Star Wars - X-Wing - Starfighters of Adumar Page 2

  "Well, then." Cracken took a datacard from a pocket and held it out.

  "Your orders. You and the pilots you choose will rendezvous with Allegiance at

  the coordinates provided here. Tell your pilots nothing about the mission

  until the rendezvous."

  Wedge offered him nothing but a steady stare. "I need this leave,

  General. This is no joke. Find someone else."

  "You need. Antilles, the New Republic needs. You've never turned your

  back on the New Republic in its times of need."

  Wedge felt his last hope slipping away, to be replaced by anger. "What's

  it like, General?"

  Cracken's expression turned to one of confusion. "What's what like?

  Adumar?"

  "No. What's it like to have so many resources? So that you can simply

  turn to your staff and say, 'I need so-

  and-so for this task. Find me the button I can push so he'll do whatever

  I say, regardless of what it costs him.' What's that like?"

  Cracken's face flushed. "You're coming dangerously close to

  insubordination, General."

  "No, General." Wedge took the datacard from Cracken's hand. "I'm not your

  subordinate. And what I'm coming dangerously close to is violence. Perhaps

  you'd better leave."

  Cracken stood there a moment, and Wedge could see him struggling against

  saying something further. Then the man turned away. The door opened before

  him.

  As he passed through it, Cracken said, "Pack your dress uniform, General.

  " Then he was gone.

  Wedge's X-wing and the three snubfighters accompanying him dropped out of

  hyperspace at the same instant.

  Unfamiliar stars surrounded them. But within visual range was something

  he recognizedthe white triangular form of an Imperial-class Star Destroyer, a

  1.6-kilometer-long package of destructive force.

  His sensor unit tagged it immediately as Allegiance, his expected

  rendezvous. But his heart rate still quickened a bit as he oriented his X-wing

  toward the vessel.

  For many years, Star Destroyers had been objects of dread among Rebel

  pilots. Wedge had fought against so many of them, participating in the

  destruction of some, losing friends to several. Over the years, the New

  Republic had captured a number of them, turning their awesome firepower

  against the Empire. Now they were almost a common sight in New Republic Fleet

  Command, but Wedge could never rid himself of the presentiment of evil he felt

  whenever he saw one.

  His comm unit beeped and words appeared on the text screenacknowledgment

  by Allegiance that they had recognized him, authorization for landing, and a

  small schematic indicating the small landing bay, suited for dignitaries,

  where they were supposed to put down.

  "Red Flight," he said, "we are cleared to land. Main starfighter bay.

  Follow me in."

  He heard acknowledgments from his three pilots, then began a long, slow

  loop around toward the Star Destroyer's underside.

  Almost immediat ely his comm unit crackled. "X-wing group, this is

  Allegiance. You, uh, seem to be off your approach vector for Bay Alpha Two."

  "Allegiance, this is Red Leader," Wedge said. "We're inbound for the main

  bay. By orders of the expedition commander." He let the comm officer stew over

  that one for a moment. He, Wedge, was the expedition commander.

  There was a moment of delayjust long enough, Wedge estimated, for the

  comm officer to make one short broadcast to the ship commander and get one

  short reply. "Acknowledged, Red Leader. Allegiance out."

  Wedge and his companions took up position beneath the gigantic vessel and

  rose within the spacious confines of the ship's main bay. Wedge hovered,

  ignoring the flight line worker beckoning to him with glowing batons, and took

  a look around.

  Starfighters stood ready to launch into battle A-wings, B-wings, X-

  wings, Y-wings, and even TIE fighters that had once fought the New Republic.

  Retrofitted with shields, the TIEs were now a common sight in friendly

  hangars. Mechanics worked briskly on fighters in need of repair or

  maintenance. The metal floors and bulkheads wore a dull sheen, showing age and

  wear but also cleanliness, rather than a shine suggesting that the captain was

  too concerned with appearance. These were good signs.

  The smaller bay they'd originally been directed to could have been put in

  tiptop shape for their arrival with comparative ease, but the state of affairs

  in the main bay was a better indicator of how the ship was being run, and

  things here looked good.

  Wedge finally allowed the worker to direct Red Flight to a landing spot,

  near the vessel's single squadron of X-wings. The unit patch on those

  snubfighters, showing a single X-wing soaring high above a mountain peak,

  identified them as High Flight Squadron. Wedge nodded. They weren't the best

  X-wing unit in the fleet, but they were a veteran squadron with plenty of

  battle experience.

  As he and his fellows set down, Wedge saw the main doorway into the bay

  open upward and a crowd of people enter at a run. Some of them skidded as they

  spotted Red Flight and turned in the direction of the recently arrived

  snubfighters. Among them were a man in a Fleet Command captain's uniform, the

  usual complement of junior officers and guards, and, most odd of all, what

  looked like a woman with two heads, one of them shining silver.

  Wedge descended his access ladder and turned to face the delegation. He

  felt and heard his own pilots fall into line behind him. He extended his hand

  toward the highest-ranking officer. "Captain Salaban. I was glad to hear you'd

  been promoted off Battle Dog."

  The captain, a lean, bearded man with skin the color of tanned leather,

  still breathing hard, hesitated. Obviously confused for a moment as to whether

  he should salute properly or follow Wedge's informal fashion of greeting, he

  chose the latter and shook Wedge's hand. "Thank you, sir. And welcome aboard.

  Allow me to introduce you to my senior officers..."

  It was a ritual Wedge knew from countless repetitions in the past. He

  committed each officer's name and face to memory, hoping his retention would

  last until the end of the mission; it usually did.

  Then the captain gestured to the two-headed woman. "And the mission

  documentarian, Hallis Saper."

  Wedge could finally give her his full attention. She was a tall woman,

  taller than he by two or three centimeters, with long brown hair worn in a

  braid and wide-open features; she looked as though she'd recently arrived from

  a one-shuttle agrarian world. He could not read her eyes, as they were

  concealed behind goggles darkened almost to opacity. She wore a brown jumpsuit

  festooned with belts, pouches, and pockets.

  And on her right shoulder, held on a bracket affixed to her clothing, was

  the silver head of a 3PO protocol droid. Its eyes were lit.

  "I'm so happy to meet the most famous pilot of Starfighter Command," she

  said; her voice was pleasant but loud, unrestrained.

  "Thank you," he said. "Urn, I couldn't help noticing that you have two

  heads."

  She smiled. "This is Whitecap, my holo-recording
unit. I put him together

  from a ruined protocol droid and a standard holocam. I added memory and some

  basic conversational circuitry and programming. He looks wherever I lookthe

  goggles have sensors that track my eye movementand records whatever I see."

  "I see," Wedge said. He didn't, but the words served as building tones

  useful for plugging up holes where conversation should be. "Why?"

  "I record a lot of interviews with children. Studies suggest that they

  find 3PO units nonthreatening."

  "Ah. And have you had much luck with this approach?" He was pretty sure

  he knew the answer to this one.

  "Well, not yet. I'm still working out the kinks in the system."

  It would help if you started with the fact that you're a two-headed lady

  with eyes that children can't see, Wedge thought, but kept it to himself. "And

  now you're taking a temporary break from children to record Starfighter

  pilots."

  She nodded. The 3PO head remained stationary on her shoulder, unaffected

  by her motion. "It's a wonderful opportunity. Thank you."

  "Well, you're welcome. But I'm afraid that Whitecap is going to have to

  suffer some additional coding. I need to be able to issue a verbal command and

  shut him off. Circumstances sometimes demand privacy."

  Hallis fidgeted. "That was never part of the arrangement. I'll have to

  refuse."

  "Very well. You'll be getting some very good footage of the inside of

  your cabin."

  "Oh. Well, in that case, I accept. I'll do the coding myself."

  "And then hand Whitecap over to the Allegiance's code-slicers briefly

  for, oh, code optimization."

  Hallis's smile flickered for a moment and Wedge knew he'd guessed

  correctly. Hallis must have intended to arrange things so that a second code

  issued by her would secretly override Wedge's shutoff command. "Of course,"

  she said, but there was now just a trace of brittleness to her voice.

  Wedge returned his attention to Captain Salaban. "Allow me in turn to

  introduce you to my pilots. I present Colonel Tycho Celchu, leader of Rogue

  Squadron."

  Tycho offered the ship captain a salute. "Sir." He was a lean man, blond,

  graying in dignified fashion at the temples, with handsome features and an

  aristocrat's bearing. The perfection of his looks might have made him appear

  severe, even cruel, in earlier years, but the beatings life had handed himthe

  loss of his family on Alderaan at the hands of Grand Moff Tarkin and the first

  Death Star, capture and attempted brainwashing by Imperial Intelligence head

  Ysanne Isard, and suspicion on the part of New Republic Military Intelligence

  forces that despite his escape he had succumbed to that brainwashing and was

  an enemy in their midstall had weathered him in spirit if not in form. Now,

  he still looked in every way the cold aristocrat... until one looked in his

  eyes and saw the humanity and the signs of distant pain there.

  "This is Major Wes Janson, and if you're not aware of his exploits, I'm

  sure he'll be delighted to give you the whole story."

  Janson shot Wedge a cool look as he shook the ship captain's hand. "Good

  to be here." He turned to the documentarian. "Oh, and, Hallis, I'm better

  known for my breathtaking looks than my fighting skills, so don't forget that

  this is my good side." He turned his head so Hallis's recorder would get a

  straight-on look at his left profile.

  Wedge suppressed a snort. Janson's self-promotion came out of a desire to

  entertain rather than from any serious case of narcissism, but he was as good-

  looking as he suggested. Like Wedge and a majority of other successful fighter

  pilots, he was a few centimeters short of average height, but Janson was

  unusually broad in the shoulders, and endowed with a body that showed muscle

  definition after only light exercise and was not inclined to fat. His hair was

  a rich brown, and his merry features were not just handsome but

  preternaturally youthful; he was now in his thirties but could pass for ten

  years younger. A most unfair combination, Wedge thought.

  "And Major Derek Klivian," Wedge concluded.

  The fourth pilot leaned in for a handshake. He was lean, with dark hair

  and a face best suited to wearing mournful expressions. "Captain," he said.

  Then he, too, turned to the documentarian. "Everyone calls me Hobbie," he

  said. "And I'll get back with you on my last name. Lots of people misspell it.

  "

  Wedge resisted the urge to look into the eyes of the recording unit. He

  knew that second head would attract his attention during upcoming events; it

  was best to train himself now to ignore it. But he couldn't help but wonder

  what sort of scene would emerge from this recording, what part it would play

  in the documentary Hallis would be assembling. Or how he'd look beside his

  more colorful subordinate pilots. Wedge was, like Janson, below average

  height, and he thought of himself as one of the most ordinary-looking men

  alive. But admirers had told him that his features bespoke intelligence and

  determination. Qwi had said there was a mesmerizing depth to his brown eyes.

  Other ladies had been charmed by his hair it was worn short, but as long as

  military regulations-allowed, and was the sort of fine hair that stirred in

  any breeze and invited ladies' hands to run through it.

  He gave an internal shrug. Perhaps he didn't suffer as much as he feared

  in comparison with extroverts like Janson. He just wished that when he was

  shaving he could see some of these traits his admirers noted.

  "I'd appreciate it," he said, "if we could get a temporary paint job on

  the X-wings. Red Flight One, Two, Three, Four," He pointed to himself, Tycho,

  Janson, and Hobbie in turn. "A white base, but Rogue Squadron reds for the

  striping, no unit patch."

  Salaban nodded. "Easily done."

  "So," Wedge said, "what's first on our agenda settling in to quarters

  or a mission briefing?"

  Salaban's expression suggested that the question was not a welcome one.

  "Settling in, I'm afraid, sir. There won't be a briefing until you land on-

  planet. Intelligence decided not to provide a liaison at this time."

  Wedge bit back a response that would not have sounded appropriate in the

  mission documentary. "We're going in cold?"

  Captain Salaban nodded.

  Wedge forced a smile for the holocam. "Well, just another challenge,

  then. Let's see those quarters."

  2

  Wedge was still occasionally fuming, days later, when Allegiance dropped

  out of hyperspace at the edges of the Adumar solar system. There was such a

  thing, of course, as overplanning. With too much time and too much desire to

  put every mission detail into a mission profile, it was possible to lose

  perspective on which objectives were most important, on which tactics were

  most effective.

  But this was the polar opposite of that situation. He didn't know any

  more now about the people of Adumar than when he received the datacard from

  Cracken. As he sat in his X-wing, running through his preflight checklist, he

  had available to him only a set of coordinates on the planet's surface. Once

  Allegiance made its ap
proach to the worldan odd, inconvenient path like an

  obstacle i course, with direction changes at one of the system's uninhabited

  worlds and one of Adumar's two moons Wedge and his three pilots would launch

  and make the final approach to their destination... whatever it was that the

  mathematical coordinates represented. One of Allegiance's shuttles, filled

  with support personnel, in-

  cluding Hallis Saper, had already descended to make preparations for

  their arrival.

  "Red Flight, this is Allegiance. Our final leg terminates in one minute."

  Wedge glanced at his comm board. The minute was already counting downhis

  R5 unit, Gate, had also received the transmission and, on his own initiative,

  begun a count down. Wedge said, "This is Red Leader. Understood. We launch at

  arrival plus five seconds. Red Flight, are you good to go?"

  "Red Two, ready." That was Tycho, as economical of words as he was of

  motion.

  "Red Three, four lit and ready to burn." Janson's inimitable voice and

  enthusiasm were evident even across the standard X-wing comm distortion.

  "Red Four, nothing's gone wrong yet." There was almost a hopeful note to

  Hobbie's dour tone.

  Wedge felt Allegiance heel to starboard, a maneuver lasting ten seconds,

  and it ended just as his countdown dropped to zero. "Red Flight, launch." He

  suited action to words, bringing his X-wing up on repulsorlifts until it was

  three meters above the hangar floor, then drifting forward over the main

  hangar access. Below was a great dark mass featuring occasional sprinkles of

  lightAdumar's night side. He angled until his nose was straight down, then

  smoothly brought up his thrusters and shot toward the planet's surface. His

  sensor board and a visual check to either side showed his three companions

  tucked in close beside and behind him in diamond formation. He oriented toward

  the planet's direction of spin; Allegiance's orbit was above the planet's

  equator. "Leader, Two. We have company." Wedge checked his sensor board again.

  It showed two red blips paralleling their course, about ten klicks from one

  another and ten klicks above Red Flight's course. As he watched, another two

  blips began rising from below on an identical course. The sensors designated

  them

  "Unknown Type." He took a look at them with visual sensors, but could

  just barely make out a black fuselage and an unusual split to the rear