Solo Command (19 page)

By monitoring the escape vectors of the smaller vessels chased off by Rogue Squadron, the crew of
Mon Remonda
, working from the vessel’s auxiliary bridge, was able to determine the position of the assault fleet and give chase. The fleet consisted of two sturdy
Carrack
-class cruisers and a heavily modified cargo vessel … and as these three vessels detected the approach of the Mon Calamari cruiser, they turned spaceward and entered hyperspace.

No words of thanks came via comm from the Jussafet defenders—small wonder, since this was an Imperial world, its defenders doubtless looking on their liberators with as much suspicion as gratitude—but most of the starfighters picked up anonymous transmissions expressing thanks, sometimes wrapped in profanity directed against the New Republic.

Han Solo directed the soldiers on Jussafet Four to appropriate any Raptor vehicles and prisoners they could, leaving the rest for the planetary defenders.

Wedge, bone-weary—and not from the hours he’d spent in the cockpit—had the Rogues lined up for final approach to
Mon Remonda
when the word came. “Sensors show an Imperial Star Destroyer leaving hyperspace and entering the Jussafet system. It’s still outside the system’s mass shadow and can turn and run at any time. It’s approaching slowly.”

“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 anyone’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?”