Solo Command Page 6

  "Runt. With your great strength, you could tear one of my arms off and say it was a handshaking accident."

  Runt shook his head and offered up a human-style smile.

  "Kell! You hate me, don't you? Well, I have an offer for you..."

  "Not now, Elassar. We have more important people to kill."

  Face perked up. "You know, Inyri, we could do what Kell and Runt did back in the raid on Folor Base."

  Forge snorted. "Run a couple of X-wings along together with malfunctioning shields and just pretend we're the Millen­nium Falcon}"

  "I didn't mean that specifically. But in a general sense, yes. What they did was to fake up a Millennium Falcon. With more time and more resources, we could do a better job."

  Forge considered and looked among the other pilots. Theirs were a mixed lot of dubious and approving expressions. "Maybe."

  Face continued, "Don't you Rogues have the universe's best quartermaster?"

  "Emtrey, yes." Forge nodded. M-3PO, called Emtrey, was a protocol droid attached to Rogue Squadron. He had a reputation for phenomenal skills at scrounging. "But he's not as good as he used to be. We had to throttle back some of his programming."

  "Still..."

  "Still, it's worth thinking about." Forge stood. "Let's find a conference room with a holotable and fire some ideas around."

  The doors rose to admit Corran Horn. The former CorSec agent looked suspiciously at the pilots rising to their feet. "What did I miss?"

  Some of the pilots laughed. In the months Rogue Squadron had been on Mon Remonda, Corran Horn and Han Solo had never been seen at the same place and time. It had spawned a running joke among the other pilots—the notion that, despite their disparate ages and personalities, they were the same per­son in disguise.

  "We'll tell you in the conference room," Forge said. "You're late, so you get to take the notes."

  Elassar fixed Horn with an imploring expression. "Lieu­tenant! With your skills, you could kill me and make it look like an accident. Please ..."

  Han Solo poked his head into Wedge's office. "Got a minute?"

  Wedge turned from his terminal and the report he was composing on the day's aborted mission. "Come on in. Dis­ tract me. Please."

  The general seated himself with characteristic casualness and grimaced at the work Wedge was doing. "I thought you ought to be aware of some scuttlebutt. I tried to catch you at the pilot's lounge, but you were hiding."

  Wedge snorted. "I had to have some words in private with the squadrons's executive officers. About pilot morale. What is it?"

  Solo's face lost its usual cocky expression. Suddenly, alarm­ ingly, he looked older and more tired. "It has nothing to do with Levian. This was relayed to me by some friends on Corus­ cant. The Intelligence investigation into the assassin who tried to kill Ackbar is looking into the possibility of a widespread Twi'lek conspiracy."

  "Conspiracy to do what?"

  "They have no idea. The Twi'lek planet Ryloth has always traded with anyone who had credits. Intelligence says there's a large warrior caste that resents the way the planet was domi­nated by humans for so long, and hates the way Ryloth is re­garded as a merchant world—"

  "That last part is true."

  "Well, Intelligence wonders whether this action is part of some fanatical conspiracy designed to strike against hu­mans. There's even talk of a conspiracy including several humanoid species, not just Twi'leks. And how such a group might want to eliminate Ackbar, who's known to be friendly to humans.

  "Also"—Solo leaned closer and dropped his voice— "Cracken's people in Intelligence have tracked some inter­ esting behavior among Twi'leks on Coruscant. Specifically, mid-levei New Republic officers and advisors who have access to the powerful and the famous. Like the assassin, Jart Eyan. He was on leave just before his attempt to kill Ackbar. But ap­ parently he and his family weren't on leave where they were supposed to be. They were out of sight for several days leading up to the murder attempt, though they'd set things up so their friends would believe they were at a resort. Where they were, what they were doing, nobody knows."

  "You're leading up to something."

  "You have several Twi'leks among your pilots."

  "That's right. Tal'dira with the Rogues, Dia Passik with the Wraiths, Nuro Tualin with Polearm. My executive officer with the Rogues is Twi'lek, as is one of my mechanics, Koyi Komad, for the squadron."

  "How sure are you of them?"

  Wedge thought back. Tal'dira was a pride-filled warrior of the world of Ryloth. His word was his bond, and deception seemed like a talent beyond his capabilities. Dia was another matter; brought, like many Twi'lek females, as a slave off Ry­loth, trained to be a dancer, she'd escaped and killed her owner. Or so her story went; it was true that elements of her back­ground could not be confirmed. Nuro was a recent graduate of the New Republic's Fleet Command Academy and had trained with General Crespin in A-wings on Folor Base, as had several of his squadmates; he was largely an unknown factor. Wedge had known Nawara Ven since he re-formed Rogue Squadron, and Koyi Komad for years.

  None of these Twi'leks had ever made him edgy when looking at him. None ever gave him the evaluative look that said, "I wonder what it would take to kill him?" His gut told him that they were dedicated pilots and technicians, not ringers for some power seeker. "I'm sure of them."

  Solo's smile returned and the tiredness disappeared from his features. "Good." He rose. "I just wanted you to be aware of what was going on. Keep it to yourself, though, will you?"

  "Certainly." As Solo opened the door to leave, Wedge said, "You know something? In spite of the way you seem to hate it, you're pretty good at this management stuff."

  Solo lost his smile. "Don't ever, ever say that. Someone important might hear you. And then I'd be stuck with it." Then he was gone.

  The man with the impossibly bland features appeared before Warlord Zsinj's desk as though he were a holoprojection turned into flesh. "I have a present for you," said Melvar.

  Zsinj managed to keep himself from jumping. Melvar, he knew, prided himself on his silent comings and goings, and the nervousness this induced in his subordinates—and even superiors—though he claimed that this was not the case. But Zsinj had recently spent considerable effort to train himself not to start. To cover for his momentary lapse, he twirled one of his mustachios in rakish fashion.

  "How delightful," Zsinj said. "Have we instituted a new holiday, for which a gift is appropriate?" He waved his hands around to take in the lavish appointments of his office aboard his flagship, Iron Fist. "And wherever will I display your present?"

  "I'm sure you'll find a place." Melvar smiled, the innocu­ous smile of a blameless financial officer, and snapped his fingers, A mere diversion; Zsinj knew that the man must have secretly thumbed the button on his comm unit with his other hand.

  The door into Zsinj's office opened and a pair of guards es­ corted in two people. One was a man, lean, aging, graying—in fact, the man appeared to be growing older as Zsinj watched him, so great was the fellow's nervousness. The second was a woman, her companion's junior by twenty or thirty years; her hair and eyes were dark, her expression poised, perhaps re­signed. Both were in civilian dress.

  Melvar gave Zsinj a little theatrical bow. "Allow me to present Doctors Novin Bress and Edda Gast, from our spe­ cial operations division of Binring Biomedical on Saffalore. Af­ ter due investigation I decided to bring them to speak to you personally."

  Zsinj folded his hands over the imposing swell of his stom­ ach. He noted with satisfaction that his white Imperial grand admiral's jacket was spotless, nearly gleaming; it would be in­appropriate to lead two doomed people before a shabby war­lord. "Doctor, Doctor, delighted to meet you." He was charmed to see the first flicker of hope appear in the older man's eyes; this one would be fun to play with.

  "Ask them," Melvar said, "about missing test subjects."

  Zsinj gave him a blank look, as if struggling to recall some-

  thi
ng of little consequence, then said, "Oh, yes. Doctors, tell me where a Gamorrean and an Ewok might obtain the neces­sary skills—and temperament—to fly starfighters."

  Dr. Bress, the male, tried to catch the eye of his younger col­ league. Dr. Gast ignored his attempt; she kept her gaze on Zsinj.

  "Well," Bress said, "they might have escaped from our facility."

  "Ah," Zsinj said. He picked up a datapad and brought up his day's schedule. He'd have a massage in an hour, then sit down to a stimulating meal an hour after that. "It says here that I sent out a memorandum asking about possible test-subject escapes some time ago, and that you replied in the negative. Correct?"

  Dr. Bress flinched. "Correct."

  Zsinj slammed the datapad down on the edge of his desk, snapping the device in two. Bress jumped. Interestingly, Gast didn't. Zsinj modulated his voice to a snarl and allowed some color to creep into his face. "May I ask why didn't you tell me then, when I sent out the memorandum? Why do I learn about it now?"

  "Because we weren't sure," Bress said. "We're not sure now."

  Zsinj stared at him a long moment, then turned his atten­tion to Gast. "I'm not sure I understand this man. Perhaps you could explain a little more clearly."

  "I believe I can," she said. "Might I have a chair? We walked some considerable distance to get to your office."

  Zsinj forced himself to mask the genuine surprise he felt. It took a lot of nerve to make such a request when she should have been wondering how best to preserve her life. He took his first really good look at her. Adult human female in the prime of life, not beautiful but with cheekbones that made her strik­ing and would do so throughout her life ... and her eyes, dark, calm, unapologetic, were unsettling.

  He forced a smile. "Of course. General Melvar, where are your manners? Give the doctor a chair."

  Bress spoke up, his voice wavering: "I, too, uh, could use—"

  "Do be quiet, Doctor Bress." Zsinj waited until Melvar situated a chair behind Cast. He gave her a moment to com­ pose herself. "Now, you were saying?"

  "My uncle, Doctor Tuzin Gast, was also on this project," she said. "He was the real pioneer on the cognitive-stimulation side of things. But he wasn't really suited to the project emo­tionally. He became rather too close to his test subjects. He de­veloped real affection for them. Not a good idea, considering their intended use."

  Zsinj nodded and gestured for her to continue.

  "One day, a couple of years ago, there was a tremendous ex­plosion in Epsilon Wing. My uncle and several test subjects were killed. Some were so close that their bodies were incinerated."

  "I remember," Zsinj said. "It promised to be a tremendous loss until Doctor Bress told me that the dead doctor's assistant— and niece—was at the very least his intellectual peer and would be able to continue his work, without much loss of time. And he turned out to be right."

  Gast nodded, acknowledging the compliment without smil­ ing. "We reported the losses and continued as scheduled," she said. "Although we discovered some interesting things about the accident."

  "Such as?"

  She began counting items off on her fingers. "First, it was suicide. My uncle mixed some volatile chemicals in a purifica­ tion tank and set them off. His guilt apparently had eaten away at him until he could not stand to live any longer. Second, most of the test subjects that had died were those who were exhibit­ing the greatest aggressive reactions under our trigger treat­ments. In other words, they were the subjects who were most changed by our treatments, the most violent—"

  "The most promising," Zsinj said.

  "Yes. The most promising. He deliberately brought them together so they would die with him."

  "You said most of the test subjects ..."

  "There was one exception. A Gamorrean. It had been through the intelligence series but not the aggression series."

  "Its name?"

  She shrugged. "I never met it. It was officially logged as Subject Gamma-Nine-One-Oh-Four."

  "And this subject was supposed to have died in the explosion."

  "Yes," she said. "But the only cellular material we found of it was blood plasma."

  "Which your uncle could have extracted from the creature and distributed prior to the explosion."

  "Yes."

  "Was there only blood plasma found of your uncle?"

  She shook her head. "We found his head and several other parts."

  "How about Ewoks?"

  "Two of the test subjects theoretically destroyed in the blast were Ewoks. They'd both been through intelligence and aggression treatments. We found body parts of two different Ewoks, so we had reason to believe both had perished."

  Zsinj took a long breath. "Well. There's little doubt that Voort saBinring, a Rebel pilot of Wraith Squadron, is your uncle's pet Gamorrean. There is also reason to believe that Lieutenant Kettch, a pilot with a pirate group called the Hawk-bats, is a similarly enhanced Ewok from the program. Tell me, why would both of them become pilots?"

  Gast said, "We found fragmentary records indicating that my uncle had tested the Gamorrean on flight simulators as one way to measure his temperament and intelligence. He could have done so with an Ewok, too. I just don't see how an Ewok could have escaped . . . unless it was a test subject that he had never entered into the records."

  He fixed her with an angry stare. "You could have told me all this back when I circulated my first query. It would have saved me a lot of difficulty."

  "No, I couldn't." She returned his stare calmly, unapologeti­cally . "I never saw your query. I have done my job satisfactorily."

  "That's for me to decide."

  "With apologies, warlord, but you're not qualified to evaluate my performance."

  Zsinj stared at her a moment, then barked out a laugh. "Very good last words, Doctor Gast. But, now, it's time for a reckoning. Your division has failed me and blood must be shed if I'm to feel better."

  He held out both hands and the guards leaned in to place a blaster pistol in each hand. These Zsinj set before the two doc­ tors. "I'd be happy for you two to accomplish the task your­ selves. That would save me some mental anguish, I assure you."

  Bress looked with genuine fright at the weapons. "Sir, everything you've asked me I've done—"

  "Yes. And now I'm asking you to do one final thing."

  Gast picked up her pistol and checked its settings to make sure it was charged. Zsinj watched her with real interest. She was very cool and might decide to remove him from the uni­verse to avenge her own death.

  Bress, his voice climbing into a wail, said, "Please, sir, so much of the project's success is my doing, my mistakes have been so few—"

  Gast set the barrel of her pistol against Bress's ribs and pulled the trigger. The sound of the blast filled the room, fol­lowed by the smell of seared flesh. Bress staggered sideways and fell against the office wall.

  Gast held up her pistol and allowed Melvar to take it from her. "Now," she said, "will someone be killing me?"

  Zsinj looked at her, forcing his expression into one of rea­sonability . "Shouldn't we? You've been part of a team that has covered up critical errors in judgment. Coming before me as a penitent, you've been insubordinate, even arrogant. You couldn't even carry out a simple request to kill yourself."

  She shook her head. "Nobody asked me to kill myself. Your unstated request could have been that we kill one another."

  "Nor did you show enough courage to try to kill me when you had the chance."

  At last, she smiled—a lopsided smile full of sarcastic cheer. "Please don't insult me if you're going to kill me, too. I'll bet every credit I own, every one I've hidden away, that if I'd pointed that blaster at you and pulled the trigger, it would not have gone off." She leaned forward and her smile evened out, became more genuine. "Well?"

  He regarded her steadily. "Well, you're correct in assum­ing that I didn't ask you to kill yourself. Why would I? You're blameless. Had you killed yourself, or allowed Doctor Bress to kil
l you, you would have proven yourself to be stupid and blameless, but fortunately that's not the case. How would you like to do me a favor?"

  "I'd like that."

  "Return to Saffalore. Dismantle the operation without let­ ting anyone—and that means anyone at Binring—know you've done so. Send everything to Iron Fist; we'll consolidate the two laboratories. Set up the Binring facilities to detect and then an­ nihilate anyone breaking in. Because at some point Voort saBin­ring's squadron mates are going to get permission to return to the land of his birth . . . and that will be a good time to elimi­nate them. Setting all this up guarantees your continued em­ployment within my organization; each dead Wraith brings you a sizable bonus. Deal?"

  "Deal." With her characteristic insolence, she extended him her hand to shake.