Star Wars: X-Wing VII: Solo Command Page 15

  “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 Imperial naval lieutenant bowed to him. “Captain Loran? The admiral 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 ostentatiousness 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 productions. 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 having 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 I 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 officially 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 for 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 working 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.”

  “Interesting. Thank you for your candor.” Face stood.

  Rogriss nodded. He gestured at the tabletop. “Would you care to pack a lunch before you go?”

  Face laughed.

  • • •

  In the hours of what would have been night on Coruscant—the timing by which Mon Remonda’s activities were scheduled—Solo and Wedge met in the general’s office.

  Solo looked as tired and dispirited as Wedge felt. And, Wedge noted, not for the first time, when Solo decided to drop his mask of roguish irresponsibility—as he had now—he could look angrier than any man Wedge had ever met. That’s how it was now; while they’d been reviewing the attacks by the two Twi’leks, the general’s face had set in lines that would strike fear in the heart of a subordinate or an enemy.

  “Are you going to accept Rogriss’s offer?” Wedge asked.

  Solo’s features softened. He nodded.

  “Pending confirmation by Fleet Command?”

  “No. I have very broad powers regarding the search for Zsinj. I can do this without anyo
ne’s say-so.” Solo quirked a self-deprecating smile. “Until they decide that I’ve completely failed, I’m still a very important man.

  “Which reminds me. Since I still seem to be important to Zsinj, I’m going to go forward with this plan by your pilots to mock up a Millennium Falcon and see if we can lure Zsinj to us with it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. It has a chance.”

  Solo’s smile faded. “Whatever this Twi’lek madness is, it’s spreading,” Solo said. “A little before the assassination attempts against the two of us, Councilor Mon Mothma was nearly killed by her bodyguard, a Gotal. She’s badly injured. In the hours after that, there were two incidents of shooting sprees by Gotal soldiers, one in a barracks hall frequented mostly by humans, one in a holotheater. Dozens died. One of the killers was cut down by soldiers; the other turned his blaster on himself.”

  “Just as Tal’dira did,” Wedge said.

  “Huh? Corran Horn killed Tal’dira.”

  Wedge shook his head. “I saw this when I correlated all the sensory data from Tal’dira’s attack. In the instant before Corran Horn fired, Tal’dira shifted all his shield power to rear shields. His bow was unprotected. In a sense, he committed suicide.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. I can see a fanatical assassin killing himself after his objective is achieved—but not before.”

  “I don’t understand it either. Do you have anything on the cafeteria worker, Galey?”

  Solo grimaced. “No known motivation … which means probably money. No sign of contact with insurgents or enemies. He’s spent a lot of time since we left Coruscant on shuttle simulators. He might have been able to fly one of our Lambda-class shuttles out of here after he finished his job.”

  “But he’s the key. The fact that he was sent to kill Gast means that he was working for Zsinj. The fact that he was seen speaking to both Tal’dira and Nuro Tualin means that he was involved with them, and therefore with the whole supposed Twi’lek conspiracy, which makes it a certainty that Zsinj is behind that.”

  Solo took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, our knowing that doesn’t mean that everybody understands it. I have one more piece of news. Very, very unfortunate news.”

  He told Wedge.

  It was a few hours later, a few minutes after most of the pilots and civilian crewmen began their day shifts. In his own office, Wedge looked at the three good people he’d assembled and prepared to give them what might have been the grossest insult he could offer.

  Nawara Ven gave him a close, evaluative look. It was obvious to Wedge that he knew something bad was up. It was harder for him to read Dia Passik’s face. His chief mechanic, Koyi Komad, looked unsure.

  “I have orders from the Provisional Council,” Wedge said. “The effect on our immediate group is that I’m obliged to take you three temporarily off active duty.”

  Koyi registered shock. Dia’s eyes narrowed. Nawara Ven nodded, as though this were what he expected. “It’s because we’re Twi’leks,” he said.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Koyi’s voice climbed a register in indignation. “I don’t believe this.”

  “Believe it,” Dia said. “It’s fleetwide, isn’t it, Commander?” Wedge nodded.

  “So much for the human promises of equality among the species,” Koyi said. Her voice was bitter. “I don’t have to stand by and be treated this way. You know how many jobs, civilian jobs for a lot of money, I’ve turned down? But no, I transferred back to the Rogues. I stayed with you after Zsinj blew down Noquivzor Base on top of us and killed almost everyone I worked with. I did this because the Rogues were the spearhead of this cause I wanted to support. A galaxy where species didn’t matter. Now that’s gone.”

  “It’s not gone,” Wedge said. “It’s taken a body blow, but it’s not dead.”

  Koyi gave him a smile, but there was neither amusement nor friendliness in it. “So I’m off duty. I have some reading to do. May I be excused, sir?”

  Wedge nodded. “For what it’s worth, Koyi, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure it’s worth something, sir.” On her way out, she said, “Ask me in a year and maybe I’ll know what.”

  “I think I should go too, sir.” Dia rose.

  “How are you doing, Passik?”

  “The Provisional Council has just announced to all the New Republic that I’m not worthy.” Her red eyes flashed for a moment. Then she managed a smile. It wasn’t, like Koyi’s, a bitter smile. Wedge recognized it as mockery. “Fortunately, their opinion is worth nothing next to my squadmates’. I think I’ll go keep company with them. I’d do that any day rather than slum with the Provisional Council.” She saluted and left.

  Nawara Ven said, “That was a lot of insolence for you not to dress her down.”

  “I feel almost the same way she does. I’m not sure when the last time was I felt this low. I just can’t believe Tal’dira turning against us the way he did.” A memory jogged at him. “Can you tell me something? Does the phrase ‘one-leg-hopping maniac’ have any special meaning in Twi’lek culture?”

  Ven smiled. “You’re asking me?” He gestured down to the lower portion of his right leg, the one that had been amputated in Ven’s last mission as a Rogue Squadron pilot.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot about that. But, yes, I’m asking. It’s serious. It’s what Tal’dira called me just before he died.”

  “Oh.” Ven’s eyes lost focus as he stared back into his memory. “I can’t think of one.”

  “Odd. What would cause him—” Wedge’s eyes opened wider. “Cause. Effect. What’s the cause and what’s the effect?”

  “I’m not following you—”

  “It didn’t matter whether Admiral Ackbar died. Or Mon Mothma. Their assassins were successful.”

  “What? No, they weren’t.”

  “Yes, they were. Koyi Komad was their first victim.”

  Ven’s expression suggested that he was within seconds of calling in the medics to deal with his commander.

  “Get the Wraiths together,” Wedge said. “We’re going to conduct one of their insane speculation and planning sessions. Pilots’ lounge. And invite any Rogues who want to attend. As usual, with Zsinj, we have to dig one level farther down.” Wedge was in the corridor before Ven had a chance to rise to his feet.

  All the Wraiths were there, except Runt and Janson, whose injuries kept them in bacta-tank treatment for the time being, and so were Tycho, Hobbie, and Corran Horn of the Rogues. Donos decided that Tyria and Horn looked unusually glum, and couldn’t blame them. At least Tyria had someone to offer her support; Kell stayed next to her. The others were keeping a little distance between themselves and Horn; whether it was out of respect for his feelings or because of their own unease at being in the presence of someone who had just killed one of his squadmates, Donos couldn’t tell.

  Wedge walked in, his bootheels clattering. “So we know about a sudden rise in terrorist activity by Twi’leks,” he said without preamble. “We’ve determined to our own satisfaction that Zsinj is behind them.”

  Ven said, “Though we lack evidence to prove it conclusively.”

  “Not important for our discussion. Why is Zsinj doing this?”

  “To hurt the New Republic,” Kell said. “Losing Admiral Ackbar and Mon Mothma would be a serious blow.”

  Wedge took a seat and nodded. “Sure, it would. And they’d be replaced by people who probably aren’t quite as good as they are at their tasks. If everyone on the Inner Council were murdered, we’d have an Inner Council that was just a little less adept at doing what it does. Not exactly a master stroke on Zsinj’s part.” He leaned forward, still oddly intent. “This morning at six hundred hours I was obliged to relieve every Twi’lek aboard Mon Remonda of active duty. And that, I think, is what Zsinj wanted.”

  “To be rid of our Twi’leks?” Kell asked.

  Wedge shook his head, but it was Horn who spoke up. “Suddenly the Twi’leks are second-class citizens. Rumor has it that Gotals will be next
because of the attempt on Mon Mothma’s life and the follow-up shootings.”

  Lara said, “Twi’leks and Gotals don’t make up much of a percentage of the New Republic armed forces. They’re not even signatories to the New Republic; there are just a fair number of them in service. I mean, their loss is important, sure … but it’s not going to cripple the fleet.”

  “It’ll cripple the entire New Republic,” Wedge said. “Right now, it’s one species making up a fraction of one percent of the New Republic population. But we suddenly have a precedent that divides them from the New Republic. In their eyes, it casts humans as villains. To human eyes, the Twi’leks and Gotals are already starting to look like villains. What if, tomorrow, it’s a species that has been with the Alliance since the start of the Rebellion? An important contributor to the New Republic cause?”

  Donos saw the Wraiths and Rogues looking among themselves as the idea took root. He drew a breath. “Until this three-pronged attack on you, sir, and on General Solo and Dr. Gast, we had no real reason to believe that it was Zsinj’s work.”

  “Correct,” Wedge said. “It could have been an Imperial project, a criminal action, or an actual species-based conspiracy. But in trying to kill us under the same umbrella of this false conspiracy story, he’s shown his hand.”

  “Which does us no good,” Donos said. “We’re not going to be able to convince the Provisional Council of this theory.”

  “Why not?” Wedge looked challenged, rather than angry, at the statement.

  “Who’s going to convince them of it? Ackbar? He trusted the Twi’lek who almost killed him. Mon Mothma? She’s injured, not capable of leadership at the moment. Princess Leia? Off on some diplomatic mission. Han Solo? He’d have to leave the fleet, and abandoning his task is not the way to make the Provisional Council confident in him. You?” Donos repressed a wince at the words he’d have to say. “You, sir, also trusted the Twi’lek who almost killed you.”