to me, conveying any message whatsoever, then I will take it that you agree." "And then what?"

  "And then I transmit to you every piece of recorded data we have on Zsinj's campaigns. His strategic and tactical moves against worlds, what we understand of his overall strategy, what we know about his forces. And I'd expect a similar trans­mission from you. Each of us may know something about our mutual enemy that the other can exploit."

  Face nodded. "An interesting notion. And if it became of­ ficially known, you'd be executed for collaboration with the enemy."

  Rogriss nodded. He seemed so cheerful that Face might have been suggesting that his crew visit Coruscant f
or a bom­bardment raid. "As might your General Solo. But that's a worst-case possibility. Best-case is that Zsinj dies."

  "True." Face pocketed the datacard. "One last question before I leave. Why are Baron Fel and the One Eighty-first work­ ing with Zsinj ?"

  The admiral's face lost most of its good cheer. "I can't guess about Fel's motives. He defected to your side, then was gone for some years. Now he's defected from the Rebels to someone new. He's a compulsive traitor, I'd say. But I'll tell you this: He's not in charge of the One Eighty-first." "How is that?"

  "The real One Eighty-first is still serving the Empire with loyalty and skill, under Turr Phennir. Fel has assembled new pilots, called them the One Eighty-first, and slapped some red stripes on their starfighters to duplicate the fighter group's col­ors. Perhaps he thinks that he is the One Eighty-first, so wher­ever he goes, the group follows; that would be in keeping with the sort of colossal ego you see in fighter-group commanders. But it's not the truth."