Star Wars: X-Wing VII: Solo Command Page 21

  “Wraith Four, this is Wraith One. Do not fire, whatever happens. This is not the same as the Jussafet situation. Acknowledge.”

  “Acknowledged, sir.”

  Lara, her voice raspy with pain, said, “Maybe you ought to let him shoot me, sir. Get out of the way.”

  “Shut up, Two.”

  Face’s sensor board howled, a new noise—the distinctive wail signifying a proton-torpedo launch. Donos had fired.

  “Wraith Three, detonate your torp now.” Face made no effort to keep alarm out of his voice; that would have required concentration. He maintained his position immediately behind Lara’s X-wing and put all available power to his rear shields. He kept his free hand on his ejection lever. “Three, blow the torp, I’m your target.” From the moment of launch he had only a few seconds before the torpedo hit, and most of that time was already gone. “Detonate, dammit!”

  The universe behind Face filled with bright blue fire. His stern shuddered as though he’d been rammed and his cockpit was suddenly filled with smoke, the howl of damage alert sirens, Vape’s mechanical shrieks of dismay, and the rumble and tremble of failing vehicle systems.

  But he was still alive. Either the proton torpedo had detonated at the very outer edges of his rear shields, or Donos had detonated it prematurely—barely prematurely.

  Bitter anger swelled within him. “Congratulations, Three,” he said. “I may be your newest kill.”

  Donos jerked upright in his cockpit, confusion clearing from his mind like smoke sucked into hard vacuum. On his sensor screen, Wraith One was maneuvering erratically as Two continued on the straight-line course she’d been assigned. “Face—One. I’m sorry—” He tried to regain control of his voice, his thoughts. “Hold tight. I’m coming in for a flyover. I’ll check external damage.”

  His astromech, Clink, shrieked at him and the shrill tone of an enemy targeting lock assailed his ears. That, and Tycho’s voice, hard and cold as Donos had ever heard it. “Abort that maneuver, Wraith Three.”

  “But Captain, I’m closest, I have to see—”

  “Deviate from your current course and I will blow you out of space.” There was no questioning the deadly seriousness of Tycho’s tone. “Wraith Four, do a flyby on Wraith One and report signs of damage. Wraith One, do you copy?”

  Face’s voice was nearly as cold as Tycho’s, but his words were harder to understand, drowned by the cockpit alarms from his damaged snubfighter. “I read, Rogue Two. My fighter’s holding together for the moment.”

  “Good. Wraith Two, swing back around and form up with the group.”

  There was a perceptible delay. Then Lara’s voice came back, strained, but not racked with pain as it had been moments ago. “I don’t think so, Rogue Two.”

  “That’s an order, Wraith Two, a direct order.”

  “I’ve already surrendered once,” she said, “and have subsequently been fired on by an officer of this group. I no longer have any faith that I’ll survive long enough to meet a court-martial.”

  “Wraith Two, this is Rogue Leader. You know you’ll make it now. The situation is under control.”

  It was true; Donos was maintaining straight-line flight under Tycho’s guns. He wasn’t sure he was capable of doing anything but following orders. It wasn’t fear of death at Tycho’s hands that kept him in line—it was shock at what he was certain he’d just done.

  “What I know is that you don’t believe me,” Lara said. “You don’t believe that I’m a loyal Wraith. You don’t believe that I’ve never done anything to compromise this unit.”

  Wedge abandoned the formality of call numbers. “Lara, if what you’re saying is the truth, the court will bear you out. I can confidently state that Nawara Ven will take your case. He’s the best.”

  “But that’s it for me with the Wraiths. I’ll never be able to fly with you again. I’ll never be able to help you. To get you out of a jam. I can never undo what I’ve done. Never.”

  “You’re probably right, Lara. That’s the way it is. Now come around.”

  When her voice returned, it was not Wedge she addressed. “Wraith One? Can you hear me?”

  Face’s voice was still strong, and this time was not accompanied by alarms—he’d obviously taken steps to quiet the sirens in his cockpit. “I read you, Two.”

  “I want you to understand something. I don’t care if you understand it now. I want you to understand it later. I have never betrayed the Wraiths. I will never, ever betray the Wraiths. Do you read me?”

  “I … hear what you say.”

  A moment later, she said, “Myn?”

  Donos jolted. He opened his mouth to answer, but he didn’t know whom he’d be talking to. Lara, the woman he’d wanted to come to love, or Gara, the woman he’d sworn—and now attempted—to kill.

  “Myn?”

  He sat there, paralyzed by indecision, and did not answer.

  Lara’s X-wing leaped out of sight and off the sensors as it made the jump into hyperspace.

  In the Rogue and Wraith squadrons’s landing bay, Donos climbed down out of his cockpit. His back was so straight it hurt. He needed that pain. He needed the constant reminder that he had to get himself back under control.

  He’d lost control. He’d lost Lara. He’d lost everything.

  Wedge waited for him at the foot of the ladder. Donos turned to face him and took a step back without intending to. Wedge’s body was as still as if carved from ice, but there was nothing cold about his eyes. They were full of anger, more intense anger than Donos had ever seen in them.

  “One reason,” Wedge said. “I’d like to hear one reason why I shouldn’t ship you off to Coruscant and put you up on charges of gross insubordination.”

  Donos stood at attention, every muscle he was aware of locked into place. He kept his gaze fixed above Wedge’s head and took a deep breath as he got his thoughts in order. “Logically speaking, I should not be tried for insubordination, sir, because insubordination is generally a deliberate act. I do not believe I was in my right mind when I fired upon Flight Officer Notsil. I can’t even remember doing that.” He couldn’t bring himself to refer to her as Gara Petothel, even in his own mind. His hard-won control might slip again.

  “Temporary insanity?” The tone of Wedge’s voice suggested the frown Donos could see only in his peripheral vision. “That sounds like a dodge to me, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m not sure it’s temporary, Commander.” Donos couldn’t keep the dejection out of his own voice. “You and Face, Captain Loran I mean, are aware of my … earlier difficulty.”

  “Difficulty” was something of an understatement. Weeks after the destruction of Talon Squadron, when Donos’s R2 unit, Shiner, the only other survivor of the Gravan mission, had been destroyed, Donos had lapsed into a near-catatonic state. Only the intervention of Kell, Tyria, and Falynn Sandskimmer—herself now dead for many weeks—had brought him out of that withdrawal. “I submit,” Donos continued, “that I was not in my right mind when I fired on her, and I no longer have any confidence that I’m in my right mind at other times. With respect, sir, I tender the resignation of my commission and of my place in Wraith Squadron.”

  Wedge didn’t answer immediately. Donos could see the top of his head as the commander looked right and left, communicating with the other senior officers by what might have been a combination of shared experience and telepathy.

  “I’ll consider your request,” Wedge said, “while you consider a question I may oblige you to answer at some later time. If we encounter Lara Notsil in the future, in a combat situation, which of the Wraiths would you prefer to vape her in your place?”

  The question was like a blade of ice thrust straight into Donos’s gut. He opened his mouth to respond, but Wedge said, “Quiet. I don’t require your answer yet. Dismissed.”

  Donos turned away, past the eyes of the Rogues and his fellow Wraiths.

  He saw anger in some of them, confusion in others. A sort of sick pain in Tyria’s. What he’d alm
ost made her do—kill a second fellow pilot.

  She’d never forgive him.

  It didn’t matter much. He’d never forgive himself.

  Behind him, he heard Wedge directing his anger against another target. “Captain Loran. You and I need to talk. My office. Right now.”

  Lara’s first jump had just taken her clear of the Kidriff system. Her second, initiated after she’d had a chance to consult her astromech Tonin’s memory, would take a while to complete. It would bring her back to the Halmad system, where she and the other Wraiths had once pretended to be a band of pirates called the Hawk-bats.

  In abandoned Hawk-bat Station, she’d be able to refuel, to initiate a new communication, to make some modifications to Tonin.

  But for now, she was left with her thoughts.

  Her one thought.

  Lara Notsil is dead.

  Lara had been a temporary identity. Something to keep her out of the hands of the New Republic while she figured out a way to persuade the warlord Zsinj to employ her. Then it had been a convenience, a means to infiltrate the Wraiths in order to improve her worth in Zsinj’s eyes. Then, when she’d come to realize the depths to which her early teaching had programmed her to accept Imperial ideas of rule as infallible, when she’d realized that she could never serve Zsinj or the Empire again, Lara Notsil had become a gradually eroding shield between her and the day the Wraiths would turn against her.

  That day had come. Lara Notsil was no more.

  Who was she, then? Not Gara Petothel. That was the name she’d been born under, but Gara had been such an unhappy creature, a servant of Imperial Intelligence, a young woman with no goals of her own. With no future.

  No one, no family member or friend, who’d known her under that name still lived. So Gara Petothel was dead, too.

  But Kirney Slane—an identity she’d worn for a few weeks when she learned many of the techniques of the intelligence agent. Kirney was nothing but a young woman wandering through the wealthy-officer stratum of Imperial culture on Coruscant. She’d attended dances, flirted with officer candidates, shopped.

  She had been worthless. But she had been happy.

  Lara wondered if she could take that long-abandoned identity and give her some worth. And even, perhaps, retain some of her naive cheer, her certainty that life was worth living.

  Gara Petothel is dead. Lara Notsil is dead. I will answer to those names. But they are no longer mine.

  I am Kirney Slane.

  I have no life yet.

  I will make one, or die in the attempt.

  She thought about Donos. He, too, had attempted to kill Gara, with at least as much reason as she had.

  He’d been right. They were more alike than she had realized.

  “You don’t think,” Wedge said, “it could have waited until we returned to Mon Remonda.”

  “No, sir,” Face said.

  “She had plenty of opportunities to vape me or any of the rest of us prior to today. That ranks her pretty low as a threat.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I thought about that. If we think that way, we have to presume that Lara was not working for Zsinj or the Empire. Because if she was an agent, she could have been following her employers’s plan or schedule. I mean, Galey the cook also had plenty of opportunities to stick a vibroblade in you or the general. So, if we follow your logic, the fact that he didn’t attack someone between the day Mon Remonda returned to space and the day he killed Doctor Gast means he was trustworthy all those days.” He offered Wedge an expression of regret. “Sir, I did what I thought was right for the unit.”

  “What does your gut tell you?”

  Face looked away for a long moment, then returned his attention to Wedge. “My gut says she was telling the truth. That she was a loyal Wraith.”

  “But you didn’t believe your gut instinct.”

  “Yes, sir, I did. But I didn’t rely on it. If I had, and I’d been wrong, whatever she did would have been my fault.”

  Wedge nodded. “All right. Face, off the record, I think you fouled up, and this situation could have been resolved in a less catastrophic fashion if you hadn’t.”

  Face nodded, his expression glum.

  “But there’s nothing wrong with your logic. It wasn’t entirely a bad call. Just one made on incomplete data. I need you to understand that an officer who can’t rely on his own gut instinct is an officer who shouldn’t be commanding others.”

  Face considered that. “I imagine you’re right, sir.”

  “So work on it. Now get back to your unit and see if you can patch them up emotionally.”

  Face had been gone only a moment when someone knocked.

  Wedge shook his head. This was not going to be a good afternoon. “Come in.”

  Donos entered his office and stood at attention.

  Wedge let him remain that way. It had been a very few months ago that Donos had entered one of his offices for the very first time, remaining stiffly at attention just like this. Now, as then, the pilot’s features were expressionless; his gaze was carefully fixed on the wall over Wedge’s head.

  “Yes?” Wedge said.

  “After due reflection, I have concluded that my earlier intention was the correct one. I have come to formally resign my commission. It’s my only possible course of action.”

  Wedge waited, but Donos didn’t elaborate. “Why?”

  “I have performed acts that are an embarrassment to this unit and that will inevitably result in the end of my flying career. I feel that it is best to end it myself, without further inconvenience to you or to the unit.”

  Wedge regarded him steadily. Yes, this was just like the first time, with Donos’s true thoughts hidden behind the mask of his face, kept rigidly at bay by his personal discipline. And his words had been so precise. “I’m sorry,” Wedge said, “I didn’t catch all of your last statement. ‘To end it myself—’ ”

  “Without further inconvenience to you or to the unit. Sir.”

  Wedge sighed. He rose, unfastened his right boot, drew it off, and stood it upright on his desktop. “You, too, Donos. Your right boot. Put it there.”

  Confusion struggled with the imperturbability on Donos’s face. “Sir, I don’t understand.”

  “Do it.”

  When Donos complied, setting his boot beside Wedge’s, the commander sat, putting his feet up on the desk. “Lieutenant, sit down. Put your feet up. That’s an order.”

  They sat, two officers each with one boot off, their feet up on the desk, for long moments of silence. Finally Donos said, “Sir, I don’t think you’re taking my request seriously.”

  “You’d be surprised at how seriously I’m taking it. Now, start that little speech again, Lieutenant. Come on, you know it. It goes, ‘I have performed acts that are an embarrassment to this unit …’ ”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “No, I’m testing a theory. I think that in this ridiculous pose, you won’t be able to convincingly recite the speech you have so laboriously written for yourself.

  “Let me guess,” Wedge continued, and began counting off items on his fingers. “In your resignation speech, you take full responsibility for your actions. You throw yourself into the path of the oncoming investigation so that the unit will not suffer. You apologize eloquently. And with your words, you anaesthetize yourself so you don’t have to feel anything when your fellow pilots look at you or when your superior officers tell you what they think of you.”

  Donos’s face flushed. He rose. “I didn’t come here for you to make fun of me—”

  “Sit!” Wedge made a bellow of the word, and Donos flinched. “And get your feet back on top of the desk. Right now.”

  Donos complied. His face did not fade to a normal color.

  “That’s better. Now, let’s have it without the speech. In not just your own words but your real voice. Start.”

  Donos looked as though he were silently practicing swear words. Then he said, “I’m here to resign my commission
in Starfighter Command.”

  “Because you want to, or because you feel you ought to?”

  “Because it’s better to punch out before the oncoming missile hits you.”

  “Well, that’s an ironic turn of phrase, in light of today’s events. Who is the incoming missile?”

  “Whatever board investigates the events at Kidriff Five. And, if I may say so, sir, you.”

  “I’m going to drum you out of Starfighter Command?”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll have to.”

  “I do not invite you to speak for me, Lieutenant. But let’s assume that I don’t have to do this, that the investigating board will do it. Why will they do it?”

  “Because I deliberately shot at a fellow pilot, or a surrendering enemy, or whatever she was—” Donos’s voice was suddenly hoarse “—in the face of a superior’s orders not to do so.”

  “When we landed, you said that you didn’t remember having fired. You didn’t remember anything about the critical seconds in which you turned toward your target and shot off a proton torpedo. Do you remember those events now?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So how do you know you fired deliberately?”

  Donos frowned. “I—I—Can I put my feet down? I feel silly.”

  “You may not. You’re supposed to feel silly. It makes it much harder to baffle me with elegantly designed speeches. What you may do is take your time in answering.”

  Donos did. He took several long breaths and his face returned to a normal color. Finally, he said, “My assumption that I fired deliberately comes because such an act is completely in keeping with my mental state whenever I thought about what I’d do if I ever had the betrayer of Talon Squadron under my guns.”

  “Very good. That’s a real answer. Now, tell me, based on your memories, not what’s consistent with your feelings prior to this event: Did you deliberately fire on Lara Notsil?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you deliberately disobey the orders of a superior officer?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Very well. I’m going to put the incident down as ‘accidental discharge of a weapons system’ for the time being. That’s the way it goes in the record until an investigation determines otherwise.”