Solo Command (46 page)

The Twi’lek nodded. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll be your bodyguard until we get to Coruscant. Once we’re there, you can hire one to your liking and book your own passage to whatever world you like.”

“Well … I suppose you’ll do.”

Ven took a step back and shut the door.

Gast grabbed the identity packet, plucked the string free, and examined the documents, shoving the datacards in her terminal one by one. An identity card. A falsified personal history—born on Alderaan, a traveler among Outer Rim worlds since her home planet’s destruction eight years before. A permit permitting her to carry a large sum of money, up to a half million New Republic credits or the equivalent. Memberships in various decorators’ guilds—Imperial, New Republic, various unaligned planets.

She sat back, satisfied. One or two more days, and she’d be rid of Zsinj, rid of the Rebels, rid of this whole business forever.

Wedge looked over the fighter pilots of
Mon Remonda
. The Rogues and Wraiths were present in nearly full strength; he had lost only one pilot from those squadrons yesterday, and
had lost her only temporarily. A few survivors from Polearm and Nova Squadrons, pilots who had been knocked out of battle minutes before
Iron Fist
detonated, were also present.

This was the last time the four squadrons were ever likely to be assembled this way. The pilots stared at him, their expressions tired, solemn, battered, triumphant.

In spite of the high casualty toll, it had been a successful engagement.
Iron Fist
was gone.

“We’ll start with pilot updates,” he said. “Sadly, all the Nova and Polearm pilots missing at the site of
Iron Fist’
s last stand remain listed as missing in action and presumed dead. But our injured Rogue, Asyr Sei’lar, is out of danger, and the medics say she will suffer no permanent effects of her exposure.

“Most of the Rogues and Wraiths received a communication from an unknown craft as we were departing Selcaron. It turned out to be a lengthy message and data package from Lara Notsil, recorded before her death. It included many details about Zsinj’s brainwashing project that should allow Intelligence to dismantle Zsinj’s operation on Coruscant. We probably won’t have to worry again about the kind of circumstances that led to the deaths of Tal’dira and Nuro Tualin.” He spared a glance at Horn and Tyria. Both had been sobered by the mention of the pilots they’d been forced to kill, but Wedge could see no uncertainty in their expressions. Horn had always known whom to blame for his squadmate’s death. Tyria had apparently begun to understand the same thing.

“Many commendations will be resulting from our recent actions,” Wedge continued. “We’ll get to them later. I think I first ought to let you know that Fleet Command and Starfighter Command seem to be in agreement—that you all have seen enough carrier duty for a while. Squadron transfers are in order and will be coming through in the next day or two. Rogue Squadron can expect to see some planet-based duty, at least for a while. Polearm and Nova Squadrons will be returning to Coruscant so they can be rebuilt.”

Face’s hand shot up. “And the Wraiths? We’re still on
Mon Remonda
?”

“Not exactly. For you, I have good news, bad news, and news you’ll have to interpret for yourselves. Face, I’m obliged
to inform you that your captaincy has stuck. It’s Captain Loran from now on.”

The pilots closest to Face treated him to backslaps. Dia tickled him, causing him to shy away from her until he could pin her hands. He turned back to Wedge, his expression serious. “And the good news?”

“The
bad
news is that as of today, Wraith Squadron has been decommissioned as an X-wing unit.”

Face released Dia’s hands and dropped back in his seat, looking as stunned as if Kell had just side-kicked him in the head. “
What?
Sir?”

Wedge heard intakes of breath from several pilots, not just from Wraiths. “It’s not quite what it sounds like. It seems you’ve done too good a job, accomplishing a broad set of objectives, few of which have anything to do with the perceived strengths of an X-wing unit. You’ve made quite an impression on General Cracken, the head of Intelligence. As of now, Wraith Squadron has been recommissioned as an Intelligence unit. Commandos, insurgents, pilots—it will do whatever the situation warrants. With, unfortunately, less celebrity than even the little an X-wing unit typically receives.” He offered them an expression of apology. “Obviously, the government won’t just yank you out of Starfighter Command and give you like presents to another branch of the service. But all you have to do is say yes and your transfer to the new Wraith Squadron will be accepted instantly—and with thanks. General Cracken offers his personal wishes that you do accept transfer, and that you stay together as a team.”

“I’m coming back to Rogue Squadron,” said Janson. “That was the deal.”

Wedge smiled at him. “Wes, the Wraiths don’t want you anyway.”

“That’s right,” Elassar said. “You’re unlucky.”

Dia said, “I hate how serious he is all the time.”

Runt said, “We don’t like the way he chews his food.”

Shalla said, “But we’ll miss his rear end.”

Janson grinned as he took it, and accepted handshakes from the Wraiths and Rogues around him.

“Those Wraiths who do not intend to accept General Cracken’s
offer can tell me more privately than Wes here,” Wedge said. “And regardless of where you choose to go, drop by the pilots’s lounge this evening for one last drink together. You can celebrate where you’ve been and where you’re going.

“Now, for those commendations. Flight Officer Dorset Konnair, step forward …”

Face leaned against the pilot lounge bar and felt the brandy ease its way down his throat, warming him from within.

There was also warmth from without. The lounge was filled with pilots and friends—and tonight, with the mechanics, other technical staffers, and astromechs that had supported the starfighter squadrons. The heat of so many bodies raised the temperature in the lounge to a level no Mon Calamari would want to bear for long.

It was the end. Tomorrow, his profession would be different, and his surroundings would be changed, and so much of what he’d known for so long would be left behind.

“How is the voting running?” Wedge asked him.

“We’ll be staying together,” Face said. “Not everybody has talked to me yet, but most of the Wraiths will be Intelligence Wraiths tomorrow.”

Wedge nodded. “I think that’s the right choice. I thought the New Republic needed a unit like the Wraiths. Now others have bought in as well.”

“Does that mean Admiral Ackbar has let you off the hook? You don’t have to accept the generalship?”

Wedge smiled. “I had a congratulatory message from him this morning. ‘Even I wanted you to win,’ he said. ‘How could I vote against a starfighter unit proving its worth?’ ”

“Good point.”

Donos moved through the crowd to stand before them. He extended his hand to Face.

Face took it. “You’ve already congratulated me.”

“And now I’m leaving you.”

“Staying with Starfighter Command?”

“Yes. Flying is what I want to do.” Donos gave a helpless shrug.

Face grinned. “And staying with X-wings, too?”

“I hope so. I put in my request for transfer to any X-wing unit with openings.”

“Ah,” Wedge said. “I forgot to mention. Your approval for transfer came in earlier today. You have a new unit.”

“Really? Which one?”

“Rogue Squadron.”

Donos took a half-step back. “You’re kidding.”

“No, no, no.” Wedge shook his head. “Kidding sounds like this. The next candidate’s name is Kettch, and he’s an Ewok.’ See the difference?”

Donos’s mouth worked for a moment. Finally he said, “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome. Go talk to your new squadmates. Maybe you could manage to be a little less distant with them than you were with the old ones.”

Donos managed a smile. “Yes, I guess I could use the practice.”

The descent to Coruscant’s surface was uneventful, but Dr. Gast, seeing the former Imperial throneworld for the first time in years, was thrilled by every moment, by every glimpse the shuttle’s viewports afforded her of the world’s soaring buildings and rain-filled skies.

Nawara Ven, beside her—far too close for her peace of mind, but that, too, would soon change—obviously did not share her enthusiasm for the world’s attractions. He sat ignoring her, stonily facing forward throughout the landing. And that, too, gave her a little thrill of victory: to discommode the subhuman who had offered her so much grief was simply lovely.

An hour later, she and the Twi’lek neared the head of the customs entry line. It was one of many such lines in a cavernous hall that was broken, mazelike, by transparisteel barriers designed to keep arrivals from entering Coruscant unexamined and untaxed.

“Where do you go from here?” Ven asked her.

“I’m not fool enough to tell you,” she said. “You can be sure it’s somewhere well away from Rebel space. Somewhere
far from bad-smelling, bad-tempered Twi’leks. Somewhere orderly, where the cutting edge of medical research is admired and respected.”

Ven nodded sagely. “Well, then, I know exactly where you’re going.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’ll bet you half a million credits I can name the planet.”

She offered him a scowl. Then the man ahead of her in line moved past the customs station. She swung her two bags atop the examination table.

The customs worker, an aging human man, quickly ran a scanner across her bags, then opened the first and probed through the few garments and personal possessions that made up most of what she retained of her former life.

Then he opened her other bag and froze. He looked up at her, astonishment in his eyes. “What’s this?”

“Money.” She handed him a datacard. “Here’s my financial record. It constitutes authorization to travel with a large sum such as this.”

“It’s not the
sum
.” His look suggested that she was a victim of sun-madness. “These are Imperial credits.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And bringing them into Coruscant is an act of smuggling.” His hands shoved the currency around in her bag.

Nawara Ven leaned in close. “Actually, by Coruscant law, bringing in that many Imperial credits can only be for purposes of sedition. That’s a far more serious charge than merely smuggling. You’ll be spending at least a lifetime in prison on Coruscant.”

The customs official snapped his fingers and waved. Security officers approached.

Gast turned on Ven. “You set me up.”

He looked down at her impassively. “No, I let you do exactly as you wanted. I also saved your life. I’d say I’ve treated you rather well.”

She spat at him. A gooey mass hit his cheek and clung there.

He brought out a handkerchief of fine cloth, wiped the sputum away, and discarded it, as though the substance were poison, ruining the cloth forevermore.

Then strong hands gripped Dr. Gast’s arms and she was yanked away.

Han Solo and Wedge Antilles sat in the cockpit of the
Millennium Falsehood
, their feet up on the control boards. All lights in the ship and in the bay were off, including the strip around the magcon field, so they had an unimpeded view of the colorful swirl of hyperspace beyond.

“What are you going to do with her?” Wedge asked.

“Hmmm?” Solo stirred, his train of thought broken. “Do with who?”

“With the
Falsehood
.”

“Well, technically, I can’t do anything with her,” Solo said. “She belongs to the New Republic. But if they listen to me—which they will—I’ll recommend they put her up in a museum. As a near replica of the
Falcon
. That way nobody is ever likely to bother me anymore about donating the old girl.”

“Which old girl?”

“You know what I mean.”

The comm unit crackled into life, startling both men. “Bridge to General Solo.”

Solo thumbed the system to two-way transmission. “Solo here.”

“Communications here, sir. We have a situation.”

“Go ahead.”

“A while back you ordered my station to run all incoming messages through a voice-analysis program. So you could be notified immediately if Lara Notsil contacted you again.”

“That’s right.”

“No one thought to end the program after her death. Well, just before we made our last jump, we received a recorded message. Let me patch it through to you, sir.”

“Hold on.” Solo activated the bridge lights and powered up the
Falsehood’
s cockpit terminal screen. “Ready to receive.”

The terminal glowed into life. A data screen popped up, announcing the details of the message’s origin and route before arriving on
Mon Remonda
. Its origin was Corellia; it was originally transmitted one day before; its intended recipient was
Myn Donos, New Republic Starfighter Command. The data shrank and moved over into the left margin, to be replaced by a full-holo message.

The woman it showed had long red hair artfully draped in a braid over her shoulder. She was rather delicate of features, with an uncertain smile on her lips. “Hello, Myn,” she said. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen one another.”

Solo and Wedge looked at one another. “That’s Lara Notsil,” Solo said.

Wedge glanced over at the data stream. “No, it’s someone named Kirney Slane.”

“You’re not even surprised.” Solo glared at him, suspicion on his face.

“I’m back on Corellia now,” the redhead said, “after a few years of knocking around the galaxy.”

“Years?” Solo asked. “More like a few days.”

“Pretty good Corellian accent,” Wedge said.

“I don’t believe this,” Solo said.

“And I know, after the way we parted company, you may not want to see me again. But I had to find out if there was any sort of chance for us. I think I’m finally ready and able to give it a try again.” There was hope in the woman’s expression, and acceptance. “I’ll be here, at the address given in the message header, for the next few weeks. I’m trying to drum up traffic for my new shuttle business. I have a ship, a
Sentinel
-class landing craft I obtained used. I have a copilot you really need to meet and an astromech you already know. Contact me, visit me—do whatever you feel you have to. I’ll accept whatever you decide.”