Wraith Squadron (53 page)

Wedge got his hand on the blaster, swung around, snapped off a quick shot that took his other guardsman, now rising, in the throat and threw him back to the grimy duracrete. That gave Wedge a clear view of the impromptu battlefield, Wraiths struggling with military policemen.

“Nobody move!” That was Ton Phanan, miraculously unharmed, holding the blaster rifle previously owned by one of their captors—that man, Wedge saw, was staggering away, his eyes glassy, his hands clutching his own throat, trying futilely to arrest the tide of blood seeping between and around his fingers.

The MPs paused, saw the gun aimed at them … and, one by one, relaxed to drop their arms or ceased struggling with the Wraiths.

Face Loran, his voice in a reasonable tone Wedge knew to be forced, answered, “He didn’t walk like a Corellian.”

They were now in a debriefing room in Starfighter Command Headquarters, a room as spotlessly white and clean as the bar and street had been filthy. A colonel Wedge didn’t know was conducting the interview, but Admiral Ackbar, commander-in-chief of New Republic military operations, was also seated at the interrogators’ table. Though Ackbar was a Mon Calamari, a species with huge, rubbery features that seemed more fishlike than humanlike, he was a friendly presence in Wedge’s estimation.

“That’s not enough justification to attack someone with proper credentials,” the colonel said.

Face stiffened. “Respectfully, sir, it is when I’m correct.”

“Don’t be preposterous. You can’t classify a man’s homeworld just by looking at him.”

“Yes, I can, sir.”

The colonel, a middle-aged man with a face creased by too many years of waging war against the Empire, looked dubious. But without speaking, he stood, walked backward from the table, and then walked back and forth a half-dozen paces.

“Hard to say,” Face said. “If you had any distinctive walking mannerism from your homeworld, you erased it with military training. At Vogel Seven, if I’m not mistaken. I’d say that you were injured at some time in the past and had to learn to walk again—or maybe it was a disfigurement at birth, corrected by surgery? I can’t really tell.”

The colonel resumed his seat. Surprise was evident on his face. “Correct on both counts. How do you do that?”

“Well, I was an actor. On top of that, I’m trained to recognize, analyze, and assume physical mannerisms—just as I am with vocal mannerisms and a dozen other things. More importantly, I lived several years on Lorrd, where my family is originally from. The Lorrdians practically invented the art of conscious communication through body language.”

Ackbar finally spoke up, his voice a not-quite-human rumble. “You admit, Colonel, that Lieutenant Loran is capable of recognizing when someone’s physical mannerisms do not match his professed planet of origin?”

The colonel considered. “Well, it’s low for a statistical sampling, but I’d say he demonstrates considerable skill in that regard.”

“Between that,” Face said, “and the speed with which the MPs reached the bar—which, I remind you, is close to bedrock level, and not a place sensible New Republic military personnel are usually near—I concluded that it was a deception. The cyborg was trotted out to start the trouble and make an MP arrest look legitimate; many pilots have been run into jail while on leave exactly this way.”

The colonel ignored the statement and turned to Phanan. “You defused the situation by putting down one of the ersatz military policemen and seizing his weapon.”

Wedge saw Phanan struggling with a reply—probably something to the effect of the colonel being able to recognize simple facts when they played out under his nose—but restraining himself. Phanan merely said, “Yes, sir.”

“That man died. Trachea cut, carotid artery cut. Yet the commander here says the MPs disarmed you before leading you out of the bar. What did you use?”

“A holdout, sir. A laser scalpel. Hard to distinguish from a writing tool without close inspection … and up close, I’m pretty effective with it.”

“I’d say so. Did you surrender this weapon to
our
guards before coming before me?”

“What weapon, sir?”

“The laser scalpel.”

“Not a weapon, sir. It’s a tool of medicine. I wasn’t asked to turn over my bandages, bacta treatments, disinfectant sprays, or tranquilizers either, but I can kill a man with any of them, under the right circumstances.”

The colonel glanced at Wedge, a beleaguered look Wedge knew well from his own mirror—it asked,
What sort of unit have you assembled here?
Wedge merely shrugged.

The colonel closed down his datapad. “All right. Pending the results of further investigation into this matter, I’m going to release your squadron.”

Wedge said, “Thank you, sir.”

“How are your injured squad members? Ekwesh, wasn’t it, and Janson?”

“Both in sick bay,” Wedge said. “Runt Ekwesh has a mild concussion, and is thoroughly embarrassed that Phanan knocked him down to keep him out of the fight. Lieutenant Janson got a blaster crease across the ribs; he’s got a bacta patch on it and will be fit for duty in a day or two.”

The colonel rose; Wedge and his subordinates followed suit. The colonel said, “I wish them every luck in getting back to duty as soon as possible.” He left unstated the obvious fact that he far preferred them facing Imperial stormtroopers and warlord forces than the civilians of the planet Coruscant. An exchange of salutes later, he departed.

Admiral Ackbar came forward. “Before you go: What are your thoughts on this matter?”

Wedge said, “I’d prefer to see what General Cracken’s people get out of the survivors, but my guess is Zsinj. We hurt him pretty badly when we destroyed the
Implacable.
” That ship, an Imperial Star Destroyer, belonged to Admiral Apwar Trigit, a subordinate of the warlord Zsinj, who was now the chief enemy and target of the New Republic. “He’s shown a vengeful streak in the past, and has enough intelligence and contacts to mount a plausible-looking trap like that. I’d say that he’s figured out who Wraith Squadron is and has decided to make us pay.”

Ackbar nodded. “My own conclusion as well. I will leave the matter of protection of your subordinates to you, Commander Antilles—I am sure you are fit to decide whether to complete your leave or return to duty and the safer confines of Starfighter Command’s barracks and facilities. But I do have orders for you.” He tapped the bulge of the datapad in his pocket. “I have transmitted them to your datapad. I think you will find them to your liking; they play to the, how should I put it, improvisational strengths of your new squadron.”

Wedge smiled. “Those improvisational strengths are beginning to give me gray hairs, Admiral. But thank you in spite of that.” He let the smile fade. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, sir, but I was wondering if you’d heard anything about Fel.”

Ackbar pulled out his datapad and tapped at it. Wedge wondered if the admiral really was accessing data, or whether this was a delaying tactic, a moment to give him time to prepare an answer.

Baron Soontir Fel had been the Empire’s greatest starfighter pilot in the years after Vader’s death. Leader of the elite 181st Imperial Fighter Group, he had bedeviled Rogue Squadron on occasion, and had been a lethal weapon used against the New Republic on many missions. Later, he had changed his alliance to the New Republic and had even been a part of Rogue Squadron.

What wasn’t as widely known was that Wedge’s sister Syal was Fel’s wife. Or that both Fel and Syal had disappeared, years ago. The 181st was theoretically now under the command of another Imperial officer, serving the coalition of Moffs and military officers that now acted as the unofficial heir to the rule of what was left of the Empire. And this made Fel’s sudden recent reappearance, commanding portions of the 181st as part of the complement of starfighters aboard Star Destroyer
Implacable
, particularly unsettling. Fel and many of his pilots had escaped
Implacable
’s fate and their location was now unknown to the New Republic … but Wedge had a suspicion that Fel would be found serving Warlord Zsinj.

Ackbar met Wedge’s gaze again and shook his head. “We have no news on any official cooperation between the remains of the Empire and Zsinj. No idea why the Empire would loan the One Eighty-first to the warlord. No news of Fel, the details of his return … or his family. I am sorry. I will let you know if his name crosses my desk.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

In the hangar temporarily assigned to the vehicles of Wraith Squadron—seven battered X-wing snubfighters, two battle-scarred captured TIE fighters, and a comparatively pristine-looking
Lambda
-class shuttle—they explained the colonel’s decision to the Wraiths who had not been called in for the second stage of interrogation. “I hate to say it,” Wedge said, “but leave is effectively canceled. I want volunteers to act as guards for Runt and Wes until they’re discharged. I want someone on duty here with our vehicles until we lift for our next assignment, and I want everyone walking around with eyes behind as well as in front. Understood?”

The Wraiths nodded. “I’ll work out a duty roster,” Face said.

“Why you?” Kell asked.

Face smiled at the big man. “Because Janson’s not here to do it. Because I was promoted two minutes ahead of you, so I outrank you. Check back with me in a few minutes and I’ll have assignments ready to transmit.”

As the Wraiths moved their separate ways, Phanan threw his arm over Kell’s shoulder. He looked at Tyria. “Tyria, if you’d excuse us for a moment, I have a few words to say in private to your toyfriend—”

She gave him an arch look. “My what?”

Kell straightened, causing the shorter man’s arm to slide off, and glared. “Her what?”

“What did I say?” Phanan shrugged. “A few moments.”

She shrugged and moved to her X-wing.

“Did you catch the name of the colonel?” Phanan asked.

Kell’s scowl turned from irritation to confusion. “I don’t think Commander Antilles mentioned it.”

“Repness.”

Kell glanced over at Tyria, but she had one of her snub-fighter’s engine ports open and was intent on the machinery within. “That’s the name of the trainer who tried to get her to steal an X-wing. Before she joined the Wraiths.”

“The same. I checked on him as we were marching back from the interrogation. He’s still training pilots, now here on Coruscant, though he’s about to be assigned to the training frigate
Tedevium
. He has other duties as well, mostly high-profile volunteer stuff—not unusual for an ambitious officer. He was officer of the day today for the subbase the military police belong to, which is why he debriefed us on the incident.”

Kell took a deep breath. Atton Repness was an instructor for New Republic pilot trainees who were on the verge of washing out of the training program. He had a reputation as being good at salvaging pilots thought unsalvageable. But Kell and Phanan knew that he had secretly altered Tyria’s failing grades to make them passable, then tried to enlist her in an effort to steal an X-wing, and had used the revelation of the grade forgery to blackmail her into silence. “You wouldn’t have mentioned him if you didn’t already have a plan,” Kell said. His voice was hard.

Phanan smiled. “That’s what I like to hear. Acknowledgment of my superior intellect along with a desire to hurt somebody else very badly. It’s a good day for me.

“Yes, I have a plan. We know of one and only one tactic he has used. He approached a struggling pilot candidate, female, attractive—we don’t know whether those characteristics are important to his thinking, but let’s put a skifter in the deck and make sure—and helped her two ways. Extra training, for legitimate gains in her scores, and doctoring of her grades, to ensure she passed … and to ensure that she was in debt to him, or could at least be blackmailed into silence. If we wave some bait around in front of him, maybe he’ll snap at it.”

“Bait.” Kell scowled and leaned against the strike foil of the nearest X-wing. “Phanan, I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had enough time to make enough friends and acquaintances that I can just snap my fingers and find someone with the qualities you’re talking about.”

“Ah, but you don’t have my superior intellect, do you?”

“One more mention of your superior intellect and I’ll make it necessary for you to install a brain that’s all mechanical.”

Phanan leaned close, unfazed by or oblivious to the threat. “When I was in the hospital on Borleias, the patient in the next room was a woman. A beautiful woman. A survivor off the
Implacable.
”

“So she’s a military prisoner now? Ton, we can’t break her out of jail for your plan—”

“Not a prisoner
now
. She was a prisoner aboard the
Implacable
. Admiral Trigit’s mistress—unwilling mistress. She was snatched off a planet colony Trigit bombarded into sand, she was kept drugged … you can guess the rest.”

Kell grimaced.

“She had a whole lot to tell New Republic Intelligence about Trigit and his methods. A very observant, intelligent young woman. Not to mention a beauty.”

“You’ve already mentioned that she was a beauty.”

“Yes, but I’m still not over her. I heard she was being transferred to Coruscant for further debriefing. If we can find her and convince her to help …”

“We could sponsor her to pilot training and catch Colonel Repness in his same pathetic tactic.” Kell glanced again at Tyria. “I’m in.”

“Good. I’ll see if I can track her down—Lara Notsil is her name—and then see if Face will keep us off the duty roster long enough to talk to her.”

“And if he won’t?”

“I’ll bring him in on the plan.” Anticipating Kell’s objections, Phanan hastily continued, “I won’t mention Tyria by name. I can keep her out of the story.”

“Well … all right. Let’s keep her out of this end of it, too.”

“Done.”

A day later, they reassembled in the same hangar, all the Wraiths and more personnel besides.

Face looked over the newcomers with interest. Tallest among them was a human male, on his head an untidy mess of straw-colored hair. Next was a dark-skinned woman with large, alert eyes, a red bead tied to one lock of hair on her forehead, and a broad smile that suggested that every minute of every day she was thrilled to be alive. The last, and shortest, was a Twi’lek woman, her features startlingly beautiful by human standards but her red-eyed stare forbidding, her brain tails hanging loose behind her instead of being draped over her shoulders in the fashion of a Twi’lek among friends and allies. All three wore the standard orange-and-white New Republic pilot’s suit.