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                     Attenton.

  This text was send to me with very bad quality
  If anybody who downloaded this text can fix errors,
  that marked by '?????????????' string - do it,please...


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Thanks go to:

Bruce Harlick, Kevin Jennings, Beth Loubet, Matt Pinson-
neault, Susan Pinsonneault, Bob Quinlan, Roxanne Quinlan,
Luray Richmond, and Sean Summers, my "Eagle-Eyes, " whose
efforts to intercept my errors of thought and deed keep me
from looking quite as foolish as I otherwise might;

All the Star Wars fiction authors from whose work I have been
able to draw details, most especially Michael A. Stackpole and
Timothy Zahn;

Drew Campbell, Troy Denning, Shane Johnson, Paul Murphy,
Stephen J. Sansweet, Peter Schweighofer, Jen Seiden, Bill Slav-
icsek, Bill Smith, Curtis Smith, Eric S. Trautmann, and Dan
Wallace, for the invaluable resources they have written;

David Pipgras, for the Wraith Squadron unit patch;

The netizens of alt. fan. wedge, for their support and commentary;
Sue Rostoni  and Lucy Autrey Wilson of Lucas Licensing, for
their help; and Denis Loubet, Mark and Luray Richmond, my roommates, for
occasionally reminding me to eat, sleep, and breathe.


                     STAR WARS:
           X WING: SOLO COMMAND

  DRAMATICS  PERSONAE

Commander Wedge Antilles (Rogue Leader, Rogue One,
  Wraith Leader) (human male from Corellia)

                     The Wraiths

Lieutenant (Brevet Captain) Garik "Face" Loran (Wraith
  One) (human male from Pantolomin)

Flight Officer Lara Notsil (Wraith Two) (human female
  from Aldivy)

Lieutenant Myn Donos (Wraith Three) (human male from
  Corellia)

Flight Officer Tyria Sarkin (Wraith Four) (human female
  from Toprawa)

Lieutenant Kell Tainer (Wraith Five) (human male from
  Sluis Van)

Flight Officer Hohass "Runt" Ekwesh (Wraith Six)
  (Thakwaash male from Thakwaa)

Flight Officer Dia Passik (Wraith Seven) (Twi'lek female from
  Ryloth)

Flight Officer Voort "Piggy" saBinring (Wraith Eight)
  (Gamorrean male from Gamorr)

Lieutenant Shalla Nelprin (Wraith Nine) (human female
  from Ingo)

Lieutenant Wes Janson (Wraith Ten, XO) (human male from
  Taanab)

Flight Officer Elassar Targon (Wraith Eleven) (Devaronian
  male from Devaron)

                     The Rogues

Captain Tycho Celchu (Rogue Two) (human male from
  Alderaan)

Lieutenant Pedna Scotian (Rogue Three) (Chev female from
  Vinsoth)

                    Zsinj's Forces

Warlord Zsinj (human male from Fondor)

General Melvar (human male from Kuat)

Dr. Edda Gast (human female from Saffalore)

Captain Radaf Netbers (human male from Broest)

Captain Vellar (human male from Coruscant)
human from Ryloth) 











Flight Officer Inyri Forge (Rogue Twelve) (human female from
  Kessel)
Lieutenant Nawara Ven (XO) (Twi'lek male from Ryloth)

                  Support Personnel
Clink (Donos's R2 unit)
Cubber Daine (human male from Corellia, Wraith mechanic)
Gate (Wedge's R5 unit)
Koyi Komad (Twi'lek female from Ryloth, Rogue mechanic)
Squeaky (3PO unit, squadron quartermaster)
Tonin (Lara's R2 unit)
Vape (Face's R2 unit)

                New Republic Military
General Han Solo (human male from Corellia)

Captain Onoma (Mon Calamari male from Mon Calamari)

Captain Todra Mayn (Polearm One) (human female from
  Commenor)

Flight Officer Nuro Tualin (Polearm Two) (Twi'lek male
  from Ryloth)

Flight Officer Dorset Konnair (Polearm Seven) (human female
  from Coruscant)

Flight Officer Tetengo Noor (Polearm Nine) (human male
  from Churba)



Naval Lieutenant Jart Eyan looked rested and cheerful. The
fact that he had only twelve minutes to live would have changed
his disposition, but he did not possess that knowledge.

    He descended the shuttle ramp to stand in the bay of
the cruiser Home One and look around for a moment. When
last he'd seen this part of the ship, many of the shuttles and
utility vehicles within had borne the grime and combat scoring
that were inevitable in any lengthy campaign. Now they were
largely restored to shipshape state. The time Home One had
spent in the repair yards  of Coruscant had obviously been
valuable.

    Eyan was a Twi'lek, member of a humanoid species best
known for the two fleshy appendages, called lekku, that hung
from their heads where a human would have hair. Many hu-
mans forgot that lekku, more commonly referred to as brain
tails, were sensory bundles, and often gave Twi'leks an edge in
assessing their circumstances and possible threats being posed.

    Eyan shivered. Ryloth, the Twi'lek home, was a hot world.
On Home One, a ship engineered for a bridge crew of Mon
Calamari, an aquatic species, the ambient temperature tended
to be low enough to inconvenience him. The New Republic

????????????????????

    Still, he smiled, revealing a broad stretch of carnivore's
teeth. It was good to be back.

    An aide, a human female, approached him and.saluted.

"Welcome back, sir. I hope you enjoyed your leave."

    "Oh, certainly." Eyan frowned for a moment, trying to re-
member just what he'd been up to on his leave, but the moment
passed. His gesture took in the vehicle bay and indicated the
vessel as a whole. "What sort of shape is she in?"

    "One hundred percent, sir.  All the admiral has to do is
point, and we'll be on our way."

    "Excellent."

    "I wanted to let you know, you had a communication
from your wife come in a few minutes ago. It was flagged as
urgent."

    "Is the captain on duty?"

    "Not now, sir."

    "Good. I can see to this message before I'm  officially on
duty again." Eyan  nodded thanks to the aide and headed for
his quarters.

    What could be the trouble? He'd barely left her-as with
many New Republic officers, he'd moved his family to Corus-
cant after being assigned to the former Imperial throneworld.

    Barely left her after spending his entire leave with her, too.
But he frowned, trying to recall just how they'd spent their
time together. The  memory wasn't coming in too clearly. He
had the nagging feeling that something important was slipping
by him.

    At his quarters, he brought  up his personal terminal and
opened his mail. In addition to numerous messages related
to his duties, there was the priority-flagged message from his
wife. He brought it up.

    There she sat, in the tacky red high-backed chair that sat
before  their terminal at home, and she looked distinctly un-
happy, her greenish skin a little more pallid than it should have
been. She glanced over to the side as though consulting with
someone outside recording range. "Jart," she said, "those Wook-
iees are dancing in the parlor again."

    Eyan switched off the message, not bothering to hear it in
its entirety, and erased it. His fingers typed commands into the
terminal keyboard. He watched the process, momentarily in-
terested in how he could be so swift, so sure, and yet have no
idea what he was doing. Of course, he thought. How unpleas-
ant. Those blasted Wookiees are dancing in the parlor again.
He retrieved his personal sidearm, a small but powerful blaster
pistol, and checked it to make sure it was fully charged. He
tucked it away in his pocket and departed, certain in what he
needed to do to get rid of those dancing Wookiees.


2


"In terms of pure strategy, there was nothing of particular in-
terest between the capital ships in the Mon Remonda/Iron Fist
fight." The speaker was a Gamorrean, one of the pig-snouted
humanoids known for their warlike dispositions, but almost
nothing but his appearance characterized him as a member of
that species.

    He was speaking Basic, which was beyond the capabilities
of other Gamorreans. And his voice was not a natural one; his
words emerged twice, once in a throaty babble that sounded
like gibberish to  most people, and once in a mechanical tone
from an implant in his throat. Too, he was the only Gamorrean
known to wear a New Republic Fleet Command uniform.

    On the shoulder of his orange pilot's uniform he wore a
unit patch that was much cleaner, much newer than the rest of
the uniform. The main element of the design was a white circle,
over which,  in light gray, appeared the central symbol of the
New Republic, a design like a stylized bird  with  upswept
wings. Over  that were twelve X-wing silhouettes, as if viewed
from above,  in black; one, in the lower left portion of the cir-
cle, was large, and the eleven arrayed around it were a third its
size. All were oriented the same direction, from lower left
to upper right, as though flying in tight, precise formation.
Around the white circle was a broad blue ring bordered by two
narrow gold rings. It was a brand-new unit patch for a nearly
brand-new force, Wraith Squadron.

    The being the Gamorrean addressed  across the holotable
was also unusual, though his kind was certainly well represented
officer's uniform he wore was never quite sufficient to over-
come this discomfort.

In the ranks of the New Republic military. Admiral Ackbar was
a member of the Mon Calamari species, humanoids with fish-
like features and rubbery skin. Though there were many Mon
Calamari serving the New Republic, few had naval combat
maneuvers named for him or had designed fighter craft as Ack-
bar had.

    "Essentially," the Gamorrean continued, "we gave Zsinj
only one course of action to take if he were to preserve the Ra-
zor's Kiss." He gestured at the replay of the deep-space naval
battle being projected above  the holotable. "You see his ma-
neuvers to keep Iron Fist between us and Razor's Kiss. You see
him slow his escape pace to stay with the crippled ship. All by
the numbers, numbers our force dictated."

    Admiral Ackbar's voice  was low,  gravelly, slightly more
imposing than the standard for his species. "So you find noth-
ing of interest in the engagement."

    "If you will forgive me, I did not say that, sir." The Gamor-
rean manipulated the table controls to zoom the holoprojection
view very close to the second of the two Super Star Destroyers.
At this near distance, he and Ackbar could see that the mighty
vessel was burning at innumerable points on the hull. They
could also see swarms of starfighters, New Republic and Impe-
rial, fighting above its surface.

    "Mathematically speaking," the Gamorrean continued,
"there is much of interest in  the behavior of the One Eighty-
first. In addition to the fact that a demonstrably loyal Imperial
elite squadron should not be working hand in hand with  a
rogue warlord like Zsinj, there is something odd in  the way
they fight."

    Ackbar's face suggested curiosity. "We detected no oddity
in our analysis of the  recordings. But, of course, you were
there."

    "If I may correct you, I actually was not. I was trapped on
the hull of the Iron Fist for most of that fight, trying to per-
suade my starfighter to start  up. No, it was after you showed
me these recordings that  I noticed it. Individual fighter pairs
tend to respond with an interesting sameness to specific attack
patterns. See here--" The Gamorrean pointed to a pair of TIE
interceptors characterized by  horizontal red stripes on their so-
lar wing arrays. As a pair of X-wings approached from their
rear, the TIEs broke off in a tight sweep to port and relative
down, moving at an angle the X-wings couldn't match.

    The Gamorrean stopped the holoprojection, scrolled the
viewpoint over to the Iron Fist, and settled it on another pair of
181st interceptors. He advanced the recording as the intercep-
tors cruised toward a pocket of combat, then set it to play at a
normal rate. "Here, two A-wings from Polearm Squadron ap-
proach from the rear on the same vector. You see the intercep-
tors break exactly the same way, the lead interceptor taking the
higher position and the slightly shallower angle, the wingman
going lower and taking a harder turn."

    "A coincidence."

    "No. The angle of attack dictates  the way they break.
Only with the One Eighty-first, however. I'm not sure what it
means."

    Ackbar leaned forward, his posture suggesting sudden in-
terest.

"Show me more."







Lieutenant Eyan marched into the admiral's outer office with
his broad, meat-eating smile fixed on his face.

    The admiral's aide, seated at a desk outside the door to
Ackbar's office, returned the smile. He was a human male who
looked as though he thrived on naval food and could stand to
thrive a little less. He stood and saluted.  

"Welcome back, sir. You look as though your leave suited you."

    Eyan  drew the  blaster pistol from  his pocket, thrust it
into the man's stomach, and pulled the trigger. The blast slammed
the  man back  into his chair but was not as loud as it could
have been, muffled by contact with the victim's flesh. "It did,"
he said.

    Eyan reached past the still-twitching corpse to press a but-
ton on the underside of the desk. The door into Ackbar's office
opened.

The admiral looked up as the naval officer entered. "Ah, Lieu-
tenant Eyan. Allow me to present Flight Officer Voort saBinring,
also called Piggy. He is a pilot of Wraith Squadron and a mathe-
matical prodigy. SaBinring, this is Lieutenant Jart Eyan, secu-
rity detail."

    Piggy rose to salute the naval officer. "Pleased to meet you,
sir."

    Eyan returned the salute. "Likewise." Then he pulled his
blaster from behind his back, pressed it into Piggy's stomach,
and pressed the trigger.





It is remarkable, Piggy thought, the suddenness of it. One mo-
ment, perfect health.  The next moment, perfect agony. He
could not see, the pain in his gut was so great, like a bonfire
lit upon his stomach and eating its  way through him, and he
could barely hear. He knew he lay upon his back but couldn't
remember getting there.

    I think I have only moments to live. Interesting.

    But the science that had altered him, giving him control
over his emotions, giving him the mathematical acuity that had
brought  him to Admiral Ackbar's attention,  had not done
away with all of the biological imperatives that came with be-
ing Gamorrean. Another voice rose within him, growing louder:
Live, die, doesn't matter-kill him! Strike him until his bones
are paste, rest your tusks upon the warm flesh of his throat,
and tear it free! KILL HIM!

    Piggy's eyes snapped open. The assassin stood a couple of
meters away, his weapon aimed at Ackbar, words forming in
his mouth, words Piggy could not hear.

    They didn't matter. The Twi'lek  hadn't fired on Ackbar
yet. Piggy reached beneath his left sleeve, and with a trembling
hand drew forth a vibroblade like the ones most members of
his squadron carried there. He thumbed its power on. Then he
roared, a noise he knew humans to find intimidating, and threw
the blade.

    His target jerked at the sudden noise and spun to aim at
Piggy. The vibroblade, instead of catching him in the chest, hit
the blaster  instead, shearing into the  metal where barrel  met
trigger guard. There was a bright flash from the weapon  and
the assassin flung it away.

    Piggy tried to stand but found that his shaky limbs were
not making it an easy task. He saw Ackbar slam into the assas-
sin from the side, the webbed hands of the Mon Calamari clos-
ing around the Twi'lek's throat...  but Lieutenant  Eyan
effortlessly wrenched Ackbar's hands free and threw the admi-
ral against  the wall. Then, as deliberately as a diner sitting
down to a meal, Eyan straddled Ackbar and closed his own
hands over the admiral's throat.

    Piggy forced himself to his feet. Time left... estimated ten
or twelve seconds. Kill him kill him kill him. Hard to see. Tun-
nel vision. A side effect of shock. Tear one arm free and beat
him until he shrieks for death. He's strong, unnaturally strong.

    He walked, his feet unsteady, to Ackbar's desk, and got his
shoulder under the center portion.  He heaved and it came up
off the floor, though it  nearly unbalanced him. Good. I still
have my strength. Hit him so hard members of his family light-
years away cry out in pain and dread.

    He lurched into motion toward the assassin, lowering the
edge of the  desk as he built up speed, and was rewarded with
his victim's sudden perception of him, a look of surprise on the
Twi'lek's face.

    Then he hit.




On the other side of the joining wall, the ensign leaning against
the wall of the lounge,  a human female, was suddenly flung
forward. She slammed onto the floor, her cup of caf splashing
as far as the boots of the ensign halfway across the lounge, and
she lay there unmoving.

    The others in the lounge looked at the bowed-in portion of
metal plate that had once been smooth wall. One knelt beside
the injured woman. The rest scrambled for the door.




Piggy dropped the desk so that it would not fall upon Admiral
Ackbar. The motion was more languid than he liked. He didn't
seem to have any energy left.

    He regarded  his handiwork. The  Twi'lek's head was a
quarter the width it should have been, a smashed mess that
pleased one of the voices in Piggy's head even as it appalled the
other.

    Admiral Ackbar was struggling to rise. He was speaking.
But suddenly Piggy couldn't understand the words.

    The Gamorrean fell over backwards as the heat and pain
in his gut spread out to overwhelm him.






The two TIE interceptors banked, maneuvering in a wide circle
as they scanned for enemies, and the lunar surface sped by
beneath them.

    To someone seeing them for the first time, these starfighters
might have seemed comical. Their cockpits were unaerodynamic-
looking spheres taller than a human. Projecting from either side
of the cockpits were thick posts, the wing pylons, each about the
length of the cockpit's circumference. At the end of either pylon
was a solar wing array, a curved, roughly oval wing with a deep
notch cut out of the leading edge. Where normal TIE fighters
were nicknamed eyeballs, for their spherical cockpits, in New
Republic fighter slang, interceptors, with their narrower sight
profiles, were called squints.

    But no one seeing them maneuver or fight would continue
to think them amusing. Agile and fast, armed with four lasers
each capable of punching through starfighter armor, they were
among the deadliest tools in the arsenal of the Empire.

    Not that Imperial pilots flew these two.

    "Rogue Two, this is Leader. Comm check."

    "I read you."

    "Two unknowns now showing  on my sensor  screen at
two-eight-five. Follow me in."

    "I'm your wing."

    The lead interceptor veered  toward the distant blip, the
second following hard, their maneuvers tight and sure. Within
moments, the enemy-two tiny bright spots near the horizon-
came into view.

    "Two, the computer gives a tentative ID as  one intercep-
tor, one X-wing."

    "I read  it that way. The X-wing is leading. Shall we get
some separation, make them split up to cover us both?"

    "Ehhh ... not yet. Stay with standard Imperial protocols
at first to make this a proper test."

    "Right."

    As the range meter numbers scrolled down to firing range,
the oncoming starfighters opened  fire. Curiously, the enemy
TIE interceptor held in close behind the X-wing, dropping just
beneath to fire, rising above to fire again.

    The two interceptors bobbed  and juked, ducking fire as
they returned laser blasts. Their return shots slammed into
the X-wing's forward shields, dissipating meters short of the
X-wing fuselage.

    "Hey, I get it," Two said. "You use the..."

    Red laser fire from the X-wing hit him low on the circular
transparisteel viewport. Two exploded in  a bright flash, and
Leader's interceptor rocked, hit by gases swelling from the deto-
nation. The enemy interceptor and  X-wing speed by. ???????????

    Despite his demise, Two kept talking, his voice floating
into his leader's comm unit  like transmissions from a land of
the dead. 

"Whoops, sorry, Wedge."

    "No problem, Tycho." Wedge Antilles heeled hard to port,
coming up behind the two attackers.

    Instead of splitting up, with the faster interceptor trying to
come up behind Wedge, the attackers had remained together,
though they'd changed their formation: the X-wing was now
in the rear, with the interceptor bobbing around just in front of
it. It was tight, economical flying, and Wedge nodded. On their
approach, the enemy interceptor had used the X-wing as a bar-
ricade, staying behind its  shields except for the bare seconds
necessary to line up a shot. The X-wing must have had most or
all of its shield  energy forward on the approach. Now, as they
retreated,  the interceptor was still  enjoying the X-wing's pro-
tection, and that starfighter's shield energy would all be con-
centrated to the rear.

    Wedge accelerated toward the pair, rising until he was
slightly above  their plane of flight. They  knew he wouldn't
overfly them; he'd tuck in behind  and fire at their compara-
tively unprotected rears until they were destroyed. So their tac-
tic had to  be to break at some point. The X-wing wouldn't be
able to outmaneuver him, so it would be the interceptor trying
to get in behind him. That meant they'd wait until he was en-
gaged with the X-wing before breaking.

    The computer graphic  representing the X-wing jittered
within his sensor screen, announcing a laser lock. He ignored it
and began a shallow dive, dipping down beneath the X-wing's
flight plane as if to try a snap shot at the interceptor. But
halfway into the maneuver he drew back on the yoke, sending 
him into a sudden climb.

    And the enemy interceptor, rising past the X-wing's nose
in an effort to keep the X-wing between itself and Wedge, sud-
denly jittered in the same sensor screen. Wedge fired and saw
the green flashes of three of his lasers connect with  the 
interceptor's engines. The squint blew out of the sky and Wedge
jerked hard to port to avoid flying through the thickest part of
the debris cloud.

    The X-wing took advantage of his sudden dodge by peeling 
off to starboard, a hard turn-an obvious attempt to set up
for another head-to-head pass.  But Wedge switched his comm
unit over to a general broadcast frequency and said, "Exercise
terminated."

    The voice of Garik "Face" Lor an, onetime boy actor for
the Empire and now New Republic  flyer, came back. "But I'm
not dead yet."

    "You're protesting?"

    "Not exactly. Just curious."

    The vision of the lunar surface and the maneuvering X-wing
faded abruptly to blackness. Wedge reached back to open the
access hatch, situated where the twin ion engines were in a real
TIE interceptor, and climbed out into overhead light.

    The room was a large one, crowded with tables, chairs, and
simulator units. Most were narrower units, the better to 
conform to the cockpit interiors of the X-wing, Y-wring, and A-wing
starfighters used by the New Republic, but a few were spheri-
cal, such as the one Wedge had just vacated.  The room was
heavily trafficked by pilots, many of them in the New
Republic's orange pilots's jumpsuits, and technicians in more somber
colors. Most  of the pilots were clustered around the various
simulator units, monitoring the practicing pilots' efforts on 
overhead holo displays.

    Across an aisle busy with human traffic, Face Loran dropped
nimbly to the floor and looked curiously toward Wedge. Wedge
saw a female pilot trainee glance at him, do a double take, then
flutter her hand over her heart as she whispered into the ear of
a confidant. Face, with his strikingly handsome features, intent
green eyes, and somehow artfully mussed black hair, often had
that effect on women. Wedge waved him over.

    They  were joined a moment later by two other pilots.
Flight Officer Lara Notsil, a lightly built woman with downy
blond hair, was possessed of a delicate beauty that belied her
intensity and skill in starfighter combat. Captain Tycho Celchu,
a fair-haired man with features that suggested he'd weathered
a lot of turmoil in his life, spoke first.

 "Why'd you kill the sim, Commander?"

    "We were here to test the youngsters's new combined-unit
tactic," Wedge said. "As soon as you and Lara went out, it be-
came just  another X-wing versus TIE exercise. There's plenty
of value in those, of course, but that's not what we came here
for." He fixed his attention on Face. "What was your opinion
of the effectiveness of your tactic?"

    Face shrugged; he didn't look happy. "Nowhere near as 
effective  as I'd hoped."

    "You  were presuming that experienced enemies would be
so thrown off by the  novelty of what you were doing that
they'd be easy kills?"

    "Presuming? No, sir. Just hoping."

    "Lara, your thoughts?"

    "Well, one exercise isn't statistically significant," she
said.

"So anything I had to say would be premature. Irrelevant. But I
think the tactic worked as it was supposed to. I received a lot of
protection from Face's shields on both the incoming and 
outbound legs of the run, in spite of the fact that you flushed me
out pretty easily. I'd say it was effective."

    Tycho nodded. "I'd agree. But I think it's a one-shot tactic.
Usable only in paired head-to-head runs or when you have an
X-wing/TIE pair going after a single target. It would  be best
used at the start of any engagement, then abandoned."

    "I'd say it's worth further practice and analysis," Wedge
said. "Face, Lara, work up some automated exercises to give
all the Wraiths the opportunity to play around with this." He
checked the chrono strapped to his wrist. "Though not now.
We have about ten minutes to get to our briefing. Dismissed."

    The two  younger pilots saluted and headed off into the
stream of traffic.

    Wedge called, "Hey."

    The two  turned, Face curious, Lara looking guilty,  as if
wondering if she'd forgotten to salute before leaving.

    Wedge said, "Developing just this kind of tactic is one of
the things I put Wraith Squadron together for. Good work.
Keep at it."

    They smiled and continued toward the room's main exit.
Most of the members of Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron
were in their seats in the semicircular briefing amphitheater
when Wedge and Tycho entered.

    "Commander Antilles - draw!"

    Wedge turned at the sound of Wes  Janson's voice. The
eternally youthful pilot, executive officer of Wraith Squadron,
was on his feet, aiming a datapad as though it were a blaster
pistol,  thumbing the  transmit button with manic  intensity.   ?????????
Wedge sighed and brought out his own datapad to receive the
transmitted file. But Janson's antics were a good sign. They
suggested that the news Wedge was waiting for had arrived-
and was good. Enroute to the main dais, he glanced at the Rogue
Squadron executive officer, Nawara Yen, a distinguished-looking
Twi'lek with brain tails arrayed artfully over his shoulders, and
Wedge received a datafile from him as well. He glanced over the
two officers's transmissions as he stepped up behind the lectern,
then looked up at the pilots before him.

    Two squadrons, nearly at full fighting strength, the best 
pilots he could assemble and train. He felt a rush of pride at what
he'd managed to accomplish with these two units, at the level
at which they'd managed to perform, but he kept it from his
face.

"I have mostly good news to bring to you today. First and
foremost,  Piggy saBinring is responding  well to bacta treat-

 ??????????????????????????????????????

clamations of relief from the assembly. 

"Unfortunately, we still have no information about the assassin's
motive in attacking Ackbar. When the admiral asked him why he was
doing this, the assassin said he, Ackbar, knew why. You know the 
assassin died in the attempt. His wife and children are missing, 
and the investigation is continuing.

    "Second, the Mon Remonda is within a day of leaving 
repair dock. By this time tomorrow, we'll be back in space and
taking the fight back to Warlord Zsinj."

    That brought more applause. Mon Remonda, the mighty
Mon Calamari cruiser that was the flagship of the fleet com-
manded by Han Solo, had taken significant damage in its 
recent duel with the warlord Zsinj's own flagship, the Super Star
Destroyer Iron Fist. But Zsinj's forces had suffered far more.

    "Third, and directly as a result of this, you all have one
last leave coming to you. Report to the shuttle  bay at fifteen
hundred tomorrow, with your bags packed and all your affairs
settled; until then, you're on your own. Enjoy yourselves."

    "However, we can't forget that the last time we had leave
here on Coruscant, a covert unit probably belonging to Zsinj
came close to assassinating the Wraiths. So we'll follow these
protocols. Civilian dress only. I know you Wraiths have just
gotten your unit patches, but you'll have to stow them during
this leave. The more recognizable of you - you know who you
are - should make some effort to conceal your features. Stay
out of the bars pilots tend to frequent."

    "Fourth, I have some changes to announce. The Wraiths
have a new pilot for their roster-Targon, please stand."

    At the back of the amphitheater, a pilot stood, and the
Rogues and Wraiths twisted to see him.

    The new pilot was a Devaronian-grayish-skinned, with
diabolic horns protruding from his forehead and fanglike teeth
that would only cause appreciation in the heart of a carnivo-
rous predator. His voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly deep
and resonant considering his apparent youth. "Flight Officer
Elassar Targon reporting for duty, sir."

    "Targon comes to us fresh from Fleet Command Academy;
in addition to being a competent pilot, he's a medical corps-

?????????????????????????????????????

than put on pressure patches and make squealy noises. And
unlike the rest of you, he hasn't yet had time to ruin his career
or his mind."

    "Then he won't do." That was Janson. "Send him home.
Get us another lunatic."

    "Excuse me!" The Devaronian pilot hopped up to stand in
his seat, took a wide stance with one foot in the adjacent chair;
he threw his arms  back and chest out, posing like some super-
human hf 'o from the most ridiculous of Face Loran's holodramas.  ???????????
 "Elassar Targon, master of the universe, reporting  for
duty!"

    Wedge cocked an eyebrow at him. Interesting that a very
junior officer would be willing to perform that sort of display
in his first few moments  with his new unit. Either  the reputa-
tion of Wraith Squadron had convinced him that it was 
appropriate ... or he was  another complete maniac, and Fleet
Command had found another mental case for his command.

Despite the laughter erupting from the assembled pilots, Wedge
clearly heard Janson speak again, "I withdraw my  objection."

    Wedge returned his  attention to the pilots.  "Targon,  sit.
Pipe down, everyone. Fifth, and last, there's going to be a little
reorganizing to do within my squadrons.

    "Until and unless we persuade Starfighter Command that
we need to participate in another prolonged field mission, we'll
be with Mon Remonda on active duty. We been put in 
command of the ship's four fighter squadrons. I'm also transferring
back to and assuming direct command of Rogue Squadron,
effective  immediately. I'll still fly with the Wraiths, as well as
Nova and Polearm, when circumstances  and opportunities
warrant, but I'm relinquishing day-to-day command." He saw
the Rogues's good cheer continue, but  the Wraiths sobered
with the realization that their very best pilot was leaving them.

Wedge continued,  "Lieutenant Loran, attention."

    Face stood. Wedge  saw a  flicker of suspiction cross  his
face, but it disappeared quickly as the actor regained control of
himself.

    Wedge said, "This isn't a permanent promotion-yet-so
we're not going to do anything to you that will  leave perma-
nent marks. However, it is my pleasure to confer upon you the
rank of brevet captain, which entitles you to command a unit
such as Wraith Squadron. Congratulations, Face." From a
pocket he dug a semitransparent envelope, and this he tossed
to the pilot. "Your new rank insignia."

    As the other pilots applauded, Wedge glanced among the
other ranking pilots of Wraith Squadron, gauging reactions.

    Wes Janson, who was the senior lieutenant in the squadron,
was applauding and smiling easily. No surprise, as he had no
real interest in command or, ultimately, in remaining with the
Wraiths; he preferred to be just one of the gang back in Rogue
Squadron, so this promotion of Face over  his  head was not
threatening to him.

    Kell Tainer, the biggest human in Wraith Squadron and,
after Face, the most hologenic, also looked as though he were
comfortable with the  choice.  Perhaps he had ultimately
realized that, though he was a brilliant flyer and very capable 
technician, he didn't have the temperament for  or real interest in
command.

    The smile of Shalla Nelprin, the squadron's newest lieu-
tenant, was broad and genuine.

    That left Myn Donos, a  lieutenant with more years and
more experience than  Face. He looked serious and contemplative.  
But then, serious was merely a step up from his usual 
expression, that of dour intensity. Still, he had to know that this
promotion reflected a lack of trust in his command skills. Mere
months ago, while wearing the rank of brevet captain himself,
Donos had commanded an X-wing unit that had been slaughtered by 
a Zsinj ally, Admiral Apwar Trigit, and had suffered
serious emotional trauma resulting from that event. He probably 
thought that Wedge still held no trust in him.

    Which wasn't true. But Wedge Antilles's units were largely
meritocracies. The most meritorious pilots were promoted 
fastest, and Face had demonstrated more tactical savvy and more
command skills than Donos, even though Wedge felt Donos was
probably reliable.

    As the applause died, Wedge said, "That's it for now. Any
questions?"

    Face was first with a hand up. "If we're launching 
tomorrow, sir, when do we get Piggy back?"




18
????????????????????????






The Devaronian straightened. His voice deepened. "My
apologies. Absolutely. You're right. In fact, we shouldn't knock
We should just blast the door lock and kick the door in."

"We'll knock," Lara said. She rapped on the door.

There was no answer. She knocked again, more insistent^

From within came Face's voice. "Yes?"

"May we come in?"

"I'm not decent."

"When are you ever?" Lara opened the door and looked
in. Donos could see over her shoulder; Face was lying on
bed, still in uniform, staring at the ceiling.

Lara pushed her way in and heard the others crowd in
behind her. "What are you doing?"

"I'm learning to play a variety of musical instruments
using only the power of my mind."

"That's what I thought. Now it's time to go out and enjoy
yourself."

"Maybe you didn't hear the commander's orders about us
the more recognizable members of the squads?"

She snorted. "That was for Runt's sake most of all. When
you're two meters tall, covered in fur, and the only member of
your species in Starfighter Command, you have to lie low
sometimes. But you can put on a disguise. I've often suspected
that you sometimes put on disguises just to go to the refresher."

"Now, that's an idea." Face looked at her for the first time
gave her a smile that was meant to communicate cheer. "You
go ahead. I'll be fine."

"Hey, I'm your wingman now. It's my job to keep you
from making big mistakes. And it would be a big mistake
to enjoy the last leave you're likely to have for a while."

"Do I have to pull rank on you?"

"You only get to do that when it's appropriate. That's
unwritten law."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"I read it somewhere."

Face snorted. "All right. Give me five minutes to transform
myself into something inconspicuous. Where are we going?

Lara jerked a thumb back at her companions. "Since Elasssar 
hasn't run up against Zsinj before now, we're going to take 
him to the Gaiactic museum's new display on Imperial Intelligence. 
Give him an idea what he's up against. Then we get a drink. Then 
you and Myn and Elassar give in to male biology and insult a bar 
full of soldiers, and Dia and I haul your battered bodies back to base."

Face looked helplessly at Donos and Elassar. "You see
what happens when we don't get involved in the mission's
planning stage?"








The museum's displays on Imperial Intelligence were not, Donos
decided, the one-sided history they could have been.

The first displays on the tour gave details of the Old
Republic's Intelligence division, the secret police who were
charged with protecting the Republic from subversion and 
treason. One display, a holoscreen within a container the size and
approximate shape of a bacta tank, played a drama about 
Republic Intelligence commandos thwarting an assassination
attempt made against members of the old Republican Senate.
Another display was a transparisteel case holding a score of
weapons and gadgets used by field agents; Donos recognized
the technological ancestors of gear the Wraiths had carried in
the field.

Another holoprejection showed a man in dark commando
garments. He was dark-skinned, graying at the temples, 
intense interest in his eyes, his features just a little too diabolical
to be beautiful, "I was Vyn Narcassan," he said. "In my twenty-year 
career with Republic Intelligence, I successfully completed
over a hundred covert missions. I couldn't prevent Senator
Palpatine's rise to power or his subsequent reign as Emperor. But
I could, and did, engineer my disappearance. And despite 
Imperial Intelligence's burning need to silence me and extinguish
all the secrets I learned..." the projection leaned forward as
if to impart a confidence - "...they never found me." He drew
back, his smile creating deep dimples beside his mouth, his 
expression one of a satisfaction so immense that it bordered on
arrogance.

    Something about the projection jogged Donos's memory,
but he couldn't figure out what it was. He filed it away for 
future reference. Someday, when  he was trying to remember
something else entirely, the answer would bubble up to the 
surface of his mind and annoy him intensely.

    Farther along the series of black, ill-lit museum display
halls-the decor an attempt, Donos thought, to edge visitors
into the sort of paranoid mind-set appropriate to subjects such
as Imperial Intelligence-the displays became more unsettling.
As Palpatine took power, the Intelligence Division became a
tool of terror and retaliation. Displays chronicled assassina-
tions, kidnappings of Old Republic loyalists, tortures, subver-
sions. An interrogation chamber was shown in great detail,
actual holographic footage of a subject being questioned about
a rumored insurrection. The replay showed the subject, a man
of Chandrila, dying during questioning. The narrator finishing
up commentary on the event pointed out that the insurrection
was entirely imaginary.

    One display showed the longtime Intelligence head, 
Armand Isard, an aging man with an inhumanity to his eyes and
features that were unsettlingly real even in holographic replay.
Farther  down the exhibition, another showed his daughter,
Ysanne Isard, nicknamed Iceheart, a tall and elegant woman of
formidable bearing, and told of her swift rise to power through
two simple tactics: turning  in her  own father for  treasonous
thoughts and attracting the eye of the Emperor. After Palpa-
tine's death, she had even managed secretly to gain control of
the Empire itself for a time.

    Face, his features buried under a wooly brown beard, 
lingered before the  projection of Ysanne Isard for a long time,
and Donos saw him shudder-a motion too slight for any but^
those who knew him best to notice. The Wraiths were aware
that when Face was a boy star in holodramas, he'd actually
met Iceheart, had even been invited to sit in her lap. Now 
Iceheart was dead, killed by Rogue Squadron's own Tycho Celchu. 
I and Donos knew the universe was better off without her.

    To some extent, Imperial Intelligence had died with her. To;
be sure, an organization with that name survived under the
coalition that had replaced Iceheart, but it was not managed
with the same inventive ruthlessness that had characterized Is-
ard and her father. The organization was still a danger... but
to fewer and fewer people as the years went by.

    Instead of going out the exit at the end of the exhibition,
the Wraiths turned about and went back the way they came, the
better to give Targon a chance to view the displays again. As
they passed the holo of Iceheart, Donos saw the Devaronian
pilot pull up something held by a chain around his neck and
press it to his forehead.

    "A lucky charm?" Donos asked.

    Targon nodded. "A coin of the Old Republic. It holds a lot
of luck."

    "How do you know ?"

    "My brother was never shot down while wearing it. It's
better than anything else I have. He sent it to me when I joined
the Academy. Better than my lucky carved bantha-bone. Better
than my lucky belt buckle. Or my lucky gilding set. Or my..."

    Face interrupted. "What's a gilding set?"

    "Well, you know. For my horns."

    "I don't know. What about your horns?"

    Targon shrugged. "For special occasions, important 
festivals, we sometimes-Devaronians I mean-put gold leaf on
our horns. For decoration."

    "And this is just a device to help you do that?"

    "That's right."

    "What makes it lucky?"

    "Well, the first time I used it, shortly before I entered the
Academy, I attracted the eye of a certain young lady..."

    "Nevermind."

    Donos  and Face exchanged glances. The  Wraiths and
Rogues were light on pilots who put much stock in good-luck
charms, but such pilots were common throughout the New 
Republic and the Empire. Donos saw Face's eyes light up, probably
because of an idea for a prank.

    "I was Vyn Narcassan. In my twenty-year career with 
Republic  Intelligence, I successfully completed over  a hundred
covert missions." As they reached the display honoring the last
of the Old Republic's Intelligence heroes, Donos gave the man
one last look, took in his dimpling smile, then realized what it
was the man reminded him of.

    Not what - who. The man's skin tone, his dimples, his 
unusual physical beauty - they were all shared by another Wraith.
Shalla Nelprin.

    That rocked Donos back on his heels. But the physical 
resemblance was dramatic.

    Donos smiled at the long-missing agent.  "We'll just let
that be our little secret, Narcassan," he said under his breath.
"But I'm going to send Shalla a message and tell her to come
visit this exhibit today. Not why. Just that she needs to. In case
it means something to her."

    "Who are you talking to?" That was Lara. Face and Dia
were already a few steps ahead, arm in arm, with Targon 
trailing behind them.

    "I'll tell you sometime."

    "Edallia?" The  voice, wavery and uncertain,  came from
behind them. "Edallia Monotheer, it's so good to see you!"

    Donos glanced back. Approaching them was an old man,
his hair a wispy white,  his body so sparse of flesh that he
seemed skeletal, but there was nothing menacing about the
smile he was turning on Lara.

    Behind him a dozen meters but coming at a trot was a
middle-aged woman, overweight and matronly, her expression
anxious.  "Father," she called, and she sounded out of breath.
"Not again."

    The old man reached Lara, seized her hand, pumped it 
vigorously. "Edallia,  it's been so long. Did you ever  marry that
boy? Did you graduate? What have you been  doing?"

    Lara tried unsuccessfully to extricate her thoroughly shaken
hand. 

"Sir, I don't... I'm not..."

    "I'm so sorry." That was the daughter. Reaching her father,
she took  his hand, forcing him to give up his grip on Lara's.
"He's... confused. He doesn't always remember where he is. Or when."

    "It's all right," Lara said, but she looked a little shaken. 

    The old man said, "Child, I must introduce  Edallia Monchtheer. 
One of my best pupils."

    His daughter asked, "When?"

    He looked confused. "What?"

    "When was she one of your best pupils?"

    The old man looked back at Lara, his eyes wavery, uncer-
tain. "Why, it's been thirty, thirty-five years."

    "Look at her, father. She's not thirty years old."

    The old man leaned in close to  Lara's face and peered.

"Edallia?"

    Lara shook her head, and though she maintained a cheerful
smile, Donos decided that it was forced.

 "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm Lara."

   "Oh." The old man drew back and looked around. "Where is she, then?"

    "Maybe farther up the exhibition, Father. You go look. I'll
be along."

    With a courteous, if distracted, nod to the Wraiths, the old
man began to walk back the way he'd come.

    "I'm so sorry," the woman said. "He was once with Old
Republic Intelligence, so he likes to come here day after day.
He was shot on a mission shortly after the Emperor came to
power." She indicated a place just in front of her temple. "He
hasn't been the same since."

    "It's not a problem," Lara said. "He was very nice."

    "Thank you for understanding." The woman turned and
trotted along in her father's wake.

    Lara turned and bumped into Face and Dia, who had 
returned during the conversation. "Oops."

    Face looked at her intently. "Gerwa Patunkin?"

    "No."

    "Totovia Lampray?"

    "No." She smiled. "Stop it."

    "Dipligonai Phreet?"

    "Shut up." She pushed past him, laughing, and headed for
the exit. "Let's get that drink. I need it."

    "Moploogy Starco?"

    "Face, I'm going to shoot you."


                          2


Starfighters swarmed from the sides of the Mon Calamari
cruiser Mon Remonda like insects from a deep-space nest;
They formed up in four groups-two X-wing, one A-wing, one
B-wing - and descended toward Levian Two, the world Mon
Remonda now orbited. From this altitude, it seemed stony and
orange and impossibly inhospitable, but the comm chatter the
pilots were picking up suggested otherwise.

    "Entering Delta Sector. More of the same. I'll map - flag 
locations of survivors." 

"Ravine Six here. Repulsorlift is out. I'll going to have to 
attempt a high-speed landing."

 "Ravine Six, switch to ten-oh-three. You've got your own controller 
standing by." 

"Beta Sector Base, this is Beta Ten. I read unknown descending, 
four groups." 

"Beta Ten, this is Base. There are some TIEs in the unknowns but 
they're mostly friendlies."

    Wedge sighed and activated his comm unit. 

"Beta Sectoif Base, this is Rogue Leader. You've got Rogue, Wraith, 
Polearm, and Nova Squadrons in descent to your position. Looks
like we're a little late to the party."

    "Afraid so, Rogue Leader.  You've missed a Raptor raid.
They blasted out of here  half an hour ago. We've got settlements
and facilities hit all over this hemisphere. Could we if iterest 
you in some search-and-rescue action?"

    "Glad to oblige.  Give us vectors for twenty search pairs
and we'll get on it."

"Ships dropping out of hyperspace!" It was Mon Remonda's
sensor officer, Golorno, a human young enough not to be able
to keep his voice level in times of stress. "I count four, five,
six capital ships!"

    Han Solo abandoned his armature-mounted  chair and
moved to stand behind Golorno. He turned to his communications  
officer. 

 "Recall  the starfighters  now." Then  he  leaned over Golorno's 
shoulder. "Details, I need details," he said.

    "Uh, uh, two Star Destroyers, one Imperial-class, one
Victory-class. One heavy cruiser, a Dreadnaught, I think. Two
light cruisers-telemetry says probably Carrack-class.  At the
back of the formation ..." The young officer's voice dropped.
"One Super-class Star Destroyer."

    "Iron  Fist." Solo straightened and slapped  his hands together.
"He's finally decided to come in for a scrap."

    He calculated unit strengths. His flagship was Mon Remonda, 
one of the most powerful of the Mon Calamari cruisers,
and its pilot complement, led by Wedge Antilles, couldn't be 
better. Also in this portion of his fleet were Mon Karren, a Mon
Cal cruiser of more normal strength, Tedevium, a frigate recently
converted from a training ship back to a combat vessel, and
Ether hawk, a Marauder-class corvette that was just one restora-
tion job ahead of being dilapidated. Not nearly enough strength
to handle the fleet Zsinj had assembled against him... but
Zsinj didn't know that Solo's Group 2 was standing  by outside
the Levian system. One holocomm call and Solo's strength would
be doubled, making this more of a fair slugging match. 

"Call in Group Two," he ordered.  "How long before Zsinj's force
reaches us?"

    "Three minutes, sir."
    "How long before the starfighters return?"

    "They're grouping. Four or five minutes, sir."

    Solo sighed. "Slugging match" was to be the correct phrase
for it.

    An impulse caused him to turn back to the door out of the
bridge. As he'd suspected, Chewbacca was there, just outside,
standing by. The Wookiee, who chose to have no official role in
the anti-Zsinj group, but preferred to stay near the bridge and
Solo, had come up as soon as the tenor of voices  from the
bridge sounded different. Solo gave him a confident grin.

    "A second group is dropping out of hyperspace, sir!"

    Solo whipped around to stare at the sensor screen again. It
was broadening, updating-the data stream at the bottom indidicated 
that the sensor screen was being supplemented by information from Tedevium.

    It showed another force of capital ships appearing on the
far side of Levian Two. Telemetry indicated that the new force
included two Star Destroyers, two Dreadnaughts, a light cruiser;
and a Lancer - class frigate - a vessel designed especially to 
assault swarms of starfighters.

    "We're in trouble," Solo said.

    Golorno turned to look up at Solo. He wasn't able to masking
his fear.

    Solo gave him a reassuring half grin. "Don't worry. I know
when to dump my cargo and run." He turned to the navigator.
"Set us a course out of here. What's the closest path to get ul
out of Levian Two's gravity well?"

    The Mon Calamari navigator consulted his board. "Directly 
through the Super Star Destroyer's force, sir."

    "Figures. Make that our primary course. Pass it on to our
group."

    "Done, sir."

    "Communications, revise my order to  Group Two. Tell
them to be on course and ready for a jump at any second, but
to stand by."

    "Yes, sir."

    He turned to Captain Onoma, a Mon Calamari male with
salmon-colored skin. "Captain, take us out."

    "Yes, sir."

    "Third hostile group dropping out of hyperspace!"

    Solo turned to look, disbelieving, at Golorno. "You have
got to be kidding."






Wedge Antilles stood his X-wing on its tail and blasted toward

????????????????????

    He'd sent Polearm Squadron, the A-wing unit commanded
by  Captain Todra Mayn, on ahead. There was little tactical sense
in keeping the faster craft back with the X-wings and B-wings.
Now Wedge led Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron in escorting
Nova Squadron, the B-wing unit.

    Sensor data arriving from Mon Remonda showed Solo's
group closing slowly on a unit of six capital ships. The Mon
Cal cruiser was already swarming with enemy starfighters, and
defenders from Mon Karren and Tedevium.

    Wedge added up the numbers  on  that. Those two ships
could field five squadrons of starfighters between them. The
enemy force ahead could field nearly twenty-two squadrons. And
then there were enemies coming up from behind-as Wedge's
squadrons cleared the atmosphere, his  sensors picked up two
additional groups of capital ships chasing Solo's force.

    This was not going to be good.

    Wedge wondered if Baron Fel was among the starfighter
pilots assaulting Mon Remonda. Soontir Fel was one of the
greatest pilots ever to emerge from the Imperial Academy, one
of the greatest to have flown with Rogue  Squadron-and a
man who shared a secret with Wedge Antilles.

    They were brothers-in-law. Only they and a very few 
others knew that famous Imperial actress Wynssa Starflare was
also Wedge's sister Syal Antilles. Since the disappearance of Fel
and Syal several years ago, Wedge had had no news whatsoever of 
his sister. Now Fel was back, but flying for the wrong
side, and there was still no word of Syal. It was a secret Wedge
kept very close. One of his own pilots, Face Loran, had even
starred in a holodrama with Wynssa Starflare, but Wedge had
never confided the secret to him, even to obtain Face's 
reminiscences about his sister.

    And now, once again, Wedge was rushing into battle with
a force that might include Fel, leading  to the grim possibility
that he might have to shoot down his own brother-in-law...
and perhaps lose any clue Fel might offer to Syal's fate.

    Sensors showed that the Iron Fist force had, since the last
communication from Mon Remonda, turned about and was
now retreating before Han Solo's force. Wedge nodded. 

??????????????

Zsinj maintained a course toward the planet, his force and
Solo's would blast past one another  in a matter of split seconds, 
exchanging one low-accuracy  barrage, and then  Zsinj
would have to turn his force around to pursue. By retreating
before Solo on the shortest course to an area of space where the
New Republic fleet could engage their hyperdrives, he prM
longed the engagement.

    Wedge's squadrons caught up to Mon Remonda, but circled around 
several kilometers from  the Mon Cal cruiser. At this distance, 
the swarming dogfight between starfighters near the cruiser 
looked like twinkling stars. A grim simile - Wedge reminded himself 
that some of those twinkles were explosion that had once been friends 
and allies.

    "S-foils to attack position," he ordered, and suited action
to words by toggling the appropriate switch above his line
of sight. His S-foils split and locked into the familiar profile
that gave the X-wing its name. "B-wings, you may arm your
weapons."

    His sensors showed Zsinj's force spread out before the 
approaching Mon Remonda. Straightforward tactics; it meant
Mon Remonda couldn't expect to make a minor course change
to elude a tight group of ships even  temporarily. Any minor
course change would still send Mon Remonda into the 
umbrella of enemy ships; any major course change would allow
the pursuit ships to catch up.

    But this tactic was about to work in Wedge's favor.

    They dove in toward Iron Fisfs stern. Sensors showed no
starfighter response from the Super Star Destroyer-either
the remaining  squadrons were being slow to scramble, or all
squadrons were engaged with Mon Remonda.

    Then flashes of light emerged from the destroyer's stern
congregating on Wedge's force, and the ball-like detonations
concussion missiles began to fill the space around them. Wedge
was rocked by a near miss. 

"Begin evasive maneuvers," he saw "X-wings, ready torpedoes. 
Remember, port engines only."

    Pair by pair, his X-wings began a dance, juking and jinking
to throw off the aim of the Imperial gunners they so rapidly aft  ???????????

preached. The B-wings hung back, allowing the X-wings to
draw the initial fire.

    Wedge's range meter scrolled down below two kilometers,
the maximum effective range for his targeting computer. Enemy
turbolaser fire increased in intensity-and proximity.

    At fifteen hundred meters, he said, "Launch one, launch
two " He fired, sending paired proton torpedoes toward one
of Iron Fisfs stern engines. More blue streaks than he could
count emerged from his X-wings, instantly crossing the 
distance to the destroyer, which was suddenly and brilliantly 
illuminated by their detonations against the port side of the stern.

    He looped to port. "Novas, your turn."

    "Acknowledged, and  thanks, Rogue Leader." That was
the voice of Nova One. "Novas, launch one and begin ion
fire."

    Blue streaks leaped from the B-wings. Then the ungainly-
looking craft continued their dive toward Iron Fist's engines,
their ion cannons sustaining fire against the destroyer's stern.

    Wedge wished them success. They were designed to hurt
capital ships; their pilots knew what they were  doing. But if
Iron Fist called back its starfighters and the Novas didn't
notice in time, the entire squad could be lost.

    Now it was time to meet the weak link of this force: Zsinj's
light cruisers.





Mon Remonda rattled under blast after blast from the attacking 
starfighters. Solo ignored the vibrations. Shield integrity
was good, the hull was holding up-they still had a chance.

    His communications officer said, "Nova One reports damage 
to Iron Fisfs engines."

    "How extensive?" Solo asked.

    "Unknown."

    Golorno spoke up, his voice now more nearly normal. "A
lot of the starfighters on us are in retreat. They just broke off
to head for Iron Fist."

    "How many?"

    "About half."

    "Ah, good. Now they outnumber ours only two to one."

Solo absently hammered the arm of his captain's chair. If only
he were out there, in the Millennium Falcon, making a direct
assault on the enemy ... here, all he could do was issue orders...
and hope they were so good that not many of his people died, j     ???????

    They were never so good that none of his people died. Never,

    "Message for General Solo," the comm officer announced
"From Warlord Zsinj!"

    "Ignore it," Solo said.  "I'll bet you  a hundred Corellian
credits he hates that. No, wait." He stood. "Chewie, get in
here."

    The Wookiee squeezed in through the bridge door, looking quizzical.

    "Here, take my chair." Han helped his friend into the seat
which was far too small for him. "All right, put that message
through."

    The comm unit on the command chair lit up. Even from
his angle off to the side, Solo could make out Zsinj's florid 
features, bald head, and exaggerated handlebar mustache. "General
Solo," Zsinj said, "I'm calling to offer you an honorable... what
is this?"

     Chewbacca reached down and tilted the screen up so its
 built-in holocam would broadcast his face instead of just his
 chest. He grumbled something at the screen.

     "It's, ah, Chewbacca, isn't it? Please put your owner on.

     Chewbacca offered him an extended speech, nearly sub sonic, 
bone-rattling.

 Solo smiled. It was  an eloquent discourse  on the ingredients 
that made up Zsinj, and not one of the ingredients was the  sort 
that should be  mentioned in  polite company or during any meal.

      "Wookiee is not among my many languages, you extruded
 fur thing. Where is Solo?"

      Chewbacca returned to his discourse and Solo moved to
 stand  beside Captain Onoma,  taking in the officer's sensor
 readings, his mind once again fully engaged by the battle.





  "This is Leader. Break by squadrons."

      "Wraith  One  acknowledges," Face said.  "Good luck
  Rogues." He began a long curve relative up and to starboard

 ????????????????

  k'ng him and the Wraiths toward one of the two Carrack-
dass cruisers in Zsinj's group.

    The Carracks were 350 meters long, looking like stubbytal 
bars with swells at bow and stern. Face knew them to be
midable opponents for capital ships; their batteries of ion
Cannons made it possible for them to disable much larger vessels.
But the comparatively light  number of turbolasers they
carried gave the starfighters a chance at them.

    The Wraiths approached their target from the stern.  At
Face's command, they split into two units, Wraiths One through
Six going to starboard, Seven through Eleven going to port.
Stern turbolasers opened up  on them even before they were
within range.

    "Fire at will," Face said, "but make 'em count."

    Runt and Donos were the first of his half squad to fire, the
blue streaks  of proton  torpedoes drawing an instantaneous
line from the X-wings to the flanks of the cruiser. Face watched
their explosions balloon against the cruiser's side. He ignored
the pure tone of his own target lock,  twitched his pilot's yoke
over so his targeting brackets fell within the center of one of
the torpedo detonation clouds, and fired his own remaining
torpedoes. Then he looped away from the cruiser's side, Lara
tucked in behind him and to port.  "Report," he said.

    "One, this is Seven." It was Dia's voice, barely recognizable 
through the  usual comm distortion.  "We have port-side penetration."

    "Ten is hit! Ten is hit!"

    Face felt his gut go cold, and a quick check of his sensor
screen showed that Janson, Wraith Ten, was no longer present.
"Calm down, Eleven. Detail damage to Wraith Ten."

    "He's not destroyed, One. An ion cannon hit him. He's got
no power, he's ballistic."

    Face sagged in relief. "Ballistic toward or away from the
cruiser?"

    "Away, One."

    "Keep clear of him, Eleven. You're active, you'll draw fire
toward him. Squad, continue report."

    "One, Five." That was Kell; the sensor board showed him
   king closer to  the cruiser than the rest of the squad. Face
supposed that Kell, maneuvering in a captured TIE interceptor!
considered himself harder to hit than the X-wings... and he
was right. Too, the TIEs had no proton torpedoes, so Kell haq
probably chosen the role of close observer in order to cord
tribute to this battle. "Starboard impacts damaged the hull but
did not, repeat, did not penetrate."

    "All Wraith X-wings," Face said, "form up for a run on
the starboard. TIEs, strafe the port side to keep their shields
divided.  Keep them honest." He toggled  his comm  unit to the
fleet frequency. "Mow Remonda, Wraith One. Please dispatch
a shuttle with a tractor for pickup of disabled snubfighter."

    Face brought  his X-wing around slowly, allowing the
other pilots with functional X-wings to  form up on him. Kell
Shalla, and Elassar, in their interceptors, were already 
beginnning their strafing run against the port side. "Once more 
intl the gauntlet, Wraiths," he said, and nudged his yoke forward. ????????

    They dove toward the cruiser in loose formation, X-wings
spread far enough apart that their evasive juking didn't bring
them in danger of collision. Streams of turbolasers and concussion
missiles sought them, and Face heard a cry of surprise or pain from 
someone on his squadron channel.

    Their proton torpedoes spent,  at  a half kilometer they
opened fire with quad-linked lasers and continued firing and
diving until the cruiser's flank was almost all of the sky. Face
hauled up on his yoke, felt the high-performance turn drag his
deeper into his chair despite the best efforts of the acceleratiol
compensator to protect him from the consequences of his maneuver. 
He saw the cruiser's hull flash beneath him, saw columns
of laser fire on either side-then he was clear and headed out to
space again.

    He spared a look at his sensor board. Ten Wraiths were
still on the board. He breathed a sigh of relief-no additional
losses. "Wraith One  to squadron. Report damage. Ours aflj    ??????????
theirs."

    "One, Five. Starboard side also breached. I think we've 
gotten both power generators and I think some of the reserve cells.
Parts of the ship are going dark. They're not maneuvering."

    "Thanks, Five. Now get your rear end away from that
,  it before some gunner with a little power left decides to make   ????????
fireworks out of you."

    "Acknowledged, One."

    "One, this is Four." Tyria's voice, level and calm. "I took a
turbolaser hit I tnink at maximum range. I have some wing      ???????????
damage."

    Face checked her position on the sensor board, then 
maneuvered to sideslip past her. She was correct; her port S-foils
both showed laser scoring on their trailing edges. "Any system
failures, Four?"

    "Not so far, chief.

    "Keep me updated." He toggled over to fleet frequency.
"Wraith One to Rogue Leader. Target secure."

    Wedge's voice came back instantly. "Good work, Wraiths.
Rogue target destroyed. Iron Fist showing difficulty maneuvering. 
Standby."

    "Acknowledged." He switched back to squadron frequency.
"Wraiths, form up on me. We'll stay near Ten for the time
being."







On the bridge of Iron Fist, the Warlord Zsinj stood on the 
command walkway above the crew pit. He did not stare out the 
forward viewports, which showed only starfield along his enemy's
exit vector, but down into the screens of his bridge crew.

    He was not a tall man, nor was he physically impressive.
He was as round as any merchant gourmand, and his exagger-
ated bandit-style mustachios suggested that his self-image was
quite different from the image he projected. The white grand
admiral's uniform he wore suggested a rank he'd never earned
in service to the Empire, and those who knew that fact could not
help but attribute to him the sins of pride and self-deception.

    Oniy he knew how many of these attributes were affectation.  ?????????

     False clues to persuade his enemies - and superiors, and
subordinates - to come to incorrect conclusions about him. To
uderestimate him. Sometimes to overestimate him - that could,
occasion, be as useful.

    Beside him stood the man in charge of his ground troops
and starfighter support, General Melvar. Zsinj was lucky to
have found a kindred spirit in Melvar, a man who painted on
the face of a dedicated sadist when confronting the outer world
and then removed it, revealing features extraordinary only in
their blandness, in the warlord's company. Melvar could blend
with any crowd on any world with his natural features, and
probably had many more alternative identities tucked away
than the score or so Zsinj knew about.

    "Mow Remonda and the rest of his fleet are still coming on
at full speed," Melvar said. "But even with the two Carrack
cruisers out and our maneuverability impaired, we should be
able to give her a sustained broadside. If we concentrate on her
power  and engines, we'll trap her here. She'll never get fall
enough away from Levian Two to make hyperspace."

    Zsinj nodded absently. "Time  until Mon Remonda is 
under our guns?"

    A crewman shouted up,  "Ships appearing ahead, a drop
out of hyperspace. Three vessels, sir - a Mon Calamari cruiser,
an Imperial - class Star Destroyer, and a Quasar Fire-class bulk
cruiser."

    Zsinj sighed, vexed. He looked forward through the 
viewports, but couldn't make out the new enemies. "I didn't realize
Solo had more of his fleet within range. Not that it matters. 
Enhance the view."

    A hologram appeared before a portion of the main 
viewport. On it were the three vessels his crewman had described.
All three were turning to Zsinj's  port, exposing their sides,
ready to fire on the oncoming Super Star Destroyer.

    "They're angling toward the escape vector Mon Remonda
will  take," Zsinj said. "Toward our weak flank, where the
Carrack-class cruisers have been knocked out. They're going
to line  up so that we'll walk into the worst of their damage if
we adjust to continue our prosecution of Mon Remonda. But
we're not going to play their game."

    Melvar smiled. "I somehow doubted we were."

    Zsinj called down to his communications officer, "Send
Red Gauntlet, Serpent's Smile and Reprisal on ahead. Punch a
hole in the defensive screen they're throwing up. Bring the
starfighters back to Iron Fist to act as our own  screen." He
turned to his weapons specialist. "Ready all guns. Tell them to
fire on Mon Remonda as they bear."

    "Yes, sir."

Zsinj straightened, smiling. "Solo really should have taken
call. He might even have survived for a while."








Face saw the shuttle towing Janson's X-wing disappear into
one of Mon Remonda's bays. The Wraiths's three TIE intercep-
tor pilots followed him in. He knew from comm traffic that the
group's A-wings were already aboard.

    Then the leading edge of Mon Remonda came within gunnery 
range of Iron Fist. Turbolaser flashes by the hundreds lit
space between the two capital ships. Far ahead, similar flashes
illuminated the void between Solo's Group 2 and Zsinj's 
advance force.

    Like a younger sea mammal sidling up beneath its mother,
Mon Karren moved up below Mon Remonda, moving into the
sea of turbolaser fire with her sister ship, her back to the
larger vessel's belly.







Zsinj felt his shoulders sag as he witnessed Mon Karren's 
maneuver. "We've lost Mon Remonda" he said.

    Melvar offered one of his rare frowns. "They've just barely
moved into our range."

    "Correct. But they're collaborating to absorb our battery
assaults, dividing the damage between them. And since I was foolish
enough to bring back our starfighters to protect our engines..."

    "They can concentrate their shields against us. We have
nothing to batter their topsides with to keep them honest."

    "Correct." Zsinj shook his head. "This isn't going to go
down in the history annals as a loss for me, Melvar, but it is a
loss. One little mistake and Solo slips through my fingers."

    "Still, you haven't lost anything but the ammunition and
power you've expended."

    "True." He leaned down to face his weapons officer.

 "Continue with the barrage until they make the jump to hyperspace.
It's not your fault, Major. Mine."

    "Thank you, sir."

    Still pensive,  Zsinj turned away and headed out of the
bridge. The rest of this battle was going to be mop-up; his 
subordinates could handle that. He needed to rest and prepare for
the next engagement.








Solo's fleet dropped out of hyperspace mere light-years from
the Levian system and stayed in realspace just long enough to
pick up the hyperspace-equipped  starfighters and coordinate
their next jump. Then they fled back into the comparative safety
of faster-than-light speeds.




                          3



Tired but all present and accounted for-a rarity in full-scale
space-navy engagements - the pilots of Wedge's command 
gradually collected in the pilot's lounge of Mon Remonda.

    It was a large chamber with rounded corners, all the walls
in antiseptic glossy white, all the furniture in white or blue or
green. A fully stocked bar dominated one wall of the chamber,
but its cabinets were, while the ship remained on alert status,
all locked down, with only nonalcoholic drinks available to
the pilots. The air was drier here than in the rest of the ship;
none of the pilots of Mon Remonda's four fighter squadrons
was a Mon Calamari or Quarren, so they tended to adjust the
environment to be more  comfortable to land dwellers.

    Donos took a comfortable chair in one of the curves that
served the lounge as corners and watched the other pilots with
interest. The Wraith Squadron pilots were jubilant, especially
with the scare involving Wes Janson, but those of the  other
squadrons exhibited less cheer.

    One of the  Rogues - a woman with long brown hair, a
trim build, and an intense manner - sat in one of what the 
pilots called egg-chairs. These seats were shaped like white eggs a
   sr and a half tall, with one side scooped away so someone         ?????????
could sit within, mounted on a post next to a terminal niche in
the wall so the pilot could turn his back to the room and do 
terminal work. Donos took a moment to recall her name: Inyry
Forge.

    The woman cupped her chin in her hand. Her brown eyes
were glum. "He's changed the rules on us," she said. "We should
have expected it."

    Tyria said, "I'm not sure what you mean."

    Forge gave her a look of evaluation, as though deciding
whether to offer sarcasm or simple information, and settled ori
the latter course. 

"While you Wraiths  were running around id disguise or doing your 
ground missions, we've been following Zsinj all over space. Into 
regions he controls, into New Republic regions he's  assaulting, 
wherever we can find signs of his
passage. We find little hints we can't afford to investigate, but
cause many of them are false clues he's leaving to lead us into the
trap or waste our time and resources. We also find the remaining
of full-scale assaults, where we always arrive too late-he's in
and out before we can mount a response.

    "But today, we get number two, and not only had he 
figured out our pattern of response  times, but he was waiting
around to hit us when we arrived."

    "And,"  Hobbie said, "his fleet was huge. Something like
twenty capital ships. More than we thought he could field. Our
intelligence hasn't kept up with him."

    "So," Forge concluded, "we have to change our tactics.
Pursuit him. And that's not good."

    Face Loran, from the little table he shared with Dia, said:
"We don't need to alter our tactics. We need  to alter his. It
looks like he hasn't been bringing Iron Fist into gravity wells
probably because of the beating we gave him the last time hi
did, until today-when he had an overwhelming force. If Mj
can keep doing that, he's going to beat us."

    Elassar Targon stood at the bar, drumming on the bar top
with his knuckles. "We need to follow all the leads we've being
getting. Even if some of them are traps. What about the rumcl  ???????????
of the bacta hijacking being planned?"

    Shalla reached an oversized couch and twirled as she fell
onto it so she lay faceup. "Too obvious," she said. "Odds are if
????????????????
  red to one that was one of Zsinj's planted leads. We fol-
low that and we get ambushed again."

    Elassar gave her a scornful look. "You've been doing all
 hat analysis of leads, even before the Wraiths were back with
Mow Remonda. Is that what you told  the mission-planning
staff?"

?????????????????????????????

    "So you're the one who's keeping General Solo running

    Conversations subsided all over the pilot's lounge as fliers
turned to follow this exchange.

    Shalla pulled herself back and upright so that she leaned
back against one of the couch arms. She did not look happy.

"You know, you're wrong in so many ways it may take me a
couple of days to straighten you out. First, I'm not the only one
providing intelligence analysis to General Solo.  I'm one of
about thirty, and I'm a very distant link in that chain. Second,
he's not running scared. He just has responsibilities to keep his
subordinates alive long enough for them to get the job done, a
concept that may be a little lofty for a school-aged thrillseeker
like you."

    Elassar's face set. "Are we still no decor?"

    Pilot's parlance ... by custom, only pilots were admitted
to this lounge, and once inside, designations of rank, sometimes
disparagingly referred to as "decor," were largely ignored. Even
so, it was sometimes a strain to maintain this custom when the
most senior officers were present, which is why their visits to
this lounge were infrequent and short.

    Shalla nodded.

    Elassar took a  deep  breath, apparently considering  his
words. When they emerged, they were more reasoned than the
Wraiths and Rogues were used to hearing from him. "I'm not
going to pretend I know more about Zsinj or about intelligence
operations than you. I don't. What I do know is that a pilot's
duties to fly and to vape the enemy. The advice you and the 
others are giving to our superiors is keeping us from doing that."

    "You're right," Shalla said. "But pilots have other jobs.
????????????? as not flying straight into the ground, straight into a star,
or straight into a battle situation chosen and lovingly set up by
an enemy. I don't question that you're brave, Elassar. But are
you so brave that you're happy to die pointlessly?"

    "So what do we do?" That was Dorset Konnair, an A-wing
pilot of Polearm Squadron. She was a small woman of very
pale skin and very dark hair, with a blue star-flare tattoo around
her right eye. Her flight suit concealed her other tattoos, all of
them in shades of blue. She was also very limber, as evidenced
by the ease with which she sat, legs folded tailor-style,  in her
chair. Donos knew she was from Coruscant, which probably
explained why she was quiet so often in pilot gatherings; Donos
knew the kind of suspicion with which some New Republic
veterans viewed Coruscant natives. "Either  we keep running
around gathering Zsinj's crumbs and getting nowhere,  or we
bite on the bait he's deliberately leaving and let him draw us
in."

    Forge said,  "We have to regain the initiative. Bait our own
trap. Offer him something he can't afford to refuse."

    Donos snorted. "Such as what? Mon Remonda? Have her
limp through Zsinj - controlled space like a wounded avian and
hope he comes swooping in to finish her off?"

    "No," Elassar said. He  struck another swashbuckling
pose. "Offer him Elassar Targon, master of the uni..."

    "Sithspit, you're obnoxious." Forge fixed Elassar with an
amused glance.  "But you're on the right track. I was thinking
we ought to offer him General Han Solo."

    "Don't do that," said Hobbie from his stool at the bar. His
voice was more mournful than ever. "If Zsinj  kills Solo, Wedge
might be appointed to fill the vacancy."

    "Good point," Forge  said. "But bear with me a minute.
Kell, didn't you say that General Solo had gone gallivanting
around in the Millennium Falcon two, three months ago, 
delivering some high-security messages for the Inner Council?"

    Kell, sharing a couch with Tyria, nodded. "That's right."

    "There was no secret to the fact that he was moving about.
And you used his trip to pull a fast one on Admiral Trigit. To
distract him from his primary objective over Commenor's moon.
You made him think Solo was still around, a viable target."

    "Show due respect," said Runt. A member of a species
whose representatives were usually too tall to fit in a
starfighter cockpit Runt was, by their standards, a midget, though he and
Kell were the tallest of the Wraiths. His  hairy body, his 
elonted face with flaring nostrils and large, square teeth, and his
hude-eyed look all suggested that his kind were closer to being      ????????
draft animals than intelligent humanoids, but his squadmates
had found him to be a wise and capable being.

    And somewhat odd. "You speak," he continued, "of the
only flight of Dinner Squadron. The one X-wing squadron with
an undefeated record and no losses."

    "Oh, I forgot." Forge smiled. "But what I'm saying is that
we have a track record of General Solo occasionally embarking
on special missions even while commanding the Zsinj  task
force, and if there's anyone Zsinj might change his plans to nab,
it's Han Solo. A chance for revenge is a powerful motivator."

    "I like it." The voice came from another of the egg-chairs
against the  wall. It was turned away from the room, so the
other pilots present had presumed it was unoccupied or that
anyone there was engrossed in his terminal.

    Now the chair turned around to face the room. Its 
occupant was Han  Solo - not decked out in the uncomfortable -
looking uniform that was apparently his bane, but wearing the
comfortable trousers, shirt, and  vest that were  his preferred
dress. His clothes were spotted with sweat stains; obviously he
hadn't changed since his recent time on the bridge. But his 
expression was amused. "But there are two problems with this
plan."

    Forge cleared her throat, concealing any surprise she might
have felt. "And what are they, sir?"

    "No 'sir.' No decor, remember? Problem number one is
that the Millennium Falcon is currently stowed on  Princess
Leia's flagship,  the Rebel Dream, and there's no telling when
I'll see her again."

    Donos privately wondered which "her" he was referring to.

    "Problem number two," Solo continued, "is that we still
don't know what Zsinj is up to. And you Wraiths are largely to
blame for that."

    The pilots under his command looked around for someone 
bearing a mark of guilt.

    "By which  I mean," Solo said, "since you figured out that
he was planning to steal a second Super Star Destroyer, Razor's
Kiss, from Kuat, and since you figured out how to determine
where  it would be so we could all blow it up, you've forced
Zsinj to revert to his backup plan. Which is what?"

    Forge shook her head. "We don't know."

    Face said, "Though we have one lead. Saffalore."

    That was an Imperial-held world in the Corporate Sector,
home to a large corporation called Binring Biomedical. It was
there that Piggy had been altered-had, in a  sense, been 
created. A manufacturing facility owned  by Zsinj on another
world had fabricated the exact sort of transparisteel cages Piggy
had been reared within, suggesting that Binring, too, might
have a  surreptitious relationship with the warlord.

    "I'm as tired as you are of chasing down  vague hints and
leads and only dropping in after Zsinj is long gone," Solo said.
"So Mon Remonda is leaving the fleet for a while. Saffalore is
our next port of call." He rose and walked toward the lounge's
exit. "Still,  I sort of like your idea of luring Zsinj out to
corner after me. I wouldn't mind personally leading to Zsinj's 
downfall." 

He offered a smile, almost sinister, back toward the assembled
pilots. "Give that plan some more thought, too." 

Then he was gone.

    "Never can tell when a Corellian will pop up," Donos said.

    The pilots were diverted by a banging  sound-Elassar
hammering his head and horns against the top of the bar. His
face a mask of tragedy, he suspended hammering to look at his
fellow pilots.

 "Now I am done," he said. "I have performed the unluckiest deed
possible. I've suggested that my commanding officer  runs away 
from combat, and I've done  so within his hearing."

    "True," Shalla said. "To make it worse, you did it when
we're still on alert status. Meaning you can't even blot out the
memory with drink."

    "Don't remind me. Shalla? Dear friend, kind lieutenant?"

    "Yes?"

    "Will you kill me? Please?"

    "I don't think so."

    "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

??????????????????????????????

   "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. 
Distract 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, 
alarmingly,  he looked older and more tired. "It has  nothing to do
with Levian. This was relayed to me by some friends on Coruscant. 
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 hu-
mans. 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 
interesting behavior among Twi'leks on Coruscant.  Specifically,
mid-level 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 
apparently he and his family weren't on leave where they were
imposed to be. They were out of sight for several days leading
soon 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 reformed 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
jmportant 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 
escorted 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  Cast, from our 
special operations division of Binring Biomedical on Saffalore.
After due investigation I decided to bring them to speak to you
personally."

    Zsinj folded his hands over the imposing swell of his 
stomach. 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 something.

?????????????????????

    Of little consequence, then said, "Oh, yes. Doctors, tell
me where a Gamorrean and an Ewok might obtain the necesry skills - 
and temperament - to fly starfighters."

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

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

?????????????????????????

    "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, Cast
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
know?"

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

    Zsinj stared at him a long moment, then turned his 
attention to Cast. "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

???????????????????????????????????????????????

    "And  this subject was supposed to have died in the

????????????????????

  "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 

????????????????????????

    "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?"

    Cast 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
w 1 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 
doctors.

 "I'd be happy for you two to accomplish the task yourselves. 
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."

    Cast 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..."

    Cast 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.

    Cast 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
kill you, you would  have proven  yourself to be stupid and
???????????????????????????
   meless, but fortunately that's not the case. How would you
* to dome a favor?"

    "I'd like that."

    "Return to Saffalore. Dismantle the operation without let-
    anyone-and that means anyone at Binring - know you've
  age S(J $end everything to Iron Fist, we'll consolidate the two
???????????????????????????
I Oratories. Set up the Binring facilities to detect and then 
annihilate 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.

    When she, the guards, and  the still-smoking body  were
gone, Melvar returned to stand before his warlord. He looked
curious.

    "What? "Zsinj asked.

    "You've instructed her to kill all the Wraiths. One of the
Wraiths is an unknown quantity.  Gara  Petothel."

    "I know. But since the mission to Aldivy went to pieces,
she hasn't communicated. Our agent dead, her ersatz brother
dead, and no word from her since then ... I'd be happy to
arrange for her protection. She has to give me a reason first."

    "Understood."

    "And how goes Blunted Razor?"

    "The operation continues moving. Every day, we retrieve
more tonnage of the wreck of Razor's Kiss." Melvar didn't
add,  "And only you know why we're wasting all this energy
gathering up the wreckage of a destroyed Super Star Destroyer."
He didn't have to. Both men  knew he wanted to say it.  Both
men knew he wouldn't.

   Zsinj smiled. "Dismissed."




                         4




Flight Officer Lara Notsil leaned in close to hear every word of
the briefing, to see everything that floated on the
holoprojection.

    She hadn't always been Lara Notsil. She'd been born with
the name Gara Petothel, and had worn many others since her
adolescent years.

    She hadn't always had downy blond hair cut short, or a
near-flawless complexion. Nature had provided her with dark
hair and  a  beauty mark on her  cheek. Makeup and trivial
surgery performed when she'd created the Lara Notsil identity
 had rid her of them. The delicacy of her features and build 
remained from her true identity, but little else did.

    She hadn't always been a pilot with the New Republic's
Fleet Command.  Since her earliest years, child of two of the
Empire's loyal Intelligence officers, she'd been groomed to be
an officer of Imperial Intelligence. In that role, she'd
infiltrated the lower ranks of New Republic Fleet Command, had 
transmitted vital data  back to her Imperial controllers and then to
Admiral Apwar Trigit. She'd provided Trigit with information
he'd later used to destroy Talon Squadron, an X-wing unit led
by Myn Donos.

 And now she fought beside the Rebel pilots who'd once
been her enemies. It had originally been a deception, another
infiltration, but was so no longer; it was where she wanted to
be, what she wanted to do. But she also fought against the
growing certainty that someday her fellows would learn her
true identity, learn what she had done before she'd come to 
accept their outlook on the way the galaxy's sapient species should
determine their destinies. When they learned who she was,
they would reject her, and they would probably kill her.

 Until then, she'd do whatever she could to keep them alive.
To help them win. Soon, she'd confess all to her commander,
Wedge Antilles, and he'd use her knowledge to help bring Zsinj
to ruin.

    Soon.

    She shook away these distracting thoughts and forced 
herself to listen to her commander's words.

    "Wraith Squadron," Wedge said, "has an admirable history 
of executing missions on its own, with minimal support...
or no support at all. Let's assume that Zsinj has come to this
realization. What we're going to do is change the rules on him.
The Wraiths will be going in with their usual tactics... but
they'll  have a little support standing ready. By which I mean
Rogue Squadron."

    Several of the Wraiths made appreciative comments, but
Gavin  Darklighter of the Rogues made  a face.  "Now we're
baby-sitters," he said.

    Face shot him an amused look. "What if we light up a 
target for you baby-sitters to hit?"

    "A real target," Gavin said. "Not just some defenseless
motor pool or repair facility."

    "A real target," Face said. "Something that shoots back."

    Gavin schooled his face into an expression resembling dig-
nity. "Then I'll be content to baby-sit. This time."

    "Are you through?" Wedge asked. There was no censure
in his voice, but side conversations quieted. Gavin nodded.

    "Good," Wedge said.  "Now, the Wraiths have a general
agenda. Acquire  information on what Zsinj might be doing at
Binring Biomedical. We suspect a connection because his 
facility on Xartun  was constructing the exact sort of cell Piggy
essentially grew up in on Saffalore, at Binring. When Face, 
acting as Kargin of the Hawk-bats, had dinner with Zsinj, the

???????????????????????????????

    Lara shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

    "All right," Face continued. "If we get that piece of 
information, we pursue it to see what else Zsinj might own on 
Saffalore..."

    "No," Lara said. Then heads turned her way again and
she felt herself flush red once more.

    Face's voice remained calm. "Why not?"

    "Well... on the Wraiths's other missions, we often found
the name Zsinj was using on-planet, but never found any other
major business enterprises owned by those names.  Either he's
investing in one business per planet, or he's using multiple names
for multiple businesses. If history is any indication, there's no
use in running down those names-not yet. If we ever want to
try to mess with his accounts, his assets, using that name is
good. For what we're doing with this mission, though, it's just
a distraction. Something to cost us time his people may be 
using to hunt us down. In fact, I don't recommend that first bit,
about finding the name he's using in his association with 
Binring, until after we've done our major raid, or maybe 
simultaneously. It may not be an important enough piece of information
to risk anything on acquiring it."

    Face considered. "Maybe you're right. Very well.  Lara's
right. We will be staging a raid on their major fabrications 
facility, in the hope that he's following true to form and has a
special Zsinj facility tucked away in there somewhere-or at the
very least in the hope that we can figure out where the secret 
facility is from data in the public facility. So we'll follow our
standard member assignments and protocols..."

    "No," Lara said.  Several  Wraiths and Rogues laughed
outright.

    Face put his head down for a moment, then raised it,  his
expression one of long suffering, and turned to Wedge. "Is this
what it's like for you?"

    Wedge smiled. "You have no idea."

    "From the bottom of my heart, I apologize, most sincerely,
for every time I spoke up in a mission briefing. I mean it."

    Wedge nodded. "I appreciate that, but I have to tell you:
you've only just started to suffer."

    "I believe you." Face turned back to Lara. "No, what!"

    She gave him an apologetic look. "We've changed protocol
already. We have Rogue Squadron on hand to look out for
us. If we don't integrate this resource - this very, very dangerous
and capable resource..."

    Impassive, Tycho  gestured,  waving for her to keep the
compliments coming.

    "From the very beginning, then there's no reason to have
them along. We'd have to improvise their participation."

    "She's right," Tycho said. "And I've had some thoughts
about this. We could have the Wraiths, before or during their
intrusion, get to certain key spots on the Binring buildings and
plant targets there. Infrared markers, comm tracers, anything
to give us an edge. Then if they needed to call an air strike,
they could give us very precise data on where we needed to put our
damage. 'Thirty-seven meters on heading two-five-five from
Marker Number Three'  is very precise, and our astromechs
could integrate those instructions onto our heads-up displays
on the fly."

    "Good point," Wedge said. "Face, you haven't done enough
work in figuring out how to exploit all your resources."

    "I'm not used to having resources."

    Wedge  nodded. "Welcome to the real Starfighter Command. 
And having to think like a soldier instead of a pirate. All
right, people, let's hear the rest of Face's plan. We're going to
dissect it and reassemble it into something more likely to keep
us all alive."









Brightness-illumination piercing the pinkness around him - 
awakened Piggy.

    He could hear nothing, feel almost nothing-only the respirator 
adhering to his face, supplying him with air to breathe.
It took him a split second to recall where he was, why most of
his senses seemed to be failing him. Then he opened his eyes.

    As with the last couple of times he'd awakened, he floated,
suspended,  in a bacta tank taller than a Wookiee. The bacta
medium colored everything pink. He could see, beyond the
confines of the tank, the antiseptic wardroom that was his tempo-
rary home. A medical technician, a dark-haired human female,
waved at him, offering a smile that humans called "perky." He
knew that human males could not help but be cheered by it.
Nor was he entirely immune to it; the fact that she made the 
effort to reach him still lifted his spirits a notch. He waved in 
return, his motion slowed by the thick liquid.

    Something was different. He  ran through his checklist
of surroundings, events, and circumstances to see what had
been added. Nothing. He reversed it to look for what had been
removed.

    Pain. Ah, that was it. He didn't hurt anymore. He looked
down at his stomach, which had not so long ago featured an
injury that looked like a  smoking crater, and saw only new
flesh and some scar tissue.

    Good. He would be leaving soon. He wasn't bored, was
never bored-he could always work up problems of math, of
navigation, of logic to keep himself occupied. But the lack of
contact  with others, the lack of activity that was useful, was
beginning to annoy him.

    There was motion outside his tank. He focused on several
people walking with purpose into the wardroom, toward him,
surrounding his tank-his fellow Wraiths. Their expressions
were cheerful, and it was not the forced cheer that several had
exhibited during previous visits.

    The perky technician was waving at him, and when she
had his  attention, she gestured upward. He glanced up to see
the top hatch opening. He kicked himself upward and moments
later emerged into real air for the first time in many days.

    When he once again had his feet on the ground, had a robe
around  him and a towel to mop away the remaining traces
of bacta medium, he could begin to take in the words of his
comrades.

    Face said, "Forgive the intrusion, but we heard that the
new vintage of Piggy was being decanted."

    Lara said, "But it looks like it's turned to vinegar."

    Dia said, "And it's corked."

    A young Devaronian he did not know said, "I am pleased
to meet you. I need you to kill me. Nobody else will."

    The perky technician said, "You'll need as much as possible
to avoid activities that put a strain on your stomach muscles."

    Janson said, "To make sure you remember this little event,
we've had some special things made up for you. Bacta-flavored
candy. Bacta-flavored brandy. Bacta-flavored cheese."

    Shalla said, "Kell and I worked up an instructional manual
for you. It's called, How to Dodge."

   Piggy mopped away at his damp skin and allowed himself
a slight smile. It was good to be home.











The third meteor shower in as many days peppered the frozen
arctic regions of Saffalore's northern hemisphere. Few of the
meteors survived long enough to hammer the planet's surface;
most burned up from the friction of their descent through the
atmosphere, often leaving behind long trails to mark the fiery
ends to their travels. A few had enough mass left to strike the
ground as meteorites, often leaving deep craters in the hard,
uncultivated ground.

    And then there were the fabricated objects in their midst.
Starfighters, almost two dozen, maneuvered away from the
true meteorites and pulled up sharply from their descent, 
missing collisions with the ground sometimes by only a few dozen
meters.

    There were no rebukes for too-chancy flying over the comm
waves. These pilots were keeping comm silence, staying in 
visual range of one another.

    Three of the vehicles were TIE interceptors, the most lethal
Starfighters of the Empire. The remainder were X-wings, heavily
laden with extra fuel pods under their S-foils.

    The danger with an intrusion like this, Donos decided, is
that ifs boring enough that you become distracted, and still
dangerous enough to leave you dead. Terrain-following flying
was a tricky skill. Most of what they would be crossing tonight
was tundra, hard-frozen ground and an ice sheet over it, offering 
little to  endanger them. But there were occasional hilly 
regions and one mountain range to cross before they reached
their objective. Under a comm blackout, each pilot had to keep
a close eye on the sensors; he couldn't rely on the sharp sight of
his fellows.

    Donos kept his focus on the sensors. Focus was no problem
for him. As a sniper for the Corellian armed forces, he'd learned
to keep his attention unwavering on his target. Lives had 
depended on his ability to do so. He'd been good at it.

    Of course, at a certain point, the suspicion that there was
something wrong, something unfair, with what he was doing
had begun to eat away at him. Yes, every target he had taken
down as a sniper had been on the verge of killing an innocent...
or many innocents. But the fact that he could never afford to
give them a chance still nagged at him.

    Enlistment in Starfighter Command had seemed the answer. 
He'd proven that he had the reflexes, the technical grounding 
necessary to  become a pilot.  There was never any moral
quandary-everyone he brought down as a pilot had a chance
to shoot back. He'd risen quickly and surely through the ranks,
earning his lieutenancy within a year, being granted the 
temporary rank of brevet captain soon afterward.

    His own command, Talon Squadron. Every member except 
Donos killed in the ambush on an uninhabited world no
one wanted. Leaving him with a blot on his career he might
never be able to erase. A blot on his mind he might not ever be
able to heal.

    He raised the visor on his helmet and pressed his hands to his
eyes. His inclination was to steer away from these thoughts. He
couldn't afford to do that. The emotions that rose-threatening
to overwhelm him-whenever he sent his mind down this course
were enemies he had to defeat. He had to hammer awyay at them
until they left him alone forever. And he had to keep control of
himself while doing it, so others would not see his weakness.

    He'd lost eleven subordinates, fellow pilots, some of them
friends. He'd lost his command; Talon Squadron had been 
decommissioned. He'd even lost his mind, or at least misplaced
it, turning into an emotional wreck sometime later, when the
loss of his astromech plunged him back into vivid memories of
the destruction of Talon Squadron.

    His new squadmates had lured him back to reality. Had
forced him to look once again at  life. To begin thinking again
about his present, about his future.

    He returned his attention to  his sensors. There would be
no future if he plowed into a hillside.
  
    All right, then. There were two paths open to him ...
assuming he didn't get killed before he could begin to follow them.

    First was the one that had dominated his thinking ever
since Talon Squadron had died. For months, he'd considered
putting in for a transfer to Intelligence, or resigning his 
commission altogether, so he could devote his life to tracking down
the individuals who had destroyed Talon Squadron.

    Inyri Forge had been right. Revenge was a powerful motivator. 
A desire for revenge, for justice, was always with Donos.
It welcomed him to each new day when he awoke, lurked at
the back of his mind as he did his work, made soothing promises
to him every night when he drifted off to sleep. And sometimes
it occupied his dreams. He knew, deep down, that if he were
able to find the responsible parties under his snubfighter guns
or in the sight of his laser rifle, he'd pull the trigger without
hesitation, without qualm... regardless of what it cost him.

    Of course, two of the most important conspirators behind
the destruction of his squadron were already dead. Admiral
Apwar Trigit had planned the ambush. Lieutenant Gara 
Petothel had provided Trigit with the data he needed for that 
operation. Petothel had died on Trigit's Star Destroyer, Implacable,
and Trigit had died soon after, trying to escape in a TIE 
interceptor, brought down by Donos himself.

    But others had  to have  been involved. Imperial Intelligence 
operatives had gotten Lieutenant Petothel her false identity 
and her posting with Fleet Command. They'd smuggled
her from New Republic-controlled space to Implacable. Elements 
of the 181st Imperial Fighter Group now inexplicably
helping Warlord Zsinj had participated in the ambush. There
were plenty more conspirators who needed to die.

    But part of him no longer wanted to be the instrument of
that death. An ever-growing part of him wanted to live a 
normal life. And that led to his second choice,  the one he'd been
toying with ever since he had recovered from his collapse: stay
in Starfighter Command and try to rebuild his career, regain his
respectability... renew his life.

    A woman named Falynn Sandskimmer had loved him. He
didn't know whether he'd loved her in return, whether he'd
even been able to at the time. But he'd had affection for her,
and what she'd felt for him had reminded him of what it was
like to be a normal human. She, too, had died aboard Implacable, 
before he'd ever had the chance to sort out his feelings
for her.

    And now ... he checked his sensor board for Wraith Two.
There she was, toward the head of their formation, tucked in
neatly behind Wraith One. Lara Notsil.

    He'd exchanged so little with Notsil. Some  advice. One
ground mission in which he'd saved her from kidnapping at
the hands of Zsinj agents. Conversation in pilots' lounges and
during leave time.

    But for the little amount of time they'd shared, she did oc-
cupy a lot of his thinking. Her intelligence and her beauty drew
him. And her secrecy: she seemed to have no affection for the
life she'd lost, the life of a farm girl from the world of Aldivy,
and yet so much of her was private, locked behind doors that
obviously led to her childhood.

    And one other thing seemed so familiar to him: the way she
seemed adrift, cut off from her past, yet having no apparent idea
how to navigate toward her future. He understood that part of
her, felt tremendous sympathy for her. They were so alike.

    Yet that would mean nothing if neither one of them did
anything about it. She might not even be aware of how he felt,
of what he was thinking.

    She isn't aware, an inner voice told him. And she's not going 
to be. Don't foul up her life the way you've fouled up your
own.  Do something conclusive with your life.  Resign your
commission. Hunt down your enemies. Settle the accounts of
your pilots.

    True. He shouldn't  force his way into her  life, only to
abandon her when he went off on some justified spree of 
revenge. Better to leave her alone.

    But what if he could offer her as much life, as much of a 
future, as he thought she could offer him?

    Now you're using that misfiring hunk of erratic machinery
you refer to as a brain.

    That startled him. The words were in the voice of Ton
Phanan, a fellow Wraith; they were typical of his ordinary 
conversation. Ton, who'd died mere weeks ago. Ton, who had also
decided that he had no future, and perhaps had died because he
couldn't bring himself to struggle for his life as hard as he
should.

    And there it was. Donos did have a future, as Ton did not.
Donos could choose to abandon it and pursue his life of 
revenge, and then maybe... maybe... come back from it if he
lived.  Or he could just choose to live. Which meant doing
something harder than he'd ever done before.

    He might just have to forgive himself for letting his pilots
die.

    He might just have to initiate a conversation with a young
woman who was suddenly important to him.






It was a spot where the hillside leveled out in a treeless glade
some seventy meters in diameter. Without repulsorlifts, they
could never have all landed upon it, but Rogue Squadron and
Wraith Squadron arrayed themselves precisely, in neat rows
and columns.

    As the pilots scrambled out of their cockpits under the
sliver of a moon, Wedge said, "Get those camouflage covers
out. Transfer any fuel remaining from the auxiliary tanks into
the interceptors. Snap it up. I want us blanketed down and out
of sight in ten minutes. We have dawn in less than an hour. 
Hobbie, Corran, Asyr, Tal'dira, I want you out on first watch.
Everyone else, four hours' sleep. Face?" He crooked a finger.

    He and Face took a few steps aside to be out of the bustle
of pilot preparations. The ground underneath was  covered
by shin-high grasses that were too pale a green to be healthy-
looking in Wedge's eyes. 

"We had a pretty good look at the northeast approaches to Lurark.
Did you see anything to give us new problems?"

    Face shook his head. "I don't think so. The big question is
how to acquire transport-the city doesn't seem to be set up
for pedestrian traffic."

    "That's up to you. Sleep on it."

    Face managed a rueful grin Wedge could barely see in the
moonlight. "Oh, sure. As though I could sleep."










Once he had the camo covers tied down over his X-wing and
had made sure that his astromech, Clink, was settled in, Donos
sought out Lara. He found her under her own camouflage coven
kneeling on the starboard S-foils of her snubfighter, whispering
to her own R2, Tonin. He waited patiently until she emerged
and extended a hand to help her down. "Could I have a word
with you?" he asked, and was immediately annoyed with 
himself, at the formality of his voice.

    "Of course."

    He led her  into the deeper shadow between her  X-wing
and Kell's TIE interceptor. "There's something I wanted you to
think about." There, that was better - a more normal tone to
his voice, in spite of the way his chest suddenly felt compressed.
He was in full control again.

    "What's that?"

    "Me."

    She looked at him, and one eyebrow went up, a mocking
look. "Rebel pilots have the biggest egos in all the  known
universe..."

    "Well, it's not like that. I'm asking out of a sense of 
fairness. Since I'm spending all this time thinking about you."

    Her smile faded. "Myn, I'm not amused."

    "Good. I'm not trying to amuse you. Look, I just spent a
long time working up the nerve to bring this up with you at all.
It  was harder than almost anything I've  done. So don't be
amused. Take it seriously."

    She took a step back from him, bringing her up against the
wing array of Kell's interceptor. "No, no, no. Just turn around
and go find someone else to be interested in. I'm not right for
you."

    He couldn't keep the smile from coming to his face.  "Oh,
that's a very good sign."

    "You didn't say, 'Go away, I don't like you.' You started
suggesting reasons that are theoretically in my best interest."

    She wrapped her arms around herself, as though to
protect herself from a chill, and glared. "I don't like you."

    "Now you're lying. You do that a lot, just like Face. I'm
getting better at figuring out when you're doing it." He stepped
in close. "You can't get rid of me by lying to me."

    "I'm a mess. I'm barely fit to fly."

    "Me, too. We make a perfect couple."

    "If I don't get killed, I'm sure my career is going to crater.
I'm going to be a tremendous embarrassment to the Wraiths."

    "How about that-me, too!  Another thing we have in
common."

    "Stop it!" She looked surprised by the volume of her voice
and looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

    Donos looked, too, but the camp was still bustling with
activity. No one stopped to peer at the source of the cry.

    When he looked at Lara's face again, though, something had
changed. There was a stillness to her, a watchfulness that was
almost reptilian. He suppressed an urge to step away from her.

    "I could say twelve words," Lara said, "and when I was
done,  the very least you'd do is turn  away and leave me alone
forever."

    He could tell that she was speaking the truth, and  the fact
that she had the power to do this, to send him away, dismayed
him. "Then don't say them."

    Donos had really  only meant to let her know of his 
interest, perhaps to rattle her, but she  now looked so distant and
lost that he couldn't just let her be. He put his arms around her
and drew her to him.

    When her lips met his, they were clenched tight and she
was shaking. But  then she relaxed into the kiss. Her  arms
snaked up around his neck. She made a noise that was part
wail, and only he could hear it.

    There she was, suddenly part of him, and he wondered
how he'd ever lived so long without her being there.

    Then she drew back her head, her remoteness gone, her
expression a little curious, a little anxious.

    "That's more like it," he said. And realized immediately
that it was the wrong thing to say.

    She gave him a look  he could only imagine her normally
offering to someone pouring paint into her X-wing's engines.

"Thanks," she said. "For reminding me what a gasbag of ego
you are." She turned him around, trading places with him, and
gave him a hard shove.

    His head banged into the interceptor wing. "Ow," he said

    She spun and walked away from him at a fast stride. "Stay
away from me, Lieutenant," she said. "Just keep away."

    Oh, well. Considering how badly he usually did with people
that hadn't gone poorly at all. Donos sighed and headed back
to his snubfighter, resisting the urge to whistle.






                          5




The landspeeder Seteem Ervic drove along the old country road
was old and slow, but it was still powerful enough to haul a
several-ton load of grain cakes from his family business to his
customers in Lurark.

    He ran a hand through what was left of his hair. He could
buy a newer, sportier speeder, of course. But he  hadn't 
inherited the family's failing concern and then built it into a
flourishing business by throwing money away on nonessentials. He
was almost rich. He'd never be rich if he loaded up on luxuries.

    True, it had taken him years. Cost him his first wife, who
said he was boring, that they never had anything to talk about.
Cost him his hair, which had fallen away  as the seasons had
passed. At least his hair was something to talk about. And,
true, nothing ever really happened to him. But he was almost
rich, and that was what counted.  If his  brightest daughter
turned out the way he expected her to, she'd take his solid 
business and make a worldwide concern out of it. And she'd be rich
for real.

He rounded a bend in the dusty road and something happened to him.

    There, a hundred meters up, something lay in the road. As
 ie got closer, in spite of the glare from the  sun, he could see
it was a body-a human body. He slowed, and when he was a
mere handful of meters away, locked the landspeeder down in
hover mode and hopped out to take a look.

    Human  female, dark-skinned,  eyes closed, lying in the
dust as though  she'd been thrown-from what? A  speeder?
There was no recent sign of repulsor traffic on this road. A 
riding animal? No hoof marks. In fact, there were no footprints
around her.

    She was wearing a black jumpsuit like a TIE fighter pilot's
and her pose-lying on her back, one arm behind her head
suggested she was sleeping rather than injured. There was no
sign of gross injury. She wasn't even dusty.

    He leaned  closer. Maybe she wasn't hurt. Maybe he
wouldn't have to interrupt his trip to the city.  

"Young lady?"

    Her eyes popped open. She smiled, showing deep dimples,
becoming insufferably cute. "Yes?"

    "Are you hurt?"

    "Oh, no. Just resting."

    He straightened. "Ah. Well, good. Can I offer you a ride?"

    She brought her hand from behind her head. In it was a
snub-nosed blaster pistol. "Sure. In fact, you can offer me your
whole landspeeder."

    He turned to look back at his vehicle. A half dozen people
were clustered around it, looking at the control board, peering
under the  reflective sheets tied down over the cargo bay. He
hadn't heard them arrive; they might have materialized out of
thin air.

    He turned back to the young woman, who was on her feet.
He offered her a weak smile and raised his hands. Well, at least
this would be something to talk about.









By midafternoon, the human members of the Wraiths had been
around Binring Biomedical several times  and had spent long
hours surveying the facility.

    It was huge, easily two kilometers wide by one deep, most
of that area taken up by fabrication plants. There were staging
and loading areas for landspeeders and other transports. The
place had its own light-rail depot.

    Face, Lara, Donos, Tyria, Kell, Shalla, and Wes sat around
  large circular table at an open-air cafe separated from the
3  in Binring Biomedical entrance by a broad traffic thorough-  ????????????
 irc  Speeder traffic was constant. Everyone on this world
seemed to own a personal speeder, and the city was huge and
sprawling, though not densely built up or occupied. Face
estimated that he hadn't seen more than a half dozen  buildings
more than three stories in height.

 "All right, people," he said. "We have too much factory over there 
to search in one night. We need to have a good idea where Zsinj's 
special facilities are, or where we can find out that information,
before we go in tonight. If the special facilities aren't at this 
site, we'll definitely need to get into their computer center. Any ideas?"

    Lara said, "I see six likely places for a special facility,
all connected to exterior docking areas. West Sixteen, Northwest
Seven, Northwest Two, Northeast One, East Thirty, or East
Thirty-One." Her designations referred to loading and unloading 
areas - West Sixteen, for instance, meant Western Quadrant,
Loading Area Sixteen.

    Wes said, "Just Northwest Two or East Thirty-One. We
can eliminate the others."

    Shalla said, "Just Northwest Two."

    Tyria looked unhappy, but nodded. "Northwest Two."

    Face sighed. He hadn't seen anything to suggest likely
prospects, and their assessment baffled  him. "Let's take that
again, in the same order. Lara?"

    "The places I noted lack power meters on the roof. Everywhere 
else  in that complex, you get external power meters
under lockdown cases. Backup meters for the city power managers 
to get their data, probably if the standard meter transmit-
ters fail. I bet they're analog rather than digital and retain
data even if their own power fails. Anyway, they're at regular inter-

69 ?????????????????????????????

       . except in those six places. This suggests that those
zones have separate  generators and don't depend on the city
grid."

    Face gave her a close look. "Lara, are you all right? You
don't look too good."

    He was right; she seemed paler than usual, with dark half
circies under her eyes. She gave him a wan smile. 

"You always know the right thing to say. No, I just didn't 
sleep well. I'll be fit to go tonight."

    "All right... Wes?"

    The baby-faced lieutenant took a final sip of his caf and
grimaced. "Cold. Um, it has to do with privacy and defensibility. 
Northwest Two and East Thirty-One have advantages that
way. The loading-dock areas are down recessed alley accesses
that can be closed, remotely or directly, by gates. Both have
roof access for flying vehicles but mesh screens can be dragged
across them, as well, to limit access. The alleys don't have doors
or viewports, so the traffic down them can be private."

    "Right. Shalla?"

    She waved toward  the east facing of the complex, which
was around the corner to their right.  "East Thirty-One had
some vehicle traffic when we were looking at it.  Really 
expensive landspeeders with reflective viewports. One of them was
large enough to put a swimming tank in. I think that's the 
private entrance for corporate executives, board members, and so
on. The really wealthy. Also, East Thirty-One opens onto one
of the busy thoroughfares, while Northwest Two opens onto a
back street with nothing but warehouse buildings  facing it.
Like Wes said, privacy issues."

    "That makes sense. Tyria?"

    She didn't meet his gaze. "I just know it."  She  seemed
huddled in her chair. Kell reached over to take  her hand,  but
she barely acknowledged him.

    Face said, "That's not good enough, Tyria. What  do you
know? How do you know it?"

    She shook her head hard, sending her blond ponytail flipping 
across the features of Donos beside her, and finally looked
at Face directly. "I felt it. When we cruised past.  There's 
something there. A residue of... pain. Of things so badly hurt that
they desperately wanted to die. Not test animals, either. There
was awareness there."

    Face suppressed a shudder.

    Kell said, "You felt something from the Force."

    Tyria nodded. "I've been working so hard, to learn to relax 
into it, not to push at it... not to force the Force, as it
were. Sometimes, now, I can put myself into a flow state where  I'm
almost not myself. I'm just reacting to what I'm feeling. I'd
    aged to do that when we cruised past. I almost wish I      ???????? 71
  don't. I almost lost my last meal."

    "Well, that's a good thing," Kell said. When Tyria looked
at him, confused, he amended, "Not the throwing-up part. The
flow-state part. That sounds like an improvement."

    She managed a faint smile for him.

    "Northwest Two," Face said. "That's our best entry."

   "No," Lara said.

    Face held up a hand. "Wait a second. Next to Northwest
Two. Northwest One or Three. Where the security is likely to
be less substantial."

    "Yes," Lara said.

    Face sagged in relief. "She said yes," he said. "You have no
idea how long I've been waiting to hear her say yes."

    Donos murmured something under his breath and Lara
flushed red.








Under cover of darkness, they emerged from beneath the sheeting 
covering the speeder's cargo bed. The speeder was parked
between refuse containers in the parking area of a warehouse;
across the thoroughfare was Binring's northwestern quadrant.
This was the last the Wraiths would see of the speeder; at some
point during the day its loss, and the disappearance of its owner,
had to have been reported,  and there was too much danger in
piloting it around avenues of Lurark left almost deserted at 
nightfall. They'd acquire other transportation for their departure from
the city.

    Shalla, kneeling in  the  shadow of one of the refuse 
containers, scanned the empty street and darkened Binring
buildings below through a set of holorecording macrobinoculars.

 "Downward-facing holocams with overlapping coverage," she
said. "Standard placement. For Imperial forces, that is. Overkill
for a pharmaceutical-fabrications plant. Wait a second."

Face knelt beside her. The second turned into several, then
she spoke. "There's a gap in the  coverage. The most
northern holocam on the western wall is positioned so  it can't
clearly see around the corner. The most western holocam on the
northern wall isn't far enough west to make up the gap...
don't think." She lowered the goggles and brought out a glow
pod so she could look at the hand-drawn map they'd assembly
that afternoon. "That's right. If we come in from the north
along this narrow approach, the holocams can't pick us up."

"It's a lie," Tyria said. Her voice was a whisper, a sad whisper.

    Shalla shot her a look. "What do you mean?"

    Tyria started as if out of some reverie and gave her a ner
vous smile. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. It's not your
lie, Shalla. It's theirs." Her wave indicated the Binring building.
"There's a big... watchfulness over there waiting for us It's laughing."

    Shalla said, "You're getting weird, Tyria."

    "Yes, but let's take her at her word," Face said. "Shalla
could they have set up the mistake in coverage deliberately, as a
Lure?"

    "Yes."

    "What would they be doing?"

    "They'd have  a secondary  set of holocams in a less
obvious place."  She brought up the macrobinoculars again
"I'd put them in those overhanging spotlights. There'd be no
way to see them without getting right up to them ... and turning
the lights out, of course."







    There was a whine of machinery behind them and their
stolen speeder moved  off into the avenue, Donos at the
controls. His job was to pilot it some distance away, acquire 
another one, and return, then set himself up in a position to sniper
if the Wraiths experienced pursuit when they departed. Face
noted Lara staring after Donos long after the speeder was gone
and wondered what was going on between them. Something
cheerful, he hoped.

    "All right," Face said. "We're going in by the high road."

    Minutes later, the  entire crew of black-clad Wraiths stood
atop the near warehouse, one that was, mercifully, far less 
thoroughly defended than their  target. It was also one story taller
than the Binring building, which would work in their favor.

    Kell spent a few minutes mounting a device at the edge or
the roof. It looked something like a small projectile cannon on
a swivel mount, but the repulsorlift-based clamping system at
base of the mount was like nothing seen on a normal canon 

"This had better work," Kell murmured.

    "It'll work," Shalla said.

    "How do you know?"

    "My sister and I had one when we were little girls. They're
very reliable. Proven technology."

    "You and your sister come from an odd family, Shalla."

    She smiled at him, teeth gleaming. "Don't be jealous."

    Kell made a final adjustment to the weapon and peered
through its scope. "Ready, Captain."

    Face said, "Numbers only from now on, people. Five, fire
at will."

    Kell slowly squeezed the trigger. The device made a noise
like a protracted sneeze and launched a missile across the street;
the missile dragged a length of black fibra-rope behind it. There
was the faintest sound of a metallic clank atop the Binring
building; then a motor started up in the gun and drew the
fibra-rope taut.

    Shalla clipped two devices to the cable: sleeve housings
with handlebars hanging from them. "Crawler ready to go."

    "Go. Ten, cover her."

   Janson drew his blaster pistol and aimed in at the far roof.
For most people this would be considered a tricky shot with a
pistol-thirty-five or more meters in darkness. But the  other
Wraiths knew Janson to be an expert pistol shot.

    Shalla carefully gripped the handlebars of the lead crawler
device and swung herself out over empty space. Nimbly, she
brought her legs up  so her knees were over the bars of the 
second device. Then she thumbed a control on the handles she
gripped ... and the crawler sped out along the fibra-rope, 
carrying her to the roof of the far building. A moment later, the
two devices came back, the hand device pushing the knee 
device before it.

    One  after another, thev took the  crawler across, each
Wraith settling in a crouch on the far roof. By the time Face 
arrived halfway through the pack of Wraiths, Lara, Shalla, and
Janson had already examined their surroundings for accesses and
other sensors.

    And found  some. "Standard roof hatches at intervals,"
Kell said. "And infrared beams just over there." He pointed
"On the roof over Northwest Two."

    "I find myself shocked," Face said. "No, really."

    "We'll need to leave L-Two-one of the sets of infra
goggles so she can get through the beams."

    "Give her yours. We'll rely on Four and her set when
we're in."

    Once  they were assembled, Face directed Kell to disable
security on the nearest roof access adjacent to Northwest Two
Within moments he had bypassed the basic security system
there. Tyria led the descent down an access ladder, Face and
Shalla close behind her.

    And that was already a problem. Ever since Tyria had 
indicated that her fleeting control over the Force had given her
some  insight into what went on at Binring, Face knew he had
to put her on the intrusion team. But she'd originally been 
assigned to planting tracers on the roof. Face had switched her
duties with Lara's. But that cost the intrusion team some of its
technical proficiency,  Lara being more mechanically adept
than Tyria. Kell, their demolitions expert, and Shalla, their 
intelligence expert, now had to share much of the security work
Lara would have been handling.

    The change also cost them some faith in their tracer team.
Tyria  was an old enough hand to have managed her temporary
partner, Elassar, but Lara's abilities to handle an unknown
quantity like the new pilot were unproven.

    Face shrugged. It  was done. It would do him no good to
worry.








Lara placed the fourth transmitter-marker against the knee-
high barrier that served as inadequate warning to people that
they should not go over the edge and fall off the roof. She 
activated it and watched it run through its self-test. Then she
pulled back away  from it in a crouch, making it more difficult
for people at street level to see her.

    Elassar was already four meters back from the edge, seated,
popping something that looked suspiciously like candy into his
mouth. "All done?" he asked.

    "Not quite. I'm going to take a holo of the rooftop and
arounding area, then show on it where the markers are and
send it at to the Rogues. That'll give  them a visual referrence      ?????74
go with their sensor readings. Why don't you make lf useful? Or 
is that unlucky?"

    He smiled at her, showing his fangs. "Not unlucky. I've
done everything I can for this mission  in the field of luck. I've
cast all the charms I could manage, and unlike the rest of you,
I've refrained from doing anything unlucky. And I've made
myself useful, too. I found something out."

    Lara readied her holocam, held it steady before her eye,
and began a slow, careful 360-degree  turn. Once this  special
surveyor's holocam caught the panoramic image she wanted,
she would be able to mark points on the image and type in 
numeric values related to their relative altitude and distance from
one another. Then the gadget's internal computer would generate 
a proportionally correct image that any navigational computer,
such  as an astromech, could look at from any relative
altitude.

 "What did you find out?"

    "Well, that whole network of infrared beams over North-
west Two. I looked at it through your infra-goggles. The posts
that the beams are coming out of are  years old. They're well
kept-up, but there's corrosion on them, and I can see where one
of the posts has  had to be straightened and realigned when it
was knocked over or something."

    "So?"  Lara finished her turn and knelt with the holocam.
On its built-in screen, she  brought up the image she'd just
taken. She slid a stylus from the side of the device and began
marking her reference points.

    "So the roof surface over there is brand-new. It's not 
brand-new here or on any of the places we've been walking, but
it's brand-new there."

    Lara looked up, suddenly disturbed. "Show me."









 There was no marker to indicate the border between 
North-west Two and Northwest Three, but they stopped a meter short
from the first post that they knew held the infrared devices. Elassar
knelt and Lara followed suit.

"See, here," Elassar said. He stretched a finger up almost
t point protected by the infrared. "A beam."

    Lara couldn't see, so she risked a moment's illumination
with her glow rod. Elassar was right: there was a score, straight
as a laser beam, running along the roof between the two building
sections. It was so thin as to be nearly invisible even in good
light.

    She switched the rod off. "So the roof material was laid
down in sections. It looks just the same as the roof here."

    "Yes, it does. It has been walked on and scuffed a lot, just
like the roofing here. But it smells different. Much sharper. It's
new."

    Lara sighed. This had to be some new-pilot prank. But,
obligingly, she leaned back and sniffed at the roofing they'd
been walking on. It smelled faintly of industrial chemicals. Then
she leaned forward and sniffed again at the other section.

    The smell was stronger, crisper.

    From her wrist sheath she pulled her vibroblade. She  did
not power it on. She dug at the seam between the two roof 
sections, prying the new section up. It was a gummy mass perhaps
two centimeters  deep and resisted her efforts, but finally  she
was able to turn up a flap of the material. Elassar obligingly
pulled at the edge until half a square meter or so was revealed.

    The underside of the material was thick with tiny circular
devices made of shiny metal. They were spaced at about 
eight-centimeter intervals and connected by thin silvery wires. 


"Pressure sensors," she said.
    "Not a problem," said Elassar. "None of us walked on
them. And we didn't apply pressure to pull them up."

    "That's not  the point. They've added a layer of security
under the substantial security already in place, and it's a 
different type. If they've done that throughout the complex,  the
Wraiths might be dismantling one layer but not the new stuff."

    "So give them a call."

    "Which will probably give our presence away." She sighed
and looked over the boulevard at  the rooftop where  Donos
was. She couldn't see  him, but she'd heard his return  with a
new speeder a few minutes before. It was so hard, working
with people; on her missions for Imperial Intelligence, she'd 
always been alone. No one else to be responsible for.

 She brought up her comlink and thumbed on its scrambler.

  ?????????????????????????77

   Ae "Two to Six. Do not acknowledge. Additional security
 in roof suggests this site is prepared for your arrival. Check
for new modifications to your surroundings. Two out." She grabbed
up her holocam and rose. "Let's move out."










"Comm signal," a technician said. His voice was unnaturally

    Dr. Cast blinked and looked around. She'd actually fallen
asleep. Boredom and lack of any decent occupation will do
that to you, she thought, her voice cranky even when expressed
only in her own mind.

    The control room was antiseptically white, except where
the floor and walls were marked by black marks and scores 
resulting from the haste with which some of this equipment had
been assembled. The four walls were occupied by banks of 
terminals, each dedicated to a different area of coverage or 
function. Six per wall, twenty-four in all, occupied every hour of
the day, and never anything to report except the occasional
repairman working on an adjacent roof section or an avian
landing on the roof of the protected zone.

    Until now, maybe.

    Cast's own console was a nearly complete circle of terminals
and controls, her chair in the center. She lazily swiveled
until she could look at the back of the technician who'd 
spoken. "Let's hear it," she said.

    "It's encrypted, Doctor."

    "Decrypt it. Where's it coming from?"

    "I have that." Another technician's voice. He didn't bother
to wait for permission; he patched through his holocam view
to one of Cast's terminals. She liked that. Initiative. Which one
was this? It was Drufeys, the lean one with the lazy eye.

    The holocam was an infrared unit. It was a static view of
the roof, and showed two blurry red figures, one male and one
female, creeping along the roof.

    Away from the protected zone. Cast frowned. That was
disappointing.  Had they recognized the first line of security
and decided to run away?

    She turned to the console where her new intelligence spe-
cialist, a man on loan from Warlord Zsinj, sat. "Captain 
Netbers, what are they doing?"

    Netbers rose and approached her. He was a huge man, easily
two meters tall, with a musculature that suggested he spent more
time improving it than he did sleeping. A pity he was so ugly,
obviously a fighter, he looked as though he had fallen asleep in
an automatic door and it had slammed shut on his face for an
afternoon. But the eyes underneath his shaggy brown hair were
dark and intelligent. When he spoke, his voice was deep and
raspy. "They've seen the security perimeter."

    "And it scared them off?"

    He smiled. His teeth were regular.  She somehow doubted
they were original equipment. "No,"  he said. "That comm
transmission was them informing the other members of their
team. They're getting clear in case we caught the signal."

    "We haven't seen any sign of other intruders."

    "We will."

    She turned  back  to Drufeys.  "Monitor  their progress.
When they've settled in,  have a squad of stormtroopers stand
by within striking distance of them."

    "Yes, Doctor."

    She quelled an  excitement rising within her and turned
back to Netbers. "I have a feeling this is going to be fun, Ca
tain. Is it usually fun?"

    He nodded.









Kell swore and pushed his head deeper into the access hatch.
He was hanging from sturdy metal rungs in the turbolift shaft,
one floor below street level, illuminated only by the glow rod
held by Shalla, who stood on the same rung he did and helped
brace him as he worked. The panel Kell investigated opened
into a maze of wires and circuitry, and his head was missing in
that forest of equipment. "Give me more light."

    Shalla leaned in closer to oblige, poking her hand and
glow rod through the curtain of wiring. She could see his neck
flex as he looked around.

    Finally Kell withdrew-slowly, so as not to knock Shalla
f   of her perch. He twisted to look over his shoulder at the ???????????????79
other Wraiths, clustered in the open turbolift door behind him.

"Two was right. There's new wiring throughout. If we'd gone
down and disabled  the monitors  on the panel between lift
shafts, we would have set off another alarm."

    Face asked, "Can you disable that alarm?"

    Kell considered. Shalla knew this really wasn't his speciality.
He'd  said he was lucky to have done as well as he had on
this mission.  "Maybe," he said. "But I can't be sure I've identified 
all the security at that entry point. I think instead we need
to go through a non-entry point."

    "Like where?"

    "Like here." He gestured at the curtain of wires. "Beyond
this monkey-lizard nest, we have a riveted panel of metal 
between us  and the Northwest Two lift shaft. But it's not armor
quality. I vote we just cut through and descend."

    "Do it."

    Kell brought out his vibroblade and powered it on.
They were within three meters of the bottom of the shaft when
Kell spotted the access hatch they would have used had they
not changed plans. "Nine, the gauge again?"

    He felt Shalla rummage around in the top pocket of his 
demolitions pack. Then she handed him the sensor device he'd
had to use so many times tonight. It read electrical currents and
was of vital use to mechanics and  demolitions experts, two
categories into which Kell fit.

    He aimed the device at the panel and swept it all around
the bottom of the shaft. It registered a considerable amount of
electrical current flow beyond the panel, no surprise, and along
the recessed slot used by turbolift cars  of this sort to acquire
their power.

    There was also a suspicious spike of activity on the wall
opposite the panel, just above the door out of the lift shaft. It
take him a few moments to identify the hemispherical depression,
not larger than the end of his thumb, in the metal just
above the door. "Holocam recess," he said. "But it's set up to
watch the panel. If we get across to the door side and drop
beside it, it shouldn't spot us."

    Face said, "There are no rungs over there, Five."

    "Oh, well. Guess we go home instead." Kell had Shalla
tuck the gauge back in his pack. He checked to make sure that
his pack and other gear were secure.

    Then he let go of the rung he was holding on to and leaped
across the turbolift shaft, slapping into the far wall like a slap-
stick character from a holocomedy. He dropped the final three
meters to the duracrete  bottom of the shaft, his large  frame
easily handling the shock  of landing. He gestured up  at his
comrades as though to say, "Simple."

    He saw Face shake his  head ruefully.

    One by one they  followed his lead. He half caught each of
them, fractionally slowing their descents, then got to work on the
minimal security on the turbolift door.

The halls were empty, sanitary, still smelling faintly of some-
thing antiseptic. The lights were on at half intensity, making
even the whiteness of the walls and floor seem dim.  All the
Wraiths could hear was the distant hum of air-moving machinery 
and their own faint footsteps.

    Face didn't like it. It felt abandoned, and an empty facility
would not yield them any secrets. It also felt somehow wrong.
He glanced at Tyria to gauge her response-perhaps her abilities 
with the Force, however faint or erratic, would tell her
something. But he could  not read her face;  at his own 
command, all  the Wraiths, now that they were moving in what
should have been populated areas, were wearing black cloth
masks covering everything but their eyes and mouths.
    All the Wraiths but Piggy, that is. No mask could conceal
his species, and only one  member of his species would travel
with a commando unit this way.

    "I know this floor," Piggy said. Both his real voice and his
mechanical one were modulated so low that Face could barely
hear them. "This was the third of four floors. We came down
here only  when we  were injured. The bacta ward was  right
????????????????????????   81
there - he pointed his finger at a blank section of wall to his
right and stopped.
   Face asked, "Right down where, Eight?

    "Down this hall."

    "That's a wall."

    "I know." Piggy stepped up to the wall and looked at it
very carefully. Then he bent to look at the flooring beneath it.
When he turned to Kell, his expression, to the extent that Face
could read Gamorrean expressions, was confused.

    Kell obligingly aimed his electrical current detector at that
section of wall, waving it about slowly. "Nothing to suggest
any sort of door mechanism. There's some faint electrical 
activity beyond, but not immediately beyond.  Several meters, I
think, and no heavy electrical currents."

    Tyria said, "The wear on the floor doesn't show that
anything has turned down a hall here, Eight. And the floor looks as
though it's been through several years of wear."

    "Yes," Piggy said. But he still stared at the wall as if
accusing  it of lying. "They've taken up the floor  from somewhere
else and moved it here to conceal the deception."

    "All right," Face said. "But even so, the only thing down
this hall of yours was a bacta ward - correct?"

    "Correct."

    "We'll check it out if we don't find anything elsewhere.
Let's look at what you never got to see before. All right?"

    Piggy nodded.

    They continued up the main hall, the only hall, to its end.
On the left was a large double door leading into a circular 
chamber  filled with equipment-panels, consoles, and terminals
arrayed in a circle around some sort of large chair. The chair was
obviously intended for medical usage; it featured brackets to fit
around wrist and ankle, and was festooned with equipment on
armatures-injectors, viewscreens, racks filled with bottles.

    "I know that chair," Piggy said. "You got your shots there.
And performed tests. But it was one floor up."

    "Door's  clear," Kell said. "No undue security. Do I open
it up?"

    Face said, "You said three of four. This was the third floor
or four. You meant two above this one and one below?"

    Piggy nodded.

    "How did you get to the fourth floor?"

    "By the turbolift." Then Piggy frowned and looked back
down the hallway toward the distant turbolift door.

    "But the turbolift ended at this floor," Face said. "There
was duracrete below."

    Shalla said, "It was very clean duracrete. No oil stains. I
thought that was odd. But everything here has been so clean it
seemed in keeping with the rest."

    "Obviously, it was new," Face said. "They've blocked off
the fourth floor. I wonder why?"

    The others shrugged. Tyria merely gave him her I-have-a-
bad-feeling-about-this look.

    "We can leave now," Shalla said.

    "There is no data without risk," Face said, "as one of my
instructors used to say. We always wanted to shoot him for it.
All right, Five, let's go in."

    Kell triggered the door control. The double doors slid open
and the Wraiths entered, blasters up, fanning to either side.







"Doctor?" said another technician. "They're in the First Chamber." 
He put through the holocam feed to one of her terminals.

    Cast looked at the screen and frowned. "They got through
our outer perimeter."

    Netbers leaned  over her shoulder. "They're pretty good.
But they're here. So they're dead."

    "Alert your stormtroopers," Cast said, then issued 
commands to the others. "Prepare the Second Chamber. Activate
comm jamming as soon as the door to the Second Chamber is
opened. No, wait: Alert the other team of  stormtroopers to
take the intruders on the rooftop, then activate comm jamming
as soon as the Second Chamber is  opened."  She  frowned, 
angry with herself for her mistake.

    "You're getting the hang of it," Netbers said.





Kell waved an all-clear signal to the others. The walls and ceiling 
offered no circuitry suggesting additional security.

    Dia and Shalla covered the door with their blasters. The
others looked at the equipment in the room.

    "I was never in here," Piggy said. "I don't know what the
chamber was for. The chair wasn't here. The chair was one floor
up where they did a lot of testing. I solved math problems in  ???????????83
that chair while drugged or while being electrocuted."

    "Charming," Face said.

    "There's something awful about this room," Tyria said.
"Not in the room itself. Nearby."

    "This is a game-table unit," Kell said. He was on one knee,
looking intently at one of the pieces of equipment around the
chair. "The table itself has been taken off and the unit
repainted."

    "So it broadcasts to the screen on the chair?" Face asked.

    "Maybe."  Kell looked over the unit, puzzled. "It doesn't
seem to be fastened down, but it's powered."

    "This  machine washes clothes." Runt was staring with
equal concentration at a silver-gray metal cube two-thirds the
height of a human. "They had one like it on the ship Sungrass."

    Kell waved his current detector at Runt's device, then at
the floor around it. "It's self-powered. Like the game table. It's
battery-powered or something."

    "Why?" Face asked. He looked at Piggy, but the Gamorrean 
looked blankly back at him.







"Transfer control to my terminal," Cast said.
    Then she caught the hurt look  on the face of Drufeys and
she relented. "Oh, very well, you do it."
    Drufeys brightened and pressed a button on his console.








Face felt the floor give way beneath him. All  around him,
Wraiths and equipment  dropped.  There was blackness and
heat beneath him. When his feet hit he tried to roll and absorb
some of the shock of impact, but he did a bad  job of it and
handed on  his chest, the wind knocked out of him.  He  felt  ????????83
something heavy and sharp slam into his back and he grunted   ??????????
from the blow. There were cries and sounds of crashing all   ??????????
around him.

    Awkwardly, he rolled to his back. The floor of the room
above had split down the middle. Hinges to either side had 
allowed it to open like a door, dropping them what looked like a
fall of six or seven meters.

    And now stormtroopers were lining up at the edges of the
room above. They aimed their blasters down at the Wraiths. One
called out, "Throw up your demolitions gear or we open fire."

    Face looked around. The Wraiths were in no position to 
resist. Only Kell and Shalla were already on their feet. Beyond
Kell, Runt was unmoving, apparently unconscious. Beside him
a piece of machinery on her back, was another fallen Wraith...

    "Dia!" Face was suddenly on his feet despite the pain. He
knelt beside Dia, saw at once that she was unconscious, that
her left  arm lay at an angle that was not right. She was still
breathing.

    "Demolitions bag," the stormtrooper repeated. "Or you're
all dead."

    Face caught Kell's attention and nodded.

    But Kell turned to Shalla, and said,  "Do what they say,
Demolitions."

    Shalla  didn't hesitate. She  shucked  off her  own pack,
which contained her infra-goggles, spare  glow rods, and preserved 
food. She swung it around at the end of its straps and
hurled it up to the stormtroopers above.

    The speaker caught the bag. He and the others retreated.
The ceiling began to close.

    "What are you doing?" Face asked. "In  thirty seconds
they'll know we've lied. They'll open it up and start shooting."

    "In thirty seconds we're supposed to be dead," Kell said. He
pulled off his own pack and rummaged around in its contents.
"Take a look around, One. You know what this place is?"

    Face forced himself to look away from Dia.

    The floor was some sort of  grating. It seemed to be  
continuous, not made up in sections, and was sturdy enough not
to flex beneath the weight of the Wraiths and all the equipment
from the chamber above.  The walls were heavy, dark metal
with a tight grid of nozzles protruding from them.

    As  he  looked, the floor grating beside the walls began
glowing red. The redness spread toward the center of the room
with quick rate. Heat from the glowing portions of the grate
swept across Face and the other Wraiths.

    "They burn organic material here," Piggy said. He struggled
to his feet, holding his side. "It's an incinerator."







Lara knelt and fretted. Still no communication of any sort from
the team. Of course, they were supposed to keep comm transmissions 
o a minimum. But she wanted to know what was happening down below.

    It didn't help that Elassar was so calm. The Devaronian
junior pilot lay on his back, admiring the stars. "A shooting
star!" he whispered. "That's good luck."

    "Is it still lucky if it's one of the asteroids we shot into
the atmosphere as cover?" Lara asked.

    He frowned, considering. "I don't know."

    Sixty meters away, there was a terrific metal crash and two
hinged pieces of roof slammed open. An open-sided turbolift
rose into view. The dozen stormtroopers within it jumped out,
turning toward Lara and Elassar.

    "I guess not," Elassar amended.










Face lifted Dia, as mindful as he could be of her broken arm.
"Sorry I said anything, Five. Blow us out of here."

    Kell slipped his bag back over one shoulder. He held two
charges, one in each hand. He tucked one charge into a pocket
and tapped something into the keypad of the other.

    Tyria hopped up on a boxy piece of metal equipment as
the redness of the floor neared her feet. She peeled off her face
mask. The other Wraiths began following suit. Face could see
that they were already sweating heavily. So was he, but  
burdened as he was, he couldn't do anything about it. Tyria said,
"What if the chamber is magnetically sealed?"

    "It's not," Face said. "If it were, they wouldn't have bothered t
o demand our demolitions."

    Kell said,  "One?"

    "What?"

    "Where do I place this?"

    "Your best guess. You're the demolitions expert. But this
deep down, we may have stone and dirt on all sides."

    "Imperial architecture is kind of conservative," Kell said
"One floor is often like another. Meaning that the main hall
above may have a parallel on this floor. Which was-where?"
He looked around blankly. In the fall and the Wraiths's 
subsequent disorientation, he'd lost track of directions.

    Piggy pointed at one wall, then yanked Runt up before
the heat in the floor grid reached him. The Thakwaash pilot
looked groggy, but mobile.

    Flame erupted from every nozzle along the chamber walls.
The flames were no more than half a meter in length, but the
temperature in the room rose instantly. Several Wraiths swore
and all flinched away from the new heat.

    "Three seconds," Kell said. "Find cover." He threw his
package against the wall and moved to crouch behind one of
the ruined metal cases of false lab equipment.

    Face followed suit. He felt the  floor grating begin to burn
its way through his shoes the moment they made contact. He
crouched and leaned back against the experiment chair, keep-
ing it between him and the explosive charge, trying  to keep
Dia's limbs from trailing against the floor.

One floor up, a stormtrooper opened Shalla's pack and 
extracted a tube of processed nutrients. He pawed through the
other contents of the pack, then held out the nutrient tube to
his commander for inspection.
    The commander said, "Uh-oh."









                         6







"I wasn't too sure about this crematorium idea," Netbers said.
"But I must admit it seems to have come off rather well. Though
the warlord might have preferred a better souvenir than several
kilograms of ashes."

    Dr. Cast nodded. "But I think he'll be pleased that they
didn't just die-that they died very, very painfully."

    "True."

    The building rocked  and the sound of a muffled detonation
reached them. Technicians jumped up and looked around
as though deciding whether to situate themselves in doorways.

    Netbers sighed. "Not good," he said. "I'm going to lead
the stormtroopers down to the crematorium level."

    Cast stood. "I'm going with you. You'll need me for access
to all levels."

    "Come along."











The explosion  hit before  Face  heard it,  before he comprehended 
it. All he knew is that something hard, the frame of the
experiment chair, hit his back and propelled him forward -
launching Dia toward the burning floor, the burning wall. He
rolled with the impact, tumbling, trying to keep Dia from 
contacting the glowing floor grid.

    He succeeded. His shoulder hit the  grid and he felt the
flooring burn through his light tunic, branding him. He 
continued the roll and the burning sensation tore down his back
across his buttocks.

    There was a burning in his throat, too. It had to have been
from his scream. He felt as though his back had been torn 
completely free, revealing bones and blood for all the world to see.
He almost gave up then, as the pain told his body to tighten up
into a tight ball and lie there until he died, but he felt his
heels hit the floor and he rose, instinct and adrenaline giving him the
energy to keep moving.

    He turned back toward the source of the explosion. The
flames on the walls were now growing, extending toward him,
but in the  center of them there was a different sort of light-
whiteness, not redness. He lurched toward it, gaining speed.

    There it was in his mind, an absurd image-his childhood
visit to an arena on Coruscant where animals from all the planets 
of the galaxy did tricks for the entertainment of men. One
of those tricks was  leaping through fiery hoops and frame-
works. Now he was doing it.

    The floor grating disappeared two steps ahead, ending in a
broken edge of red-glowing metal. He leaped over the edge
into the white void beyond...

    And hit something. White, cold hardness. He bounced off
it and landed on his back.

    And there the pain from his burns hit him. His back arched
and he shrieked.  His body would not obey  him,  would do
nothing but writhe and shout.

    He could not even  look down to see if Dia was still with
him, if he'd managed to carry the woman he loved out of that
inferno.










Lara drew her blaster pistol and fired. Her first shot missed the
leading wave of stormtroopers but checked their progress-
most of them dropped to skid behind antennae, air-conditioning
equipment, and other rooftop gear. The first of them returned
and Lara realized rather belatedly that she had no cover be-

????????????????????????????? 90

    Elassar had his blaster out in a two-handed grip. He fired,
tryng uselessly into the side of the metal  housing between
frm and his target. Lara grabbed his tunic at the shoulder and
tugged him toward another metal housing.

    They ducked down behind the landskimmer-sized equipment case 
and heard blaster shots hammer  into the far side.

"We're in trouble," Lara said.

    "True. Should I charge them and wipe them out for you?"

    "Oh, if you think you could, that'd be really decent of
you." Lara popped up, took a quick shot, was rewarded with
the  image of a pair of stormtroopers ducking behind cover.
"I'll help too," she said. "I'll call the troops."

    "Deal."

    Lara  brought out her comlink. "Wraith Two to Rogue
Leader. Emergency. Emergency. Do you read?"

    The only answer was a hiss of static.










Face forced himself to look around. He was in a hallway.

    There, to his right, lay Dia. She was moving, her eyes half-open.
Beyond her was a jagged hole in  a once-pristine white
wall. It was three or four meters in diameter, starting at knee
height and continuing up into the ceiling and beyond, and it
was lined in flames. Heat rolled out of it, a steady wind from a
manmade hell.

    Out from the fire shot Wes Janson, crashing into the same
wall Face must have hit, but he kept his feet when he landed.
His right shoulder and back were on fire. He dropped to the
floor and rolled, swatting at the flame.

    Then came Tyria. She landed short of the wall, her blaster
"ifle in hand. Poised as a heroine from an action holodrama,
she swept up and down  the hall with the rifle. There was no
sign of fire, even of burn upon her.

    Four out. Four to go. Face heaved himself to his feet, leaving
Dia where she lay for the moment. There was blood all
the flooring where he'd  fallen. He decided not to think
about that for the moment. Or about the pain-he swore and  ??????89
brought out his blaster pistol, then reached down and began
dragging Dia out of the path of oncoming Wraiths.

    Seconds later, Kell landed where she had just been.
hair was charred and his eyebrows were gone,  singed away
There were burn stripes on his chest, stripes identical to the
flooring in the crematorium-and not only on his chest. His
palms and fingers were also black and red with the marks, and
shook uncontrollably.

    Piggy came flying out of the inferno and crashed into the
wall. He bounced off and slammed to the floor atop Face's
blood slick. A fraction of a second later, Shalla landed atop him.
She was on fire and had burn stripes along her right side from
armpit to knee, and she shrieked as she rolled to extinguish the
flames. Piggy slapped at her, trying to help.

    Seven of eight. The Wraiths looked at one another as, in
their pained and distracted states, they tried to calculate who
was missing.

    "Oh, no," Kell said. "Runt..."

    Then Runt was among them, his chest and  left side fully
engaged in flame, his fur blackening away as it fed the fire. He
landed on his knees atop Piggy, howling in pain, swinging arms
as though to strike the enemy burning away at him.

    Kell leaped at Runt, a body check that took him from atop
the Gamorrean. Piggy got up to his feet and fell atop Runt,
hammering away at patches of flame his corpulent body didn't
smother.

    They just stood there breathing for a moment. Then Face
straightened, despite what it cost him in agony to his back.
When he spoke, he found that his voice cracked with pain a
exertion. "We're moving out," he said. "There have to be
cess panels or stairs near where the turbolift used to be. First:
open communications with our other team and the Rogues.

    Janson took the scorched comm pack from Runt's back.
Fortunately the unit within, though blackened along one side,
was functional.

    Maybe.

    Janson looked up from it. "I'm getting nothing but hiss.
Some of it may be because we're too deep, but I think we're 
being jammed."

?????????????????????????????  91

    Face nodded. "That figures. All right, we go. Ten, you take
point. Four, rear guard."

    Tanson and Tyria nodded to accept their respective tasks.

    Shalla got Dia up to her feet and quickly rigged a sling for
her arm. Dia still looked groggy, but she managed to catch Face's
and gave him a look that said she was there, she was functional. 
There was no time for them to exchange anything else.

    Piggy tr^ec^to ^au' ^unt UPto kis ^eet' but t'le Thakwaash ??????????91
pilot shook off his hand and stood. He was a mess, much of his
upper body marked by flame-blackened fur, and his eyes were
wide, vibrating.

    Face knew how he felt. It wasn't just pain. Anger blossomed
within him like  the explosive cloud from a proton torpedo.

"Wraiths," he said, "no rules. No mercy. Take out anything that
gets between us and home."

    From the looks in their faces he knew they'd have accepted
no other order.











Lara hazarded another look over her shoulder. The nearest
path to escape was the edge of the roof, some thirty meters
back. But she was behind the last cover between this point and
the edge. If she and Elassar got up to run, they'd be cut down.

"I think we're done for," she said.

    Elassar shook his head. "No. Today's a lucky day. I 
calculated it before we started on this mission."

    "Ah. Did you remember to invite your luck? Or is it in
its bunk  on  Mon Remonda?" Lara popped  up to try another shot.

    A laser blast, brilliant red, flashed out of the distance. It
struck behind the equipment housing Lara had been firing 
atand hit one of the stormtroopers there, blasting him sideways,
leaving his charred and smoking body lying in plain sight on
the rooftop.

    Elassar gave her an infuriating grin.  "My luck is your
Boyfriend. Excuse me." He leaned out to the right of the housing 
protecting him.

    Lara and Elassar had enemies dead ahead, and Donos with
his sniper rifle across the street to their left. That meant that
stormtroopers close to the Wraiths could be protected from Lara
and Elassar, or from Donos, but not both. Lara saw stormtroopers 
scramble to get their cover between them and Donos's
more potent weapon... and as soon as they got around the
side of their cover, Elassar opened fire, taking down one, two
three of them before the remainder realized the full extent of
their predicament.

    Lara prepared to pop up for another exchange of shots.
The stormtroopers,  she knew, had  only a couple of options.
They could retreat until they could get cover between them and
both sets of Wraiths, or they could take out one of the 
directions of enemy fire... which probably meant charging her and
Elassar.

    They rose and charged, roaring as they came. Lara half
rose and opened fire.








The technician Drufeys, now in the command chair of the control 
room, watched events unfold on the rooftop. Of the eight
stormtroopers who'd risen to charge the two visible Wraiths,
four were now down, two felled by blaster pistols, two more
by the laser sniper. The other four were in fast retreat. "This
isn't going well," he said. "Call Argenhald Base and ask them to
scramble a couple of TIE fighters. Give them the approximate
position of the sniper."

    The  technician he had addressed, the communications
specialist, said, "We're still jamming."

    "Use a land line, stupid."

    "You don't have to call me stupid."

    "Yes, I actually do have to. Get to it." Drufeys settled back
into the chair. He liked the feel of it. Too bad this facility was
being shut down. But perhaps, if he displayed enough competence, 
he'd find some task with Warlord Zsinj.  He smiled. He liked that idea.











The Wraiths were within sight of the old turbolift doors, were
within thirty meters and could  see how the doors had been
laser-welded shut, when a side door slammed open and stormtroopers 
began pouring into the hall. Stormtroopers, an unarmred officer, 
a civilian woman.

    "Get back!" Face shouted. "We have to..."

    He was going to say "retreat." They had to get back and
away from  a numerically superior-and uninjured-enemy

    But then it happened. Face recognized the big man in the
Imperial captain's outfit.  Weeks before, disguised as General
Kargin of the Hawk-bats, Face had watched Shalla, in her own
disguise of Qatya Nassin, bruise the big man in a test of martial
arts skills.

    And now he saw recognition in the captain s eyes.

    The captain couldn't  have recognized him; Face had been
wearing burn-victim makeup designed to make stomachs turn.
He must instead have seen Qatya Nassin in Shalla, recognizing
her in spite of the makeup she'd worn at the time.

    Shalla charged the  big man and the dozen and more
Stormtroopers now crowding into the hall. Her intention was
all too obvious: kill the big captain so he couldn't report that a
member of Wraith Squadron was also with the Hawk-bats.

    She's going to get herself killed, Face thought.

    And us too.

    He finished his command. "Charge!"









Wes Janson lurched into motion, charging in Shalla's wake,
taking the left side of the hall where she ran along the right.

    He had no wisecracks to offer now. He could only offer
one of his other skills, one that might make him unfit for a
normal life when this war was finally done. The skill that made
him proficient at killing people.

    In full stride, he raised his blaster pistol and fired,
catching the lead stormtrooper in the chest. The man was thrown back
to the arms of one of his companions, his armor now blackened and penetrated.

   Janson didn't sight in - he aimed by instinct, by the natural
   jit of his weapon, and fired again. The second stormtrooper   ??????????93
took the shot in the dark visor material over his right eye.

    Shalla wasn't firing-why not? Janson traversed right and
shot at the lead stormtrooper on that side of the hall, catching
him in the gut. Behind him was the big captain, now raising his
own blaster. Janson fired again. His shot caught the man in the
elbow, spinning him back into the wall, causing him to drop
his weapon.

    Janson traversed leftward again, targeting a stormtrooper
with a blaster rifle, his shot catching the man in the throat.

    Five steps. Five shots. Five hits. But the hallway was a
natural channel for blaster bolts. Its straight lines would angle
stray shots back into play. He'd never reach them....

    He didn't. He felt fire again and suddenly the world was
spinning, slamming into his head....

    Dark.






Netbers saw the dark-skinned woman charge and for a moment
was so surprised by this tactical insanity that he couldn't react.
Then he shouted, "Fire!" and drew his own blaster pistol.

    The woman's gaze was fixed on him. He knew he was her
target. He knew why, too. And he couldn't get his blaster in
line before she had hers aimed, before  she pulled her trigger....

    And the charred blaster in her hand failed to go off. He al-
most laughed. He aimed.

    The stormtrooper in front of him was thrown back into
him, jarring his aim.  He shoved the  man, probably already
dead, aside.

    A stray blaster beam slammed into his right arm. It spun
him back and pain flashed through him.

    That was all right. He knew pain. Pain was his friend.

    When he looked up again, the dark woman was upon him,
lashing out with a side kick meant to shatter his knee, to bring
him to the floor. He twisted, took it as a graze against the side
of his knee.

    She was hurt. Burn marks all along her right side. Netbers
swung at her flank, a left-handed slap that hit bare,  burned
flesh. The blow knocked her to the  floor  and she lay there,
curled up, helpless.

    Conditioning is a big part of it,  Qatya, he thought. I

??????????????????????????? 95
   bed down and took a blaster pistol from the dead 
stormtrooper beside him. You might beat me once, but never 
twice- something loomed up before him and struck him across
??????????????????????????? 95
  * j_je crashed to the floor atop the body of a stormtrooper.
The blow was incredible. He saw stars and his hearing failed.
His body wouldn't respond.

   His attacker bent over him. it was a nonhuman, a big hairy
thing burned all over its upper body, with wide, staring eyes
and lips drawn back over square teeth. It grabbed him by the
collar and hauled him, all 130 kilograms of him, up into the air
as though he weighed nothing.

   Netbers lashed out at the alien, striking at one of its burned
patches, but the creature grabbed his wrist with its free hand.

   Then, as casually as though it were swinging a bag of grain,
it slammed him into the wall. He felt his shoulder blade break
under the impact, felt something grate in his neck as his head
battered into the metal of the wall.

    Where are my stormtroopers? But now there were black-
clad, burned commandos charging past him, running toward
the stairwell by which he and his men had descended. The 
commandos were firing blasters, shouting - Netbers could hear no
noise.

   The first wave of them passed and the burned alien swung
him toward the opposite wall. Netbers felt himself hit, felt his
right shoulder give way, felt something in his neck explode.

   Then he felt no more.











"Call it off!" Face shouted. He was at the base of the stairs.
Kell and Piggy were above, ahead of him, struggling across the
bodies of fallen stormtroopers. Living  stormtroopers were
ahead of them, running for their lives. "Let's get out of here!"

     "The woman." That was Piggy's mechanical voice, inflectionless 
in spite of the pain he must be feeling. "She is  one of
creators. We need her." He fired up the stairs and continued
awkward run over the bodies of slain enemies. A moment
later, he and Kell were out of sight, around a turn in the stairs,
and all Face could hear was more blaster fire. He grimaced and
moved up the stairs as fast as his tired legs and burned body
would let him.

    One landing up, the two Wraiths awaited him. Piggy had
the human civilian in his grip. Kell waited, his blaster aimed up
the stairs, for a counterattack.

    In spite of her situation, the woman seemed calm.  Face
said, "Eight, when the next wave of stormtroopers comes, use
her as a human shield. I'm curious to see how long it'll take
blasters to burn through her."

    "Yes, sir."

    "I'm too valuable for that," she said.

    "I doubt it," Face said. "But we'll see. If you want to live,
you'll tell  us a way out of here that doesn't involve more 
ambushes by your stormtroopers. If they do come at us, you'll be
our first bit of cover. Well?"

    "Access tunnels," she said. Her voice was cool.

    "Show me."

    She pointed down the stairs.









They gathered where the big captain had died. Janson was on
his feet, supported by Tyria, his right bicep wrapped in a thick
bandage already stained through with blood, his arm hanging
uselessly. There was blood spilling down his forehead, too, and
a matching patch on the wall at head height. His face was 
already graying with shock. Shalla, too, was up. Runt was 
swaying and breathing hard where he stood; flecks of white spittle
decorated the sides of his mouth. Seven stormtroopers and the
big captain lay dead in the hall.

    The female civilian, whom Piggy called Dr. Cast, led them
back toward the incinerator room. Fire from the chamber had
spread out into  the hall. The air was becoming smoky and
flames licked along the ceiling at the far end. But halfway there,
Cast turned a toward blank wall and said, "Cast access override 
one-one-one."

    The wall  section lifted like a high-speed doorway, 
revealing a small turbolift beyond. Cast gave Face a cool
smile- "Down one level is an underground landspeeder channel with
tilities shaft running parallel to it."

    Face boarded and  the others followed. "You know what
this means to you if this is a trick."

  She shook her head. "No trick. Zsinj will have me killed
for failure. So my survival means getting you to safety. Cast,
descend to sub-five."

    The turbolift descended for a few seconds. Then the door
 nened onto a dimly lit duracrete shelf. Beyond it was a drop-
off; a few meters beyond that, a wall.

   They exited cautiously, blasters raised  right and left. This
was a boarding platform for a railway of some sort, the drop-
off being a low roadway.

    "And may I say,"  she continued, "that I always enjoyed
your holodramas?"

    "You couldn't say anything that would nauseate me more."

    She smiled, her expression still calm. "Though I liked Tetran
Cowallmore."

    "That makes me feel better. He's a no-talent bag of bantha
droppings." Face gestured right and left. "Which way?"

As they moved, fast as their ill-treated bodies would let them,
they passed hatches allowing access into upper floors, tanks
where water was stored and processed, power-cabling terminals, 
and equipment housings that were less easily identified.

    Kell stopped beside a heavy metal beam running from the
duracrete ceiling above into the duracrete shelf below. He
tapped it with his forearm. His hand was still charred, 
twitching. "Hey," he said. "This is a main support beam, isn't it?"

    Cast nodded. "I think so. Why?"

    Face said, "Five, no. We can't bring down this whole
building. There may be other innocents, other test subjects up
there."

    Kell offered him  a smirk.  "Boss, I don't want to blow
everything up. Listen. We just passed a power station a few 
meters back."

    "So?"

    "So if we can adapt the power from that station to boost
the signal strength of Runt's comm unit, and patch the unit's
signal through this beam..."

    "Then we use the  whole building as  an antenna." Face
slapped his forehead and regretted it instantly as his palm 
encountered burned flesh. "Do it. Do it fast."







At a dead run, Hobbie charged up to where Wedge and Tycho
sat under their camouflage covers. "Signal from the Wraiths
Wedge. They need immediate air support."










Lara and Elassar had circled around, maintaining fire against
the now much more distant stormtroopers, reaching the point
on the wall where their fibra-rope rig would give them access
to Donos's roof, when they saw and heard the approaching
TIE fighters. "Just what we need," she said.

    She gauged the drop to the ground below. Not too far, she
might land unhurt, but there was no place within a hundred
meters to hide from a TIE. Likewise, the nearest roof hatch, its
locks and security restored to keep guards and workers from
noticing anything amiss, would take too long to open.

    The pair of TIE fighters roared in from the south, decelerating 
as they came within easy firing range of the rooftop. They
came to a complete halt, floating on repulsorlifts, when they
were two hundred meters away. One was aimed directly at
Lara and Elassar's position, the other at Donos.

    Lara set her blaster pistol down and raised her hands.
Elassar did the  same. Across the street, they could dimly see
Donos following suit.

    They could hear the remaining stormtroopers approach-
ing from behind-walking up at a casual pace, joking, their
voices relieved.

    Then one of the TIE fighters  dropped as though it were a
puppet with its strings suddenly cut. The other rose a few 
meters and aimed over Lara's head, off to the east...

 There was a flash of blue light and the TIE fighter exploded.

 The blast rained fiery bits of metal and transparisteel over
area. Lara felt a bite as a needle of glowing metal hit her
left arm, then heat as the advance wave of the explosion reached
her. She saw her Devaronian squadmate tumble to the ground,
Sling across his dropped blaster as he did so, and come up on
one knee already firing.

   Lara dropped and scrambled for her blaster. As she swung
it into line, she saw that one stormtrooper was already down,
the other three aiming. Her shot took one of them in the knee,
bringing him down flat on the roof, and her next shot hit the
top of his head. He twitched for a moment.
 
  She looked around. The other two stormtroopers  were
down. One had a  burn mark on his gut. The other had a crater
where his chest should be. And over on the roof across the
street, Donos had his laser rifle  in one hand and  was waving
with the other.

   Lara heard the other TIE fighter zooming around out in
the distance, but  it had to be keeping nearly at street level.
What had chased  it off, destroyed the other? She looked to the
east, but could see nothing in the darkness of the night sky.
"Good shot, Leader."





    "Thanks, Two," Wedge said. It had, in fact, been a 
proficient proton torpedo shot. He'd brought up his targeting 
computer,  gotten a targeting lock on one of the enemy TIEs, and
fired, all in less than two seconds. Then he led Rogue Squadron
on a dive down almost to rooftop level over Lurark, vectoring
so that they  weren't aimed directly at the Binring complex.
There  was another TIE fighter out there, keeping buildings 
between it and the Rogues to stay off their sensor screens, and it
didn't  pay to  be predictable.

    In less than a minute, they'd have more than one TIE to deal
with. He took another look at his sensor board. There, at its lim-
jts, he  could see a cloud of red targets tentatively identified
as TIEs coming in from the south. The local Imperial air base, 
seelng the launch of Wedge's X-wings, had dispatched at least a
squadron to deal with them. This was going to be complicated.

    "Leader, Seven." That was Ran Kether, the new pilot from
Chandrila, handling comm  duties. "Signal from the Wraiths.
They want us to blow up a specific location so they can get out
from a tunnel they're in. And to blow up the area bordered by
the comm markers they've put up. They say it's a festering nit-
  f   '\ <                                               *
of evil.
????????????????????????????? 100

    Wedge laughed. "They shouldn't let Wraith One on the
comm like that. His language is too florid. All right, break by
flights. One Flight, Three Flight, vector to the south and 
prepare to engage  the incoming eyeballs. Two Flight, blow some
stuff up for the Wraiths and get them safely out of there."

    He heard a groan, doubtless from Gavin Darklighter, who
was part of Two Flight-and reduced to "baby-sitting," as Gavin
had feared he would be.










"Shrike Four to Shrike Leader, I read two incoming targets,
class X-wing. They're staying pretty close to building-top level.
They're searching for a lock with sensors."

    Shrike Leader, commander of the squad of TIE fighters 
defending Lurark, nodded. These were tactics he'd seen before.
The incoming snubfighters had sent their squadmates on ahead,
flanking right and left. The unseen X-wings would be coming
back toward the center now, flying at street level to stay off the
sensors, timing things so that just at the  point the X-wings
came within firing range, his TIEs would come within sight.

    Shrike Leader knew better than to give them such an opportunity. 
"Reduce speed to two-thirds," he said. That would throw
off the enemy's timing. The unseen X-wings would cross before
them, having nothing to shoot at, and provide his TIEs with
abundant shooting practice. Either that, or they'd break formation 
now, popping up out of the trenches of Lurark's streets, and
the Shrikes could engage them immediately in dogfights.

    But no X-wings came bouncing up out of the streets, and
the two known targets came implacably  on. Shrike Leader
frowned at that. "Fire at will," he said.

    A second later, one of the X-wings jittered within the brackets 
of his targeting computer-and dove, even as Shrike Leader
fired. His  linked laser shot superheated  the air just above the
enemy starfighter and hit what looked like a residential building.

 His target was suddenly gone, down into the maze of streets
below, as was the other oncoming X-wing-and just as suddenly,
more X-wings popped up from other streets, also on oncoming 
headings, and opened fire.

  Shrike Leader banked hard, so sharply that his inertial
compensator couldn't quite make up for the maneuver-he was
thrown sideways into the netting of his pilot's couch.

    Then he felt something like a hammerblow as his left wing
was hit, penetrated...

    Abruptly the world outside his viewport was  spinning,
starry sky, nighttime city lights, over and over, and he could see
the laser-heated stump of his left wing falling mere meters away.

    He felt a sickness rise in his stomach,  but knew that his
discomfort would last only for another fifteen hundred meters.

    One thousand.

    Five hundred.








Wedge checked his sensor board and smiled thinly at what he
saw. The maneuver had been more successful than he'd hoped.
Scotian of One Wing and Qyrgg of Three Wing had skimmed
along at rooftop level, feeding their sensor data to the other
Rogues, who had lined up their opening shots based solely on
the transmitted data. As soon as Scotian and Qyrgg had 
detected targeting locks on them, they'd dived  to cover among
the streets, and the other six Rogues had jumped up and taken
their shots. Suddenly the enemy squadron of TIEs had been 
reduced by five-three destroyed, two badly damaged and winging 
away-and the odds were now in the Rogues' favor.

    The numerical odds, he told himself. The odds were already
in our favor. "Break by pairs," he said. "Engage and eliminate.
Keep your eyes open for additional incoming units." He arced to
port, Tycho tucked in tight behind him.









Lara accepted a hand from Donos and swung from the crawler to
his rooftop. Elassar stood on guard, his back to them. "Thanks,"
she said.

    "Welcome. Any word from the others?"

    She shook her head.

    A shrill whine rose behind them-and, like a landspeeder
an X-wing nosed around the building corner to their north
turning their way, riding on repulsorlifts. It climbed as it came
until it was at rooftop level. The cowling rose and Rogue pilo
Tal'dira nodded at them, his face serious as ever.

    "That'll be the lunch I ordered,"  Lara said, under her
breath. She heard Donos snort, saw him struggle to keep his
face straight.








    "Prepare to pick up your squadmates," Tal'dira shouted
"South face of the building complex. Don't get too near before
we bio wit."

    "Understood," Donos said. "Thanks."

    The Twi'lek grimaced, his expression speaking eloquently
of how he'd prefer to be halfway across the city where star
fighters were engaged in combat, rather than here chatting to
ground-pounding commandos. He lowered his X-wing's cowling  
and goosed the snubfighter forward.

Dia leaned in close to Face, so that only he could hear, anc
asked, "Who is Tetran Cowall?"

    "What?"

    "That Cast creature said she liked Tetran Cowall more
than you."

    "Oh." He laughed. "She can have him. He's an actor from
Coruscant. We're the same age. We competed for everything
Both wanted to be pilots. Tested for the same roles. Chased the
same girls. He had no perceivable acting skills."

    She managed a slight smile. "He was the one Ton Phanan
was going to leave his money to. If you didn't get the operation
to clear the scar from your face."

    Face nodded, rueful.

    "I haven't heard of him. Is he still making holodramas?"

    "No." Face smiled. "That was one competition I definitely
won. He was a good-looking kid, but as he grew up he got sort
of homely and couldn't find work. He  hasn't made a holo in
years."

    The tunnel rocked and a section of it, seventy meters and
???????????????????????????????????    SOLO  COMMAND  /   103
   re away, collapsed, sending dust and large chunks of du-
   rete rolling down the tunnel toward the Wraiths.

   "I think," Face said, "that our ride has arrived."









The  Wraiths rode  out of Lurark in the back of Donos's new
stolen flatbed speeder, lurking beneath blankets that smelled of
feathers and avian manure. They lay as comfortably as they
could--not comfortably at all for most of them, given the 
placement and severity  of their burns. The city around them was
alive with noises-distant explosions, occasional siren wails.

    Lara, handling the comm unit while Elassar bandaged Runt,
relayed information back. "Rogue Six and Rogue Five are 
riding guard over us, staying below sensor level. The commander
and the rest of the Rogues are strafing the military base now.
They're going to lead off pursuit from the next base out. That
means we'll probably be able to climb out of the atmosphere at
a fairly easy pace."

    "Good," Face said. "Is everybody fit to fly?" He shined a
glow rod from face to face to get responses.

    Dia nodded. Her broken  arm was now in a cast made of
fast-hardening paste from Elassar's backpack.

    Piggy said, "Ready to go home."

    Shalla and Kell gave him tired nods.

    "Fit to fly," Tyria affirmed. She wasn't kidding; when Face
had gotten a good  look at her, he found that the only damage
she'd suffered was  burns that hadn't quite penetrated her boot
soles and some charring to the butt of her blaster rifle. When he
asked how she'd gotten away unmarked, she'd merely shrugged.

    Janson said, "Just try to stop me." He hadn't cracked a
smile since the incinerator, and Face could finally see, in his
gnm expression and the anger deep in his eyes, the man Janson
had to be  when flying against an enemy.

    Runt was slow to answer. Then he said, "We can fly. But
we are groggy from what Eleven has given us."

    "Just tuck in behind me," Kell said. "I'll get you there."

    ^We are your wing."

    "All right, then," Face said. He didn't really believe they
could all fly, but their experience and determination made it
possible, and he didn't have much in the way of options. "We
have one other problem. Cargo." He shined his light into the
face of their prisoner, Dr. Edda Cast. She lay on her side, he
arms bound behind her, expression perfectly serene.

    "Put her in with me," Shalla said. "Beside me in my TIE
She's not big, I'm not big. We'll dump everything out of my
cargo area to lighten up."

    "And if she gets feisty?" Face waved his glow rod at Shalla's
right side, which was decorated with bandages.

    Shalla's face set. "Then I'll kill her."

    "You have nothing to fear from me,"  Gast said. "The
worst I plan to do to any of you is negotiate with you."

    "Negotiate?" Face said.

    "For what I know."

    "I think I'll let Nine kill you now."

    Gast shook her head, not apparently offended by his 
suggestion. "No, you won't. The Rebels-excuse me, the New
Republic-doesn't do things that way. That's what I've always
liked about you. And you do want to know where Voort 
saBinring came from. Why he exists at all. Don't you, Voort?"  She
twisted to look at the Gamorrean.

    Piggy merely stared back at her, his expression unreadable.

    "So start talking," Face said.

    "No. You, personally, can't give me what I want. Elimination 
of any charges the New Republic might see fit to press
against me. Enough money to start my life over again. Protection 
from Zsinj. I don't think I'm asking too much..."

    "Gag her," Face said. He lay back against the side of the
speeder's bed and tried to quell his stomach, which threatened
to rise against him.








                          7









They returned to Mon Remonda's X-wing bays, twenty-three
starfighters. Some of them now showed new battle damage.
Others were flown as though their pilots were drunk or worse.
Medical crews were on station in the bays to help ease pilots
out of cockpits and carry them on repulsorlift stretchers to the
medical ward.

    Two hours later, against his doctor's orders, with his back
heavily swathed  in bacta bandages underneath a white hospital
shirt, Face returned to his quarters.

    Solo quarters. A captain, even a brevet captain, warranted
decent-sized accommodations all to himself. Face felt a tinge of
the old guilt, the  old feeling that he didn't deserve any such
special consideration, given the good he'd done the Empire back
when he was making holodramas... but he suppressed that
feeling, burying  it under a surge of anger. Ton Phanan had
shown him that he  needed to leave such  thoughts behind. If
only knowing what he needed to do were the same as doing it.

A scritch-scritch-scritch noise reminded him of duties he
needed to perform. He took a pasteboard box from a drawer
  id moved to the table where the cages rested.
??????????????????????????/105

    Two cages,  each about knee height, each contained a
translucent arthropod that stood and walked  on two legs. The
creatures were about finger height, with well-defined mandibles
and compound eyes. Storini Glass Prowlers, they were called
from the Imperial world of Storinal. Ton Phanan and Grinder
Thri'ag had each secretly come away from the Wraiths's 
Storinal mission with one of the creatures. Face had found Grinder's
when it had been placed  in his cockpit as  a prank, and had
given it to Phanan. Then Phanan, too, had died, and Face had
inherited them. But both  creatures were male, more likely to
kill one another than coexist peaceably, and Face kept them in
side-by-side cages.

    He used a spoon to extract some of their food from the
box. It was unappetizing-looking stuff, looking like little glass
beads with green flecks at their centers. But when he poured
a spoonful into  each cage's  feeder box, the Glass  Prowlers
fell upon the food as though it  were the most wonderful ol
treats; the Prowlers's arms snapped out to  scoop up each 
individual bead and their mandibles chewed away at the 
transparent coating and green flecks within. Face smiled at their
voracity.

    There was a knock at his door. "Come," he said.

    It slid open and Wedge stepped in. "Am I intruding?"

    "No.  Just feeding my roommates. Have a seat." Face
flicked a tunic from one of the room's chairs. He settled in the
other, forgetting  for a moment, flinching as his back came in
contact with the chair.

    Wedge said,  "I just came in to see how you were doing.
Well, more precisely, to see how you felt about today's mission."

    "I figured you would. So I've been thinking about it."

    "And?"

    "And I feel pretty good about it."

    That got him a raised eyebrow from his commander.  "Can
you explain that?"

    "Well, I don't feel good about the casualty total, 
obviously. Sithspit. Janson and Runt in bacta  tanks, everyone 
else bandaged and drugged up to the eyebrows ... I have only four
pilots fit to fly."

    "So what makes you feel good about the mission?"

    Face took a deep breath. "We had an objective. Get 
information. We succeeded, even if that information is going to be
a difficult to drag out of Doctor Cast. We got out of there with
everyone more or less alive.

    "Even more, it's obvious that they d geared that whole fa-
?????????????????????????????107
 Ttv to kill us, which is something we hadn't anticipated. We
 1 te channeled to the place they intended to kill us, and they
????????
Lew everything they had at us-and we took it and got out
     ay. That's a tremendous thing.  When my pilots realize
????????????????
that  it's going to be harder than ever  to stop them. To 
intimidate them.

    "And then, again, there s the tact that the enemy went to
such lengths to wipe out the Wraiths. They spent a tremendous
amount of money and effort. They may want us dead, but
they're showing us respect-which is something I need to point
out to the other Wraiths."  He shrugged, then winced again at
the incautious move. "We all feel as though we've had the
stuffing kicked out of us, then been fried up for  someone else's
meal - but we won this one, Commander."

    Wedge nodded and rose.  "I guess I don't have too much to
tell you."

    Face  stood as well. "You came here to talk me out of a 
depressive state." He mimed  drawing a  blaster and placing it to
his temple. "Good-bye, galaxy of cruelty. My pilots are all
burned; I must kill myself out of shame."

    "Something like that.  But you're  obviously too smart for
that."

    Face  shook his head.  "Too experienced. A year ago, I'd
have felt like bantha slobber  after something like this. Maybe
even a month ago. Now, I just feel pride for my pilots ... and a
realization that I'm  going to  be sleeping on my stomach for a
while. By the way, I'm putting in a commendation for Kell for
his initiative, and one for Lieutenant Janson for bravery."

    "Like he needs another one."

    "Maybe he can build a little fort out of them."

    Wedge smiled and departed.

    There was another knock at his door.

    "Come."

    Dia almost flew through the door. She wrapped her arms
around his neck, high so as to avoid his bandages, and drew his
face to hers for a kiss.

    A long one. He held her to him, the two of them able, at
long last, to be clear of the military traditions that made
it'in appropriate for them to embrace before the other pilots, to be
able simply to appreciate that they were both still alive.

    When she finally released him, it took him a moment to
remember what he'd been up to recently. "I sure am glad you two
arrived in the right order."

    She looked confused. "What do you  mean?"

    "I'd have hated to have offered you the chair and given the
commander the kiss."

    She gave him a smile, the one she'd never displayed before
the two of them became a couple, the smile that was only for
him. "Let's see what we can do so you'll always remember to
keep the order straight."










Donos settled onto the stool next to Lara's and looked across
the bar. "Fruit fizz, double, no ice," he said.

    Lara looked curiously at him. "You know there's no one
tending bar."

    "Sure, but some of the old formalities have to be 
maintained." Donos looked around. The two of them were the only
people in the pilots' lounge-not unusual, considering the 
lateness of the hour, and the way no one much felt like celebrating.
"I was wondering if you'd thought about what I asked you to."

    "You, you mean."

    "Well, us, really."

    "Sure, I had plenty of time, when I wasn't planting comm
markers, shooting at stormtroopers, and tending the injured."

    "That's what I thought."

    She gave him an exasperated look. "Lieutenant, will you
give me an absolutely honest answer?"

    "Call me Myn. Sure."

    "What do you want from me?"

    He took a deep breath, stalling as he composed his answer,
"I want to get to know you better. What I do know, what I've
seen, suggests that we'd be good together. I want you to stop
saying it can't ever be-stop throwing that up as a theory and

??????????????????????????????109
    s accumulate some evidence. I want to make you smile
   h something other than a wisecrack. I want to know who
are you.

 Her laugh, sudden and hard, startled him. "Oh, no, you
 ,  5 <
  n "Try me. Lara, does anyone know who you really are?"
???????????????????????????????109

    That put a stop to her hard-edged amusement. She had to
take a moment to consider. "No."

    "Even your self?"

    "Least of all me."

    "So how do you know no one can love you for what you
are? Until you know, you can't have friends,  you can't even
really have family-you have to be absolutely alone in the 
universe." He took a moment to settle his thoughts. "Lara, I just
want you to give me a chance. But even more, even if it's not
with me, I'd really like to see you give yourself chance."

    She looked away from him, studying the gleaming brown
surface of the bar top. Real wood, protected by so many coats
of clear sealant that it shone like glass. He could see thoughts
maneuvering behind her eyes, could see her examining them as
if measuring and weighing trade goods. But  her expression
wasn't clinical; it was sad.

    Finally, her voice quiet, she said, "All right."

    "All right, meaning exactly what?"

    "All right, I'll stop avoiding you. All  right, let's get  to
know one another."

    "All right, let's find out if we have some chance of a future
together?"

    She looked back up at him. "I'm  pretty sure I'm going to
break your heart."

    "Well, that's a step in the right direction.  Can I  break
yours, too?"

    She didn't smile. "Maybe you already have."










Normally, taking news to the warlord didn't cause General
Melvar's stomach to host some sort of internal dogfight. But
sometimes the news was bad. Such as when he'd had to tell
Zsinj how much they'd lost in the Razor's Kiss battle with 
General Solo's fleet.

    Such as now.

    Approaching the door to the warlord's office, he nodded
at the two guards on duty, two handpicked fighting men from
Coruscant, and activated one of the many comlinks he carried
on his person. This one signaled a very special set of hydraulics
he'd had installed in the doors to most of Zsinj's private 
quarters and retreats. They opened the door at  a fraction of the
speed and with almost none of the noise of most door mechanisms. 
Silently, he stepped inside, waited for the door to slide
shut behind him, then stood before his warlord.

    Zsinj looked up. He hardly ever jumped anymore. So 
disappointing. "What is it?" he asked.

    "Word from Saffalore." He set a datapad before the 
warlord. "Here's the full report."

    "From Dr. Cast?"

    "Not quite."

    Warned by something in Melvar's tone, Zsinj sat back and
laced  his hands together over his prominent stomach. "Give
me the short version."

    "There was a raid on Binring Biomedical about thirteen
hours ago. As far as we can determine, it was by the Wraiths."

    "Were they killed?"

    "No."

    "Were any of them killed?"

    "We don't think so. Survivors on the site think  some of
them were injured."

    Zsinj's  jaw clenched,  then he forced himself to relax.
"Goon."

    "They killed Captain Netbers."

    Zsinj sighed. "That's a blow. Netbers was loyal and 
proficient.  Is that it?"

    Melvar shook his head. "They had Rogue Squadron with
them, apparently flying support. Early reports indicate  that
Wedge Antilles was back flying with the Rogues, as our man on
Mon Remonda suspected, so he was never in any real danger at
the Binring site. They blew up the research center and 
apparently strafed one of the nearby air bases for fun."

    "And what does Doctor Cast have to say for herself?"

    "They took her."

    Zsini went absolutely still. Melvar waited, watching, but
 he man did not blink for long moments, and Melvar knew this
???????????????????????????????????111

Zsinj rose, slamming his chair into the wall behind him.

"They took her alive?"

    "Apparently. One of  three stormtroopers who survived
the bombing witnessed the Gamorrean pilot capturing her. Her
body hasn't been found."

    Zsinj made an inarticulate noise of anger. He twisted and
seized one of the chamber's decorations, a flagpole bearing a
banner in the Raptors' colors, red and black and yellow, and
slammed its base onto the top of the desk, obliterating the 
datapad. "They took her? She knows all about Chubar!  She knows
all too much about Minefield!"

    Melvar heard the door behind him hiss open. He heard it
hiss shut almost instantly. The guards outside must  be peeking
in, and, seeing that the warlord was in no danger - only the
general was - they'd returned to their posts.

    Zsinj swung the flagpole laterally, narrowly missing 
Melvar, and slammed its base  into a trophy case full of 
memorabilia from his many military campaigns. The case bounced off
the wall and toppled forward, crashing onto the floor beside
Zsinj's desk.

    Zsinj glared at the fallen case as though it were a new
enemy. He threw the flagpole aside and, from a hidden pocket
at his waist, drew a small but very powerful blaster pistol. He
fired at the back of the trophy case once, twice, three times,
blasting a crater into the expensive wood with each  shot.

    The room filled with  smoke from the blaster emissions.
The door slid open behind Melvar and then shut again.

    Zsinj stood, shaking, glaring at the damage  he'd done,
then tucked the blaster away and sat heavily back in his chair.
Melvar let out the breath he'd been holding.

       well, we can't have this," Zsinj said. His voice was raw
???????????????????????111
   1 sweat beaded his forehead. Sweat was also beginning to
       s white grand admiral's uniform at his armpits and
  -st.   Activate our man on Mon Remonda. Tell  him to kill
????????????????????????????112
Doctor Cast if he sees her. Whether or not she's there, tell him
to kill his primary targets. We'll need to sacrifice some units a<
????????????????????????????112
bait for Solo's fleet if we're to mop up the rest of them. And put
Project Funeral on full speed ahead." He held up a hand as if took
curtail an argument, though Melvar did not feel like offering
one. "I know, it's a little premature, but all these Ranats biting
at my heels  are going to ruin  my entire plan if we don't do
something about it now."

    "Understood, sir." Melvar  saluted. "Do you want your
office restored, or will you be wanting to redecorate?"

    Zsinj looked at him, puzzled, then glanced around at the
damage he'd wrought. He managed a bark of laughter. "Full 
redecorate. Thank you, General. Dismissed."














On faraway Coruscant, in one of the tallest of the planet's 
towers at the heart of the old Imperial governmental district
 - a district as large, geographically, as mighty nations on other
planets - Mon Mothma rose from the chair before her makeup
table.

    Not that the Chief Councilor of the New Republic's Inner
Council was overly fond of makeup. She made no effort to hide
the gray creeping inexorably through her brown hair. She went
to no particular lengths to  hide her age-she'd earned every
one of those years and would not insult others of her 
generation by suggesting that there was some shame in the 
accumulation of time.

    Still, she needed a little matte to make sure that her face
was not too shiny when the holocams caught her under bright
lights, and these days she was a little too pallid to suit
herself - a bit of color, even artificial  color, suggested that she
possessed more vigor and health than she actually felt.

    She gave herself one last look in the mirror, adjusted the
hem of her white gown, and marched with simulated energy to
the door of her quarters.

    They opened to admit her into the  hall, and there waiting,
as she knew they would be, were two members of her retinue

    The  smaller was Malan Tugrina,  a man of Alderaan
?????????????????113
      ho'd lost his world long before Alderaan was destroyed,
    *d attached himself to Mon Mothma's retinue in the earlier 
days of her work with the Rebellion. He was of average
    t with features that would have been vaguely homely if
     vered by a natty black beard and mustache, and the only
"iVne striking about him were his eyes, which suggested intelli-
C nee and deep-buried loss. There was little striking about his
\ilities, too, except for his unwavering loyalty to Mon Mothma
  d the' New Republic, and his skill at memory retention -
?????????????????113

everything said to him,  everything that passed before his eyes,
was burned into his memory as though he had a computer between 
his ears. He handled many of her secretarial duties with
both the efficiency and the pedantic manner of a  3PO unit.

"Good morning," he said. "In half an hour, you have..."

    "Wait," she said. "I haven't had any caf this morning. Can
you expect me to face the horrors of my schedule when I'm not
fully awake?" She swept toward the nearest turbolift. "Good
morning, Tolokai."

    The other individual said, "Good morning, Councilor,"
in his usual monotone. He was a Gotal, a humanoid whose
roundish face was adorned with a heavy beard, a broad, 
flattened nose, and, most dramatically, two conelike horns rising
from his head. The horns, Mon Mothma well knew, were 
sensory apparatus that made Gotals some of the most capable
hunters and reconnaissance experts in the galaxy - not to 
mention bodyguards. With  Tolokai beside her, she  knew she'd 
always have warning of  an  impending attack, no matter how
well prepared. It gave her an edge she needed in these 
dangerous times.

    Mon Mothma summoned the turbolift as her companions
stepped into place behind her.

    Tolokai said, "If I may, Councilor, there was something I
wished to show you."

    "It's nothing 1 have to remember for too long, is it?"
?????????????????????????????113

     "No, not too  long. I  do this in the name of  all  Gotals
     jvhere." From beneath his tunic, he brought out a long,
Curved vibroblade and drew it back.
     he world seemed to shift into a sort of slow motion, like
???????????????????????????????114

a holocomedy slowed so everyone could see each twitch, each
gesture. The vibroblade darted forward. There was a roar
noise, a voice, from beside Tolokai. Then Malan, arm 
outstretched, moving in a bizarre sort of flight, drifted into the
path of the weapon. The blade point touched his chest and
drove slowly in; then  Malan's momentum carried Tolokai's
arm out of line, bearing the Gotal into the wall.

    Malan, the vibroblade  buried to its hilt in his chest,  his
face turning ashen, wrapped his arms around Tolokai's 'and
turned to Mon Mothma. He spoke slow words she couldn't
grasp. Tolokai yanked in slow-motion frenzy at the weapon
he'd driven into his friend's chest.

    Mon Mothma turned and found herself able to move at a
normal rate. Her hearing returned to normal. Malan screamed
"Run, run!" Tolokai's words made less sense: "Stay, and  
accept the death you know you deserve!"

    She reached the door to the nearest  stairwell. She heard a
thump and a  gasp from behind; she hazarded a look and saw
Malan sliding across the floor, Tolokai advancing menacingly
toward her. She ran down the stairs as fast as she could.

    Not fast  enough. As she reached the first landing she felt
something yank the back of  her hair, and suddenly she was 
flying down the  next flight of stairs...

    Flying halfway down.  She  hit the  stairs, pain cracking
through her rib cage and chest, and rolled to a stop at the 
bottom of that flight.

    Her wind gone, her energy gone, she could only stare up
the steps to where Tolokai stood. His expression was as
reasonable, as emotionless as ever - as it was with every Gotal.
She tried to ask him why, but could only mouth the word; she
had no breath with which to expel it.

    But he understood. A Gotal would. "For my people," he
said. "To rid  the universe of the scourge you call humankind.
I'm sorry." He descended the steps with meticulous care.

    When he was halfway  down,  Malan, his tunic drenched
with blood, came toppling over the rail  from the first flight oi
steps and fell full upon Tolokai. Then the two males were falling
and rolling, to the accompanying sound of cracking bones.

    Mon Mothma tried to get clear, succeeded in rolling part-
?????????????????????????????????114
          nd the two men landed across her legs, pinning her
way aside, ai
,n place. ^^  ^ ^.^ ^eir e^es  cjosecj Total's head was
    at an angle that was not survivable.  Malan  had frothy
    d on his lips. Mon Mothma looked at them, trying to grasp
 hat had gone so wrong in Tolokai's mind . . . trying to under-
*and how Malan had managed to surprise him with his at-
   k It shouldn't have been possible.
?????????????????????????????????114

    Then Malan's eyes opened. "Iwo," he said. "Iwo, Iwo ..."
His words were mere whispers, barely audible.
    Mon Mothma leaned closer to hear him.
    "Iwo I won't be getting you that caf." His eyes closed and
his head fell back. But his chest still rose and fell, though
there was a rattle in  his breathing.

    And once again, Mon Mothma had work to do. She brought
out her personal comlink and thumbed it on. "Emergency,"
she said. "Councilors' Floors, Stairwell One. Emergency."

    Liquid rolled down her face. She wiped at it with her free
hand and looked at it, expecting to see more of Malan's blood,
but her own tears glistened in her palm.









Galey was a massive man, all chest and muscle, with legs that
were short enough  to keep  his height in the average range,
though no one dared tell him he wasn't proportioned like a 
holodrama idol. His hair was red and shaggy and his expression
perpetually quizzical, as though he didn't ever quite understand
what was going on around him.

    Which wasn't the case. He understood his job well enough -
programming menus for the  cafeteria and officers' dinners on
the Mon Remonda> making sure there was hot, fresh caf available

?????????????????????????????????115

     the conferences and meetings and briefings, making spe-
   ^rangements for dinners for important visitors.
     his was an important job. He knew it to be at least as sig-
     it as any piloting position. A military force ran on its
stomach, after all.
?????????????????????????????????114

    But the job didn't pay well, and offered little respect, and
so he was very attentive on his last leave on Coruscant
the men with intelligent eyes came to him and offered him a 1 **
?????????????????????????????????116
of money.


    And now he was supposed to kill somebody. Sornebod
important. It would take precise timing and careful arrangement. 
It would take skill and knowledge.

    So it pleased him that he had  figured out just what the
various requests for refreshments actually meant. They were
like a code, and he had cracked it.

    A request for one large pot of caf and a tray of sweet 
pastries for the captain's  conference room, for instance. That
meant  an unscheduled  but routine  staff meeting led by Han
Solo, not by Captain Onoma. Onoma's meetings were always
smaller and didn't call for quite so much caf.

    The pilot briefings  also called for caf, but if a request 
included both sweet pastries and meat rolls, it meant there would
be a mission. So when the request  came in this morning, he
knew he had his opportunity to earn all that money.

    He delivered the cart of refreshments to the pilots' main
briefing amphitheater and then loitered  out in the hall with a
datapad and a second cart of caf, offering cups to anyone who
asked for them. Soon enough, the pilots of Mon Remondcfs
four starfighter squadrons began filing in.

    He waved at the huge Rogue, the one almost too tall to fit
in his cockpit with the canopy down-Tal'dira, the Twi'lek.

"Lieutenant, can I have a moment?"

    Tal'dira frowned at this odd request. He glanced at the
other Rogues, as though to gauge whether they, too, found it
out of keeping, but they swept past him into the briefing cham-
ber. "Well,"  he said, "only a moment. The briefing is about to
start. You're Kaley, aren't you?"

     "Galey.  And I have an important message for you. From
someone who's finally  realized  she'd like to meet you."
beckoned Tal'dira and walked around the nearest corner.^

    The pilot followed, an intent expression on his face. "You
don't mean..."

     "Here's what she has to say. 'Wedge Antilles hops on 01
transparisteel leg.'"
?????????????????????????????????116

    Tal'dira rocked back on his heels, his expression shock*
?????????????????????????????????117
       ed on his feet and reached out to steady himself against

             He really does."
?????????????????????????????????116

    The Twi'lek gripped his head as though to restrain some
explosive force within it. "I hate that."
  P <Me, too. We all do'
?????????????????????????????????117

    Tal'dira stood upright again, with a new look in his eyes.
"But I can put a stop to it."

    "And you should. But wait until after the meeting. Then
vou can do it in an X-wing."

    "You're right." The pilot slapped Galey on his shoulder,
propelling him into the wall. "You're a good friend."

    "As are you." Galey thought about giving Tal'dira a return
blow, then decided against it. "May the Force be with you."

    Tal'dira nodded briskly and turned back toward the briefing 
amphitheater.

    Galey breathed out a sigh of relief and rubbed his shoulder
where it still stung. He hoped the other  Twi'lek wouldn't be
quite so violent.












"For the last few hours,"  Wedge said,  "we've been in hyperspace 
enroute to the Jussafet system."

    A hologram starfield popped up to the left of the lectern
where Wedge stood. It showed a cluster  of stars near a fuzzy
diamond-shaped nebula. One star blinked yellow in a  decidedly 
mechanical fashion. Donos nodded; he  remembered Jussafet from 
discussions of strategic moves into Warlord Zsinj's territory.

?????????????????????????????????117
    Wedge continued, "Jussafet is in the nebulous border terri-
     between Imperial and Zsinj -controlled space. Jussafet
Four is^a habitable planet with some mining businesses, but the
   em's real wealth is in asteroid mining; they have an asteroid
       t is the remains of a large iron-core planet that broke up.
     Earlier today, Jussafet Four sent out a distress call to the
        alking about a full-scale invasion by Raptors, Zsinj's
      tops. A Duros ship approaching the system to do some
 3 th ~xy  table tradinS heard the transmission and relayed it
       lew Republic. We're going in to stomp on the Raptors,
?????????????????????????????????118
and hopefully Iron Fist, as well as to do some good for the
people of Jussafet."

    Donos raised a hand. "What are the odds that Imperial
forces will also come in to stage a rescue? It'd be nasty to 
fight-
-
 I'M                                         o**t el
three-way.
?????????????????????????????????118

    Wedge nodded. "It would. Odds are low-the Empire's having 
enough trouble with us and Zsinj that it is likely to mount a
more meticulous response, determining enemy strength, assembling 
a precise task force, that sort of thing. But it's possible
We'll be taking some steps to keep them from knowing our full
force strength, too. Mon Remonda is going into  the system
with a couple of the fleet's frigates, but Mon Karren and the
Allegiance will be waiting outside the system, ready to jump in if
needed."

    Corran Horn's hand was up next. "And what are the odds
that this is another Zsinj trap?"

    "Again, possible but not likely. The Duros monitoring of
the battle in the asteroid  belt and on Jussafet suggests that
we're looking at a large force of Raptors, fully engaged, not
just the whispers and rumors we're used to.

    "We'll launch as soon as we drop into the system. Polearm's 
A-wings will take point and make the initial flyover on
Jussafet Four. Rogue Squadron and Nova's B-wings will head
into the asteroid belt to begin purging it of Zsinj  forces. We
have four flyers of Wraith Squadron active,  and they'll escort
shuttles of New Republic ground forces in to Jussafet Four."

    Face Loran, leaning forward so as to keep his injured back
from making contact with the chair, spoke up.  His voice emerged
as an uncanny impersonation of Tal'dira's. "This time, the
Wraiths can do the baby-sitting. Now, and forever."
    The  pilots laughed. All,  Donos noted, except Tal'dira,
who kept his attention on the desktop before  him and didn't
react. Corran Horn gave Tal'dira a curious glance.
    "That's it," Wedge said. "Your astromechs and nav com-
puters  have your navigational data. Good luck."
    As they filed out of the amphitheater, Face  and Dia caught
up with Donos. "I wish I were flying with you," Face said.
    "I'm glad you're not," Donos said. At Face's startled ex-
      n he relented, smiling. "I so seldom get to be in charge
????????????????????????????? 119
paiSn 'thing, the change is welcome. You just get injured any-
rifne/Thanks,w Face said. He stopped in the hall beside the caf
????????????????????????????? 119
cart and picked up a cup. "Thanks, Galey."

    "No problem, sir."

    As they continued down toward the starfighter hangars,
Donos heard Galey say, "Excuse me, Flight Officer Tualin! A
moment of your time?"














It was hard for Tal'dira to run down his preflight checklist. His
thoughts were far away. How could Wedge Antilles, hero of
the Rebellion, of the New Republic, fall so far as to hop on one
transparisteel leg? Nothing short of the Emperor's magic could
have wrought such a change in him. Rage grew within Tal'dira
and he struggled, as only a true warrior could, to keep it in
check.

    "Rogues, announce readiness by number."

    When his time came, Tal'dira said,  "Rogue Five, four lit,
three at full capacity, one  at ninety-nine  percent."  His 
starboard lower engine was still not optimal.  He'd have to insist
that it be brought up to a reasonable level of performance.

    After he killed Wedge Antilles, of course.










A hangar Klaxon warned the pilots that they were dropping
out of hyperspace. The twisting, whirling morass of color 
outside the magnetic shield between the  hangar and  vacuum
abruptly snapped into a simpler image: a starfield. One small
planet hung, bright and round, near the upper right corner of
the magcon field.

    One by one, the Rogues shot through the field and formed
     kilometer from Mon Remonda. Tal'dira, leader of Two
f  H* uettled  in beside his winSman, Gavin  Darklighter. He
      heart race as the moment crept toward  him.
       : bit of comm traffic caught his ear, a transmission from
    low Twi'lek:  "Polearm Two to Polearm Leader. I have a
????????????????????????????? 120

critical failure of my sublight engine. I'm down to fifty-four
percent. Forty. Twenty-eight..."

    "Two, this is Leader. Drop out of formation and head o
in. Maybe next time ..."

    On Tal'dira's sensor screen, eleven members of Polearm
Squadron leaped forward, drawing away from Mon Remonda
approaching distant Jussafet Four.

    Tal'dira's astromech transmitted the unit's course to his
navigation system and he absently reviewed numbers he would
never use.

    "Rogue Leader to group. On my count, ten, nine, eight.
"Wraith Four, you are out of position."

    Tyria looked up, startled. She was out of position. She
should be maintaining her distance from Mon Remonda and
letting her fellow Wraiths - Donos, Lara, and Elassar - plus
four shuttles, form up on her.

    Then why had she heeled over and goosed her thrusters,
heading toward the bow of Mon Remonda? Her hands had
acted without her brain being engaged.

    Ahead, she could see one lonely A-wing making a tortur-
ous, slow turn back toward Mon Remonda an obvious case of
engine failure.

    Obvious ... but false. Adrenaline jolted through her as she
saw through the A-wing's moves, through the cockpit, through
the skin and blood of its pilot to the mind beneath. "Mon 
Remonda" she shouted, "bring your shields up. Polearm-Two
is firing on you!"

    Han Solo didn't hesitate. "All shields up full!"

    The A-wing fired. The transparisteel viewport giving hit
and the bridge crew an unparalleled view of space darkened ai
it tried to cope with the A-wing's  linked laser blasts. Then
shattered.

    To  Solo's eye, the shards of viewport floated into
bridge, then immediately reversed direction and fled to space.
vanguard for the atmosphere of the bridge.







   Tal'dira reached up to flip the switch setting his S-foils to
combat formation. They parted and his targeting computer
came online.

   "Three."

   Tal'dira heeled over so his weapons aimed straight at the
    end of Wedge's X-wing. He began to swing his targeting
brackets over toward the starfighter.

   "Two..."

   "Leader, break off!" Horn's voice.

   Tal'dira, jolted by the interruption, fired  before his shot
was completely lined up. Wedge, impossibly, was already 
reacting to Horn's warning, breaking to starboard. But Tal'dira
was rewarded by the sight of his lasers, cycling two by two,
chewing through  the port rear  of Wedge's X-wing, blowing
one fuzial thrust engine completely off, punching deep into the
rear fuselage.

   The comm  system was suddenly loud with many voices,
most of them distressed. Wedge's snubfighter continued
banking to starboard and lost relative altitude, and Tycho was 
keeping pace with him as only the most  experienced of wingmen
could.

   Tal'dira smiled. This would  be a challenge. Good.









A blast of air shoved Solo from behind - shoved him nearly out
of his commander's chair and toward the hole in the forward
viewport. He hung on to the chair but moved toward the hole

????????????????????????????? 121
   way- the armature from which the chair was suspended
 vung inevitably in that direction. He could see, a few meters
 >ver, Captain Onoma in a similar predicament, being guided
 Y his chair as though it were a mechanical throwing device
toward the fatal exit from the bridge.
    M alarm Klaxon sounded, loud even over the shrill whis-
      " escaping the bridge. Solo saw the main door out of the
    m      g' an autom*tic safety measure.
spher
    m       '                          .
           C'øSed' he'd be dead' The last of the
                                                   tmo"
            be out there in deep space, and he'd experience
????????????????????????????? 122
the joys of explosive decompression. So would every other crewman 
on the bridge.

    He got one foot down to arrest the swing of his chair 
armature. Fortunately, artificial gravity was still working and 
stopped his forward motion.

    Then he drew his blaster and aimed for the control panel
beside the main door. He fired, was rewarded with seeing the
panel buckle inward under the blast.

    The door stopped.

    Now the bridge crew had a chance to make it to the door
But air was being vented from one of the ship's main corridors
They had to get through the door past that wind blast...

    And the A-wing was still out there.











"And you're in a position to speak for the New Republic," Dr.
Cast said.

    Nawara Ven, Twi'lek executive officer for Rogue Squadron,
nodded. "I have been so authorized by the Inner Council. And
as soon as we can come to some arrangement, you can be free
of all this." His gesture took in the tiny, plain stateroom that
served as Cast's  cell. Ven sat on the room's only chair, while
Cast stretched out on the bed, leaning back against the wall.

    "Well, you know what I want. A million credits, free of
tax. Amnesty for all crimes, known and unknown, that I am 
alleged to have committed. And a new identity."

    "No," Ven said. "We can offer amnesty for all crimes you
offer all details on. If you hold something back, it remains live.
And we can offer one hundred thousand  credits. Enough for
you to make a good start for yourself. But you're not going to
be wealthy at  the expense of the New Republic. Every credit
we give you could mean the life of one of our people."

    "Every detail I give you could mean the life of ten of you
people,"  she said. "I'll buy into the full confession thing. It
one million credits stands." Distantly, an alarm Klaxon began
to sound. "What's this? More warfare against Zsinj? I wont
who's going to die today?"
????????????????????????????? 122

    Ven struggled to keep his  voice under control. "We
     don't employ torture or murder like the Empire," he
   i  "On the other hand, we could keep you in custody in
   *  ,  ee_trade port while we assemble  charges, and make
   >cret of the fact that we have you. How long would it take
7ør  -o find you, do you suppose?"
   Her expression became ugly. "For that, I hold back one de-
     u'll never know about, and some of your oh-so-precious
  I0ple die. How about that, you subhuman nothing? Give me a
human  negotiator."
????????????????????????????????? 123

   There was a sound beyond the door, an unmistakable one:
two blasts in quick succession, two scrapes and thuds as bodies

   Yen stood. He grabbed the side of Cast's bed and yanked,
precipitating her to the floor. He shoved the bed over on her,
then slid to stand beside the door.

    "Hey!" she said. The bed rocked as she struggled to free
herself.

   The door slid open. A blaster gripped in a large human
hand entered first. Ven grabbed the blaster, twisted it up.

   He had a brief glimpse of the man he was wrestling with:
big but not tall,  fleshy, with red hair. Then burning liquid
washed into his eye. He yelped, instinctively turned away from
the pain.

   A meaty fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him to  the
floor. He shook his head to clear it, belatedly realizing that it
was hot caf in his face.

   Above him, the attacker looked at the wriggling bed and
fired into it-twice, three times, four. There was a female shriek
in the middle of that.

   Then the assassin turned to aim down at Ven.

   Ven kicked out,  shoving against the bed frame, and slid
  at partway into the hall. The assassin's shot  struck the floor-
*ng between his legs.
????????????????????????????????? 123
   Ven found himself between the  two door guards, both
     ed, dead. He grabbed at the blaster pistol still in the hand
????????????????????????????????? 123
-one to his left. He brought it around, even as he saw the
assassin aiming-

   Ven didn't bother to aim. He fired, heard the distinctive
crackle of blaster beam frying flesh as his shot took the assassin
in one ankle. The big man yelped, fell, his blaster aiming
straight at the Twi'lek...

    Ven fired again. This shot took the assassin right in  the
nose, snapping his head back, filling the chamber with even
more burned-flesh odor. The big man fired, whether intentionally 
or as a dying spasm Ven didn't know, and his shot hit the
doorjamb.

    Ven rose. There was no more wiggling going on behind the
bed. Knowing what he was likely to see, he pulled the bed from
against the wall and looked at what lay beyond.











"Polearm Two," Tyria said, "power down and announce your
surrender or I'll blow you out of space." She toggled her S-foil
switch and felt a hum as the foils assumed strike position.

    The A-wing heeled over and accelerated, moving behind
the protective bulk of Mon Remonda, out of her sight.







Tal'dira smiled as he heard the pure tone of a good targeting
lock on Wedge's X-wing, but the noise garbled as Tycho slid in
between target and prey. Tal'dira dropped relative altitude,
hoping for a quick shot under Tycho, but the captain mimicked
his move, remaining an obstruction.

    Now Tycho was an easy  target, and so close-a proton
torpedo would turn him into a billion fiery specks. But Tal'dira
shook his head at the notion.  Tycho wasn't his enemy. Tycho
wasn't the traitor.  "Captain Celchu, get out of the way," he
said. "I have a job to do."

    He spared a glance for his  sensor board. The other Rogues
were staying in position-all but Rogue Nine, Corran Horn,
who was moving out to a position some distance from the
Rogue formation but not approaching.

    Tycho's voice came  back. "Rogue Five, power down al
weapons systems and return to Mon Remonda immediately or
we will be forced to regard you as an enemy. And destroy you."

    "I'm not the enemy! Wedge Antilles is the enemy, that one
leg-hopping maniac! Celchu, clear my field of fire!"

   Wedge, his X-wing moving sluggishly, continued his loop
to starboard. Tycho kept on him, keeping stubbornly
on him and Tal'dira. The Twi'lek pilot gritted his teeth,
lipped port, then starboard, but Tycho was always there,
in the way.

????????????????????????????????? 125




S lo pushed off from his chair armature and staggered toward
the door. Captain Onoma, approaching from the other side of
the bridge, reached him and grabbed him.

   They made two steps, three, but then, as they neared the
doorway, the wind increased - channeled tightly by the doorway, 
it was more ferocious the closer they got. Solo felt his 
forward motion stop; then his left leg slipped out from under him
and he went on one  knee. His ears popped as the air pressure
continued to drop and his head felt as though it would burst.

   So close, so close - he and Onoma could reach out almost
to the doorframe. But the roaring air stopped them dead.

   Dead.

   Then light from the corridor was partially blocked off and
a long, hairy arm reached from the other side of the door to
grip Solo's. It  was like a fur-covered vise clamping over his
wrist. It hauled  and suddenly Solo and Onoma were both
through the doorway, staggering into the corridor, still
battered but no longer endangered by the howling wind.

    "Chewie!" Solo turned back to his rescuer. He grabbed
the doorframe with one arm, Chewbacca's waist with the other,
helping pin the Wookiee in place.

    Chewbacca reached in again and hauled, dragging the bridge
communications officer out. Then again, and again, yanking

   I bridge officer into the comparative safety of the corridor.
   re was an explosion from the bridge or from beyond it, and
  hewie lurched backward, bleeding from the chest from what
     d  ike shrapnel. The Wookiee shook off the sudden shock
     oked back in. He bellowed, noises that would sound like
????????????????????????????????? 125

"        røar t0 møSt Peøple but whkh Solø knew t0 mean
     NO, there's one left," Solo said. He looked around. "Go-
 3rnø, sensors."
????????????????????????????????? 126

    "Dead," Onoma said. Even with the gravelly tones of M
Calamari speech, Solo could make out the pain, the regret i
his voice. "Out the viewport."

    Solo grimaced.  "Chewie, let's get this door closed " Han
heaved against the metal barrier. Chewie flexed one arm and
slammed the door closed.









Tyria's sensors weren't much use. This close to Mon Remonda
she couldn't even detect Polearm Two as an individual ship. He
had to be hugging the hull pretty closely.

    Perhaps if machinery couldn't help her, the Force could
 She concentrated on Polearm Two, on his A-wing...

    No, that was wrong. She leaned back, cleared her thoughts

     Closed her eyes.

     Mission, he had a mission. He was going to destroy the
 bridge or someone in it.

     She opened her eyes and banked toward the bridge, amid-
 ships and topside ...

     As she cleared the horizon of the ship's curved hull, she
 saw  the A-wing lining up for another shot at the bridge. Her
 targeting computer announced a clean lock on him.

      "Don't,"  she said. But there was no  time for a  lengthy
 plea, for words that might get through to reach this madman.
 A few more degrees of turn, and he was in line, poised, a
beautiful target...

      She fired. Her proton torpedo hit and detonated before
  she  registered that it was  away. Polearm  Two was suddenly
  nothing more than a bright flash and thousands of needles of
  superheated metal hitting  Mon Remonda's skin and heading
  into outer space.









  "Captain, please," Tal'dira said. "It is not in my nature to b
  seech. I beg you get clear of my shot before I have to kill you
  too."
????????????????????????????????? 126

      But the voice that answered was Corran Horn's, not
  cho's. "Tal'dira, this isn't honorable. You shot him in the b
            SOLO  COMMAND  /  127


   T Tdira checked his sensor board. Wedge's maneuver was
  A   him back and around toward Rogue Nine. In just a few
         he would be forced to run a head-to-head against
    [C Tal'dira shrugged. He could take the Corellian pilot. He

C   Dishonorable. But that word burned at him. His first shot
/ A been dishonorable. How could he have done that?
    Because Wedge,  that one-transparisteel-leg-hopping trai-

    2ut Tapdira couldn't betray his honor to kill him. It was
????????????????????????????????? 126

  p(Yet he had. And he knew,  deep in the portions of his mind
????????????????????????????????? 126

still functioning, that he would again. He'd throw away his
honor to kill Wedge Antilles. And he'd never turn away from
his quest to kill his former commander.

    He heard a groan, knew it to be his own. That meant he
would die without honor, shaming his family, shaming his world.

    No. He shook off the thought, raised his head. Honor
above all.

    Wedge and Tycho were now heading straight for Corran
Horn, Tal'dira tucked in neatly behind them. In another few
moments, he'd be within good firing range of the Corellian.

    He adjusted his shields,  then  switched to lasers and
opened fire on Tycho.

    Far ahead, Rogue Nine fired.













There was a brilliant flash from behind Wedge. He glanced at
his flickering sensor board.

    Rogue Five was gone.

    In other circumstances, he would have had words of praise
   such accurate shooting. But no Rogue would accept praise for
    img one of their own. Wedge felt sick. When he spoke, he
      >t surprised to find that his voice was raspy with his
effort

   ^ep his emotions in check. "Rogue Nine, are you fit to fly?"
    I here was a moment's delay. "Fit, sir."
      øgue Two, take the group in. You're in command. I'm
        >wap out X-wings and rejoin you."
????????????????????????????????? 127


    "Yes, sir." Tycho didn't sound any less pained than Wedge

    "Thanks, Two."

    "You're welcome, Leader. Rogues, Novas, form up on me
We're going in." Tycho banked away and Corran moved up in
formation with him.







                         8





The mission, which had begun in disaster, ended in disaster,
but not for Solo's forces.

    The A-wings  of Polearm Squadron identified and strafed
numerous sites of Raptor activity on the ground at Jussafet
Four. Raptor shuttles were caught on the ground and shot to
pieces, their occupants scattered, easier prey for the Jussafet
ground forces. Soldiers deposited by shuttles, with air support
provided by Wraith Squadron, overran  and took the Raptor
base camp near the Jussafet capital.

    Rogue and Nova Squadrons, led initially by Captain Celchu,
then by Wedge Antilles once the commander returned to the
combat in Wes Janson's X-wing, cruised through the asteroid
belt, wreaking  havoc on the sparse  units of TIE fighters and
????????????????????????????????? 126
   ;le corvette Zsinj's forces had deployed.
     J monitoring the escape vectors of the smaller vessels
  lased off by Rogue Squadron, the crew of  Mon Remonda,
    k<Jg from the vessel's auxiliary bridge, was able to deter-
     the position of the assault fleet and give chase. The fleet
      d of two  sturdy Carrack-d&ss cruisers  and  a heavily
       1 cargo vessel... and as these three vessels detected the
              Mon Calamari cruiser, they turned spaceward
????????????????????????????????? 130



    No words of thanks came via comm from the Jussafet
defenders-small wonder, since this was an Imperial world ii
defenders doubtless looking on their liberators with as mil h
????????????????????????????????? 130
suspicion as gratitude-but  most of the starfighters  picking
up  anonymous transmissions expressing thanks, sometime^
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  a!
  asassination. Me, too. I've transmitted a recommendation the
  Captain Onoma make the visit. Wait a second." The delay within
  nearly a minute.  "They didn't like that idea. Probably because
  he's Mon Calamari. They're willing to  accept someone out o
 ' your squadrons."
????????????????????????????????? 130

       Wedge ran a roster review in his mind. His Rogues w
            SOLO  COMMAND   /   131


        j  an<J he really needed to gauge their reaction to
bone-tirea,       ^ fi^ ^ what had led up tQ k aAgk face

????????????????????????????????? 130
           iinteer I think he'll satisfy their requirements."
  >faW. Come on back in."


    h d been part of a mission that had landed aboard a Star
    over before-in his case, the Super Star Destroyer Iron
   -but then he'd been in disguise, an apparent ally of the
 t$ ole he was visiting. This time he came as an enemy under
  nporary truce, and he could feel his heart rate increase as his
????????????????????????????????? 130

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
    'ing middle age, smiled from his chair behind one of the
????????????????????????????????? 134
     [arrangements. "It is a bit pretentious, isn't it?" He rose,
     ing that he wore an admiral's uniform, and approached,
     Kl out. "Still, appearances must be maintained. Admiral
 [erenR0griss."
????????????????????????????????? 130
    "Garik Loran, Captain, New Republic Starfighter Com-
       race shook his hand.
         let me say I thought your holodramas and comedies
????????????????????????????????? 134


In the hours of what would have been night on Coruscant-^the
timing by which Mon Remonda's activities were scheduled^
                         eneral's office.
????????????????????????????????? 134


    "That doesn't make any sense. I can see a fanatical assassin
      himself after his objective is achieved- but not before."
    "I don't understand it either. Do you have anything on the

        grimaced. "No known motivation . . .  which means
   hablv money. No sign of contact with insurgents or ene-
     He's spent a lot of time since we left Coruscant on shuttle
  CS lators He might have been able to fly one of our Lambda-
rh!L shuttles out of here after he finished his job."
????????????????????????????????? 135

    "But he's the key. The fact that he was sent to kill Cast
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 Yen gave him a close, evaluative look. It was 
obivious 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.
????????????????????????????????? 135
     [ Jiave orders from the Provisional Council," Wedge said.
     effect on our immediate group is that I'm obliged to take
  * three temporarily off active duty."
  rJ^ registered shock- Dia's eyes narrowed. Nawara Yen
 looocd, as though this were what he expected. "It's because
werejwi'leks,"hesaid.
     I'm afraid so."
               climbed a register in indignation. "I don't be-
????????????????????????????????? 136


    "Believe it," Dia said. "It's fleetwide, isn't it, Command
????????????????????????????????? 136

    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, civil
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 dow
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
turn ing against us the way he did." A memory jogged at him. "Will
you  tell me something? Does the phrase 'one-leg-hopping maniac
have any special meaning in Twi'lek culture?"

      Ven smiled. "You're asking me?" He gestured down to
 lower portion of his right leg, the one that had been amputat
 in Yen's last mission as a Rogue Squadron pilot.
????????????????????????????????? 137
         orry I forgot about that. But, yes, I'm asking. It's se-
     iS what Tal'dira called me just before he died."
     \h " Yen's eyes lost focus as he stared  back into his
        <I can't think of one."
????????????????????????????????? 134
mcmø0dd  What would cause him-"  Wedge's eyes  opened
????????????????????????????????? 134

     "T use Effect. What's the cause and what's the effect?"
xvldeupm not following you-"

    "It didn't matter whether Admiral Ackbar died. Or Mon
Mothma. Their assassins were successful."

    "What? No, they werent.

    "Yes  they were. Koyi Komad was their first victim.

    Yen's expression suggested that he was within seconds of
calling in the medics to deal with his commander.

    "Get the Wraiths together," Wedge said.  "We're going to
conduct one of their insane speculation and planning sessions.
Pilots' lounge. And invite any Rogues who want to attend. As
usual, with  Zsinj, we have to dig one level farther down."

Wedge was in the corridor before Yen had a chance to rise to
his feet.








All the Wraiths were there, except Runt and Janson, whose 
injuries kept them in bacta-tank treatment for the time being,
and so were Tycho, Hobbie, and Corran Horn of the Rogues.
Donos decided that Tyria and Horn looked unusually glum,
and couldn't blame them. At least Tyria had someone to offer
her support; Kell stayed next to her. The others were keeping a
little distance between themselves and Horn; whether it was
out of respect for his feelings or because of their own unease at
 >eing m the presence of someone who had just killed one of his
????????????????????????????????? 137
squadmates, Donos couldn't tell.

    Wedge walked in, his bootheels clattering. "So we know
    it a sudden rise in terrorist activity by Twi'leks," he said
   hout preamble. "We've determined to our own satisfaction
  atZsmj is behind them."
????????????????????????????????? 137
    ^ en said, "Though we lack evidence to prove it conclusively."
this?"   t lmportant for our discussion. Why is Zsinj doing
????????????????????????????????? 138

    "To hurt the New Republic," Kell said. "Losing Adrnir I
Ackbar and Mon Mothma would be a serious blow."

    Wedge took a seat and nodded. "Sure, it would. And they'd
be replaced by people who probably aren't quite as good as
they are at their tasks. If everyone on the Inner Council was
murdered, we'd have an Inner Council that was just a little lesser
adept at doing what it does. Not exactly a master stroke on
Zsinj's part." He leaned forward, still oddly intent. "This morning 
at six hundred hours I was obliged to relieve every Twi'lec
aboard Mon Remonda of active duty. And that, I think, is what
Zsinj wanted."

    "To be rid of our Twi'leks?" Kell asked.

    Wedge shook his  head, but it was Horn who spoke up
"Suddenly the Twi'leks are second-class citizens. Rumor has it
that Gotals  will be next because  of the  attempt  on Mon
Mothma's life and the follow-up shootings."

    Lara said, "Twi'leks and Gotals don't make up much of a
percentage of the New Republic armed forces. They're not
even signatories to the New Republic; there are just a fair 
number of them in service. I mean, their loss is important, sure...
but it's not going to cripple the fleet."

    "It'll cripple the entire New Republic," Wedge said. "Right
now, it's one species making up a fraction of one percent of the
New Republic population. But we suddenly have a precedent
that divides them from the New Republic. In their eyes, it
casts humans as villains. To human eyes, the Twi'leks and 
Gotals are already starting to look like villains. What if,  
tomorrow, it's a species that has been with the Alliance since the
start of the Rebellion? An important contributor to the New 
Republic cause?"

    Donos saw the Wraiths and Rogues looking among themselves 
as the idea took root. He drew a breath. "Until this three-
pronged attack on you, sir, and on General  Solo and Dr. Gast,
we had no real reason to believe that it was Zsinj's work."

    "Correct," Wedge said. "It could have been an Imperial
project, a criminal action, or an actual species-based conspiration
But in trying to kill us under the same umbrella of this U
????????????????????????????????? 138
conspiracy story, he's shown his hand."

    "Which does us no good," Donos said. "We're not going
unable to convince the Provisional Council of this theory."
t0  "Why not?" Wedge looked challenged, rather than angry,
????????????????????????????????? 134
at r  "Who's going to convince them of it? Ackbar? He trusted
????????????????????????????????? 134
Twi'lek who almost killed him. Mon Mothma? She's in-
   i not capable of leadership at the moment. Princess Leia?
????????????????????????????????? 134

Off on some diplomatic mission. Han Solo? He'd have to leave
 h fleet  and abandoning his task is not the  way to make the
????????????????????????????????? 134
Provisional Council confident in him. You?" Donos repressed
a wince at the words he'd have to say. "You, sir, also trusted the
Twi'lek who almost killed you."

    Wedge nodded. "Correct. But here's the answer to your
question. To convince the Provisional  Council, we're all going
to become geniuses."

    "I vote we start with Elassar," Lara said. "He has the 
farthest to go."

    The Devaronian pilot winced. "No more. I surrender."

    "What kind of geniuses?" asked Yen.

    "Prophetic ones. The kind who  can tell the Provisional
Council just what's going to happen next. What's Zsinj's next
step? If we can predict it,  we can  convince the powers that be
that they're dealing with a methodical plan of Zsinj's ... not a
conspiracy of terror against humankind." He looked among
them.  "Otherwise, in six months, a year, the New Republic
consists of humans on one side, nonhumans on the other, no
possible trust or interdependence  between them ... and Zsinj
can march in and take whatever he wants."
 
   "I have a thought."  That was Piggy. "A  theory. About
where I fit into Zsinj's plan."

    "Go ahead."

    "We know for a certainty that Zsinj has  for some time
   i trying to create very intelligent examples of humanoids
????????????????????????????????? 139
   known for their intelligence," Piggy said. "The question,
  Penally as it relates to your other theory, is why?"
      >bviously," Tycho said, "to have intelligent agents who
    1 infiltrate those species, and therefore not look out of
     n locations where those species are found."
????????????????????????????????? 139

    "Correct." Piggy nodded in the exaggerated way of Gamorreans.
"But that's only part of the equation. What does a leader
require in an agent in addition to intelligence? More important
than intelligence ?"

    "Loyalty," Lara said. Her voice seemed a little sad. Donos
gave her a close look. She saw his  sudden interest, shook her
head to suggest that her momentary disquiet was nothing.

    "Correct," Piggy said. "Yet I am not loyal to Zsinj. I 
underwent no indoctrination from youth, nothing  like the teaching
the storm troopers receive. Why not? Was I just a laboratory
test specimen? Was I to be purged when tests on me were
complete?"

    Nawara Ven nodded.  "Possibly so."

    "Yes.  But consider. Zsinj would not have embarked on
a process like the creation of me and the other hyperintelligent 
humanoids without making some provision for loyalty.
What if he found a way to instill it by force rather than through
training?"

    "Like brainwashing." Tycho's voice was flat, hard. Donos
noticed that the captain now sat absolutely still. Small wonder:
Tycho had at one time been suspected of being a brainwashed
agent of Ysanne Isard, the former head of Imperial Intelligence.

"You think the assassins were brainwashed by this technique."

    "Yes," Piggy said. "But we know we're not facing brainwashing 
as we have experienced it before. The Twi'lek who attacked me 
and Admiral Ackbar might have been brainwashed,
but he was missing only for a week-a possible, but very 
shortamount of time to do such a thing. From the time he  joined
Rogue Squadron, what was the longest time  Tal'dira was out
of sight of the other members? His longest leave?"

    Tycho and Wedge conferred, and Tycho said,  "About a
day at a time. Various leaves on  Coruscant."

    "One day." Piggy nodded. "If we assume that Tal'dira was
a victim and not a conspirator, then he was brainwashed in less
than a day. Surely such a treatment must leave evidence  on the
body of the victim. Signs of probes. Blood chemical imbalances
from drug treatments. Neurological disorders. Something."

    "Unfortunately," Wedge said, "we don't have Tal'dira's
body to examine. Or Flight Officer Tualin's. We might be able
to put in a request to Admiral Ackbar to see if he can perform
autopsies on his attacker and Mon Mothma's. And the two
Gotal shooters."

    "If only Doctor Cast had survived," Piggy said. "I feel no
sense of loss at her passing; in fact, I am met with relief. But
in retrospect, I wish we had the knowledge she possessed."

    Wedge and Nawara Ven exchanged a glance. "We'll have
to do without," Wedge said. "All right, let's get to work on
these theories of ours... and see whether we can have successful 
careers as prophets as well as pilots."











It drifted off the bow of Mon Remonda, a saucerlike shape
with two forward prongs signifying the bow and a small cockpit 
projecting from the starboard side to give the ship an 
off-balance look.

    To Wedge's eye, it looked just like the Millennium Falcon,
except that its top-hull dish antenna was much smaller. A 
shuttle occupied by Donos, Corran Horn, and the Wraiths's chief
mechanic Cubber  Daine,  Corellians all, plus Emtrey, the
Rogues's quartermaster, had escorted the battered-looking
freighter from a scrapyard in the Corellian system, where such
craft were most common ... and cheapest to acquire.

    "Ugliest ship I think I've ever seen," said Solo.

    Captain Onoma, standing on the other side of Solo at the
bridge's new forward viewport, wrinkled his forehead in a fair
approximation of a human frown.  "It looks like the Falcon
tome."

    "Nothing could look less like the Falcon," Solo said. "You
could slap a paint job on a desert skiff and it'd look more like
the Falcon." He sighed. "Still, with Chewie in charge of 
dressing her up, she might be able to fool Zsinj for a couple of 
minutes. What did our crew of Corellians pay for her?"

    "They traded  that hyperspace-enabled TIE interceptor
Shalla Nelprin took off Razor's Kiss."

    Solo looked at him, eyes wide. "That's crazy. Trade a 
valuable combat-ready starfighter for that hunk of junk?"

    "No. They traded a valuable combat-ready starfighter for
a chance to blow Zsinj up."

    Solo's features settled into calmer lines, though he  n
????????????????????????????????? 142
looked tired, stressed. "Oh. Well, that makes sense. Shell ru

have the Falcon's speed. Without a few years's head start, Che ^
won't be able to make her insides work like the real thing "
????????????????????????????????? 142

    "We don't want him to," Wedge said.

    "How so?"

    "Because if they count on this new ship being the Falcon
our modifications can trip them up. For example, the Fala
????????????????????????????????? 142
isn't packed with high explosives."

    Solo shuddered. "There's a very good reason for that."

    "Right. But since the Falcon isn't packed with explosives
you'd never send her into a crash dive into the side of a Super
Star Destroyer. With this hunk of junk, you wouldn't feel any
such compunctions."

    "Except for not wanting to die."

    "Well, that's what escape pods are for. You know what I
mean."

    "Yeah. Yeah." Solo returned his attention to the Corellian
YT-1300 transport hanging off the bow. "All right. Secure Bay
Gamma One to authorized personnel only and direct this flying 
trash receptacle there. Let's get to work."











It drifted off the bow of Iron Fist, a nightmare vessel. Her bulk
was an irregular oval of wreckage more than three kilometers
long held together by thousands of  kilometers of cabling,
Around the wreckage was a superstructure-a cluster of 
engines at one end, a wedge-shaped bow at the other, a gigantic
spar of metal connecting them and acting as a frame for the en-
velope of wreckage to hang upon. The name, barely visible on
the bow, was Second Death.

    "Ugliest ship I think I've ever seen," said Zsinj.  His face
shone with admiration. "Melvar, you have done a magnificent
job."

    The general gave him a little bow. "There are a dozen 
eåplosive pockets within the body of the wreckage; they will s
the components of Razor's Kiss out in all directions. There <
more explosives in the engines and bridge, sufficient to refl
most evidence that these extra components ever existed.
????????????????????????????????? 143
     . ,   convincing. Unfortunately, she's slow. She can't be
           keep up with Iron Fist or other elements of our

^eet'<PV Still, we'll do what we can. How does the crew
????????????????????????????????? 142
  ^ "Both bow and stern are equipped with a Sentinel-class
   ,.   craft. The crew has a chance not only to evacuate, but
????????????????????????????????? 142
 allfi ht their way out of pursuit." Melvar offered a little sigh.
????????????????????????????????? 142

"The crew doesn't know that if a capital ship approaches within
a kilometer before they've engaged the hyperdrive, they, too,
will detonate. The crew will not be captured, will not be able to
betray your secret to the Rebels."

    "Excellent. Fine work, as usual. Give her a station in the
fleet outside of visual range of any of the other vessels. I am
so pleased." Zsinj smiled. He hoped he'd never be forced to
utilize the hideous amalgamation that had earned his 
approval and praise. Using it meant failure on his part - meant
he'd been beaten and needed to hide to lick his wounds. But
he liked to keep his options open. "Oh. What about the Night-
cloak function?"

    "Working... mostly. Would you like a demonstration?"

    "Please."

    Melvar held up his comlink. "Second Death, this is 
General Meivar. Activate and initiate Nightcloak."

    "Yes, sir," came the tinny voice from the comlink. 
"Deploying satellites."

    Tiny flares erupted from Second Death, four from the bow
and four from the stern, deploying at precise angles so they
suggested the corners of a wire-frame box surrounding the
junkyard vessel.  After a few moments of flight, the satellites
ceased their acceleration; their burn trails vanished and they
became all but invisible in the starfield.

    "Nightcloak engaging," said the comlink.

    And Second Death was suddenly gone.

    Where she had been, where the space around her had been,

    Blackness. Not starfield - not even the stars were visible
through it.

    Zsinj offered a little exhalation of happiness. "Sensors, give
 me reading on Second Death.-

    The sensor officer in the crew pit below examined his
screen. He took on a stricken look as he raised his head to face
the warlord. "Nothing, sir. We don't even get a return on the
active sensors. It's a sensor anomaly."

    "Fine, fine."

    Out in space, stars briefly flickered through the darkness,
then shone brilliantly again, and Second Death once more
floated before them.

    Melvar frowned. "Second Death, I didn't order an end to
the test."

    "Sorry, sir. System failure. It's still not entirely
reliable."

    "Well, bring in the satellites and get back to work. Until
it's one hundred percent, it's not adequate. Until it's one hundred
percent, we're not happy  with you. Melvar out." The general
pocketed the comlink and turned to his warlord. "I'm sorry, sir."

    "Don't be." Zsinj  waved his apology away. "It's a fine
demonstration.  A wonderful adaptation of what we're 
accomplishing at Rancor Base. They'll have it done in time. 
Or else." He smiled.










In Mon Remonda's pilots's lounge, in stuffed chairs dragged
against the viewports to suggest thrones, sat Wes Janson and
Runt Ekwesh.

    Standing before them, Face said, "For intercepting great
quantities of damage so the rest of us didn't have to, your
crowns, o mighty ones." He took circlets made of flimsy 
material and placed one on each pilot's head. "For enduring 
medical treatments without whining, for surviving days of bacta
bath without crying, for emerging from your treatment 
without asking for extra cake and sweetening, your royal scepters."
He placed a wooden dowel, its end decorated with tassels and
ribbons, into the hand of each pilot. "And now, receive the 
accolades of your subjects."

    He  stood aside, and the gathered Wraiths and Rogues
hurled confetti upon them, a rain of color and rubbish.

    Janson blinked against the atmospheric assault and turned
to Runt. "This  is the last  time, positively the last time,  that
I suggest to Face that the squad doesn't always show enough
appreciation."

    Runt nodded.  "We agree. Do all kings have to suffer
this?"

    "Well, any king with Face Loran as his majordomo."

    "And now," Face said, "the two kings fight one another to
the death, and we space the loser."

    "Whoa, there." Janson stood and shook confetti from his
hair. "Try again."

    "We space the winner?"

    "One more."

    "We buy you a  drink."

    "That's more like it."

    As the pilots drifted back to their seats,  Shalla dropped
gracefully in a chair  beside Piggy's. "Tell me something,"
she said.

    "Yes?"

    "The other day,  you said that you were relieved when
Doctor Cast died. Why relieved?"

    Piggy took a few moments  to answer. Shalla wondered
whether he was considering his response, or debating whether
to  tell her to go to hell. Finally he said, "It takes pressure
off me. Pressure of decisions."

    "I don't understand."

    "As far as I know, I am the only one of my kind. I am not
fit  to be among normal Gamorreans; I make them nervous and
I am dismayed by  their presence.  Their  violence, their 
simplicity. So I will never find a mate, a Gamorrean female, to my
liking. I had sometimes wondered if Gast  had created one . . .
or if she might do so, if I compelled her. Even so, such a 
relationship would endure in frustration and sadness.  If I 
understand it correctly, the changes made  to me  are not genetic;  
I could not pass  them on to offspring. So I could not have
children with my mental and emotional characteristics." He raised
his hand, studying the Churban brandy in the glass he held. "In
that sense, I am alone... and should be alone. Doctor Cast's
continued existence led me to hopes  I should not have 
entertained. Now that she is dead, I can be more responsible."

    "I'm sorry." On impulse, she reached out and took his
other hand. "But in one sense, you're wrong."

    He sipped at the brandy before replying. "How so?"

    "You're not just flesh and bone. You don't just pass along
your genes. If you had children, you'd be giving them your
ideas, the example of your courage and commitment, all the
things that come from the way you relate to the culture you've
chosen. And those things you can pass along to others who
aren't your children.  Intellectually, emotionally, your parents
and children aren't related to you by blood at all. I know that
may be small consolation."

    He downed the rest of the brandy, and after a moment his lips
curled up in a near-human smile. "Well, it is some consolation."

    "Would you like to dance?"

    "Would you like to have your toes smashed flat?"

    "I have fast feet."

    "True. Well, the risk is all yours." He heaved himself up,
then helped her to her feet.

    Other dancers were already in motion on the portion of
the lounge the pilots had cleared of furniture. Face and Dia had
center stage, moving to a classical theme of ancient Coruscant,
and Donos and Lara were now moving to join them.

    "They're not really together," Dia said.

    Face glanced over at Donos and Lara. "How do you figure?"

    "She's tense. Keeping a little separation between them. Her
expression keeps softening, she keeps smiling, as if she's really
enjoying herself. Then she tenses and withdraws. It's a little 
cycle she keeps running through."

    "Oh, you're good at this game. But you missed when she
gave him the opportunity for a kiss. A deliberate invitation."

    "No, she didn't."

    "She did." He gave her a superior little smile.

    "When?"

    "A moment ago. Did you see her lower her eyes, then raise
them and make that little twirling motion with her finger?"

    "Yes. I assumed  she was describing something. She was
talking."

    "She was describing something. That's what makes it so
subtle, the way she blended the cue in, the way you're 
supposed to. It's..." Then Face stiffened, nearly losing the rhythm
of the dance, and looked back at the other couple.

    "It's what?"

    "Coruscant charm signing."

    "I don't know what that is."

    "It's something like the language of flowers. You know
how on some worlds the precise flower you give someone, the
number, the arrangement, all has specific meaning."

    Dia nodded. "It's a human custom. A new way to miscommunicate
so you can find reason to kill one another."

    "That's an interesting interpretation... anyway, charm
signing is sort of like that. It's confined to the social class of
Imperial officer trainees from wealthy families and their circles.
It came out of Coruscant long before the rise of the Empire, but
it's mostly confined to the Empire these days; most of the former 
Imperial officers serving with the New Republic weren't of
that social order. Anyway, she gave him the correct sign for 'I'd
accept a kiss.' He just didn't know what it meant."

    "Is that a reason for you to be so startled?"

    "Well, yes. Lara  keeps saying 'Coruscant' to me, without
meaning to. When she's distracted, when  she's upset... not
when  she's  in control. Sometimes she'll  walk like a native
throneworlder-you know the sort of hunched-in, 'don't touch
me' body language?"

    She nodded.

    Face thought back. "And then, things she knew about 
Coruscant commerce. Pretty elaborate for someone who'd  been
employed there only for a few weeks. And that incident at the
Galactic Museum. The old man who thought she was-what
was the name he called her?"

    "Edallia Monotheer."

    Face looked at her with real surprise. "How did you remember 
that?"

    "A trick of the trade. When you're a slave dancer, you
remember the name of everyone you are introduced to by your
owner. If you fail, you're beaten... or worse."

    "I'm sorry." He pulled her to him, an embrace of apology.
"I always seem to do something to remind you of those times."

    "It's not your fault." Her voice  was  a whisper.  "I  can't
seem to give up on it. Sometimes I think I say things like that to
remind other people of what I used to be-when I'm the only
one who needs to remember." She sighed, as if releasing some
sorrow into the air.  "What are you going to do about Lara?
Ask her how she knows this charm signing?"

    He shook his head, brushing his cheek against hers. "I'm
going to put in a request for information. To New Republic
Intelligence."

    "But later," she said.

    "Later."










A couple of hundred meters away, Wedge trotted up the access
ramp to the YT-1300 freighter hidden away in one of Mon Re-
monda's hangar bays. Crashing and clanking noises drifted
down from the freighter's upper hull, accompanied by the deep
rumbling of Chewbacca's complaints. But no human words ac-
companied the rumbling.

    He found Han Solo in the vessel's cockpit. He  dropped
into the copilot's seat beside the general.

    "I  thought you'd be at your pilots's welcome-back party,"
Solo said. He didn't turn his attention from the forward viewport. 
Across the floor of the hangar, cluttered with tools and repair 
carts, was the rectangle of lights outlining the  hangar's
magnetic containment field. Beyond that, dim because of the
hangar's light, were stars.

    "I  stopped in," Wedge said. "I didn't stay too long. It
tends to make the children nervous."

    Solo managed a faint smile. "I know what you mean. I
used to be one of the guys. Now I walk into a room and all 
conversation stops. I didn't imagine, when I accepted this job, that
I'd become some other thing. An outsider."

    "Sometimes that's what an officer is. Someone who's 'one
of the guys' can't maintain discipline."

    "I  suppose."

    A furious hail of metallic banging made conversation impossible 
for a moment. It was followed by an unusually lengthy
and articulate stretch of grumbling from Chewbacca.

    Solo said, "He hates this wreck almost as much as I do."


    "Why do you hate it more?"

    "Because, despite everything I said, it's just enough like the
Falcon to make me homesick."

    "For the Falcon! Or for Leia?"

    Solo rubbed his face, easing away some of the lines of
tiredness. "Yeah."

    "I never really understood why you left the Falcon on
Rebel Dream when she  went on her mission. You could have
stored her on Mon Remonda."

    "It's just... I'm not sure." Solo stared off into the distance
of space. "The Falcon is the thing I value most. Not the person
I value most, but the thing. I think I left her with Leia so Leia
would know."

    "That you trusted her with what you valued most."

    "Something like that. And I wanted her to remember me."

    "As if she'd forget."

    "Sometimes I think she should." Solo  was silent a long
moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "I
don't deserve her. And someday she'll realize that. When she's
away from me, I think,  'Maybe today's the day. Maybe today
she'll figure it out and get on with her life.'"

    Wedge shook his head. "That's ridiculous."

    "No, it's not. She's the one with the goal, the plan for her
life. She's a driving force in the New Republic. Without her, I
don't have a place. I'm just a drifter with an irresistible dose
of roguish charm. And someday she'll get tired of the charm and
there won't be anything  else for me to offer her."

    "You know," Wedge said,  "I can't do it myself, because
you're my superior officer. But I could call Chewie down here,
and tell him what you've just said, and then he'd beat you
nearly to death with a hydrospanner. Maybe then you'd figure
out how wrong you are."

    Solo managed a smile. "I think maybe that's why I
volunteered for this Zsinj  assignment. I  thought  it was because of
how I felt when I heard about his bombardments. His assaults
on defenseless worlds. I could just see myself as a child on the
streets, looking up to see the turbolaser blasts coming down
to destroy the little  bit of world I could call my own. But,
 it might have been just to show Leia, 'Here I am, see, I
????????????????????????????????? 150
can function in your world.' But after months of it, I just get
tireder and crazier. I find myself wishing I could leave Zsinj be,
and Leia could come home right now, with her mission unfinished,
so things could go back to the way they were. And if she
knew that, she'd be ashamed of me."

    "It's a natural  human emotion. And I have a three-stage
plan to let you get back to the way things used to be."

    That caught Solo's attention; he looked at Wedge for the
first time since he'd boarded the freighter. "How?"

    "Stage One." Wedge opened a comm channel on the copilot's 
control board. "YT-1300 to bridge. This is Commander
Antilles. Please cut all lights in Bay Gamma One."

    A few moments later, the overhead lights darkened. Chew-
bacca made a noise of complaint.

    Wedge said, "Including the magcon shield indicator, please,
bridge."

    The rectangle  of  light  around the magcon field faded.
Now they sat in near-perfect darkness, illuminated only by the
stars outside the field. They hung there, perfect, not blinking
because there was insufficient atmosphere to make them twinkle, 
a perfect space vista.

    Solo fell silent, just staring at the view for a long moment.
"That's nice," he said. "I think you're right. I could use more
of that. What's Stage Two?"

    "Well, you're not the only member of the crew who could
benefit from some blissful irresponsibility right now. So I'm
going to stage an insurrection and seize control of Mon Remonda"

    Solo gave a curt laugh.  "Wedge Antilles, mutineer. That I
have to see."

    "Bring your Wookiee and I'll show you."















Donos and Lara walked into the officers's cafeteria and stopped
short. It didn't look the way it was supposed to.

    Tables, normally arrayed in neat rows, had been dragged
out of line into zigzags, into four-table rectangles. Though the
chamber was sparsely occupied, even that was different; 
normally the  diners would be scattered across the chamber, but
now they were concentrated at three or four tables.

    Donos and Lara approached the closest table. The one
where their commander sat with General Solo and Chewbacca.
Sabacc cards were laid out on the table before them.

    "Excuse me, sir," Donos said, "I hate to interrupt..."

    Wedge looked up. "What did you call me?"

    "Uh,sir."

    "Who do you think I am?"

    Donos glanced at Lara, but she seemed as puzzled as he.
"Commander Wedge Antilles, New Republic Starfighter..."

    Wedge shook his head. "No, no, no. I just look like him.
If I were Antilles, wouldn't I  be wearing  appropriate rank
insignia?"

    It was true; he wore none. For that matter, neither  did
General Solo.

    "In fact," Wedge said, "what's that you're wearing? 
Lieutenant's insignia ?"

    "Uh, yes..."

    "Off," Wedge said.

    "Off," Solo repeated.

    "Off off off off," Wedge said.

    Donos pulled the rank insignia from his jacket. Lara followed 
suit with hers.

    Wedge visibly calmed. "That's  better," he said. "Wait.
Where's your astromech?"

    Donos's mouth worked for a moment as he considered responses.
"I don't think I have an answer that will please you. Sir. Or Not-Sir.
Whoever you are."

    "You certainly don't. The astromechs are the backbone of
Starfighter Command. Hardest-working beings in the galaxy.
They need some rest and recreation, too. Don't you agree?"

    "I, uh, I do."

    "Good. Get out. Don't come back without your astromechs." 
Wedge gathered up the sabacc cards. "New hand. Who's in?"











When Face wandered in, his R2 unit Vape wheeling along behind 
him, the cafeteria  was more than half-full. It was also
loud; card games and conversations dominated most of the 
tables. Some of the kitchen staff appeared to be on duty, bringing
out drinks and various sorts of snacks, but they cheerfully 
exchanged sharp words with the officers present in  a way they'd
never do under ordinary circumstances. Officers sat with 
enlisted men and women, and, though uniforms suggested which
was which and the services being represented, there were no
rank insignia to be seen.

    Chewbacca waved him over. Face and Vape  moved up to
his table.

    Over his hand of cards, Wedge gave him a cool appraisal.

"It's the one who looks like Captain Loran. But he has his 
astromech and no rank. He'll pass."

    "Thank you, uh, one who looks like Commander Antilles."

    "He catches on quickly," Wedge said. "One second. Vape,
cold one."

    A trapezoid-shaped plate at the top of Vape's  ball head slid
open. There was a chuff of compressed air, and a condensation-
dewed bottle leaped up into the air. Wedge caught it with his
free hand and  set it down on the table  before him.  "Thanks,
Vape. Thanks, one-who-looks-like-Face. That'll be all." He
turned back to his game.

    Face said, "You weren't supposed to know about that.
And it certainly shouldn't have worked for you."

    "I look  just like the group leader. That gives me special
privileges."

    "Besides, it was my last one."

    "Well, come back when you're fully stocked."

    The others at the table-men and women who looked like
General Solo,  Chewbacca, Captain Todra Mayn of Polearm
Squadron, Gavin Darklighter and Asyr Sei'lar of Rogue Squadron, laughed.

    Face turned away. "Run along and play," he told Vape.
"This is going to be an interesting evening."

Wedge's mutiny of anonymity spread through the ship with a
sort of quiet persistence. No officers on duty abandoned their
tasks to join it, but crewmen coming off duty gravitated to the
officers's cafeterias and, when the mutiny became too populous,
into adjoining noncommissioned crew cafeterias, briefing
halls, and auditoriums as well.

    And nowhere in the mutineers's sections of Mow Remonda
were name tags or rank designations to be found. Donos, 
walking the perimeter of the mutineers's sections with Lara in a state
of baffled good humor, saw Rogue mechanic Koyi Komad win
a week's wages from Captain Onoma in a card game as blood-
thirsty as any TIE fighter vs. X-wing engagement. He  saw
Chewbacca simultaneously arm wrestle a naval lieutenant and
a civilian hand-to-hand combat trainer so vigorously that both
humans were thrown to the floor;  they arose laughing and
massaging wrenched arms.

    Astromechs huddled  in corners, exchanging chirps and
trills that few organisms could interpret but that apparently
kept them highly amused. Donos and Lara had to stop short of
a portion of floor bounded by lines of observers; a group of R2
and R5 units sped through a twisting, winding course marked
by colored tape on the floor. Corran Horn's Whistler was in the
lead, Wedge's Gate was in second place, and both units were
tweetling in the excitement of the moment.

    Whistler and Gate maintained their one-two standings across
the finish line and a crowd of bettors erupted in cheers and 
cat-calls. Donos heard Horn's  voice rise above  the crowd noise: "I
told you, I told you. Next time, make it an obstacle course with
security measures. Whistler will still smoke them all."

    "If I weren't sure I was only half-crazy," Donos said, "I'd
be certain I was hallucinating."

    "Your logic is faulty," Lara said. "If you were zero percent
crazy, you'd be certain you weren't hallucinating. If you were
one hundred percent crazy, you'd be equally certain this was
real. Only at your current state of fifty percent insane do you
doubt what you see."

  "No fair. If I take you back to the pilots's lounge and
dance with you again, will you stop picking at  my flaws in
logic?"

    "Sure," she said. "That was my motive in the first place."

The mutiny endured from early evening to late evening of the
next calendar date, with a pair of sabacc games the last to
break up, and galley workers grumbling only halfheartedly as
they swept up the trash left behind by a day of blissful, if 
intermittent, irresponsibility.

    Solo and Wedge were among those who abandoned the
last surviving card game. Solo rubbed tired eyes and said, "Not
bad, man-who-looks-like-Wedge. What's Stage Three?"

    Wedge gave him a smile he might have  learned from a
toothy Bothan. "In Stage Three, we track down Zsinj and blow
him up."

    "Good plan. I like it."






                          9







The next morning, once hangovers were shaken off and 
infusions of caf had taken hold, the crew of Mon Remonda moved
more briskly, with weeks of frustration and bone weariness at
least partially shaken loose.

    At a briefing of the Rogues and Wraiths late in the day,
Wedge said, "For those of you who were curious, tomorrow's
mission does not seem to have been  endangered by the mass
amnesia that seems to have struck my pilots-no one seems to
be able to recall what he was up to yesterday." That drew some
chuckles. "Assuming our brains are working correctly again,
we can probably get through a preliminary operational briefing
now."

    He tapped keys on the lectern keyboard and a holoprejection 
sprang into existence beside him. It showed a solar system -
medium-sized yellow sun and a dozen planets around it. Their
orbits were indicated  by glowing dotted lines. "This is the
Kidriff system. It's along what we think of as the Imperial/Zsinj 
border, as  far core ward  as Zsinj's  influence extends. Its
occupied world, Kidriff Five, is a very wealthy  one, a heavy 
trade depot that develops and exports metal alloys-several improvements
in Sienar TIE fighter hulls in recent years came about because
of Kidriff developments.

    "Kidriff Five's government patterned the world's building
and expansion plans very heavily on Coruscant, as a way of
becoming more attractive to the Empire and the Imperial court."

Wedge activated another image, and the holoprojector displayed
a city vista - a seemingly endless sea of skyscrapers that would
not look out of place if  dropped whole onto Coruscant. The
sky, however, was not as hazy or as thick with storm clouds as
Coruscant's typically was. "It wouldn't have been a bad site for
Ysanne Isard to set up her government seat in exile-except,
by the time the Rogues threw Isard off Coruscant, Kidriff had
already fallen to Zsinj.

    "We've recently received a lot of data on Kidriff and other
Zsinj-occupied worlds in Imperial sectors.  Analysis showed
that the data had been scrubbed of certain types of information
useful to the New Republic. But the scrubbing seems to have
been hasty, and did not entirely eliminate the fact that there
had been activity by a pro-New Republic faction in the months
before  Zsinj took over." Wedge called up another image, this
time of a region seemingly divided equally between stretches of
skyscrapers and stretches of heavy rust-colored foliage. "Kidriff
Five's Tobaskin Sector. Seat of their rebel activity, which may
or may not still exist. That's our target."

    Janson spoke up. "And what do we do there, chief?"

    "Very little, actually." Wedge brought up the image of a
Corellian YT-1300 freighter. "This is not the Millennium 
Falcon. It's our simulacrum, which Chewbacca and a few unlucky
mechanics have been transforming into a likeness of the 
Falcon. They painted false rust on good hull and put good paint
on rusty hull so the  blotches match up, and have made some
other modifications. We've dubbed it the Millennium Falsehood.
We're given to understand that it's approximately spaceworthy."

    From the back of the briefing hall, Chewbacca uttered a
sustained grumble that left the pilots no doubt that the 
Wookiee didn't think much of the freighter.

    Wedge continued, "Chewbacca and I will pilot the Falsehood 
to Tobaskin Sector and land in one of those forest tracts.
We'll let off a couple of intelligence operatives who are going
to try to make contact with any surviving pro-New Republic
factions there. But our main job is to wait there until we're
seen, then take off for space."

    "Which accomplishes what?" Janson asked. "Actually, I
know the answer. But I thought you ought to have at least one
shill in the audience."

    "Good to see you're developing a skill you can use in civil-
ian life," Wedge said. "This allows the apparent Millennium
Falcon to be seen well within Zsinj's territory on a world where
Zsinj knows there has been pro-Rebel activity. It's one piece of
data that will pique his interest. We're going to do this again
and again. At a certain point, when the Falsehood has developed 
a predictable pattern of mission activity, Zsinj will, we
hope, show up to destroy her."

    Lara raised a hand.

    "Notsil."

    "Um, I don't know whether this has entered your mission
planning, sir,  but if you go to an Imperial world, they'll 
probably want to kill you. And if you do land and let yourself be 
noticed later, they'll probably want to kill you then." She gave
him a look as though she were an ingenue full of pride in her
sudden  tactical realization.  Pilots  around the amphitheater
laughed.

    "This had occurred to us. Data on the Kidriff system 
suggests that their security is very lax in order to promote fast,
efficient trade-they're far more interested in making sure cargo
gets taxed than in protecting government and military 
installations, which tend to be buried very deep and hard to  hit. So
our belief is that we can just fly the Falsehood in. We'll kill
our transponder stream once we're low enough, so they won't know
where we landed. They'll assume it's a smuggler's ploy and look
for us. We'll be going in with Captain Celchu's X-wing coupled 
to our hull, and he'll detach to act as our escort on the
trip back out.  But before we go in, the Wraiths who are assigned
TIE interceptors will go in and make a preliminary landfall.
If their security queries are more difficult than we suspect,
they can signal us and wing out of there. Otherwise, they'll be
on  hand to join Tycho for escort duty on the flight out. The
rest of the Rogues and Wraiths will be orbiting the planet's
primary moon to offer additional support when they chase us
off-world."

    Wedge looked among the seated pilots. "We'll be taking
out targets of opportunity, mostly enemy starfighters, on the
way out. Our mission is to disengage with as little loss as
possible. Does anyone see any specific flaw in this operation?"

    Runt  sneezed. He looked around, embarrassed. "Sorry.
No flaws. Just bacta tickle in our sinus cavities."

    "Which brings up another point," Wedge said. "The medical 
reports of the Wraiths who sustained burns look good.  
I don't see a sign that any Wraith has not recovered sufficiently
to be part of this operation. But if any of you does still feel
that he's not up to the mission, let me know privately. Believe me,
no one will hold it against you."

    There was silence.

    "Any more questions? No? Tomorrow morning we'll get
the final flight data, drop out of hyperspace outside the 
Kidriff system, and execute this  thing. Until then, get some rest.
Dismissed."








As they filed out of the briefing chamber, Elassar said, "I don't
know. I have a bad feeling about this one, a bad feeling."

    "Why?" Face asked. "When we were going into the briefing,
you were as happy as a bantha on a mountain of blumfruit."

    "Runt sneezed."

    Face looked the younger pilot. "Why, yes he did. I forgot
about that. Doomed the whole lot of us, did he?"

    "No, this is serious. He sneezed right when the commander
got to the point where the commander asked about flaws in the
plan. That means there is such a flaw, and we didn't notice it,
and Runt will be in trouble then."

    "No, no, no." Face shook his head. "That's what it would
have meant had it been an accidental sneeze. But it wasn't. It
was a deliberate sneeze."

    Elassar looked at him, his expression puzzled. "Why would
he sneeze deliberately?"

    Lara said, "He was clearing his chamber."

    "What chamber?"

    Face leaned in, his expression conspiratorial. "We're 
working on a secret weapon for desperate situations on our 
commando raids. Runt is strengthening his lungs, his sinus cavities."

    Lara said, "Before each mission in which we go into the
field, we load Runt's nose with plasteel ball bearings."

    "Then," Face said, "if we're captured  and end up in the
hands of just a couple of guards, Runt can take in a deep, deep
breath and sneeze those ball bearings out at them."

    Lara nodded, her own expression earnest. "In secret tests,
we've clocked the ball bearings erupting from his nose at just
over five hundred klicks per hour. Definitely subsonic, but still
fast enough to penetrate flesh and light stormtrooper armor."

    Elassar looked back and forth between them. "Hey, wait a
minute. That would never work." The two conspirators dissolved
into laughter, and he continued, his voice petulant, "I was being
serious. Can't you be serious? Someone's going to be in trouble."

    "You just summon us up some luck,"  Face said. "We're 
relying on you."










Rostat Manr was good at his job. As a Sullustan, he was 
supposed to be adept at piloting, at navigating, but he knew that
he and  his fellow Sullustan ship  handlers had gotten their
reputation far more through hard work than through natural
inclination.

    Rostat had been rewarded for his hard work, too. For four
years he'd flown Y-wings for the Rebel Alliance-now known
as the New Republic. Less than a year ago, sick of war, certain
that he'd done his duty for the cause he believed in, he accepted
a position flying tugs for a civilian firm: Event Vistas, a 
cruise-vessel line. Only a few months ago,  he'd  been promoted to
chief pilot aboard Nebula Queen, one of the line's newest and
most beautiful cruise vessels.

    But now, he was in danger of losing all he had gained. The
thought, as he stared out the viewport at the growing circle of
color that was the planet Coruscant, made him sad.

    He couldn't tell anyone. They'd laugh at him. Then they'd
demote him ... at best.

    For no one wanted to employ a pilot with Ewoks  in his nose.

    He could feel them dancing, hear the faint, tinny sounds of
their music and singing as they made merry in his nostrils. All
the digging he'd done had failed to dislodge them. He couldn't
think about anything but the Ewoks, and what it would take to
rid himself of them.

    All he had to do was crash Nebula Queen down upon
Coruscant's surface. Then everything would be all right. He
smiled. Soon, soon.

    As the cruise ship reached the point it should have 
maneuvered into high Coruscant orbit, Rostat kept her headed  into
the atmosphere. A carefully calculated approach, the precise
speed and angle needed for her to breach the planetary atmo-
sphere without igniting. He really needed for enough of the
ship to be left to hit the planet's surface, after all.

    "Rostat?" That was his captain, a human female originally
from Tatooine. Other humans described her as old and leathery,
but Rostat didn't have their perspective on human features.
"What are you doing?"

    Rostat looked at her, trying to mask his alarm. "You know,
don't you?"

    "I know you're out of your approach plane."

    "No. I mean, about my nose."

    She gave him a  look that suggested she didn't know. But
she had to be shamming. She had to be  in on it. Perhaps she'd
even been the one who put the Ewoks up his nose.

    Seized with a sudden fear of what she was, what she might
do to him next, he drew his duty blaster and fired on her. It was
point-blank range; he would have had to go to some effort to
miss. His shot took her in the side and she fell over.

    But it wasn't a blaster shot. He looked curiously at his issue
sidearm. It was set on kill, but a stun-level beam had emerged.
Curiously, he flipped the switch between blast and stun, but no
sound emerged. Perhaps the mechanism was broken.

    No matter. She was unconscious, and she would stay  that
way long enough for the ship to crash. And relief would be his.

    But the Nebula Queen's control board now showed her 
altitude gaining, not dropping. He stared curiously at the 
numbers, then took the pilot's controls again.

    They didn't responl- The cruise liner began climbing back
up into her proper orlit. He ran a quick diagnostic. It indicated 
that the auxiliary bridge curtirrently had control.

    He brought up the ship's inteiercom and called the auxiliary
bridge.  When the picture swanun into focus, it showed  that
bridge's control seat. In the comnimand chair was another 
Sullustan, a very junior officer Rossstat knew. "Nurm," he said.
"What are you doing?"

    Nurm looked uncomfortable ? and glanced off-screen. "I've
seized control of the ship/' he said.

    "Return control to the main bridge," Rostat said. His
nose was really itching.The Ewooks had to be mounting a 
major celebration in there.

    "No, "Nurm said.

    "Give me control right now." Rostat said.

    "Make me," Nurm said.

    "However you want it. Your career is at an end."  Rostat
switched off.

    He waited for a nioment, settling his temper, and then
made a sudden motion, driving his finger into his nose as fast
and deep as he could.

    No good. The Ewoks got awaay, leaping up above his probing 
finger, as they always did.  He sighed, took up his blaster,
and headed aft.

    Moments  later, he charged into the auxiliary bridge with
his blaster at the ready.

    There was no one in the control chair. But there was 
motion to his right. He spun...

    Too late. Nurm fired first, his stun blast washing across
Rostat's chest. Rostat felt his body go numb and watched with
a detached sort of interest as the floor angled up and knocked
at his head.
    Then he knew only blackness.










Nurm looked anxiously at the fellow officer he'd just  shot.
"Will he be all right?"

    The man to whom he spoke, a human in the uniform of a
colonel, rose from behind the communications console. He
moved over to Rostat's body and prodded it with his toe. "He
should be. If we can figure out what's wrong with him."

    "I couldn't believe it. You showed it to me, and I still can't
believe it. He wanted to crash us."

    "I don't think he did. There's something very wrong going
on in his head, though. But you've saved him from scandal, or
death, or both."

    "Why did you want me to shoot him? I've barely qualified
with blaster pistols! I'm a civilian!"

    The officer  gave him an enigmatic smile. "It's important.
Believe it or not, the fact that you shot him instead of me may
save additional lives. Just remember the story as I've given it to
you."

    He brought out his comlink to summon members of ship's
security to take Rostat into custody,  then transmitted  a few
words, a mission-accomplished code, to his commander.

In an orbital station in high orbit above the far side of 
Coruscant, General Airen Cracken, head of New Republic 
Intelligence, received the officer's signal. He responded with a few
words of congratulation and signed off. He'd get the full report
and offer more appropriate words of praise later.

    He returned to the ancient, scarred desk that served him as
a reminder of his many campaigns and years of service, and felt
the first stirrings of relief. Suddenly, a picture once made up of
shadows and inexplicable shapes was beginning to assume a
form he could understand.

    On his personal terminal, he called up a communications
file, a full holo, and advanced it to a mark he'd placed earlier.

    Wedge Antilles's face and upper  body appeared at one-third 
scale just above Cracken's  desk. The pilot seemed to  be
seated behind a desk of his own, and there was nothing but
white bulkhead wall behind him.

    "Now that the Warlord has  persuaded the New Republic
to institute measures that can be used as precedents when
dealing with future incidents, his next step must inevitably
be to make a breach between the New Republic and one of
the member species that has contributed significantly to our
success.

    "Logic suggests that the Mon Calamari would be the best
choice, since without their engineering expertise and their heavy
cruisers we would have had a much harder time of this war
than we've had. But we suspect that this brainwashing 
treatment may  be confined  for now to mammalian and  
near-mammalian species-it would be much, much harder to devise
a treatment that was equally functional across the wide range
of all sapient species types. So our prediction is that it won't
be Mon Calamari or Verpines at this time.

    "Our best guess is that the next attack will come from 
Sullustans or Bothans. And we have  some ideas about that."

Wedge typed something into the datapad before him; Cracken
supposed that he was consulting notes.

    "Gotals are known as expert hunters. And for the last
several years, Twi'leks, who have traditionally been thought of by
Imperial humans as traders, and not particularly bold beings in
general, have been trying to impress on human cultures the 
importance  of their warrior tradition. We think it's significant
that the Twi'lek and Gotal disasters have involved single 
warriors wreaking havoc. In our opinion, the assaults to come will
correspond in some way to popular stereotypes  and miscon-
ceptions about the species whose members initiate them. If the
next attack is Bothan, it will involve computer slicing-such
as, perhaps, falsified data transmissions that cause disasters. If
the next attack is Sullustan, it's likely to involve  a piloting
or navigating mishap costing hundreds or thousands of lives.
Either way, if it is remotely possible, it's important that the
agents of these attacks be taken alive. Our hope is that they are under
compulsion to do what they're doing, and that the brainwash-
ing technique leaves  some consistent physiological evidence
that New Republic medics can detect."

    Antilles shut his datapad. His gaze, unsettlingly enough,
seemed to seek out Cracken's. "That's the best we have to offer,
General.  But if our predictions come anywhere  close to the
reality  of the next set of mystery terrorist activities,  you can
rely on it being an attempt by Zsinj to create more chaos within
the New Republic, and you can head off the damage his effort
might otherwise cause.

    "Thank you for your time, General. Antilles out." The
hologram of Wedge faded.

    Cracken sat motionless for long moments. The first time
he'd heard this transmission, he'd shaken his head and wished,
once again, that fly boys  would just keep their attention on
their cockpits and out of Intelligence affairs. The second time,
after Cracken had reviewed the evidence on the Twi'lek and
Gotal assaults, it had made a frightening kind of sense ... and
Cracken had begun devoting resources to an investigation based
on the possibility that the Antilles theory was correct.

    Now, Cracken wished that one flyboy, Wedge Antilles,
would pay less attention to his cockpit and devote some more
of his thinking to Intelligence affairs.

    Perhaps he could be lured out of Starfighter Command
and over to Intelligence.

    Cracken made an exasperated noise and  shut down his
terminal. No, not in this lifetime.

    He turned his attention to the ongoing search for evidence
of an upcoming Bothan code-slicing effort that would end in
disaster.











Face Loran woke to the sound of passerby conversation out in
the corridor. He stretched, enjoying the luxury that was to be
his-a few minutes of lazy rest before his alarm went off.

    Then he glanced at the chrono beside  his bed.  The time
was half an hour after his alarm should have awakened him.
He hadn't set it.

    He  swore and threw his sheets off. He had just enough
time to clean up and dress before mission briefing, if he hurried.

    A portion of his terminal's screen blinked at him-sign of
new mail, not yet reviewed. He typed in a command to transfer
it all to  Vape,  his astromech-he'd read it when nothing else
was going on during the Kidriff mission.

The launch bay assigned to the Rogues and Wraiths hummed - 
not just with activity,  but with the bone-cutting whine of
X-wing repulsorlift engines being tested as pilots went through
their prelaunch checklists. And it was cold, the launch door
opened to space, only the magnetic-containment field keeping
the atmosphere safely within... and magcon fields did an 
inadequate job of retaining heat.

    Wedge watched the activity, looking for undue stress or
worry on the part of his pilots.

    Gavin Darklighter. The young Rogue would be flying without 
a wingmate. He'd been sobered by Tal'dira's death, and
still looked unusually serious, but showed no sign of distraction.

    Corran Horn.  It had been only days since  he'd killed a
squadmate, and the speculation that Tal'dira had been 
brainwashed, not a traitor, and therefore theoretically possible to
save, had to be eating at him. He showed no sign of it, his real
emotions safely hidden behind the mask of professional civility
that  CorSec and other police personnel wore when  dealing
with strangers.

    Tyria Sarkin. She'd also been forced to kill a fellow pilot.
She made no secret  of her  distress, and  even now, as she
donned her helmet and climbed into her X-wing cockpit, there
was a sad look to her eyes. But, unlike Horn, she hadn't had to
kill a squadmate, a friend. And she hadn't been as isolated as
Horn; Kell had been there for her. Kell had even persuaded her
to talk to Wes Janson, the man who had been obliged, many
years before, to kill KelPs own father under not dissimilar 
circumstances. Janson had said it had helped  her. Though Tyria
wore her emotions very close to the surface, Wedge felt he had
little to worry about with her.

    Dia Passik. She would not be flying today; the  decision
handed down by the  Provisional Council made it impossible
for her to come along. But it didn't prevent her from 
participating in other ways; she was present, out of uniform,
moving from starfighter to starfighter, offering a recommendation 
here, a wish for good luck there. And, when she thought no one 
was looking, a kiss for Face.

    Elassar Targon. The Devaronian pilot was busily sticking
figurines made of hard-baked bread on various portions of
Runt's X-wing's hull while the Thakwaash pilot ineffectually
tried to shoo him away. More charms. Wedge sighed.

    "You can't just stay here and avoid it," Janson said.

    Wedge looked at the Wraiths's XO. "Come again?"

    "You can't just hang around here, Commander. You have
to get to the Falsehood and face your mistake."

    "What mistake is that?"

    Janson grinned. "Well, of course, you're taking Han Solo's
place in piloting the Falsehood because he really can't keep on
relinquishing command of the fleet for joyrides."

    "Correct. No mistake I can see so far. I have more
experience with Corellian freighters than anyone on Mon Remonda,
excepting Han Solo."

    "And you asked him if Chewbacca would be interested in
coming along as copilot and mechanic. He has all that 
experience keeping disintegrating junk together as it flies."

    "Correct so far."

    "And the general said, sure,  Chewie would be happy to
come along."

    "You're three for three."

    "Wedge, you don't speak Wookiee."

    "I... oh,  Sithspit." Wedge felt some color rising into his
face. Janson was right: In all the mission planning they'd done,
he'd failed to remember that he wouldn't be able to understand
anything his copilot said, though Chewbacca could certainly
understand Basic.

    Janson just stood there, his expression merry.

    Wedge sighed.  "Check with Squeaky and Emtrey. I can't
issue orders for them to go, but if either is willing to
volunteer, I'd  appreciate it. Preferably Squeaky." Though 3PO  units
normally had protocol skills as part  of their programming,
including diplomacy and instantaneous  translation of a 
staggering number of languages, Emtrey's programming was 
optimized for military functions; Squeaky's was better 
suited to this mission.

    "Will do."

    "You haven't mentioned this to the pilots?"

    "Well, yes, I sort of blurted it out when it occurred to me."

    "And what did they say?"

    "They put down bets on what you'd do. So then I had to
go to all the other pilots so they could  get their own bets
down."

    "Who won?"

    "Tyria Sarkin. She said you'd say 'Sithspit.'"

    "You know, you've finally earned my gravest revenge."
 
   "You don't ever take revenge. That's beneath Wedge 
Antilles, Hero of the New Republic."

    Wedge  gave him a smile, one full of teeth, and Janson's
own grin faltered. Wedge said, "Dismissed."












Kell took point, Elassar tucked in behind and beside him as
wingman, and led his TIE interceptor unit in toward Kidriff
Five. The other wingpair, Janson and Shalla, stayed off to their
starboard at the distance prescribed by Imperial regulations.

    The world called Kidriff Five gradually grew in their view-
ports. The planet, at least the hemisphere they could see, seemed
to be dominated by three colors: blue for seas and rusty red for
vegetation, and a lesser amount of gray-white where the planet's
greatest cities lay.

    Comm traffic also increased as they neared the planet.
First was an automated signal directing them into one of the
preapproved approach vectors. As soon as that signal arrived,
Kell transmitted a tight-beam signal back to the Falsehood 
indicating where they could expect first comm contact.

    As they entered the approach vector, they could see, far
ahead of them, tiny lights - at the distances shown on their
sensors, these had to be massive cargo vessels  approaching the
planet.

    When they were close enough to the planet that Kell could
see nothing but its surface unless he leaned much closer to his
viewport, they received the first live transmission. "Incoming
flight, four Sienar Fleet Systems interceptors, this is Kidriff
Primary Control. Please identify yourself and your mission."

    Kell activated his comm unit. "This is Drake Squadron,
One Flight, out of the Night Terror, Captain Maristo 
commanding. We're here for rec-re-a-tion." The emphasis  he put
on the final word suggested a pilot who'd been away from any
sort of entertainment for too long. "Inbound to Tobaskin to
see how much rec-re-a-tion a cargo bay full of credits will buy.'

    "Acknowledged, Drakes.  Transmitting your revised
approach vector. Will your ship be arriving later?"

    "Negative, we're here solo." And that lie conveyed a 
second lie to the traffic controllers on Kidriff Five: that Drak
Squadron consisted of hyperdrive-equipped TIEs. This 
suggested, in turn, that its pilots were very important people. Tt
wasn't uncommon for high-ranking officers to take their 
personal TIEs, with a lower-ranking officer as theoretical 
commander to act as a shield of anonymity for them, on a junke
like this.

    "Understood. Leave your transponders on at all times, by
planetary ordinance. Enjoy yourselves, and welcome to Kidriff
Five."

    Kell compressed the exchange and transmitted it, and th
point in space where he'd received the opening words of th
greeting, back to the Falsehood.

"I do receive combat pay, don't I?" The speaker was Squeaky
situated behind Wedge's seat on the Millennium Falsehood.

    "If we're fired upon, yes," Wedge said. "Otherwise, you
just get hazardous-duty pay."

    Chewbacca grumbled something. Squeaky said, "Shut up
you."

    Wedge grinned. He'd never met a 3PO unit as verbally
abusive as Squeaky.  Most of them, because of standard 
programming and because they knew themselves to be defenseless
attempted to ingratiate themselves with everyone they
met - usually with so much talk they ended up aggravating thos
they wished to befriend. But Squeaky was a manumitted droid
owned by no one, and had a few quirks. "What did he say?"

    "I don't have to  translate comments like that."

    "Translate everything. I'll decide what's important and
what's not."

    "He said he could guarantee I receive combat pay by 
pulling off my legs and hitting me with them."

    "Well, that was very generous of him. You should have
said 'Thank you, maybe later.'"

    "Sir, I think you lack an understanding of this Wookiee's
violence-laden humor."

As soon as they dropped to within twenty kilometers of the
planetary surface over Tobaskin Sector, which was already 
under nightfall, Kell and his fellow Drakes began receiving 
transmissions from sector businesses-some data, some sight and
sound, all extolling the virtues of various entertainment spots
in the region. One transmission was the city government's 
visitor's package, including maps of the region with hundreds of
clubs, bars, hostels, and other businesses highlighted.

    As if unsure as to which of the city's many offerings to
choose, Kell led his group out over one of the sector's deeper
forest tracts. As his pilots exchanged banal comm traffic about
which sites would offer the  most recreation, Kell scanned the
forest floor for life. And when he'd chosen a spot that included
a clearing large enough for the Falsehood but was so deep
within heavy forest that it seemed humans did not frequent it,
he transmitted that data back as well.

    They found a personal-vehicle landing zone near a district
full of brilliantly lit entertainment businesses. They came to
rest there and emerged from the top hatches of their interceptors.

    Kell pulled his  helmet  free,  dropped it  onto his  pilot's
couch, and began removing  other pieces of piloting 
paraphernalia he wouldn't be needing. "Drake Two, Drake Four, keep
all your gear on. You'll be staying with the interceptors."

    Shalla nodded. She slid down to the ground in full gear
and stood at attention before her starfighter, a guard on duty.

    "Aw, no." Elassar sounded heartbroken. He clutched his
chest as though someone had shot him.  "Why me? I'm the
youngest, I'm in the greatest need of fun."

    Dressed only in his black jumpsuit, Kell slid down to his
wing pylon, then dropped  to the ground. He  clambered up
Elassar's interceptor and leaned in close to the younger pilot.

"Let me ask you something,  Elassar."

    "Fire away, sir."

    "You go into one of these wonderfully diverting bars "

    "Yes."

    "You put down your credits."

    "Sounds good so far, sir."

    "You take off your helmet."

    "Well, I'd certainly want to at some point. Even if I were
only getting a drink."

    "What do the other patrons see?"

    "Well, they see the galaxy's best-looking-oh."

    "Devaronian pilot."

    "Right, sir, I get it."

    "How many Devaronian TIE interceptor pilots do you
suppose there are in the Empire?"

    "I understand, sir, I really do."

    Kell shook his head and dropped to the ground.
Wedge set the Millennium Falsehood down so gently that not
even he was fully aware of the transition between repulsorlift
support and the settling of the hydraulic landing skids.

    Chewbacca rumbled something.

    Squeaky said, "Well, of course that was a good landing.
He can't afford to set this flying trash heap down any harder.
Pieces would fall off."

    Chewie's grumbling became louder, more eloquent.

    "What do you mean, this is a good ship? Just this morning
you were calling her names that would peel new paint off a
hull. You're disagreeing with me just to be disagreeable."

    "Captain's leaving the bridge," Wedge announced. "Chewbacca, 
the controls are yours."

    He trotted back to the top of the loading ramp and found
his passengers gearing up, ready to leave. One man and one
woman, both with dark  hair and unmemorable,  average features,
dressed in black pants and tunics decorated with dazzling 
bright zigzag  stripes-this  season's very definition o
tourist in certain portions of the Empire.

    They'd never told Wedge their names. He  thought of t
man as Bland One, the woman as Bland Two.
?????????????????????????????   171
    Rl nd One turned to him, extended a hand. "Thanks for a
    th flight. Much better than some insertions we've been
      h " Bland Two nodded; Wedge couldn't remember her

  n Wedge shook his hand, then activated the ramp control.
?????????????????????????????   171

The access ramp whined but did not budge.

    "I have one pilot," Wedge said, "who'd be certain that
you jinxed it with the compliment." He stomped down on the
nearest portion  of ramp. The mechanism's whine increased in
volume, then the ramp lowered. "Good luck."

    Then they were gone, and the ramp closed again with less
complaint.

    By the time Wedge returned to the bridge, Tycho had 
decoupled from the top hull and his X-wing was settling to the
ground just ahead of the Falsehood's cockpit. Then the X-wing
appeared to vanish as its lights faded. Suddenly they were in
darkness, the trees all around them acting as an impenetrable
wall between them and the city lights. Their only illumination
was the two spots of gold light marking Squeaky's eyes.

    "Well," said Squeaky, "what shall we do now? I know
many mnemonic games. Compare Storerooms is a good one."

    Chewbacca rumbled something.

    "No, I don't know Droid-Crushers."

    Rumble.

    "What do you mean, you'd be happy to demonstrate? Oh,
ha, ha."

    Wedge sighed. For such a short flight in, this was going to
be a long mission.

?????????????????????????????   171
 t was long after the Rogues  and  Wraiths  settled into their
parking orbit around Kidriff's moon that Face remembered his
unread mail.
?????????????????????????????   171
     Vape, put  that new storage through to my comm screen.
 i order of reception, please."
      st was a  letter, text only, from his sister, now at school
       'lormn. It was chatty,  full of details of everyday life,
       tace remembered it. A bright bit of home to distract
?????????????????????????????   172
him from the bleak lunar scape that was his sole viewing 
pleasure right now.

    The second, and last, item was from New Republic Intelligence. 
He had to wade through screen after screen of standard
admonishment  that he  was not to distribute this material,
upon pain of trial and incarceration, before he got to the meat
of the message and remembered what it was all about: his 
recent query concerning Lara Notsil and Edallia Monotheer, the
name she'd been called by the old man on Coruscant.

    The enclosed material was all  classified secret; nothing
had a higher secrecy rating. He hoped the answers he  was
looking for weren't hiding behind a more stringent level of
classification, a level he couldn't access.

    The file on Lara Notsil contained little information he
didn't already know. Much of it she'd told him and the other
Wraiths at one time or another. Born on a farm in Aldivy. 
Decent grades in school. No indication of special aptitudes other
than agriculture. Then,  the data derived from her own 
accounts and a little independent verification: how her 
community refused to offer aid to the enemy by turning over stockpiles
of grain and meats to a former Imperial admiral by the name of
Trigit, how Trigit's ship Implacable had bombarded the town
out of existence. How follow-up troops had found a survivor,
Lara Notsil, and taken her up to the ship. How Trigit, taken
with the girl, had kept her half-comatose on a steady diet of
drugs and made her his unwilling mistress. Until Wraith Squadron
and allied troops had destroyed Implacable. Until Lara had 
escaped in Trigit's personal evacuation pod.

    A rather sparse account. But colonists like the Aldivians,
given to raising their crops and children, didn't devote a lot of
time to more extensive personal records. On  some colonies,
they didn't even carry identification.

    Then the file on Edallia Monotheer. For all that she  was
born on Coruscant, a planet notable for the extent and quality
of its citizen records, her account was scarcely longer than
Notsil's. It had been reconstructed from interviews; all primar
sources about her appeared to have been destroyed.

    Born about fifty years ago. Trained to be an actress. She'd
caught the eye of Armand Isard, father of Ysanne Isard; he was
the head of Intelligence throughout most of the reign of Emperor
Palpatine. Monotheer had trained as an Intelligence agent and
had executed many successful missions for her superiors.

    Then, according to this  account, she had been arrested
and convicted of treason, along with her husband. Both were
executed for funneling information about Imperial Intelligence
to anti-Imperial factions on Chandrila. An opinion annotated
by some anonymous New Republic Intelligence analyst suggested 
that this was a standard technique to cause the death of
a subordinate who had committed some  less significant  
offense, and that Monotheer had  had nothing to do with the
Rebel Alliance.

    Husband. Face found the link to data on Monotheer's 
immediate family and brought it up.

    There was not much of interest there on her husband. He
had a history similar to hers. There were rumors that the two of
them had had a child, but there was no data on file about this.

    But far more interesting than the husband's history was
his name.

    Dalls Petothel.

    Face felt his stomach sink.










"Dawn," said Squeaky.

    The one word, emerging out of blackness, jolted Wedge
out of his light doze. He looked around but could still see no 
illumination other than the droid's eyes. He rubbed his eyes and
swung his booted feet down off the command console. "It
doesn't much look like dawn."

    "If you look straight up, you can see the sky brightening.
All these trees and the buildings beyond keep the early-morning
light from reaching us," Squeaky said.

    Chewbacca stretched, making loud tendon-popping noises,
and rumbled something.

    "Well, yes, since we don't have any light in our eyes, I could
have let you sleep  a few more minutes," Squeaky said.  "But I
was under the impression that the commander here wanted to
know when dawn was. Because as soon as it's day, the more
likely it is we get seen. Or hadn't that thought penetrated the
mass of fur shielding your brain from outside stimulus?"

    Grumble.

    "Well, yes, technically, it is light rather than chronological
markers for daytime that make it more likely we'll be seen, but
my point still  holds..."

    "Quiet," Wedge said. "We may have something."

    On his sensor screen, a small blip had just crossed, in a
straight line, a portion of this  belt of forest about a kilometer
to their south. It had looped around and was now crossing the
same forest a hundred meters or so north of its last passage. As
they watched, it completed this crossing and looped back again.

    "A search grid?" Squeaky suggested.

    "Yes. But it's the only vehicle doing that in the area. So
there's not a concerted search  going on." Wedge read the text
register on his sensor board. The vehicle was tentatively 
identified as a sort  of high-altitude  floater routinely used by police
forces on Imperial worlds. "Probably just a routine flyover of
his territory. He should be here in about fifteen minutes." He
dialed down the broadcast power of his comm unit and acti-
vated it. "Two?"

    "I see it, Leader."

    "Just checking.  Begin your preflight preparations. Out."
He brought the comm system up to full power and selected an
encryption code, then transmitted one phrase: "In the green."

    A moment later, he received an answer, encrypted the same
way. "Two lit." Kell's voice.

    "Drake Squadron is getting ready," Wedge said. "Now we
wait for the locals to flush us."






                         10





In the graying hour of dawn, the police floater heeled over so
far that Wedge was certain that its pilot would tumble out of
his seat if not for strap restraints and the vehicle's bubble top.
The pilot looked down at the Millennium Falsehood, reached
for his control board as if to activate his comm  system, then
spotted Tycho's X-wing.

    Even with the distance between them, Wedge could read
the shock on the pilot's face. "Let's go," he said.

    Rogue Two's nose elevated until the X-wing was pointed
almost straight up, and then Tycho kicked in his main thrusters,
shooting the snubfighter into the air  straight  past the police
floater. He missed the smaller vehicle by less than two meters.
The police pilot unnecessarily slid sideways to get clear of the
X-wing's passage.

    Wedge duplicated Tycho's maneuver, putting  the Falsehood 
into a steep climb. Above, he could see the glow of Ty-
cho's engines. "Chewie, the comm system is yours," he said.

    Chewbacca activated  the comm unit. He grumbled and
roared into it across an open channel. By agreement with Wedge,
these would be insults and curses in the Wookiee's language.

    The Falsehood reached the altitude of the top of this sector's
highest buildings. Wedge leveled off, still traveling  in Tycho's
wake, a sharp maneuver that brought a startled exclamation
from Squeaky... followed by a clatter of metal on metal.

    "Forget to strap in?" Wedge asked.

    "I never forget anything, sir," the 3PO unit said, his tone a
bit miffed. "I merely failed to add 'strapping in' to my list of
things to do. Could you hold her level for a moment?"

    "No." Wedge sideslipped to go around an aggressively tall
skyscraper. There was another clash and scrape of metal from
behind. Tycho rejoined Wedge from the other side of the 
skyscraper,  his X-wing dancing around the Corellian freighter
with the nimbleness only a starfighter could manage.

    Chewbacca grumbled something and indicated the sensor
board. Wedge spared it a glance. It showed a lot of air traffic,
most of it moving in what appeared to be patterns unrelated to
the Falsehood's flight. One group of signals, their number
indeterminate because of their proximity to one another, followed
in their wake at a distance of more than two kilometers; they
faded in and out of the picture as they dipped down below the
level of ground clutter and emerged at intervals. "That's Kell
and the Drakes," Wedge said. "We still need to  be sure we've
been spotted by the world authority..."

    A strong  signal, a blur representing six or more  starfight-
ers, appeared to the north, closing fast.

    "There we go," Wedge said. "Let's bounce out."

    Tycho said, "Consider it bounced." His  X-wing vectored
straight for space.

    "Oh, no," Squeaky said.

    Wedge hauled back on the controls and the Falsehood
followed.

Kell saw Tycho and the Falsehood's sudden flight for space,
and the signals from the distant pursuers just as abruptly showed
altitude gains. He put his interceptor in an upward course-a
near-intercept course aimed at a point not far behind the 
pursuers of the Falsehood.

    As they climbed, he got a clearer look at the group behind
the Falsehood. It was a full squadron, identified by the sensors
as TIE fighters. They'd be on the top of Wedge and Tycho
pretty soon, certainly before the Falsehood left the atmosphere.

    "Drake Squadron, this is Kidriff Primary Control. Please
disengage pursuit of official government forces. This is an 
internal matter."

    "Kay Pee See, this is Drake One. We've been hoping to
evaluate your pilots. Rumor rates them pretty high. Shall I go
back and tell the admiral that you wouldn't let us?"

    "That's affirmative, Drake One. Break off pursuit now or
we'll have to view your action as a hostile one. We'll apologize
very sweetly to the admiral and your survivors."

    Kell cursed. Not every aspect of Kidriff security was sloppy.
He put all discretionary power to thrust and gained even faster
on the Falsehood's pursuers.

Just as the air thinned to the point that the stars shone with
brilliant, unblinking clarity, the first laser blast sizzled past
the Corellian freighter's port side. "A long-distance shot,"
Wedge said.

    Tycho's voice came back, "Easy to hit a flying bathtub like
the one you're driving even with a long-distance shot. Permission 
to engage?"

    "Not yet. Wait until it gets complicated." Wedge spared a
moment to look at his sensors. The squadron of TIEs was only
a kilometer back. Kell's Drakes were only half a klick behind
them and closing fast. And a new signal was on the board-a
second full squad of TIEs from the ground base. It was going to
get complicated soon.

    Moments later, a shot hit the rear shields. On the  sensors,
Wedge saw two wingpairs of  TIE  fighters peel off and curve
around toward Kell's group. 

"That's it," Wedge said.  "Rogue Two, you are free to engage.
Chewie, you have the controls."

He unbelted and moved aft.

    "Sir?" said Squeaky. "You're not leaving this disagreeable
ball of hair in charge of a whole ship? Sir?"

    Wedge clambered into the upper gunport turret and 
powered up. His targeting grid immediately lit up with glows, most
of them red - enemies. Two were out ahead of the others, firing
as they came, probably aiming to overtake the freighter, turn,
and fire from ahead, forcing Chewbacca to adjust the ship's
shields on a constant basis.

  The first of the lead TIE fighters shot past, firing; a laser
hit rocked the ship. Wedge let that one go, but timed its passage,
then sent his gun turret swinging in its wake even before the 
second TIE reached him. That TIE flashed through his crosshairs
and he fired.

    The TIE erupted in a ball of expanding gases. And abruptly
Rogue Two was darting out from beneath the freighter, tucking
into the lead TIE fighter's wake, firing quad-linked lasers.  The
TIE pilot, having lost sight of the X-wing on his sensor board,
having assumed he was too far laterally for the Falsehood's
guns to track him, wasn't maneuvering. Tycho's lasers chewed
through his port solar wing and he tumbled-an uncontrolled
roll that, if he were not rescued soon, might never end.

    Two down. Twenty-two to go. Wedge reset and waited.







"Keep it slow," Kell said, "and keep it sluggish until we break.
Remember, we're supposed to be hyperspace-equipped, less
maneuverable-they'll already have been told what they're 
facing." He sent his TIE interceptor into a comparatively gentle
westward curve, drawing two of the fighters above into his wake,
and was pleased to see Elassar mimicking his move. Janson and
Shalla curved off eastward equally lazily.

    His sensor system shrilled, indicating an enemy laser lock,
and he shouted "Now!" and  cut hard to starboard. A green
laser blast illuminated space where he'd been just a moment
before,  and  two TIE fighters  followed the blast, caught off
guard. They began their turn, but Kell continued his ferocious
maneuver, feeling  his chest compress as the interceptor's 
inertial compensator failed to keep up entirely with the g-forces he
was generating.

    His targets swung into view from the  right side of his
viewport. They, too, were now curving to starboard, but he'd
caught them off guard, and had the advantage of a few seconds
of controlled maneuvering. The leftmost of them jittered in his
targeting brackets. He let it go-that was the easier target, and
that was for his wingman. The second TIE now crossed into his
targeting bracket and jittered, sign of a laser lock.

    He fired. His green lasers bit into the TIE's fuselage where
it glowed brightest.

    Suddenly the TIE's engines glowed much brighter. Smoke
and sparks emerged. The fighter banked to port  and down,
toward the planet's surface. As more and more sparks emerged,
it looked like nothing so much as an artificial comet heading
for its final resting place.

    The second TIE was still intact. It continued looping around
to starboard, cutting its maneuver more tightly than Kell could,
and was now well out of his targeting brackets.

    Then a barrage of lasers struck the fighter from Kell's left.
The shots  tore through its left solar wing array, turning the
wing into a mess of shrapnel, then marching across to the 
fuselage. The fighter detonated, hurling speeder bike-sized pieces
of itself in Kell's path. He juked around the closest of them and
reswallowed his stomach.

    Who'd fired  that shot? He checked his sensors.  "Drake
Two? Where were you?"

    "Sorry, Drake One." Elassar's voice was sheepish. "When
you broke to starboard, I made a mistake and broke to port. I
had to loop around to rejoin you."

    Kell shuddered. His wingman had been gone for those
long seconds, and his rear had been unprotected. He'd talk to
Elassar about it later. "Nice shooting, Drake Two. Let's 
rejoin General Solo," he added for the benefit of the planetary
listeners who would someday soon crack this set of broadcast
encryptions.

    "Yes, sir." Sensors showed Drake Two coming up in his
wake, and Drake Three and Drake Four returning to the primary
course with their targets now off the  screen. But the second
group of TIEs was much closer.

    That trick, pretending to be heavily laden with 
hyperdrives, wouldn't work a second time, Kell knew. But it had
helped even the odds. That was good enough for  now.






Another TIE had fallen victim to Wedge's guns by the time the
leader of the first TIE squadron got smart. The five remaining
TIEs drifted out of the engagement zone and dropped back
toward the intact squadron that was rapidly catching up.

    Wedge  deployed the Drakes behind him in two pairs and
kept Tycho  between them, giving him a five-pointed shield of
fighters to his aft. They were well clear of the atmosphere now,
outbound toward the planet's primary moon, but the remaining
squad and a half of TIEs was gaining rapidly. "Chewie?
How are we doing?"

    He received a long set of rumbling commentary in reply.

    "Squeaky?"

    "He says, in his almost preverbal fashion, that the  shields
are holding, but the relays that permit adjustment  of  the
shields are, as he puts it, 'twitchy.' He thinks some of them may
fail if he continues shunting power between them."

    "Wonderful. All right, Chewbacca, put them  in their 
default settings. We go with fixed shields for now."

    Another long-range shot struck the Falsehood, rocking
the freighter. Wedge heard mechanical  crashes as  something
was jarred loose from a corridor housing. "Break and fire at
will," he said, and saw his escort move out and prepare to en-
gage the enemy again.

    Then there was a sensor signal  from ahead  of  the
Falsehood-a big, complicated signal. And red lasers  flashed
from ahead, all around the freighter, into the ranks of the 
pursuing TIE fighters.

    Chewbacca rumbled something.

    "He knows that, you walking dirt trap. It's the Rogues
and the Wraiths."


???????????????????????????????? 181



Wraiths, and they might cry. S-foils to attack position. Break
by pairs and fire at will."

    Face immediately rose relative to the plane of their flight,
heading up and away from the centerline of the conflict to
come. He  also decelerated,  dropping behind the rest of the
group. Confused, Lara stayed tucked in behind his starboard.

"Wraith One? Two. What's our tactic?"

    Face was a moment in replying. "You'll see," he said.

    The other Rogues and Wraiths fired, a column of red
lasers that passed harmlessly around the Falsehood and her 
escort but with  less delicacy through the oncoming TIEs. Lara
saw one fighter ignite and blow apart.

    But Face held his fire and so did she.

    A moment later, she thought she understood. The screens
of TIEs and X-wings crossed, with pairs of starfighters 
maneuvering wildly to get behind one another. A pair of X-wings shot
out of the flurry of activity with a pair of TIEs in close
pursuit.

Face angled toward them and accelerated, diving opportunistically
toward them, and opened fire. His shots caused the TIE
fighter to spook and pull away from its prey, but Lara's laser
fire was more accurate-her concentrated fire punched through
the TIE fighter's top hatch. There was no explosion, but the thin
atmosphere in the fighter vented and the starfighter went into
straight-line flight, out and away from the engagement zone.

    "Nice shooting, Wraith Two. Thanks."  The comm unit
identified the speaker as Ran Kether.

    "Happy to oblige, Rogue Seven."

    Surely Face would now dive into the main  body of the fight.

    But he didn't. He circled around the periphery of the battle.
Frowning, Lara followed.  She knew her  duty, even when
she didn't understand it.






Tyria was in the flow of the moment. Even when she wasn't
looking at her sensor board, she had a grasp, a comprehension
she'd never really enjoyed before, of where the fighters around
her were in relation to her and to one another. She knew what
they intended. A moment before they  maneuvered, she knew
which way they would turn.






     Three pairs of starfighters-Corran Horn and Ooryl Qyrgg
, in the lead, two Kidriff TIE fighters behind them, gaining to
 optimal distance for a shot, and behind them, Donos and Tyria,
 unable to gain on the lead Rogues.

     Ooryl fell a little behind and Horn swung ahead and
 slightly below him. The maneuver gave Horn a split second of
 advantage, since his pursuers couldn't see the first signs of his
 next action. Suddenly he was behind Ooryl, losing ground to
 the TIEs so quickly that they overshot him. One TIE fighter, its
 pilot obviously experienced, banked to port. The other hung
 there in place for a moment, and Horn took his shot, a quad-
 linked laser barrage. Tyria couldn't tell where it hit the TIE;
 the enemy starfighter blew so suddenly that she wasn't able to 
 register the impact.

     Both Horn and Ooryl banked in the wake of the escaping TIE.

     "How'd they do that?" Tyria asked, surprised. She hadn't
 felt the trick maneuver coming, hadn't predicted it. "That was
 too fast for them to have said anything."

     "Experience," Donos said. "Less chatter, Wraith Four."

     "Sorry."

 "I'm hit!" The voice was young, a little panicky. "Losing shield
 power. Smoke in my cockpit. Lasers indicate malfunction."

     Lara checked her board. The transmission was from Rogue
 Eight, "Target" Nu, the Rodian. He was separated from his
 wingmate and had a pair of TIEs on his tail.

     "I'm coming." That was his wingmate, Kether. "I'm-I'm
 hungup here."

     "Rogue Eight, this is Wraith One." Face's voice. "Come to
 one-nine-four. I'll head in straight toward you and head-to-
 head your pursuit. You pair up with Wraith Two out here and
 stay clear of the engagement."

     "Thanks, Wraith One." The blip that was  Rogue Eight
 vectored toward her and Face. Face headed straight toward it,
 leaving Lara hanging out in the void.

     She  didn't object. She didn't ask for orders. She knew what
 was required of her.

    But she wondered, and her confusion gradually turned to
cold worry in her stomach.





Seven fighters of the combined TIE pursuit force, including the
one Face vaped on his head-to-head run into the center of the
engagement zone, were destroyed before the pursuing squad
leader ordered an evacuation. Donos decided that the man had
to have been assuming the TIE fighters's greater speed and ma-
neuverability would give him all the advantage he needed against
a numerically superior mixed force. But against the Rogues
and Wraiths, he was wrong.

    The surviving TIEs fled planetward, doubtless to form up
with yet another flight group and come once again after the
Rogues and Wraiths. But this time they wouldn't catch up.

    Donos responded to Wedge's order that the group form up
on the Millennium Falsehood. But on his sensor board, Wraith
One and Wraith Two maintained their distance, paralleling the
main group's course a dozen kilometers out.

Lara could still hear a little high-pitched alarm in Rogue Eight's
voice, but that situation seemed to be under control. "I'm getting 
regular power fluxes but no serious drops. I've had to shut
down one starboard engine but I can limp in on three."

    "Group, this is Leader. As soon as we have a little bit of
moon horizon between us and the planet, the Drakes are going to 
separate and head on out to Rendezvous Point Beta. The rest of us will
vector back into space the  planetary sensors can scan, and will
then make the jump to Rendezvous  Point Alpha. Rogue Two, I
want you to delay your jump thirty seconds to make sure all our
damaged snubfighters make the transition to hyperspace."

    "Leader, Two. Understood."

    "Wraith One, Wraith Two, rejoin the group and  prepare
for jump."

    Face's voice was next. "Leader, this is Wraith One. We
need to jump from here and follow you in."

    "Explain that, Wraith One."

    "On a private channel, if you please, Leader."

    The worry in Lara's stomach turned into fear. There were
only so many reasons Face would refuse to let them return to
the group. Most of them involved one or the other of them 
being a danger to the group, such as if one of their X-wings were
threatening to blow up.

    Face was protecting the group, or someone in the group.
And Lara was certain she knew who. He was protecting Wedge.

    From her.

    Face's voice was off the comm waves for a couple of 
minutes. Then he returned. "Wraith Two, have you double-checked
your nav course?"

    "No," she said. "You know, don't you, Face?" Her voice
emerged as a  choked whisper and  she wondered if the comm
unit would even pick it up.

    "I know that you're Gara Petothel," he said. His voice was
quieter, more gentle than she expected it to be.

    She felt a snapping sensation in  her chest, as though her
breastbone had broken. And then there was the sensation of
loss-of the sudden departure from her  life of everything she
considered important.

    But it didn't feel quite the way  she expected it to. Pain
there was, certainly, but she also felt a sudden relief, an
absence of the weight she'd been carrying around since first she decided
she no longer wanted to serve Zsinj, since she decided that her
alliance with the Wraiths was fact, not fiction.

    Like an animal in a hunter's steel-jaw trap, she'd finally
lost that part of her the trap held. The pain was indescribable.
But there was freedom as well. And she knew that she didn't
need to cry anymore.

    "I never betrayed you,"  Lara said.  She was surprised at
how calm her voice sounded.

    "I'm glad."

    "I tried so hard just to be Lara. But they wouldn't let me.
The whole universe wouldn't  let me."

    "Lara, I'm sorry,"  Face said. "I  have to place you under
arrest pending investigation of this whole mess. Power your
weapons systems down. Set your S-foils to cruise position. Don't
attempt any sudden maneuvers."

    "Understood, sir. I'm  complying with your orders."

Face felt sick to his stomach. He had wished, futilely, that he'd
been wrong. But Lara had confirmed it.

    A sudden fear struck him. He had been on a private
communications channel with Lara, had switched to squadron 
channel to handle the Target Nu situation and then to respond to
Wedge's order that he move back to the formation, had switched
to a private channel for his quick talk with Wedge-and then
had gone back to his private channel with Lara. Hadn't he?

    He looked at his comm board. He was now set to squad
frequency. He'd spoken last to Lara on an open channel.

    His stomach suddenly got worse.








Donos heard the words but didn't understand them. "I know
that you're Gara Petothel." He knew that the name Gara 
Petothel meant something to him but he still couldn't force his
mind around the meaning of those words.

    Ah, that was it. Naval officer Chyan Mezzine, a 
communications and intelligence  specialist, had betrayed the New
Republic by sending critical information to Admiral Apwar
Trigit, a minion of Zsinj. Some of that information was what
Trigit used to annihilate Talon Squadron-the X-wing unit 
commanded by Donos. Only he had survived. Then, later, the New
Republic had put out a bulletin on her, indicating that her real
name was Gara Petothel, that she  was actually a deep-cover
agent for Imperial Intelligence. Later, she had been declared
dead, another victim of the destruction of Trigit's Star
Destroyer,
Implacable.

    But Lara Notsil was Gara Petothel.

    Lara Notsil had destroyed his command. Had killed eleven
pilots he had bound together.

    Suddenly he was back there, in the smoky skies above the
volcanoes of Gravan Seven, as ally after ally was ripped from
the sky by Trigit's pilots and their  ambush. Again he felt the
pain of their deaths. It was a selfish pain, part loss, part
realization that he had failed them, part understanding that his life
had changed in a way he could never set right.

    The howl that escaped him was no animal noise. It was the
wail of a man who'd just lost everything dear to him... and
who suddenly had the destroyer of his happiness in his sights.
In spite of comm distortion, the howl made Face's skin crawl.
He knew who it had to be, and a glance at his sensor board
showed Wraith Three turning away from his course to the ren-
dezvous point on an intercept course with Face and Lara.

    Wedge's voice did not sound amused. "Wraith Three, this
is Leader. Return to your original heading."

    Donos did not deviate from his new course.

    Face said, "Wraith Two, come to three-three-two and accelerate 
to full speed." He himself did as he'd ordered, turning away
from Donos and running before him. Lara stayed with him.
It's happening again.





    The words were a wail of anguish inside Tyria's mind.

    Once again  a fellow pilot was making an assault on
friendly target.

    She turned in Donos's wake and returned her S-foils to 
attack position.

    Once again she had to put a fellow pilot in her weapon
sights.

    But this time her target was not just an ally but a friend.
squadmate. "Myn," she said, "please don't do this."

Wraith Three came on inexorably but could not gain on Face's
and Lara's X-wings. But he could fire a proton torpedo, which
would cross the distance between them in seconds and could
achieve a lock on Lara.

    Face neatly sideslipped his X-wing behind Lara's. "Wraith
Three, hold your fire. If you fire, I'm your primary target."

    "Wraith Three, power down or I'll be forced to fire." The
words were being choked out, the voice identifiable as Tyria's.

    "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 in
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 courtmartial."

    "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. 1
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 hyper space.













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 in-
tense 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 
hardwon 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,
Cap tain 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 
re  spect, 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 almost 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 as-
tromech 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 Cast 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."

    "Doit."
    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  'acci-
dental discharge  of a  weapons system' for the time  being.
That's the way it goes in the record until an investigation 
determines otherwise."

    "And when the investigation determines otherwise, I go
through a court-martial."

    "Possibly. But they might not determine otherwise. You
may never know. And if they're obliged to accept the 'accidental,
discharge' theory because nothing else can be determined, your
career will probably survive it. There will come a time, in the
far future, when a peacetime Starfighter Command has too
many pilots, and a blemish much less significant than this one
will torpedo a career ... but that'll be a long time in coming.
Wedge gave Donos a frank and evaluative stare, one he knew to
be intimidating. "Donos, do you know what I think happened?"

    "No, sir."

    "I think that when you realized that Notsil had been partially 
or completely responsible for the deaths of your fellow
Talon Squadron pilots, you lost all control and tried to kill her
in spite of danger to your  fellow pilots and in spite of orders
from a superior officer."

    Donos's face registered shock. "That's what I've been trying 
to tell you. That's what I've been trying to accept responsibility for."

    Wedge shook his head. "You haven't been trying to accept
responsibility. You've been trying to avoid it. Responsibility 
involves owning up to what you've done  wrong and trying to
make up for it."

    "I... don't understand. Once again, I have no idea what
you're saying."

    "Why did you lose control? More specifically, why were no
members of your squadron aware that you might lose control?"

    "Obviously, there's something still wrong in my head."

    "And obviously, you've discussed this problem with the
medics."

    "No, sir."

    "You've discussed it with your wingmate."

    "No, sir."

    "Whom have you discussed it with in order to improve the
situation?"

    Donos looked away,  struggling to  keep distress off
face. "No one, sir."

    "Donos, that's the responsibility you've dodged. Now,0"
ther you're fit to fly or you're not. How do we find out?"
the  I
??????????????????????????????197
    "I guess I talk to the medics."
    "Talk to one of your squadmates first. One or more of
     v^nfine whatever pressure is in you is easier to survive if
fnPrTl. VCii*--111^?            if-           Aii     11
   done in atmosphere rather than in vacuum. And then talk
to the medics."
    "I guess I talk to the medics."

    Donos didn't meet his gaze, but nodded.

    "You're off the active flying roster until someone can tell me
whether you're fit to fly. And you're not the person to tell me."
    Finally Donos looked at him and nodded again. "Under-
??????????????????????????????197

    "You did one thing  right today, Donos. You probably
don't even know it. Your flight recorder and your astromech
both indicate that you  detonated your  torpedo before it hit
Captain Loran."

    "I don't remember that, either."

    "But it's the one reason that stands between you and my
instant acceptance of your resignation. Dismissed."

    Donos took his feet from the desk. "Before I go, may I ask
something?"

    "Go ahead."

    "In the bay, you asked me something. You asked if we met
Lara again, which Wraith I'd want to kill her instead of me. I
still don't understand why you asked. What the question even
means."

    "Well, answer the question. Then I'll explain why I asked."

    "I'm not sure I can. I don't want to kill her, not anymore. I
don't want her to be dead. I'm not even sure I want her 
punished. She was an enemy when she gave Admiral Trigit the data
on my squadron, then she became something that wasn't an
enemy." His shrug suggested helplessness. "I don't know what
I want."
??????????????????????????????197
     That's what I thought. One reason I asked was to gauge
  ur^ reaction to the thought of somebody killing Lara. You
        - that idea. And I also asked so you'd think about this:
       n up against her in an adversarial  situation, and-in
        likelihood that you'll be piloting by that time-you

      "       in and aSSauh Her? yøU may Provoke her into

??????????????????????????????198

    "Yes, sir."

    "If your squadmates see you having trouble with an enemy,
they may come in to help you. Correct?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "Which puts them in the position of possibly having to kill
her. Which also puts her in the position of possibly having to
kill one of them. The other half of that question was, which of
your squadmates are you willing to sacrifice?"

    "None, sir."

    "Then get your  head fixed. Or  I will  accept your
resignation."

    Donos rose and saluted. The expression on his face was a
glum one. But, Wedge reflected, at least it was an expression.

    When Donos and his boot were gone, Wedge let out a sigh
and tried to relax. He'd had too many years of command not
to have some experience at taking the attention  and thoughts
of a pilot and redirecting  them, but it was still an effort, one
that filled his gut with acid.

    Donos was on the edge. Wedge recognized that. One step
the wrong way and he'd be lost as a pilot, too erratic and undis-
ciplined to be trustworthy.

    But he hadn't quite taken that step,  and if  Wedge could
keep him from taking it, he'd save the New Republic the stag-
gering number of credits that had been spent on  Donos's pilot
training.  He might even save a man whose warlike skills and
impulses would not translate well to civilian life.

    There was another rap at the door.

    "Come."

    Wes  Janson strolled  in, datapad in  hand,  and stopped
short. He stared at Wedge's bootless  foot. He said, "Should I
ask?"

    "Not unless you'd like me  to decide on a new place for my
boot to go."





                          II






She was drifting, in pain, and knew she did not want to awaken.
But something would not let her sleep. Not just the pain in her
back. She opened her eyes.

    Pink, she was floating in a sea of pink. No, nothing so
poetic-she was suspended within a bacta tank, and the pain
she felt suggested she was going to be here for some time to come.

    But a female technician with a perky smile was outside,
gesturing for her to rise to the top, so she gave a few feeble
kicks and floated up through the cloying liquid.

    When she broke the surface, a hand, a male hand, reached
down to help disengage the breather unit from her face. When
her vision cleared, she recognized the individual leaning across
the top of the bacta tank, reaching in to assist her: it was that
Twi'lek lawyer, Nawara Ven.

    "Doctor Cast," he said, "I have an offer for you. One half
a million credits. Amnesty for all crimes to which you provide
confession and full details. And a new identity-quite  easy to
manage, as you are already officially dead; only a couple of
medics and three officers know you're still alive. But this offer
is only valid if you can tell us, among other things, the 
biological signs and  markers that indicate when someone has been
subjected to Zsinj's brainwashing techniques."

    Cast let a slow smile spread across her features. "My, you
have been doing your research."








"We'll keep today's meeting short," Wedge said. He looked
out over his audience of pilots, trying to gauge their mood.

    They were quiet. Few wisecracks. Little banter. They were
even refraining from badgering Elassar Targon. A bad sign;
morale was low.

    "A recent attempt by a Sullustan pilot to crash a luxury
liner onto Coruscant was thwarted by a fellow Sullustan officer. 
An attempt, also on Coruscant, by a Bothan civil services
employee to cause an explosion at a power center was thwarted
by his supervisor. Though, officially, both incidents were 
prevented by fellow workers, unofficially, they were prevented by
New Republic Intelligence - who were following the blueprint
we sent them for Zsinj's operations. General Cracken sends his
personal congratulations to the members of Wraith Squadron
and Rogue Squadron who participated in our prediction  
sessions. Yes, Face?"

    "Does this mean that the order keeping the Twi'lek crewmen 
off active duty is rescinded?"

    "No.  Officially, it's not." He nodded toward Dia Passii
"Unofficially, it is, pending an upcoming vote  by the 
Provisional Council. Dia, you're back on duty."

    "That's not good enough," Face said.

    "I know," Wedge  said. "Zsinj has still wounded the New
Republic.  We're going to have to bear up under it until the
wounds close, and be  happy that we prevented similar mea-
sures from being handed down against Sullustans and Bothans.
But, Dia, it's up to you. Do you want to fly?"

    "I'll fly," she said.  "I want my shot at Zsinj."

    "Good, because we have a heavy schedule  ahead of us."

Wedge activated the holoprojector. The image of a broad  belt
of stars appeared beside him, with numerous points of light
blinking within it. "We're going to be bouncing in and out of
Zsinj-controlled space, hitting his territories in some places,
showing up in our ersatz Millennium Falcon in others. We'll
also be moving through the borders between New Republic
territory and Zsinj's, performing some routine assaults. Horn?"

    The Rogue pilot lowered his hand. "Sir, Lara Notsil isn't
just gone, she has to have defected. She really has nowhere to
go but the Empire or Zsinj, and that's a fifty percent chance
that the Falsehood scheme has been compromised."

    "That's a very good point. It all boils down to the question
of whether or not we believe her last transmissions. That she
still considers herself a loyal Wraith. That she never betrayed
us. Do you believe her?"

    "No," Horn said. "She may have believed what she was
saying. But after talking to some of the Wraiths about her 
behavior, reviewing her conduct before Kidriff Five,  I tend to
think  she's a situational conformist with a few bolts loose in
her skull. If she ends up in Zsinj's hands, she'll probably end up
being  a loyal officer of Zsinj's."

    "That's a reasonable interpretation," Wedge said. "Don't
think  I haven't considered it. But I don't believe it. I think
that the Falsehood plan will remain secure, just as the Hawk-bats
plan did. However, since I'll be staking my life on this conclusion, 
and those of my pilots, I'll accept, without prejudice, any
request for transfer any of you  has to offer me. Make them
through  routine channels after this briefing.

    "More good news. We are  now in the possession of 
information about the blood markers that indicate Zsinj 
brainwashing in a variety of humanoid species. All members of this
task force, from General Solo to the most junior civilian 
crewmen, will be tested, and anyone returning from a shore leave or
unmonitored departure from the fleet will be retested. We will
not face the tragedy  of Tal'dira and Nuro  Tualin  a second
time." He saw some expressions brighten.

    "All right, Among our new weapons is a lot of data about
the way  Zsinj moves into a system currently in enemy hands
and acquires control of businesses there." That had been
another  benefit of the first interview with Dr. Cast; her uncle had
helped him acquire his majority share in Binring Biomedical on
Saffalore, and  had  told her of the precise techniques he had
used.  "On Zsinj-held worlds, we'll be making strikes against
the businesses that have to be providing him with the greatest
amounts of money or necessary materiel, and we'll be 
escorting more appearances by the Millennium Falsehood-both to
lure him into an attack on General Solo and, we hope, to make
him paranoid about treason on worlds he holds."

    There was  more to it than that, details Wedge  couldn't
give his pilots. There were no Imperial-held worlds on the task
force's hit list, because General Solo was forwarding to Admiral 
Teren Rogriss that same information about Zsinj's  business
dealings. New Republic Intelligence would be ferreting out
Zsinj-held businesses in New Republic territories, hoping to
use some to lure Zsinj into a trap, cutting off Zsinj's precious
pipelines of money and materiel from others... and Imperial
Intelligence would be doing exactly the same thing in Imperial-
controlled territories.

    General Solo and Admiral Rogriss, senior officers of two
enemy governments making agreements that would be easy to
interpret as treasonous... Wedge had to shake his head over
that. It took a menace like Zsinj to make temporary allies oi
two men who would otherwise be bitter opponents.

    "So. Mission One." He shifted the holoprojector image to
a single solar system, that of a red gas giant. "This is the Bel-
smuth system in Zsinj-controlled space. On the second planet in
the system is what used to be one of the Empire's finest tech
nical universities. Now it's an academy for Zsinj's pilots anc
officers. Two days from now, it's going to be a series of craters.
Rogue Squadron will escort Nova Squadron in from  north of
the facility..."










"Lieutenant Petothel. Delighted to meet you."

    At the foot of the ladder to her X-wing cockpit, Lara
shucked her helmet and turned to face the speaker. The man
advancing toward Lara was tall and lean, with the cruelest 
features she'd ever seen on a human being. The nails on the hand
he offered gleamed like mirrors. She suspected that they were
as sharp as a vibroblade.

    She put on a broad smile that masked the sudden churning
in her stomach. "I recognize your voice. General Melvar?" She
took his hand.

    "Correct. Welcome to Iron Fist. And thank you for dress-
ing for the occasion."

    Lara smiled. She'd left her New Republic flight suit at
Hawk-bat Base and was now dressed in a TIE fighter's black
jumpsuit, though it was adorned with the standard X-wing
flight gear. "I can't tell you how happy I am to be here at last."

    Melvar's gesture took in her X-wing and her astromech,
which was now  being extracted from  its  berth by a hangar
electromagnet. "Are you making a presentation to us of this
vehicle?"

    "No." She laughed. "This Rebel starfighter and its 
astromech are all the property I have in the galaxy. If the warlord
doesn't choose to employ me, I'll need them to continue on. To
find someplace to call home."

    "Oh, I think the least you can count on is a medium-term
civilian contract. You're far more likely to receive an officer's
posting on Iron Fist. But let's find out." Melvar led Lara out of
the hangar, which otherwise was occupied by Imperial-style
vehicles and personnel. From the number of TIE interceptors
and Lambda-class shuttles, she  suspected that this was the 
senior officers' hangar.

    She was sure of it a minute later-its proximity to Zsinj's
personal office made it a certainty. She was led into the 
presence of the warlord like an honored guest. Zsinj actually rose
as she entered the office, giving her a little formal bow. "Gara
Petothel. So happy to meet you at last."

    "You're the warlord," she said, keeping her voice pert. "I
won't try to compete with you in degrees of happiness."

    Zsinj's smile broadened. "Very  good. She gives me my
due, yet steals it back by making her  presence the one that
induces more happiness. Did you see that, General?"

    "I  saw."  The general hovered, standing a meter behind
Lara's chair, to the left. She forced herself to stay relaxed. She
couldn't let him know how tense his presence made her.

    "Lieutenant  Petothel-may I call you  Gara, at least until
we have questions of your employment settled?"

    "Please do."

    "Gara, we must know." The general's mobile features took
on an expression of sympathy, of worry. "We dispatched a
team to make arrangements for your employ, and possibly
your extraction, to Aldivy. We received word from their 
contacts several days later that our agents had  been  found - or,
rather, their bodies, badly decomposed. What happened?"

    Lara offered a little sigh of vexation. "I traveled to Aldivy
in the company of an officer of Wraith Squadron. I'd intended
to make an offering of him and his X-wing to the contact team.
He was the final member of Talon Squadron, which I helped
Admiral Trigit destroy. I thought he was one lingering detail I
ought to deal with. But what I didn't know until later is that
the idiot had fallen in love with me. He was supposed to stay
with the X-wings; instead, he followed me. Well, in my 
opening negotiations with your captain, my brother-that is, the
real Lara Notsil's brother-got  testy, drew  a blaster, just a
show of intimidation... and Lieutenant Donos  fired upon
him, killing him. Then he finished up by killing your captain. I
had to cover up my tracks after that, not attempt any further
communications with  you for a while, as I was under some
scrutiny during the review."

    Zsinj nodded. "But, obviously, you came away clean."

    "Oh, yes. For a while. Unfortunately, on Coruscant, one
of the Wraiths stumbled across some information on  my mother,
who'd  been with Imperial Intelligence. He noticed a 
resemblance, did some research ... and then confronted me during a
mission. With my cover blown, with it now impossible for me
to uncover any more information to offer you, I fled."

    "How did you manage to contact us?"

    Though Zsinj's expression was open, innocent, Lara knew
he had to be aware of every fact of the story. Still, she was 
playing his game by his rules. "When  my so-called brother 
contacted me initially, he mentioned a company that might want
to employ me-that is, Lara, his real sister. After I  was forced
to flee Mon Remonda, I decided to look into that firm, in case it
was a front for your operations. And it was, one you'd set up
only a couple of weeks prior to the first contact I received."

    "Well, excellent."  Zsinj reviewed  a screen full of data  on
his terminal, data Lara could not see. "I am, unfortunately, too
oressed for time to give you all the attention I should like, so
let's jump straight into the dogfight, shall we? I can offer you a
commission at the rank of naval lieutenant. You'd be an 
analyst aboard Iron Fist. While you go  through your first  few
weeks of orientation, we'd like to pry from you every bit of
knowledge you can give us on Mon Remonda, General Solo,
Commander Antilles, and Antilles's squadrons. Does that suit
you?"

    Lara made her voice a purr. "It suits me very well. May I
keep my X-wing and R2 ?"

    Zsinj's face registered mild surprise. "Why would  you
want to? We can give you something far better."

    "Well, they're souvenirs. Of my victory over a rather 
vehement idiot named Atton Repness. They used to belong to him."

    Zsinj exchanged a blank look with Melvar, then shrugged.

"Of course. We have a deal, then? Excellent. Welcome to Iron
Fist, Lieutenant Petothel."

    Lara shot to her feet, schooling her features to absolute
blankness, and saluted.

    Zsinj  looked  startled for a moment, then chuckled. "I
admire the way you switch gears, Lieutenant. You're off duty
until we come up with an itinerary for you. One of those 
pasty-faced ensigns out there will take you to your new quarters and
act as your guide for your first few days. Wander as you will.
And welcome." At last, he returned her salute.

    "Thank you, sir." With military precision, she spun on her
heel and exited the office.

The "pasty-faced ensign" awaiting her outside was anything
but. Tall, dark-haired, and solemn, he had the hard look of a
front-line soldier who'd received a field promotion. He 
identified himself as Ensign Gatterweld and led her first back to the
hangar where her X-wing waited-so that she might pick up
her R2 unit, Tonin-and then to her quarters. He spoke little.

   It was a long walk, and the finality of what she'd done 
finally hit Lara.

   She was surrounded by countless tons of machinery whose
sole purpose was to rain death down on people she had 
ultimately chosen to protect.

    Except for one R2 unit, she was alone, a secret enemy of
those who now employed  her, a public  enemy of those to
whom she desperately wanted to return.

    She saw a trapezoidal little utility droid zipping along the
hall, steering like a frightened animal out of the path of
officers walking along the corridor, and imagined herself the human
equivalent of such a machine-so small and inconsequential
that she posed no threat, that she could not determine even the
smallest detail of her own fate.

    Then, five steps later, she realized how she was going to
destroy Iron Fist.








"What do you think?" Zsinj asked.

    Melvar let his features go slack. All the menace and cruelty
in them vanished. "Certainly, some of what she was saying was
the truth. I just have difficulty trusting Intelligence types."

    "Such as yourself."

    "I was never with Imperial Intelligence. I just saw them as
a likely enemy and schooled myself in their skills and tactics."
Melvar shrugged. "I've received early word from the technicians 
examining her astromech. It's a new-model R2, vell much state-of-the-art,
and has received a recent memory scrub. It remembers the jump from Aldivy 
to our rendezvous point, but nothing else. It had a restraining bolt on 
it when she arrived."

    Zsinj  smiled. "Very appropriate. Innocuously appropriate. 
Keep a close eye on her. Extract every possible bit of 
information out of her.  If she remains loyal, reward her.  If she
proves to be disloyal..."

    "I can guess the rest."

????????????????????????????????????206








 "Why me?" Janson asked.

    He lay on his bunk, hands behind his head, looking dubiously
at his visitor.

    "I can't go to a friend," said Donos. He sat in Janson'i
chair, leaning back on its rear legs so his shoulders rested on
the wall. "I don't have any."

    "Not since you shot at the last one."

    Donos managed a mirthless smile. "I can't go to a subordinate 
officer. I'd just feel uncomfortable. Or to a superior."

    "Which leaves the rest of us lucky lieutenants."

    "Pretty much."

    "So talk. I'm game. It's been years since I ruined the life of
a fellow lieutenant. Well, weeks, anyway."

    "I'm not sure where to begin. I don't know whether I'm
crazy or not. I just know that before Talon Squadron was 
destroyed, I  was a different man. Self-control, self-composure
were easy.  Afterward, I had to work so hard to manage everything. 
If I didn't..."

    "If you didn't, what?"

    "I don't know. I never found out. I was so good at managing 
everything. Except for  that collapse. And the other day,
with Lara."

    "How many times did Lara slap you?"

    "Slap me? Never."

    "Why not?"

    "I never gave her reason to."

    "Right. Since  you became a pilot, how many times have
you been picked up by military police for being drunk and
belligerent?"

    "Never."

    "But you drink."

    "In moderation."

    Janson sighed. "You see, I was  operating under the assumption 
that you'd actually died with Talon Squadron but
had failed  to notice. But I was wrong! You've been dead since
you joined Starfighter Command. Maybe longer, maybe since
you were with the  Corellian armed forces."

    Donos frowned. "I'd appreciate it if you'd explain that."

    With a single, fluid move, Janson sat upright, spun ninety
degrees to  his right, and set his heels on the floor. "Sure," he
said. "It's simple. You're dead. I'm not. Let me demonstrate."
He stood up on his bed, then began bouncing up and  down.
"Did you ever do this as a kid?"

    "Of course."

    "Did you ever do it as a grown-up?"

    "Of course not."

    "You say 'of course' a lot, and it's always wrong. Tell me,
Myn. How do I look?"

    "Well, stupid."

    "Exactly!" With an exuberant bound, Janson leaped off from
his cot, smacked his head on the ceiling, and swore as he j
??????????????????????????????????????208
landed on the floor again. He rubbed his head and glared at I
the treacherous ceiling. "When was the last time you looked i
stupid?"

    "I don't know."

    Janson leaned in close to him. "Try  to understand this. I'll
say it slowly. I want you to remember it for the rest of your
life, j
??????????????????????????????????????????

    "You can't look dignified when you're having fun."

    "Assuming that's true-so what?"

    "If you're not having  fun,  you're not enjoying your life. If
you're not enjoying your life-why even bother being alive?"
Janson gave an eloquent shrug. "Myn, I'm living on borrowed
time. I've nearly been killed more times  than, than, well, more
times than you've been slapped, certainly. If I wait until some
imaginary distant point in my life to start enjoying it, I'll be
dead before I  get there. But if I get killed tomorrow, at least
it can be pretty  sure that I enjoyed myself more than whoever's is
killing me. You understand?"

    "Not really."

    Suddenly deflated, Janson sat on his bed again. "Let's try it
a different way. You want  to be in control so you don't foul up
some horrible way. But you're so in control that you're
basically a walking dead man. Since you're dead, you had nothing
to offer Lara. You  have  nothing to offer  Wedge-he's got
plenty of dead pilots, doesn't need another one. Most of them
are smart enough to stay where we plant them, though."

    "So what do you recommend?"

    "Get drunk. Get slapped. Do something you always wanted
to do as a child, especially if it's something that would
humiliate you today. If you're going  to get kicked out of Starfighter
Command, make it for something you can be proud of." Something 
beeped in one of Janson's pockets. He pulled it out, a
comlink, and held it up to his ear to listen. He brightened. 
"Automatic signal. The Rogues and the Millennium Falsehood are
back. No losses. Sorry, I have to run, have to figure out what to
razz Wedge about." He darted for the door and was gone.

    Donos shook his head. "I'm asking career advice from a
nine-year-old."








The door to the Falsehood's hangar slid open before Janson
reached it. Out came a repulsorlift cargo sled, pushed by a 
single Mon Remonda technician. On the sled was a crate, two 
meters long by one wide and high. The crate rocked on the sled
and odd noises, like a faint and garbled voice, emerged from it.

    Wedge  walked out behind the technician and stopped
short when  he saw Janson. He made a noise of exasperation
and slapped the gloves he carried into his open palm. "You
weren't supposed to see that."

    "See what?" Janson stared after the departing technician
and cargo. "What was that?"

    "That was Lieutenant Kettch."

    Janson  gave Wedge a close look. Wedge certainly didn't
look crazy.  "Um, please correct me if I'm wrong, but 
Lieutenant Kettch is fictitious. An Ewok pilot who doesn't exist. 
I should  know. I made him up."

    "He's not fictitious anymore."

    "Now he's real?"

    Wedge stepped out so the hangar door could close behind
him. "On planetside, while we were waiting for the Falsehood
to be spotted, Tycho found a store where they sold exotic 
animals to wealthy Zsinj supporters who enjoy that sort of thing.
One of the 'animals' was a full-grown Ewok male named
Chulku. When we were preparing to blast off and do our usual
number on the pursuit, Tycho staged a jailbreak and we brought
Chulku along. While we were flying back, I had an idea - if
Zsinj ever does need to see the Hawk-bats, we could have an
actual Lieutenant Kettch for him." He nodded after the sled.
"Chulku is pretty bright, and we think we can teach him which
TIE interceptor controls to touch and which not to - I doubt;
we can teach him to fly without years of education, but we can 
make him look authentic in a cockpit."

    "That's crazy."

    "Now  we just need to build him those prosthetic hand-
and-leg attachments Kettch is supposed to have so he can ma-
nipulate a starfighter's controls."

    "Still crazy."

    Wedge smiled. "And since you had the bad luck to witness
his arrival, you get to be part of the crew who takes him food.
Welcome to the conspiracy, Wes."

    Janson shook his head. "Now I'm crazy."








The TIE interceptor hurtling toward Lara in a head-to-head
run juked and jinked in what seemed like a random pattern,
but the maneuvers did not seem to throw the pilot off. His
linked laser fire angled in ever more accurately toward Lara's
interceptor.

    She, too, threw her starfighter back and forth, up and
down, in an effort to keep the enemy laser fire from hitting her.
????????????????????????????????????210
She was successful-the two fighters passed with no damage to
her craft. But she hadn't gotten off a single accurate shot at her
enemy.

    The second she flashed passed the enemy TIE, she hauled
back on the flight stick, gaining relative altitude with such a
sharp maneuver that she felt the g-forces pull  her down into
her pilot's couch despite the ship's inertial compensator. A 
moment later she was upside down and headed back the way she
had come...

    Straight into the path of her opponent.

    The enemy pilot fired a split second before she could bring
her lasers  in line. Her TIE shuddered under the impact and
slewed to port.

    But it held together. There was no shriek of hull breach, no
warning of imminent detonation. She'd been grazed.

    "I'm hit!"  she said. "I'm done for." She jerked her control
yoke to send her spinning in the direction  she was already
headed.

    She counted to two, then snapped her interceptor back
around to face her opponent. The enemy TIE jittered in her 
targeting computer...

    But he was much closer than she would have guessed, a
mere quarter kilometer away, and was already lined up for a
shot. Before she could hit her laser trigger, the sensor system
shrieked a recognition of her enemy's targeting lock...

    Then her viewport went dead.

    The artificial gravity, which simulated zero gravity and
high-angle maneuvers, turned off and she dropped at full weight
into her pilot's couch. She sighed.

    A voice crackled over her comm unit. It was deep, with a
trace of the Corellian accent that occasionally crept into the
speech of Han Solo and Wedge Antilles. "That was very good
flying. And the last trick, pretending to be out of control, al-
most fooled me. I commend you."

    "Who am I talking to?"

    "My name is Fel. Baron Soontir Fel."

    Lara's insides went cold. When she was a crewman aboard
Implacable, she'd never even been aware of the presence of Fel
and the 181st there, so secret had their mission been. Now, at
last, she'd be able to meet the most dangerous pilot who served
her enemies.

    With her fear, there was a rush of elation. With Wraith
Squadron, Lara had flown in simulators against Wedge 
Antilles, the best the New Republic had to offer. Now she had
flown against Baron Pel. She'd competed against the very best
pilots two governments had to offer.

    Too bad she lost most of the time.

    "A pleasure to meet you," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't 
offer you more competition."

    "Don't be," he said. "You're very good. More work, and
you might train up to the standards  of the One Eighty-first.
Shall I keep you in my records as a candidate for the group?"

     'I'd be honored. Can I buy the victor a drink?"

    "Unfortunately, I have more simulations to fly - and it 
appears that you don't. Some other time, though."

    The hatch behind Lara opened  and Ensign Gatterweld
thrust his face in. "Need any help?"

    "No, thank you." She was getting sick of the ubiquitous
Gatterweld. Except when she was in her quarters, in the tiny
office where she wrote her commentary on her time with Wraith
Squadron, and in simulators, Gatterweld was there. Her shadow.

    She undipped the netting that, in a real TIE interceptor;
would have kept her bound in place on the pilot's couch, and
threw it to one side, then hauled herself backward and out of
the open hatch at the rear of the ball-shaped  simulator. OuM
side, the air was cooler and the omnipresent hum of Iron Fist's
engines was in her ears again.

    Gatterweld handed her the pack in which she carried her
datapad and other equipment. He looked at the control board
where her standings were displayed. "You did pretty well."

    "Do you fly?"

    "I can pilot shuttles now. I don't have  the reflexes for
starfighters. Hand to hand is my game. Where to now? The
cafeteria?"

    Lara checked her chrono.  "No, it's late.  I  think I'll just
turn in."

    As they walked past the banks of control stations set up to
monitor the simulators, she saw what she needed-a device she
would kill for. A set of monitor goggles and attached 
microphone. They lay unguarded on one of the control stations,
their owner away, perhaps on break.

    As she and Gatterweld passed the station,  she contrived to
get her left foot tangled in his legs. He tripped forward, 
swearing, while she stumbled and fell sideways-snatching up the set
of goggles and tucking them into her pack as she hit the floor.

    He scrambled to his feet. "I'm sorry. Are you hurt?"

    She took the hand he offered and let him  half haul her to
her feet. She winced as she put her weight on her left leg. "A
bruise, maybe. Not your fault. I think I had a cramp from all
the time in the simulator."

    "Can you walk? I can summon a stretcher..."

    "No, I'd better walk it off. Thank you."

She maintained the pretense of her limp all the way to the door
to her quarters, and inside as well-though she hadn't spotted
the holocam, she knew there had to be one. Or two, or three.
She wasn't trusted, and with Zsinj in charge, that meant there
were holocams on her in her quarters.

    She set her pack down inside the closet and took a look
around. She'd been given sizable quarters, appropriate to a naval
lieutenant on track to promotion. She actually had a decent-sized 
bedroom  with a full terminal and a closet, a small office,
and a separate refresher chamber. Much better accommodations
than she'd enjoyed on Mon Remonda.

    Tonin, her R2, sat in the middle of the bedroom. He came
alive when she entered, offering up whistles and clicks that she
interpreted as a polite interrogative. He was almost a stranger
to her  now, had been so since she'd wiped his memory on
Aldivy.

    But that would change soon.

    "I'm fine, Tonin. Just tired."

    Once in bed, she deliberately changed position every two
or three minutes, tossing and turning, a show of insomnia for
whoever was monitoring her  holocams. She did this for an
hour. Then she sat up and ran a hand through her catastrophi-
cally tousled hair.

    Tonin beeped another question.

    "Sorry, but I'm going to need the patch of metal  where
you're resting. Scoot into the closet, would you?"

    With a series of musical tones suggesting that he was hurt
by her  suggestion, Tonin rolled into the closet. He turned his
head around so his main holocam eye could still observe her.

    Lara rose and pulled the mattress from  her bed onto the
floor, then redistributed pillows and sheets on it. She made sure
that one of the sheets reached as far as Tonin's wheels.

    She reached into the bag in her closet  and hunted around
for something within it with her left hand. With her right, she
extracted the monitoring goggles and scooted them under the
edge of the  sheet on the floor, then plugged the goggles' cord
into a jack  in Tonin's side, hoping-nearly certain-that her
body shielded the action from the viewpoint of most  of the
places holocams might be situated in her room.

    Finally she grasped  the object  that she'd  pretended not
to be able to find. She stood and stared at it,  turning  so the
holocams could get a good look at it. A bottle of tuber liquor
from Aldivy, nasty stuff the locals there adored.

    She stared at it for long moments, as if contemplating its
medicinal qualities, then shook her head and placed it on the top
shelf of her closet. A moment later, she slipped under the sheets
over her mattress, rolled around a moment to find the most 
comfortable spot, pulled the sheets up over her head, and lay still.










The very junior intelligence officer watching this display began
typing, ever so tentatively, into his terminal. 24:00 hours, he
typed. Subject situated herself on mattress on floor. Entered
sleep  state almost immediately.  First considered  alcohol as
soporific, but decided against. Cause of sleeplessness unknown.
Bed too soft? Guilt?

    "Don't forget simple stress."

    The voice sounded right in  his ear and he jumped two
handspans. He'd thought he was alone in the room. He looked
up into the face of General Melvar. "Uhh, thank you, sir. We'd
call that occupational anxiety or excitement from lifestyle
transition."

    "Do you get paid more for using more words?"

    "No, sir, but the medics like them."

    Melvar snorted. "Well, add it any way you want to."

    "Yes, sir."

    Melvar spared one last look at the overhead view of Lara's
still bed, then left as quietly as he'd arrived.











With movements almost imperceptibly slow, Lara drew the
monitoring goggles onto her head and turned them on. The
goggles, drawing power from the link with Tonin, activated
with a faint hum.

    She whispered, "Tonin. Aldivian colloquialism. Definition:
Little Atton."

    Then she waited.

    If she was right, if she'd done her work correctly, the 
passwords she'd just spoken would be causing events to transpire
deep within her R2 unit. The extra hardware she had buried
within his power unit would be activating. The memory backup
it contained would be pouring out across the droid's  
circuitry, appending itself to and overwhelming Tonin's current
programming.

    And in a few moments, once again, she would have a...

    A single word, READY, appeared before her eyes. It looked
as though it were sculpted out of metal and floating in darkness
a meter from her, but she knew that it was merely being pro-
jected onto the goggles she wore.

    "Don't communicate audibly,"  she  whispered, though
Tonin's transmission of his first query as text suggested that he
understood the need for secrecy. The fact that all data being
transmitted between them was going across a direct wire 
connection made it very unlikely that her observers would be able
to detect their communication. "Before we do anything, I want
to apologize."

    FOR WHAT?

    "For being selfish," she whispered. "I  shouldn't have
brought  you. I've put you in danger. I may get myself killed
here, and if I do, the same will probably happen to you."

    I'M GLAD I'M HERE.

    "Me, too. You're my only friend, Tonin." She closed her
eyes for a moment, all too aware of how pathetic that sounded.
Then she forced them open. "I also have to apologize for what
I've done to you. I wiped your main memory on Aldivy. Any-
time anyone but me puts a restraining bolt on you or opens you
up, your memory will  wipe. Anytime I say the right words,
your backup memory will reload. So you may experience some
memory gaps. I'm sorry. It's the only way to keep you safe."

    I UNDERSTAND, LARA.

    "I had an idea as to how we can destroy Iron Fist. You'll
have to do most of the work. But if we succeed, you may be-
come the most famous R2 unit ever. Well, maybe second, after
Artoo-Detoo."

    THAT WOULD  BE NICE. WOULD THE WRAITHS LIKE YOU AGAIN?

    "No. They'll never like me again. So I have to do this for
myself. I have to do this because it's right. I have to do this 
because I have nothing else to do."

    WHAT IF I DO?
????????????????????????????????????? 218

    "Well, Zsinj, except when he's paying for really good 
employees and mercenaries, is notoriously cheap. Which means
he probably won't have my quarters monitored when I'm not
in them. If I stay away from my quarters all day long, that gives
you plenty of time to work. I'll tell you what you need to do.
But first . . . when we're alone like this . . . could you call me
Kirney?"

    YES, KIRNEY.







                         12






Half an hour after Lara's departure from her quarters the next
morning, Tonin became active. He rolled out of the closet to
the door, deployed and extended his fine-work grasper  arm,
and got to work on the door controls. Within minutes, he had
rewired the controls and mechanism so he could open the  door
and close it fractionally as well as fully.

    He opened the door a bare three centimeters and extended
his video sensor through it nearly at floor level, giving him a
360-degree view of the corridor. A passerby was not likely to
notice the slight gap in the doorway or the protrusion from it.

    He waited.

    It was nearly an hour before his first opportunity arose.
Certainly, in that time, many of the trapezoidal MSE-6 utility
droids passed his doorway, but always  under the eye  of a
passerby. This time, one little droid, rodentlike in its scurrying
motion and nervousness, was alone, unobserved.

    Tonin signaled it, a chirp that constituted a come-here or-
der. The droid stopped its forward progress, turned toward the
doorway, ran the request  through its very simple processor,
and determined that accepting this new order was not likely to
delay accomplishment of its standing orders significantly. It 
approached the door.

    Tonin snapped his heavy grasper arm out through the gap
and snared the little droid. It gave a squeal of alarm and spun
its wheels into reverse, but he hauled it up off its wheels. Tonin
opened the door wide enough to accommodate his prey, then
dragged the little droid through and closed the door.

    Then he got to work.

    He  laid  the utility droid on its back. Its wheels spun in
helpless panic. With his fine-work arm, he popped open the acl
cess hatch on the  droid's  underside and extended his scomn|
link into the opening.

    As new programming flooded its tiny brain, the utility
droid quieted.

By day's end, Tonin was in command of three of the utility
droids,  and one had managed to bring him some  of the
components-magnetic track strips to  replace wheels-he
needed to begin their modifications.








Wedge's four squadrons - Rogue, Wraith, Polearm, and Nova -
executed mission after mission, one after another, sometimes
two in a single day. Most missions involved only one squadron.
In others, one squadron would escort and protect the B-wings
of Nova, or Wraith Squadron would be inserted at ground
level and then ground-guide the precise bombing runs of one
or two of the other starfighter units. Some missions involved
nothing more than carefully inserting the Falsehood, then very
publicly escorting the ship, usually with Wedge and  Chewbacca 
at the controls, out into space and safety.

    By the end of one week, the fighter pilots of Mon 
Remonda began to lose track of what day of the calendar it was,
and had little time left to them for anything but mission 
briefings, the missions themselves, and sleep.

    By the end of one week,  between Wedge's missions and
those an Imperial admiral was executing in another part of
the galaxy, the Warlord Zsinj  had lost more  millions of 
credits than any New Republic fighter pilot could ever hope to
accumulate.










  Melvar entered the warlord's office as silently as ever. Zsinj,
turned to stare into his terminal, didn't react. Melvar took the
chair before his desk, no longer bothering to keep his 
movement quiet, and still there was no reaction.  Finally, Melvar
coughed.

    "They're killing me." Zsinj shook his head sorrowfully as
he stared at the data on the terminal screen beside his desk.
"They want me dead, Melvar."

    "Of course they do," the general said. "You're their greatest 
enemy. It is to your considerable credit that they want you
dead."

    "Look at this. My businesses are being seized up and down
Imperial space-and Rebel space. The Counterpunch puts in at
Vispil and is blown out of space by planetary authorities who
refused to stay bribed. A half dozen of my best earners bombed
out of existence on worlds within my own borders. Eight 
percent of my income eliminated in a week. And everywhere, the
Millennium Falcon flitting around, fomenting more rebellion."
He sighed. "And my Funeral Project crews around Coruscant?
Suddenly, completely ineffectual. A half dozen acts of 
terrorism or sedition closed down almost before they're enacted. The
rifts between humans and nonhumans in the Rebel government
are healing. All my work, years of work, coming undone."

    "Mere setbacks, sir."

    "No. Can't you feel it? The hordes of my enemies are 
drawing closer, their claws  outstretched, reaching for me." Zsinj
heaved a sigh. "I think, I really think, they are poised to undo
me. I think Doctor Cast talked before  she died. I think the
Rebels and Imperials are cooperating."

    "Impossible."

    "Not impossible. You yourself said I was their greatest
enemy. What else could give them the incentive to cooperate?"

    Melvar was silent for long moments. In all the years he'd
worked with the  warlord, this was not the saddest he'd seen
him, but it was the most resigned, the most fatalistic. It was a
startling change. The warlord had always been an unstoppable
force of optimism and will. Now, despite the fact that his girth
had not diminished, he seemed somehow reduced.

    "Do you think they'll win?" Melvar asked.

    Zsinj took a deep breath, then nodded. "I think, in a sense,
they already have. They've stopped my processes. They've set
their own in motion. Theirs are replacing mine, and I can't
seem to do anything about it."

    "So what will it take to pull a victory out of this? Tell me
the minimum you need. We'll achieve that, and more."

    Zsinj  switched off his terminal  screen and thought. He
swung ponderously around to face Melvar and began count!
off on his fingers. "One. We retain Iron Fist."

    "Count on it."

    "Two. We retain enough businesses to start again."

    "That will be harder. As much as we've done to keep your
businesses isolated from one another, some leakage of 
information has obviously occurred. The more they capture, the
more they seem to be able to capture. But, statistically, they
can't find everything. We'll have a solid core left."

    "Three. We have time to rebuild, repair, recover."

    "For that, we'll definitely have to use the Second Death for
her intended purpose. But we can do that."

    "Four. We come up with our next plan for the elimination
of the New Republic."

    "I think that means Rancor Base and the Force-witches.
We have to learn what they do and how they do it. Another
path we can take, weapons the Rebels and the Empire can't
cope with."

    "And Five. Which actually takes place before Three. We
kill General Han Solo and as many of his friends and aides as is
humanly possible."

    "That," Melvar said, "will be the most enjoyable part of
the operation."










Zsinj showed up at Lara's new work station in the bridge pit,
as apparently cheerful as usual. "Lieutenant Petothel. How are
you settling in?"
    "Very well," she said. "I can't describe how good it is to I
doing this kind of work again."

    "Good, good. But the first few days you looked, if I may
be indelicate, a little tired.  Rings under the eyes. A general
malaise."

    She nodded. "It took me a while to get used to ship's 
routine. I had to make some adjustments to my sleeping patterns."
Not surprising, as it had proved difficult to get any sleep when
she was talking and programming with Tonin all night long.
"But I'm over it."

    "Have you had a chance to look over the data package I
transmitted to you this morning?"

    "Yes."

    "Your conclusions?"

    Lara became aware that the operatives at the consoles on
either side  of her, though they  were continuing to do their
work, were listening intently to this exchange. She smiled. 
Intelligence operatives were the same  everywhere. "Well, first,
whoever compiled that data did an inadequate job of making
the events anonymous. I recognize the first mission as the 
Millennium Falcon escort to Kidriff Five. I was there, after all.
Which means that Prime Target is the Falcon, and Secondary
Target is, roughly, Commander  Antilles's entire command of
Rebel starfighters."

    Zsinj nodded, his expression glum. "So much for secrecy.
What do you conclude from their behavior?"

    "General Solo is trying to separate you from the income
that sustains your fleet, and is personally rabble-rousing while
he's at it,"

    "Why?"

    Lara gave him a smile that  suggested contempt for their
subject matter. It was easy; she only had to let her contempt for
Zsinj rise to the surface. "He thinks he's an important man.
That his presence is the only thing that can inspire Rebel 
sympathies in the population. Based on  what I've personally ob-
served of the  man, I'd say he's desperate. He hasn't had  any
real success in his mission against you. If he fails, he gets 
replaced; if he gets replaced, he loses all his status."

     "I never had the impression that he cares about status."

    "He doesn't." She almost hesitated on the enormity of the
lie she'd concocted, the one that Zsinj, in all his ego, must 
inevitably accept. "But the woman he loves does."

    "Ahhh."

    "He  knows that as a dirt-poor smuggler, he can't keep a 
princess's affection. But as a Rebel general, he can."

    "But only if he's successful."

    "Correct."

    "Interesting interpretation."

    "There's more." Lara pressed on, hoping Zsinj would not
detect the queasiness she was feeling.

    She  had an idea, based on  the pattern the  Millennium
Falsehood was demonstrating, as to which world or worlds the
ersatz Han Solo would visit next. But was this a conclusion
that Zsinj and his  intelligence people were supposed to have
drawn, or had she come to a conclusion based on her superior
knowledge of the Wraiths, a conclusion that would endanger
her former squadmates? She didn't know, and the uncertainty
ate at her. She had to trust her instincts, though, and her in-
stincts said that the Falsehood's mission profiles  came about
from meticulous planning that Zsinj was eventually supposed
to interpret.

    "They're progressing from world to world in your territories 
based on a number of factors. The degree to which a world
is known outside the borders you control. Estimated planetary
production that can be applied to your fleet funding. Proximity
to New Republic space so they can make quick escapes. 
Comparative morale value of hitting specific targets. Suspected 
presence of pro-Rebel factions."

    "I know that. Unfortunately, considering how many worlds
I control, that still doesn't give us a pattern."

    "Yes, it does. There's one more factor.  Former trade 
relations, direct or indirect, with the planet Alderaan."

    Zsinj rocked back on his heels. "That would make sense."

    "Yes, sir. On such worlds, there's a higher likelihood that
there will be people who sympathize with Princess Leia and the
other Alderaanians who were off-world when the first  Death
Star destroyed that planet. Also,  in my opinion, they're more
likely to  be planets  that Princess Leia will have  heard  of,
thereby increasing her recognition of Solo's deeds when he tells
her of them."

     "Very good, very good." Zsinj's eyes lost focus as he 
considered Lara's words. "What does that suggest Solo's next 
target will be?"

     "I give  a very high probability to Comkin Five, and just
 slightly less high a likelihood to  the Vahaba Asteroid Belt."

 Comkin was a Zsinj-controlled world known for its candies
 and medicines-two industries inextricably tied together on
 that world-and Vahaba was known not only for its asteroid-
 mining operations but for the skill of its metal fabricators. 
She knew a little about Vahaba; it was in a well-populated cluster
 of stars, not far from Halmad, where the Wraiths had acted as
 pirates not long ago.

     "Well.  Interesting speculation. Thank you, Lieutenant."

 Still distracted, Zsinj turned to depart the bridge, not even see-
 ing Lara's salute.

 General Melvar caught up with Zsinj in the corridor just out-
 side the bridge. "Well?"

     "There's a proper query to give a superior officer. It's not
 'Well?' Something more  like, 'Sir, a moment of your time, I
 wished to inquire about your recent interview with the subject
 under observation.' '

     Melvar said,  "I can phrase all such requests so as to waste
 a maximum amount of your time, of course."

     Zsinj  smiled.  "Never mind." He told him of Lara's
 speculations, then said,  "What I don't know is whether she
 came to this conclusion  honestly, or whether she was privy
 to  some of their mission  profile before she left Mon  
Re monda and is now presenting it as a sudden realization on
 her part."

     "Either way, the information is valuable ... so long as
she's not leading us into a trap."

     "We'll find out. Dispatch half the ready fleet to lie in wait
 at Vahaba, and we'll take  the other half personally to Comkin."








Donos lay waiting on the craft he had fabricated from rubbish.

    Portions  of the thing had begun their existence as the
gravitational unit in a TIE fighter simulator. When coordinated
with the  simulator's computer,  they would  exert artificial
gravity around the pilot, drawing him left, right, down, up, all
in artful mimicry of the sort of g-forces the pilot would
experience in sharp turns and other maneuvers.

    But the simulator had grown old, had become too unreliable
even for recreational use, and it had been dragged to a 
corridor outside a refuse chamber. There Donos, doing a tour of
the unfrequented portions of Mon Remonda, a habit that had
recently become part of his regular routine, had found it.

    He'd liberated still-functioning portions of the gravitational
unit. He'd installed computer gear to ensure that the unit would
exert appropriate force downward even when the unit was 
tilting, would detect obstacles, would exert repulsorlift power
against obstacles. To this he had added a padded layer that was
part of the simulator's pilot's couch and a battery to supply
power.

    Now, in one of the ship's lonely cargo areas, he lay on his
stomach atop the junk he had assembled. It hovered a half meter 
above the floor, humming, motionless.

    Of course it was motionless. It had no engine, no motivation.

    Except for  him. And to set it into motion, to make it  do
what it was designed to do, would be to look stupid.

    His legs extended off the back of his jury-rigged vehicle.
He brought them down to  gain purchase with the floor and
kicked off, setting his craft into motion. He kicked again and
again, building up speed as he floated between shelves of stored
materials toward a distant bulkhead. Halfway down, he kicked
once more, sideways, setting  his craft into a spin, and  drew
himself into a ball atop it.

    His floating sled spun haphazardly, coming within half a
meter of a shelving unit before the sled's repulsor  unit reacted
to the proximity of the thing and bounced him back the other
way. Like a ball, he careened from shelf to shelf across the open
space in between, coming  within  handspans of  impact but
never quite hitting, while he floated toward the bulkhead wall.

    Eventually, forward momentum almost spent, he floated
to within a half meter of the bulkhead and came to a stop.

    "Well, that looked good."
    Donos rolled onto his side to get a look at the speaker. Wes
Janson stood a few meters away. He must have approached up
the walkway that ran along the bulkhead wall.

    "I'm amazed it held together," Donos said. "I expected to
have the whole thing fail halfway through and toss me into a
stack of crates."

    "Is it fun?"

    Donos nodded. "Pretty much."

    "You don't look too amused."

    "I imagine I did a moment ago." Donos rose to his feet,
gripped his craft by its one handle, and depressed what had
once been a pilot's yoke trigger. The craft dropped as it 
depowered; he hauled it upright. "But even fun isn't much fun. I keep
wishing Lara were here."

    Janson nodded, sympathy plain  on his features. "Yeah.
But you're about to get more people here than you  probably
want. We're doing some inventory here in a few minutes. You
probably ought to try the main corridor down in Engineering.
It's long enough, and I'm sure the  engineers would be 
interested in seeing your kludge."

    "Probably." Donos checked his  chrono.  "A little later,
though. I have somewhere to be."

The moment Donos was out of sight, Wedge slipped out from a
second-level shelf full of foodstuff packages. "Well, that was
interesting."

    "Wedge! Why don't you scare the other half of my life out
of me? How long were you waiting there?"

    "About fifteen minutes. During most of which, Donos just
sat there, waiting to decide whether or not to play his game."

    "Well, he did. A good sign."

    "I hope so." Wedge reached behind the first row of stacked
food crates and dragged another one up front. This one, like
the others, was labeled BANTHA STEAK, DEHYDRATED, 250 GRAMS
RESTORED, INDIVIDUALLY  PACKAGED. But the top was ajar
and the smell wafting from the crate, something like fruit
and leaf compost, was not reminiscent of bantha meat. Wedge
reached into the crate's top and drew out a bowl full of 
brownish lumps Janson couldn't identify. "Now,  you've fed Kettch
before, correct?"

    "No. You and whatever crew you've been using haven't
brought me in before now."

    "That's right." Wedge led Janson toward the forward doors
out of the cargo area. "There are still some security concerns,
since Kettch was  supposed to be  a  Hawk-bat, not a New
Republic pilot. So we're limiting the  personnel who see him.
He gets one bowlful like this, three times a day. We have him
set up near an officers' mess that General Solo isn't using, since
he doesn't entertain. So you'll  get water for Kettch from the
mess."

    "Right."

    They passed through a small door into  a secondary cargo
area, this one much smaller than the one they'd left, its shelves
full of  crates  labeled BULK CLOTH. From  the rear, they  
approached a larger crate, one two meters by two meters by one
and a half tall, which had been laid out in the aisle between
rows of shelves.

    "And now," Wedge said, as they got to the front of the
crate, "you meet-uh-oh."

    A door that had obviously been retrofitted onto the front
of the crate lay on the floor, off its hinges. There  was nothing
within  the crate but what looked like a bed of grass and cloth
scraps.

    "He's loose?" Janson said.

    "He's loose." Wedge looked around. "But for how long?
We've got to find him, keep to a minimum the number of 
crewmen who see him..."

    There was a soft patter-patter of movement  from the far
end of the chamber, the bow end.

    "We're in luck," Wedge said. "He's still in here." He 
extended the bowl of food. "Here, take some. Maybe we can lure
him back."

    Janson grimaced as he grabbed up a handful of the smelly
Ewok food.

    They headed forward, only to hear the forward door out
of the chamber hiss open, followed by the patter-patter of bare
feet and the door hissing closed again. Wedge headed forward
at a dead run, Janson at his heels.

    The door opened for them, revealing dimness beyond,
then Wedge was skidding to a halt and Janson ran into him.
They toppled over together, crashing into containers of some
sort, and fluid, liters of it, splashed over them.

    A sharp, poisonously clean smell forced its way into 
Janson's nose. "Sithspit, what's that?"

    "Cleansing fluid of some sort. We must have hit a janitor
droid's stash." Wedge sat up. Janson could see him wrinkling
his nose even in the dim light. Somewhere else in the room, a
door hissed open and closed again.

    "Oh, this is no good," Wedge said. "He's running now 
because we're chasing him, and he's going to be able to smell us
from kilometers away."

    "So let's call in Kell and Tyria. They can hunt him down
while we clean up."

    "They're not part of our Kettch conspiracy." Wedge rose
and moved away from the puddle. "Strip."

    "What?"

    "Get those clothes off. We'll rub some of the Ewok food
over the parts of our skin that have the cleansing fluid on them.
That should make it possible for us to get close to him." Wedge
suited action to words, unzipping his jumpsuit.

    "Oh, sure. Would you stand still  if you were being 
approached by two naked men with Ewok food smeared all over
them?"

    "No, but I'm not an Ewok. Just do it." Wedge nodded
right and left. "Looks like there are two doors out of here. I
don't know which one he took,  but they'll both go into 
General Solo's mess. You take that one, I'll take this one."

    "Wedge, this is the last time I'm feeding Kettch."

    "Me, too."

The door opened for Janson and he crept through into the
dimly lit room beyond.

    Not three meters ahead stood an Ewok, wearing the 
traditional bonnet-style headgear of the species, his back to Janson.

    Janson took a careful, silent  step forward. The  Ewok
didn't react. One more step and he was in range-Janson
lunged, grabbing the Ewok with his left hand, the one uncon-
taminated by Ewok food. "Got you!"

    The Ewok didn't struggle. Nor did it weigh much. Janson
looked at it. It wasn't a live Ewok; it was the stuffed toy the
Wraiths had brought with them from Hawk-bat Base, the one
they called Kettch.

    Then Janson realized that the room was full of people-all
the other members of Wraith Squadron. In the dimness, they
stood like statues, in poses suggesting they'd been in the middle
of a social  gathering, in conversational groups of twos and
threes, and then had been flash-frozen.

    No, not frozen, exactly. They still breathed. Some swayed
a little where they stood.

    And none of them looked at Janson.

    Janson stood still for a long moment, waiting for some 
reaction from them, or for some realization to set in and inform
him why they'd be standing stock-still in a dimly lit room.
None came.

    So he held the stuffed Ewok toy before him and backed to
the door through which he'd entered.

    His bare skin touched metal and he flinched. The door had
closed and wasn't opening for him.

    He scraped the Ewok food off his hand against the 
door-jamb. Slowly, silently, his sense of unreality mounting, he walked
sideways toward the other door into this  chamber. To get
there, he'd have to pass close to Piggy, Shalla, and Elassar, who
were grouped close to the wall. As he neared them, he paused
and reached out to touch Piggy, the Wraith nearest him.

    His fingers encountered real flight suit and solid flesh 
beneath. He jerked his hand back. Neither Piggy nor any  of the
others reacted.

    It was a dream, it had to be. And by the rules of dreams,
doubtless there was to be some bad result if he failed to escape
before the Wraiths awoke. In case he could short-circuit the
process, he pinched himself, hoping to awaken prematurely,
but he had no such luck. The scene remained before him.

    Moving with less caution, he made it to the other door and
backed into it... and his bare rear once again contacted metal
as the door failed to open.

    Well, then. There was one more door out  of this chamber, 
which should open up into a corridor-a corridor that he
could, with luck, duck down unobserved and perhaps reach
the pilots's ready room, where he had another uniform in
his locker. He continued sideways along the wall, around the
corner...

    He  reached the doorway and turned into it. The door
whooshed open. And beyond was Wedge, fully uniformed, 
bellowing, "Attention!"

    The room lights blazed into normal brightness and Janson
heard the Wraiths behind him snapping to attention. He felt
his cheeks burn  as he realized they had to be facing his  bare
backside.

    Wedge looked at Janson, then at the Ewok toy he held 
protectively before him. "Lieutenant, you're out of  uniform. And
you know, wearing an Ewok as a swimsuit is a felony on some
worlds."

    Janson nodded.  He could not keep a rueful grin from
forming on his lips. "I have been so set up," he said.

    "Good analysis," Wedge said. "You're showing  real 
leadership potential, among other things. Lieutenant Nelprin?"

    Shalla approached, standing beside Janson so he could see
her without turning. In her hands was a folded mass of orange
cloth. She unfolded and displayed it before him. It was a cloak,
in New Republic flight-suit orange, with the words "Yub, yub,
Lieutenant" stenciled on the back in black. She swept it across
his shoulders and fastened it around his neck. Then she leaned
in close and whispered, "Nice rear, Lieutenant."

    Janson felt  his cheeks burning hotter.  "Thank you for
noticing, Lieutenant." He handed her the Ewok doll and draped
the cloak in a more concealing fashion about himself. "I take it
this is revenge for that bet about your not speaking Wookiee?"

    Wedge stepped into the room and the door shut behind
him. "Well, for that, and for your antics with Lieutenant Kettch
here and at Hawk-bat Base."

    Janson couldn't keep the surprise from his face.
"How do you knew about that?"

    "Well, not at first, of course. Not for sure." Wedge threw
an arm over Janson's shoulders and turned him, leading him
back into the room, into the midst of the grinning Wraiths.
"But you didn't do much of a job of concealing your tracks.
The doll showed up immediately after your return from 
Coruscant, which meant that it was probably you or someone else 
involved with that trip. Then, after  it was obvious that the doll
was wandering pretty much at will, I had a transmitter sewn
into it."

    Janson winced. "You tracked  its movements. And knew it
was me. And waited all this time for payback."

    "So, do you still think revenge is beneath Wedge Antilles,
Hero of the New Republic?"

    "I'm not sure anything is beneath you anymore. Who was
playing Kettch? Or Chulku, or whatever his name was supposed to be?"

    Wedge grinned. "The first time, we had Squeaky in the
box you saw. He speaks Ewok, of course."

    "Of course." Janson sighed.

    Dia said, "I was the footsteps you were following a few
minutes ago. And I was the one  who splashed you with the
bucket full of cleansers. Had to make sure you got plenty on
you. We couldn't rely on you to fall correctly onto the buckets
we'd placed."

    Wedge accepted a small glass of amber-colored liquid from
Kell, passed it to Janson. "A reward. You're taking it very well,
Wes. Just remember that, when it comes to pranks, you have
the necessary enthusiasm,  you have the inventiveness, you
have the experience ... I have the resources."

    "Granted." Janson sipped at the glass,  made an appreciative 
face. It was Whyren's Reserve, a Corellian brandy with a
rich, smoky flavor. "But it's over now. No ongoing punishment
forme. Right?"

    Wedge's expression became serious. "Well, not after the
holorecording of tonight's events has been circulated."

    "Tell me you're kidding."

    "What, and deny the universe the chance to see a rear end
that the Wraiths have proclaimed so hologenic?"

    Tanson didn't even try to keep the dismay off his face.
"Please tell me you're kidding."

    "I'll decide tomorrow. Tonight we celebrate."

    Donos leaned in. "And remember what a very wise man
once told me. 'You can't look dignified when you're having
fun.'"

    "If I knew  who that wise man was,"  Janson said,  "I'd
shoot him."

The next morning, the last pilot to enter the briefing amphitheater 
was Donos. He remained standing until Wedge noticed
him. "Permission to sit in, sir?"

    "Why? You're still off the active list."

    "I'd like to volunteer for this mission."

    Wedge looked momentarily baffled. "Did I misstate myself? 
You can't fly."

    "I'm not volunteering as a pilot, sir. Nothing in my current
reevaluation indicates that I'm unfit to handle a ship's guns. I'd
like to volunteer as a crewman on the Millennium Falsehood.
I'm a Corellian, I know the equipment, and I'm a good shot."
That was understating it somewhat; though his greatest talent
was with a sniper's rifle, Donos was marksman-rated with
most sorts of blaster and laser weapons.

    "Good point," Wedge said. "Yes, you can attend the briefing; 
I'll  decide on your request  later." He stood behind the
lectern and turned to the assembled pilots.

    "Today is a standard 'let them see the Falsehood then run'
exercise. Our target is the Comkin system. Comkin's security
measures are more extensive than some we've recently encountered, 
 so we can't count on smuggling in our TIE interceptor
escort. However, Chewbacca has temporarily attached plating
to the surface of the Falsehood that gives it a sensor echo much
more like that of a YT-2400 freighter, and that plating will
wain  a bit of a surprise  for Comkin's defenders. We have
??????????????231
transponder data corresponding to that of a real YT-2400
mercenary trader, so we should be able to make it to the planet's
surface; however, if we're identified on entry, we just evacuate
and achieve our primary objective, another appearance by the
Millennium Falcon.

    "Another modification we've made to the Falsehood will
allow for quicker response time by the support squadron when
it's supposed to come in for rescue: we've installed a miniature
holocomm unit worth more than the rest of the ship put together.
Yes, Face?"

    "Sir, is it a bad  time to point out that a good shot of
brandy is worth more than the rest of the ship put together?"

    "Yes. Wraith Squadron will be our primary escort..."










Melvar appeared silently beside Lara's station. His mild words
contrasted with the cruelty of his features. "Baron Fel would
like to see you fly."

    "Really." Lara made a face suggesting that she was 
surprised and pleased. "You mean, for real, not in a simulator."

    "For real. Broadaxe Squadron will be supplementing the
One Eighty-first, and they're k pilot light. Would you care to
suit up and fly with them?"  

    "I'd be delighted."     

    "Report to their reacfy room at thirteen hundred." Melvar
gave her a mirthless smile. "Don't do too well. We'd hate to
lose you as an analyst."

    "I'll keep it in mind. Thank you, sir."

    When he was gone, she stared at her screen, seeing none of
the data on it, and tried not to shake. She prayed that  she'd
been wrong in her initial assessment, that the next Mon 
Remonda strike would be on any system other than Comkin Five.

    For if she'd been right, she might end up facing her former
squadmates in mortal combat.








Comkin Five was a green-blue world circling a yellow star. As
the Falsehood neared the planet's surface, blotches of color 
resolved themselves into blue sea, deep green tropics, and bands
of cloud cover, with only the smallest patches of arctic ice.

    "Pretty," Donos said. "What do we blow up first?"

    Wedge, ahead of him in the pilot's chair, turned to glance
at him. "Write that down," he said. That ought to be the
Wraith Squadron slogan."

    "Good point. Squeaky, record that."

    "If I must."

    Wedge's attention was diverted by data on his sensor board.
"We've just been tapped by planetary sensors. Now we find
out if our camouflage fooled them."

    "I don't see how it can," Squeaky said, his voice even more
petulant than usual. "On close examination, the extension off
our starboard side just does not look genuine. And Chewbacca
has failed to minimize  the Falsehood's  forward mandibles,
which are, if I'm not mistaken, characteristic of the YT-1300s
but not the YT-2400s. We are, I think, probably dead."






    Donos frowned at the two-tone 3PO unit seated beside
him. Squeaky looked absurd in his ill-fitting clothing, a New
Republic general's uniform. "Then why did you volunteer for
this mission?"

    "Habit?"

    "No."

    "Because I thought my absence would doom the mission?"

    "Although Emtrey could have substituted for you."

    Chewbacca grumbled something.

    "Certainly not," Squeaky said, his tone turning indignant.
"This is not fun, and I wouldn't miss you."

    Chewbacca grumbled again.

    "No, you don't keep having to remind me  to belt in. I am
firmly belted in. My belt is fixed with more finesse than that of
any belt in this cockpit."

    Donos shook his head. Maybe he ought to set up at one of
the gunport turrets now.









Lara sat in her cockpit, drenched in sweat and feeling miserable.

    It wasn't because the cockpit  was more uncomfortable
than usual, or because of the protracted amount of time she'd
been in it.
    She'd met the Broadaxe Squadron pilots and had been
assigned a TIE interceptor and a wingman, the squadron 
commander. She'd gone through the routine power-up checklist
and transferred, with the rest of the Broadaxes and the 181st,
to another ship-a Dreadnaught, older than the Empire, named
Reprisal. She remembered it from the Levian mission. 
Broadaxe Squadron occupied the Dreadnaught's fighter bay, while
the 181st was divided among officers' bays and cargo bays. Lara
shook her head over that; she'd have thought that the more
prestigious unit would choose the more convenient bay.

    She'd been among the last TIEs to land, and was 
positioned to be among the first to launch, her viewport a mere 
meter from the bay's magcon shield. Her temporary commander
had laughed at her zeal, but there was  another reason she
wanted this position: no one was likely to walk in front of her
TIE and see what she was doing inside it. Since she'd settled in,
she'd been hard at work.

    She had started by coupling her personal comlink to a datapad 
she'd stolen from another Iron Fist crewman while they
were in the  officers' mess.  She didn't steal equipment on the
bridge; it might be too easy to track back to her.

    She recorded a  lengthy message, one that turned her
thoughts gloomy. Then she pulled up a panel beneath thev feet,
one that gave technicians access to the vehicle's laser power
generators. She powered down all vehicle systems except the
comm unit and exterior lights, which would allow her to 
pretend that the system was still fully powered-assuming no one
ran a sensor scan on her, or that no one called, in the next few
minutes, for immediate takeoff.

    Leading from the power generators were power regulators,
which could keep a fatal spike of power from frying vehicle 
systems in case the generators were hit or malfunctioned in
combat. She opened one of the regulators, the one protecting
the port-side laser cannons, and spliced in a set of cables. These
she attached to the datapad's computer coupler port.

    She activated the datapad and packed it into the cavity
with the laser power generators, taping it securely into place.
She left one wire, terminating in a simple thumb switch, trailing  
into the  cockpit; she closed the access hatch over it, then
taped the thumb switch to her pilot's yoke.

    Finally, she recommenced power-up, hoping that her modification 
wouldn't cause any of the vehicle systems to fail, that
her modification wouldn't activate any sensor she didn't know
about.

    If this worked, she was one step closer to Iron Fisfs 
destruction. If it failed, but she was otherwise very lucky, maybe
her activities wouldn't be noticed. Maybe.

    After a mere ten minutes of frantic activity, she began to
get her breathing back under control.

    The stars beyond the magcon field suddenly twisted and
blurred as Reprisal entered hyperspace.

    "This will be a short jump," her commanding officer said.
"Prepare to launch on arrival."















The Falsehood waited in low planetary orbit, its crew watching 
the green, lush world slowly turn beneath them.

    "It's been too long," Donos said. "They're on to us."

    "Probably," Wedge said. He didn't look at all uneasy.

    Squeaky said, "I see other vessels awaiting final clearance
to descend."

    "Either they're not on to us," Wedge said, "in which case
our waiting here is standard procedure, or they're on to us,
and they're having other vessels wait nearby so we won't get
suspicious."

    "Oh," Squeaky said. "But we're suspicious anyway."

    "They failed," Wedge said.

    "Will it matter if they destroy us anyway?"

    "Not really." The console beeped at Wedge, and he leaned
over to look at the comm unit's text screen. "We have final 
approval for descent to our primary target zone."

    Chewbacca shook his head, making a nearly subsonic noise
of dissent. He gestured at the sensor board.

    There, approaching from planetary east in a similar orbit,
was a large, indistinct signal.

    "Looks like starfighters," Wedge said. "At least a full squad.
All right, we go." He unbelted. "Donos, take the belly gunport
turret, I'll take the top. Chewbacca, the controls are yours.
Squeaky, you have the comm unit. Call in the Wraiths now,
then bring in Mon Remonda on the holocomm unit, then stand
by in your new mode."

    "I'll be so pleased to make my debut."

    "Only if they address you, now."

    "Yes, sir."

    Donos followed Wedge back to the turret access tubes anc
descended to his turret. He powered it up, swung his weapons
back and forth a few times to gauge their speed and responsive
ness. Meanwhile, he felt the Falsehood maneuvering as it pointec
spaceward and accelerated away from Comkin Five.

    Squeaky's  voice came over the ship's internal comlink
"Chewbacca says estimated two minutes until the TIEs are in
range.  At least five until we're far enough away from the
planet's mass shadow to enter hyperspace. Wraiths report that
they will intercept us in three and a half minutes."

    Wedge's voice was next. "So they have a minute and a half
to batter us before we have reinforcements. We should be able
to handle that."

    Squeaky said, "Chewbacca says ... oh, my. Oh, dear, dear
dear."

    Wedge said, "Report, Squeaky."

    "Are you sure you want to know? It's not good."

    "Do you want to walk home? Report."

    "Chewbacca reports a capital ship dropping out of hyperspace 
along our escape vector. It's closer than the Wraiths, and
it's deploying TIE fighters. Excuse me, TIE interceptors. Two
squadrons. They are deploying in what he calls umbrella 
formation and approaching."

    Wedge said, "And our pursuit?"

    "They're, ah, they seem to be hanging back. Pacing us, no
longer gaining."

    "Driving us to the hunters. Thank you, Squeaky." There
was a long moment of silence. "Chewbacca, make your course
straight for the capital ship. When you're just outside the range
of their tractors, deploy Package One and vector away.  Then
allow Package Two to deploy at its discretion."

    A grumble sounded over the comm unit.

    "He doesn't seem happy with your order, sir, but he's 
complying. Ah, ah, the capital ship is identified. A Rendili  
StarDrive Dreadnaught-class heavy cruiser. Oh, it's the Reprisal!
How nice to see it still functional. The Reprisal visited Kessel
onetime."

    "Save your reminiscences for later. And put your mask on.

    "Yes, sir." The droid's voice sounded resigned.






                         13





Lara put everything into acceleration, hurtling toward the
Falsehood as fast as she could travel. She  shouldn't have
been able to outstrip  the  other  TIE interceptors of the
combined units, but most of them dropped slowly back. In
a matter of moments, she was  at the fore with  three
other TIEs-her  wingman  and two  interceptors of the
181st.

    One of them communicated. "Anxious for battle, Lieu-
tenant?" It was Baron Fel's voice.

    "Anxious to show you what I'm made of," she said.

    "Never let it be said that I'm not gallant," Fel said. "The
first strafing run is yours."

    She managed to project gratitude and excitement into her
voice. "Thank you, sir."  But the words were like bile to her.

    She knew what was happening. It was a test. If she was
seen to offer less than her best effort toward the destruction
of the ersatz Millennium Falcon, they'd know she was not
trustworthy.

    Well, she'd show them something. She'd hit the Falsehood
again and again.



"Millennium Falcon" came the woman's voice, "this is the
former Wraith Two. Prepare to die." The source of the 
transfission, the lead TIE interceptor, opened fire.

    The voice was Lara's. Donos stiffened. He'd been tracking
the incoming TIEs,  aiming at the lead starfighter, but now he
let his aim drift off her.

    Green laser fire streamed from the interceptor. It was the
only one of the four TIEs to fire. The first few linked bursts
missed, then Lara began connecting, and the Falsehood rocked
under the impact of her hits.

    The first pair of TIEs roared past the Falsehood and 
immediately looped around for a second pass. The second pair came
on and a new voice crackled across the comm waves "I believe I 
address General Solo. You can spare the lives of your
crew by surrendering now."

    Donos  had  heard that  voice before, at the Implacable
fight. Baron Soontir Fel. He twisted to look up the access tube
at Wedge. His commander had some sort of personal relationship 
with Fel, doubtless something that had come about during
the brief time Fel served with Rogue Squadron, though Donos
didn't know what it was. And sure enough, Wedge had stiffened 
in his seat, his aim faltering.

    Donos almost smiled. It was good to know that he wasn't
the only one caught off guard by the forces confronting them.

    Then came another voice over the comlink. Han Solo's.
    Solo's voice said, "Baron Fel. They still say you're the best
Imp pilot since Darth Vader. When you were a Rogue, I didn't
want to hurt your feelings, but now I can tell you, I flew against
him-and you're not fit to shine his helmet."

    "We'll never know," Pel said. "I'm certainly pilot enough
to put an end to you." He and his wingman came on, firing,
with twenty TIE interceptors in their wake.

Donos's aim was thrown off as the Falsehood suddenly began
spinning  along its bow-to-stern axis. He recognized the 
manover's intent, to change the sight profile of the Falsehood so
incoming attackers would have an irregular target.

    Pel and his wingman blasted by, their laser fire hitting the
bow and forward mandibles. The ship's lights dimmed as its
shields strained to hold up under the assaults. Donos's return
fire missed both TIEs, but he was able to swing back in line and
tag the second interceptor of the next pair. His shots chewed
through a solar wing array and sent the interceptor spinning
off into the blackness of space. On his sensor screen, the 
second  interceptor vanished;  streaks of debris  exploded away
from its last position, then faded.

    And more TIEs came on as, in the distance, the bow of the
Dreadnaught grew larger and larger.

Squeaky watched with fascination as the universe spun crazily
before him. He switched back to his normal voice. "I say. If I
were human, I imagine I'd be throwing up all over your control
panels."

    Chewbacca turned and grumbled something.

    Squeaky turned to look in amazement at the Wookiee-what
he could see of Chewbacca, anyway, through the holes in the 
absurd, oversized mask Squeaky was wearing. "Why, that's the
nicest thing you've ever said to me. Did I really sound like him?"

    Chewbacca grumbled an assent.

    Squeaky sat back, suddenly delighted. All the work he'd
done with General Solo, recording his voice, analyzing and
parsing  appropriate phrases and  recurrent remarks, might
have paid off.  It had not only fooled Baron Fel, it had finally
gained him Chewbacca's admiration.

    The Falsehood rocked, accompanied  by noises of hardware 
and systems  leaping from their wall brackets and crashing 
around against the walls, as it sustained more incoming
fire. "Chewbacca,  can't we do all this without the participation
of enemy forces ?"

    The Wookiee spared a moment to glare at him.

    "What did I say?"









The last of the TIEs finished their first pass. Behind the 
Falsehood^ they began looping around for a second run. The squad-
????????????????????????????????????241
     f TIE fighters that had escorted them out of the planet's
atmosphere was on an approach back toward the planet, doubtless
    ordered away so the Reprisal and the interceptors could
????????????????????????????????????
 Se all the glory arising from the Millennium Falcon's destruc-
 an  Donos watched his sensor board with concern. The Falsehood
had been lucky to survive one run through that gauntlet.
????????????????????????????????????

    First to return would be Lara  and her wingman. They
were only seconds from optimal firing range. "Commander?"
Donos said. "Opinions about Lara?"

    "When we do the breakaway move," Wedge said, "when
we vector away from the Dreadnaught's bow, she may 
overshoot us. Try for one of her wings. Disable instead of kill."

    The next voice was Squeaky's. "If you'll pardon me,
sirs,  I think you should let Flight  Officer Notsil continue
shooting us."

    Laser fire  from Lara's interceptor and her wingmate's 
began pouring down on the Falsehood again. Out of the corner
of his eye, Donos saw a hydrospanner rocketing down the 
access tube toward him. He tried twisting up and out of the way;
it slammed into his rib cage instead of his head, and he grunted
from the sudden pain.

    "What?" Wedge's voice suggested the frown Donos could
easily imagine him wearing. "Squeaky, have you shaken loose
your logic circuits?"

    "No, sir. It's rather complicated. It will take too long to 
explain. Just trust me." The droid's voice was surprisingly 
confident. "This is something I know about. What? Oh. Chewbacca
says thirty seconds to release-and-turn."

    Donos twisted and swept his arc of fire across Lara's TIE,
but didn't begin firing until his crosshairs were just past her
wing. His series of blasts flashed between her and her wingman, 
then one grazed the second TIE. It jumped up, gaining
relative altitude, and was suddenly :out of sight.
    Then it was  a bright, expanding ball as  Wedge's shot
-hulled it.
??????????????????????????????????241











In   the bridge of Iron Fist, Zsinj and Melvar watched 
within  the holocomm broadcast from the bow of the Reprisal. It
showed the Millennium Falcon's suicidal charge, the horde o
TIE interceptors converging upon the Corellian freighter.

    "Come on, come on," Zsinj breathed. "Bring in Mon
Remonda. You'll die if you don't,"








"Ten seconds to breakaway," Squeaky said. "Nine... Eight...

    Chewbacca rumbled at him.

    "You want me to do the jettison? Very well." Squeaky's
metal hands sought out the large switch that had been bondec
to the main console earlier today. "Four ... Three ..."

    Chewbacca ceased the freighter's spinning motion. Th
Falsehood shuddered as a vicious shot from Pel's intercepto
slammed into its top hull.

    "One ..." Squeaky threw the switch.

All along the starboard side of the Falsehood, seals holding th
new extension, the mock-up that made the ship better resemble
a YT-2400 freighter, opened with little flashes of explosiv
charges. The extension drifted half a meter from the Falsehood's 
hull.

    Chewbacca yanked the controls hard to port. The freighter'
inertial compensators shrieked as they tried to accommodate th
nearly ninety-degree maneuver.  TIE interceptors, their pilot
caught momentarily off guard by the surprise move, overshot th
Falsehood. The jettisoned portion of the ship continued on, laser
straight, toward the bow of the Reprisal.

    Squeaky said, "Flight Officer Konnair, you are free to detach 
when ready."









Lara and Fel looped back quickly, getting back into position
behind the Falsehood. They continued their erratic, side-to
side motion, which made it all but impossible for the ship'
gunners to target them.

    Lara heard Fel report, "There's something attached to th
Falcon where that piece of debris just detached. It's-oh."

    Lara saw the "something" break free of the Falsehood. It
has been a A-wing fighter. It drifted free of the freighter with the
    f of small explosive bolts detonating; then its engines lit
off
????????????????????????????????????242
  ml it vectored away at the kind of speed only an A-wing could
????????????????????????????????????242
   10" Don't be distracted, Petothel," Pel said.  "Stay with the
 primary target."

    "Don't worry about me,   she said, and opened up again
 on the Falsehood.

    Fel's wingman veered away in pursuit or the A-wing.










 On the bridge of the Reprisal, the captain and crew watched
 the Falsehood's movements.

     "He's vectoring to sweep around us," the weapons operator 
reported. "He'll probably return to  his primary course
 when he's clear of our guns."

     "Order the TIEs to herd  him back in toward our side,"
 said the captain, a burly man who could not return to his home
 on Coruscarit until Rebels like Han Solo were purged from the
 galaxy. "We can't keep Fel from firing on her, but maybe we
 can steal the kill. What's the status of that debris?"

     "On a collision course with us," the sensor specialist said.
 "But its speed and tonnage are insufficient to do us harm. Our
 shields will repel it."

     "Very well," the captain said.






 Lara and Fel continued to pour laser fire into the Falsehood's
 stern, all the while dodging with the mad speed and maneuverability
of which only TIE interceptors were capable. The
demaining TIEs swept out ahead of the Falsehood, forming up
 in her path, dictating a run through their gauntlet or a turn-
 either toward space, along the Dreadnaught's flank, or back
Coward the planet.

     But Dorset Konnair in her A-wing flashed along behind
    line of TIEs, firing her blaster cannons continuously, vap-
  n8 two of the TIEs before she emerged from the other side.
????????????????????????????????????243

Pel's wingman pursued her, firing at maximum range, unable
to overtake the starfighter.

    Donos kept up ineffectual fire at Lara whenever she was
under his sights, while trying with all his skill to tag Fel 
whenever that pilot came within view. He had no more success 
hitting the pilot he wanted to kill than he did the one he wanted to
miss. And shot after shot from the  pursuing TIEs  rocked the
Falsehood, sounding alarms as shields threatened to fail.

    Chewbacca veered back toward the escape course short of
the gauntlet of TIEs. His maneuver left them too close to the
Dreadnaught; the Falsehood would  be running under the guns
of the Reprisal. Donos shook his head and stayed  focused on
his more immediate problems. If the Reprisal hit them,'he'd be
dead before he felt anything.













Zsinj watched the Corellian  freighter's run. He rapped his
knuckles against a bulkhead,  trying to  bleed his nervousness
away with activity. "Why isn't Mon Remonda jumping in?" he
said. "Petothel said that these Millennium Falcon missions had
cruiser support."

    Melvar said,  "Maybe she was wrong. Or they changed
tactics."

    "No, it makes sense. He just isn't calling in his  cruiser.
Why isn't the Reprisal dealing with that debris?"

    Melvar glanced at the data feed from the Dreadnaught.
"It's not real ship's construction. Too light. Their shields will
handle it."

    Zsinj, glanced away from the transmitted view from the
Reprisal's bridge  to the data  feed. Cold suspicion clawed at
him. "Contact the Reprisal! Tell them to blow that debris now!"








The tumbling piece of space junk that had been attached to the
Falsehood made contact with the Reprisal's bow shields.

    Inside, a sensor attuned to sudden shocks  and gravitational 
variances registered impact. It triggered the large cache
of explosives fastened within the debris's hull.

    The bomb, originally intended for a drop onto one of
Zsinj's production facilities on the surface of Comkin Five, 
exploded with far more force than the Dreadnaught's shields
could withstand.






A bright glow washed over the Falsehood from the side. Donos
glanced away from Lara's TIE interceptor to look.

    The entire bow of the Reprisal seemed to be awash in
bright light and flame.

    His comm unit crackled. Squeaky said, "We have good
news to report. The Wraiths are incoming."

    Squeaky turned off the comm mike and glared at Chewbacca.
"You didn't tell me it was a bomb."

    Chewbacca rumbled a reply.

    "No, now is the time to talk about it. You've made me a
participant in this fight! I've actually done damage to other
beings! I'm not allowed to do that. I don't know if I can cope."









Face brought the seven X-wings of Wraith Squadron, including 
Kell in Donos's snubfighter, around the Reprisal's stern
along its starboard side, putting them on the same side of the
conflict as the Falsehood and her pursuit. The X-wings were 
already in attack position, their S-foils spread and locked. "Fire
One," he said.

    Fourteen proton torpedoes launched toward the mass of
enemy TIEs. As close as the Wraiths were to their targets, the
torpedoes crossed the intervening distance almost immediately.

As tightly packed as the TIEs were, when those on the leading
edge were able to veer out of the way and break a torpedo's 
targeting lock, the TIEs behind them were not. Ten kills registered
on Face's sensor screen, then the TIE force was spreading, 
scattering, breaking by twos and preparing to engage the Wraiths.

    "That won't work twice," Face said. "Change Target Two
to the Dreadnaught's bow. Fire Two." Fourteen more proton
torpedoes leaped away. Face saw detonations all around the
Reprisal's bow, couldn't determine if they were penetrating the
damaged Dreadnaught's shields. "Break and engage by pairs."








On the bridge of Mon Remonda, Han Solo sat in his command
chair, his stomach threatening to knot ever tighter, while he
watched the holocomm broadcast  from the Falsehood. The
sensor-display portion of the broadcast showed the Falsehood
on her outbound flight and all the vehicles around her.

    At the moment, only two TIE starfighters assailed the
Falsehood. The Dreadnaught was not firing, its command crew
obviously thrown into disarray by the detonation of the bomb.

    "They're going to escape, Zsinj," he said, his words 
intended for no one's ears but his own. "You can't have that.
Jump in. Bring Iron Fist in. Come on, Zsinj."








"Sir," Squeaky said, "do we tell the Wraiths about Lara?"

    Wedge hesitated. If they broadcast an encrypted message
telling the Wraiths that one of the TIEs was Lara and she was
conceivably an ally, the message would eventually be broken.

A voice signal like that simply offered too much data. "Tag her
as a friendly on the sensor board and transmit only that 
information, and only as data," he said. That might do it-a tiny
data update was much  less likely to be  intercepted by the
enemy or decoded.

    "Yes, sir."

"Me up, you down," Kell said.

    "We're your wing," Runt responded.

    They aimed straight for the Millennium Falsehood, Kell
approaching above the level of the freighter's top hull, Runt
beneath her keel, both firing at the TIEs pursuing the freighter.

    Kell kept his fire a little high so no slight deviation in his
progress would bring his lasers down onto the Falsehood. But
his target's erratic motion brought it up toward his field of
fire..

    And then, on his targeting computer, his target changed
     from red to blue. Kell swore, took his finger from the
       and the Falsehood and its pursuit blasted past under-
?????????????????????????????247
    iTnim. He began as tight a turn as was possible to come
 ^behind the Falsehood again. Below him, Runt was doing
the same.





The Falsehood rocked more violently than before and suddenly
air was howling through the freighter. Wedge's ears popped as
the air pressure changed.

    Squeaky's voice, for  once, contained  alarm.  "We are
breached! Shields are down on the keel!"

    "Chewbacca, roll her!" Wedge shouted.

    Outside his viewport, the universe rotated 180 degrees. Fel
was abruptly in his gunsights instead of Lara. He opened fire on
Fel. "Donos, lock down that hull breach. Chewie,  keep our
good shields between us and Fel. Maybe Lara won't vape us."
 
   What a thing to have  to count on. Squeaky's assurance
that they shouldn't destroy Lara-and now, with the Falsehood's 
unprotected keel exposed to her guns, she  could vape
them with no effort.








Lara saw the Falsehood rotate, exposing its belly, and her sensors 
showed its shields there were gone.

    She could fire, or she could reveal herself to Zsinj to be a
traitor to his cause.

    Or she could...

    She deliberately twitched the pilot's yoke a little too hard
and her maneuver carried her forward, right into the Falsehood's 
keel. Suddenly  she was spinning out of control, and
there was an ominous cracking noise as a jagged line appeared
on her viewport.

    "Petothel?" It was  Fel's voice. "Petothel, are you hurt?"

    She didn't answer.
 , S11?J Yatc'le^'nis mouth slack and expression disbelieving,
???????????????????????????????????? 248
    lølocomm display from the Reprisal continued.
as


    The bridge view was gone, of course. It had vanished
when the bridge was destroyed. But sensor data continued to
pour in.

    The Reprisal was breaking up. The initial explosion had
breached her hull, smashed her bow shields, and temporarily
deprived her of effective command. The proton torpedoes that
followed had inflicted massive structural damage on the old
Dreadnaught.

    Now she continuously vented atmosphere into space, her
crumpling bulkheads preventing airtight doors from sealing.
Her captain had sent her into a turn just before the bomb's 
impact, doubtless to track the Millennium Falcon with her guns,
and the stress  of the maneuver was cracking the mighty old
ship open like a nut.

    Zsinj sagged against the bulkhead. "I can't kill him. I can't
kill Han Solo. I don't know the formula. I don't have the plan."

    Melvar,  in his ear, said,  "The One Eighty-first is 
disconnected. I've ordered them to break away from the  attacking
force. But we can send in another capital ship and get them 
coordinated again."

    "No. Throw good money after bad? Besides, Solo will be
in hyperspace before another ship can get into proper position,
This assault is over."

    Melvar  saluted and moved over  to look  down into the
crew pit, where his starfighter director was. "Send the 
starfighters down to a planetary base." His voice was heavy with
regret.

    Zsinj knew that regret.

    He knew frustration, too. Nothing was working. Nothing
was working.






The TIEs were still swarming, but abruptly they were swarming 
in another direction, back toward the planet.

    With no TIE fighters close enough to see in the cockpit
viewport, Squeaky dispensed with the  human-face mask he
wore. It served merely to conceal the gold tone of his face and
was only effective against distant or fast-moving observers. At
Wedge's direction he returned to his Han Solo voice and acti-
vated the comm unit. "Wraiths, form up, prepare for hyperspace.
Polearm Seven, it's time for you to return to dock with the Falcon."

    "Coming in, General.

    Wedge leaned in over Squeaky's shoulder. "Now say, 'Good
shooting out there."

    "Doesn't she know she shot well?

    Wedge glowered. "Just do it."

    "Good shooting out there, Konnair."

    "Thank you, General."

    Dorset Konnair's A-wing sidled in toward the Falsehood's
starboard. Delicately, she maneuvered it alongside the docking
station temporarily installed where one  of the freighter's 
escape pods should be. A moment later, Squeaky felt the thump
of contact. "All ready," he said, in his own voice.

    "Go back and help Donos patch that leak, would you?"

    "If I must. One minute a general, the next minute a 
sheetmetal worker."

    Wedge smiled at him. "That's life in the armed forces."










"Petothel, come in."

    Lara stirred, trying to convey with body language that she
was dazed. She stared out the forward viewport. Fel's TIE 
interceptor cruised there, mere meters from her. It seemed to be
spinning, though she knew that it was her own interceptor that
was rolling. "What? I, what?"

    "Are you injured? We can bring in a shuttle with a tractor
to get you out of there:"

    "No, I'm good to fly." That was the pilot's automatic 
response, whether Imperial or New Republic, whether truth or
self-delusion. She sat upright. "Did-did we get him?"

    "Almost,"  Pel said. "Come along, you're my wing." He
vectored away and moved planetward, away from the burning
wreckage of the Reprisal, only a few kilometers away.

    She'd spent her time "unconscious" productively. The 
datapad that had transmitted its unusual commands to her laser
weaponry was now back in a pocket. She'd hammered her hel-
??????????????????????????????????????249
      head against the side of the  cockpit until it really was
sore, until she was almost as dizzy as she claimed to be-she'd
need the telltale physical signs of injury when she got back to
Iron Fist.

    She'd done it. She couldn't keep a smile off her face as she
followed in Baron Fel's wake.










Captain Onoma stood before Solo. "We have found the position 
Iron Fist held throughout the engagement. A  wingpair
from Mon Delindo detected her a few minutes ago."

    Solo came upright. "Alert Rogue and Nova Squadrons,
tell them to stand ready. Communicate with Mon  Delindo.
We'll converge on Iron Fist's position..."

    "Sir, Iron Fist has already jumped out of system."

    Solo sagged into his chair. "Abandoning his pilots? Not
even bothering to pick up survivors off the Reprisal?"

    Onoma nodded in the awkward Mon Calamari fashion.

"Doubtless he's relying on planetary forces for rescue, and will
send a freighter back for his TIE squadrons. He's gone, sir."

    Solo offered him a disbelieving shake of the head. "He just
won't come in close enough to a system for its mass shadow to
delay his departure. He's that spooked."

    "You should be honored, General. You're what's 'spooking' him."

    "Failures don't get honored, Captain." He shook his head,
looked away from the captain. "I have to think about this."






The crew of the Millennium Falsehood-two Corellian men, a
Wookiee, and a 3PO droid in a general's uniform-descended
the loading ramp more hastily than usual, as though they expected
the battered craft to burst into flame, and turned to look
at the freighter.

    She had new laser scoring all over her hull. Smoke drifted
from beneath the keel and rose to the hangar's ceiling.

    "Not bad," Wedge said. "I've flown worse."

    Squeaky said, "You are joking, I hope, sir."

    Wedge turned his attention to the  droid. "And now that
????????????????????????????????????
   have a moment or two, Squeaky, would you mind telling
     hv you said we should allow Lara Notsil to blow holes in
   ,   IP"
OUf "Well, I thought she was trying to tell us something."
????????????????????????????????????

   Wedge blinked. Then he turned to the Wookiee. "Chewbacca go 
ahead. Pull his legs off and hit him with them."

    "Wait!" Squeaky threw up his arms as if to ward off the
blows to come. "Let me explain."

   And he did.








General Solo, Captain Onoma, and Wedge were already in the
briefing room when Donos arrived. Within a minute, they were
joined by Shalla and Face.

    "This meeting concerns Lara Notsil," Wedge said. "Each
of you is here  for a different purpose. General Solo and 
Captain Onoma are here because this pertains to mission planning.
Shalla, because of your knowledge of Imperial Intelligence
techniques ... and mentalities. Donos, because of your 
familiarity with Lara. Face, because of your training as an actor; 
we assume that you can recognize your own kind."

    Face managed a smile. "From time to time," he said.

   Wedge said, "Earlier today, the Falsehood was fired upon
by Lara Notsil, who was acting as a TIE interceptor pilot for
Zsinj's forces.  Squeaky, acting as communications officer, 
noticed that every time she hit us with laser fire, our comm unit
stored fragments of a transmission."

    Donos frowned. "Her attacks were also transmissions?"

    "That's right. She had apparently rigged one of her laser
cannons to pulse in the fashion of a line-of-sight laser communicator. 
She had also, according to what we can determine, reduced the 
strength  of her lasers somewhat--else  we would lave suffered 
more damage than we did."

    Shalla said, "This is sort of what Donos did with his laser
????????????????????????????????????251
      Halmad." Above that world, needing to trigger an ex-
    ve device but prevented from doing so by comm jamming,
     s had modified the output of his laser sniper rifle to trans-
  < the detonation signal.
????????????????????????????????????251

    Wedge nodded. "That may have been what gave her the idea
Here's the message. It's voice only." He reached over to the 
terminal keyboard beside the conference table and pressed a button.

    First, a hiss suggesting a low-quality recording, then Lara's
voice emerged from the air around them. "This is Lara Notsil
transmitting to Wraith Squadron and Mon Remonda."

    Donos tensed. Knowing that the message was from her
hadn't prepared him  for actually hearing her voice; he felt 
almost as though he'd  been physically struck. Then he became
aware of Shalla's gaze on him. Face's, too. They were evaluating 
him, his reaction.

    Once, he would have washed all expression away from his
face, giving them nothing to read. But he didn't care about that
anymore. It hurt to hear Lara. It didn't matter if they could see
the bleakness of his  expression. He closed his eyes to  listen
more carefully.

    "I was the one who suggested to the warlord that he'd en-
counter you at Comkin Five. If you did show up there, I hope
it's because it's part of your mission plan-that you were 
hoping to engage him. I told him you might also appear at Vahaba.
You might want to keep that on your schedule. You should be
able to engage him there as well."

    Donos opened his eyes to glance at Solo and Wedge. They
were exchanging a look, and Solo shook his head, a trace of
confusion to his expression.

    "I'm working on a plan now whereby I might be able to
transmit you Iron Fisfs location, just as we did with the Parasite
plan." That mission,  in which Wraith Squadron had planted a
program in the computer of a new Super Star Destroyer, Razor's
Kiss, had led to the new ship automatically sending its location
to Solo's fleet. Ultimately, it had resulted in the ship's
destruction.

"If I die,  the plan might be able to continue in my absence, so
don't just give up on it if someone manages to shoot me down.
Attached to this message is a data package showing what I've
done, what conclusions I've reached. I hope you can use them.

    "Please tell the Wraiths that I'm holding faith with them."

There was a long pause, the distinct sound of Lara swallowing
with difficulty. "The rest of this message is for Myn Donos."

    Wedge tapped a key on the terminal and her voice cut on.
????????????????????????????????????253
      ked apologetically at Donos. "I'm sorry. I've heard it al-
   Hand it does pertain to her state of mind. We're all going
<-r> have to hear it.
????????????????????????????????????253

    Donos nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

    Wedge tapped the key again.

    A little background hiss returned to the air, but Lara didn't
talk for several seconds. Then, "Myn, it's not likely that we'll
   r see one another again. So I wanted to take this opportu-
 .  to Say good-bye. Well, more than that. I wanted to ex-
plain. About what I did.
????????????????????????????????????253

    "I was fighting a war, the way 1 d been trained, and that
involved infiltrating the enemy and getting their secrets back to
my superiors, or sabotaging  the data the enemy possessed.
There was never a time I saw a file labeled 'How to Destroy
Talon Squadron' and thought to myself, 'Oh, that's what  I
want to do.' To me, it was just data about occupied territories
and interplanetary borders.

    "Then I infiltrated Wraith Squadron, just a ploy to make
myself more  valuable to prospective employers,  and things
started happening. All the furniture that made up the way I'd
thought and felt about things all my life started coming loose in
my head. Nowadays it slides around and  breaks  into pieces
and I have no idea what parts of it are real and what  aren't."
There was a waver to her voice now, a suggestion she was having 
trouble keeping it under control. "It hurts, and a lot of the
time I don't know who I am anymore.

    "But I know what I have to do. Whoever I am, I'm staying
here, like a vibroblade right next to Zsinj's vitals, and when the
right time comes I'm going to  stab him deep. That'll probably
be the last thing I do.
????????????????????????????????????
    ^1  don't  have any friends here, except one droid, and  I
  n't have any where you are, or anywhere else in the galaxy,
    hen I'm gone there isn't going to be anyone to remember
    kindly. So I was just sort of hoping you wouldn't hate me
    T>re. I really can't stand thinking that's the only way I'll
be
remembered."
fin u^Tt Was a long silence>  the sound of a sniffle. Her voice
       eturned, quieter than it had been. "I wish I'd been
     one else- To give you that chance you wanted.
        254  /  STAR  WARS:   X-WING
????????????????????????????????????????

    "Lara Notsil out."

    Donos felt his eyes burning. He put his hand over them
He felt tears under his fingers.

    They were silent a long moment. Then Wedge, regret in his
voice, said, "All right. Opinions. Shalla?"

    Shalla cleared her throat. "Tough call. At a certain level I
think Corran Horn was right. Mentally and emotionally, Lara's
not all together. But she seems to be sticking to her plan, to her
perception  that Zsinj is  the enemy. And  if I read her words
right, she's resigned herself to death in this effort. That makes
it more likely that her words can be trusted.

    "Add to  that the very interesting way she transmitted
data. It was complicated, it was unreliable. It was a desperation
measure. If she really was an agent of Zsinj's, she could
have just shot us a tight-beam transmission from her interceptor's
comm system. We would have known that there was very
little chance of such a message being detected. The approach
she actually used suggests to me that she's afraid that her 
interceptor's comm system is tapped, recording, something, and she
wanted to get around whatever measures had been taken  that
way."

    "All right. Face?"

    "She's  a pretty good actress," Face said.  "In her line of
work, she'd have to be. But there was a lot of what seemed like
very genuine strain in her voice. I'd lean toward the side of her
telling the truth."

    "Donos?"

    Decorum demanded that he look  at them when he answered. 
To do that, he'd have to put his hand down. If he did
that, they'd see his tears. They'd know he wasn't in control of
himself. They'd know...

    Well, to hell with what they knew, with what they thought.
He slammed his hand down on the tabletop. Shalla and Solo
jumped.  He looked around the  table, defying all to say any
thing about the tears on his cheeks. "She was telling the truth,
he said.

    "I need a little more than that," Wedge said. "Your reason;

    "That final bit... if she's luring us into a trap for Zsmjj
what was that last bit for? To make me feel bad? What g<*
            SOLO  COMMAND  /   255


    Id that do?" He took a deep, shuddery breath. "If she had
     a to manipulate me, to make me come in on her side,
          *id  'If I get out of this alive, I'll come back to
stand
cnp d nave 5<*iv*?  '         .              . .          .. .
 -1 1, That gives me everything, puts everything on me. If I just
  3   ustice, I win-she stands trial. If I want  her, I win-I
  in, Reside'her at her trial, and I can dream that she'll get off
***?  That's the way to swing me over, but she didn't do that.
lisni* *         j i_   "
She just said good-bye.
????????????????????????????????????256

    Wedge nodded. "All right. There you go, General. Three
opinions, all in the same direction, for different reasons."

    Solo'asked,  "Why did she think Vahaba would be on our?"

    "I looked at the data file she'd appended to the audio,"
Wedge said. "She had done a good job of calculating the 
criteria we were using, except that she thought that the planets our
false Han Solo would  be visiting would all be former trading
partners with, or recipients of regular trade goods  from,
Alderaan."

    Solo leaned back. "That makes sense. It does. One of the
factors we used was choosing worlds that produced certain
types of materiel that are valuable in times of war and times of
peace. That would correspond to a certain degree to the types
of goods Alderaan was importing after it banned all its weapons. 
Can you run the numbers on our projections again, substituting
trade with Alderaan for what we had?"

    Wedge gave him a smile. "Already did. And guess which
system, discounting the ones we've  already visited, jumps  to
the top of the list? Vahaba."

    "Vahaba." Solo  smiled.  "If we can get the Falsehood repaired 
fast enough, we can dangle it like bait for Zsinj again.
All right, Nelprin, Donos, thanks for coming. Loran, I need
you for a moment more."

    Donos rose, offered a salute, and was the first one out
the door.
????????????????????????????????????253
      the*ree Pilots were gone, Solo turned to Wedge. "If
anywh    if > C?me in at Kidriff tO get me> he WOn^ Come in
      ;re- He's just too conservative. Protecting Iron Fist all
                                                    1

????????????????????????????????????253


the way. So if we can't get Iron Fist close enough to a gravity
well to trap it for a while, we need to bring a gravity well to
Iron Fist."

    Wedge frowned. "Meaning what? An Interdictor cruiser?" 

Those vessels, uncommon even in the Imperial fleet where they 
were most prevalent, possessed  gravity-well generators that, 
when activated, could keep all vessels within range from entering 
hyperspace.

    "That's right."

    "Does Fleet Command have one available for you?"

    "No," Solo said. He turned to Face. "That's where you
come in."

    "Uh-oh," Face said.

    "I'm going to set up an appointment  between you and
your Imperial admiral buddy. I want you to go ask him for any
Interdictor."

    Face said, "Begging your pardon,  sir, but you're crazy
enough to be a Wraith."

    Solo grinned. "Until you've crewed with me for a few years,
kid, you have no idea what 'crazy' means."








                         14







Tonin decided that it might be a good thing to be the King of
the Droids.

    He was now a mighty leader, in command of hundreds of
utility droids aboard Iron Fist.

    He had modified many of them, with magnetic treads replacing 
their wheels, so that they might maneuver on the outer
hull of the vessel. They clustered at the engines and the 
hypercomm antennae, using their internal tools to chew and splice
their way into external system ports and accesses.

    More moved within Iron  Fist at Tonin's commands. Some
were in the engine compartments. Others had spliced into the
computer data cables. One was now in the security system that
monitored Lara's quarters; it fed modified recordings of her to
the observers, so she could do whatever she pleased  in her
quarters while they saw only footage of her sleeping. Others
dragged cables and dataports through the walls, giving Lara
access to more and more secure portions of the ship and the
computer archives.

    Even so, half of the utility droids Tonin commanded confined 
themselves to ordinary ship's functions... for Tonin had
to make sure the ship's central computer didn't notice a sudden
change in the utility droid population. If droid MSE-6-P303K
spent its day doing Tonin's bidding, droid MSE-6-E629L would
spend half its day doing the duties assigned by the ship's 
computer, then would visit one  of the special interfaces Tonin
had had installed at points in the ship, assume the identity of
MSE-6-P303K, and spend the other half of its day doing that
droid's duties.

    So far, the  ship's main computer hadn't noticed. This was,
Tonin reflected, because Tonin was so much better at this task
than the ship's computer was. Perhaps the ship's  computer
considered maintenance of a fleet of MSE-6 droids beneath its
dignity.

    The  droid-guard in the  corridor transmitted a warning
to Tonin; it indicated someone  was approaching Lara's door.
Tonin  decoupled himself  from  Lara's terminal and rolled
hastily into her closet. But when the door opened, it was Lara
herself who entered, looking tired and even dazed-but not
hurt or unhappy, so far as Tonin could read human emotions.
"Good morning, Tonin."

    He beeped a greeting at her, then returned to his post at the
terminal  and extended his scomp-link once more into its data
port. To the terminal's screen, he transmitted, YOU WERE GONE
FOR A LONG TIME.

    "I'm sorry. I had to go on a mission. I think I got a 
communication through to Mon Remonda, though." She sat on her
bed, pulled her boots off, and lay down. "I also gave myself a
mild concussion and got personally congratulated by  General
Melvar for 'tenacity and courage in pursuit of the enemy.'"

    THE CONCUSSION WAS PROBABLY A BAD IDEA.

    "Don't be so sure." She gave him a little smile.  "What
have you been up to?"

    WE HAVE HOLOCOMM ACCESS WHENEVER YOU NEED IT,
BUT IF YOU USE IT, THEY WILL DETECT IT VERY QUICKLY. AND
MY DROIDS FOUND AN UNMAPPED SECTION OF THE SHIP.

    "Show me."

    Tonin accessed this morning's most interesting recording
and transmitted it to the terminal's screen.

    It was a very low view, as was to be expected due to the
MSE-6's  tiny size, of a bank of rectangular viewports seen
from an adjoining corridor. Beyond the viewports were 
chamhers that were obviously medical wards. One was an operating
theater. Another held cages filled with sapient and near-sapient
life-forms: Ewoks, rodentlike Ranats, Bilars with their stuffed-
doll features but lacking the carefree expressions of most of
their kind, a pink Ortolan with its trunklike nose pressed against
the front bars of its cage,  meter-long Chadra-Fan with their
furry faces and gigantic ears, and more.

    She sat up, her tiredness apparently forgotten for the
moment. "Is this everything you have on this chamber?"

    YES, FOR NOW.

    "We need more. Get a holocam droid into that chamber,
assign it there permanently. And get a droid with a computer link
in behind the walls, see what sort of data we can  intercept. This
is really important."

    IT WILL BE DONE.

    "Now, I've got to sleep." She flopped back onto the bed.
"Concussions are no fun."

    DON'T DO THAT ANYMORE.












Admiral Rogriss froze with his wineglass halfway to his lips.

"You want what?"

    Face smiled. "Surely you have one available."

    Rogriss set his glass down with a thump. "Available to me,
yes. I can't make it available to you."

    "Even to destroy Zsinj?"

    "Even then. Factor in the likelihood that Iron Fist will 
destroy her. Factor in the likelihood that you Rebels will destroy
her - accidents  do happen. Then append  the certainty that
you'll take the credit for Zsinj's destruction regardless. I 
become a failure who, at worst, collaborated with the enemy and,
at best, lost an Interdictor cruiser. No, no, no."

    "Well, we can do a lot of things to keep this from 
happenlng?" Face said. "First, we'll assign two  of our own Imperial
Star  Destroyers  to protect your Interdictor. Second, if you 
inform only the most trusted members of the Interdictor's bridge
crew that they're temporarily working with the New Republic,
the majority of the crewmen will never figure it out-they'll see
our Star Destroyers out of their ports and presume that they're
Imperial. Later, you can say that the Interdictor blundered into
a fight between the New Republic and Zsinj and was able to
get in the killing blow while everyone  else was figuring  out
whom to shoot."

    "What will you give me?"

    Face frowned. "How's that again?"

    "If I do this, I'll be giving you an Interdictor, even 
temporarily. Will you give me, say, a Mon Calamari cruiser for  one
of my missions?"

    "I'll give you a framed and autographed holo of Face  
Loran, Boy Actor."

    Rogriss brightened. "Excellent! I can trade it for a framed
and autographed holo of Tetran Cowall. I always preferred his
holodramas anyway."

    Face seized his chest over his heart. "A good shot, Admiral.
I concede the duel." Then he gave the admiral his most frank
and evaluative stare.  "Realistically, you're not giving us
anything. You're joining  us on a mission of mutual interest. If 
we succeed, we both win. If you lose your Interdictor, you can be
assured we'll have lost both Imperial Star Destroyers assigned
to protect it... and many more ships besides. I guess it boils
down to the question of what's more important-accomplishing
your Zsinj mission because it's good for the Empire or because
it's good for Admiral Rogriss."

    The admiral touched his own chest, an echo of Face's 
gesture. "You shoot well yourself." He looked away, at the white
bulkhead wall, and was silent for several long seconds. "I'll do
it," he said.

    "I'm glad."

    "We must have a rendezvous point." The admiral held up
his wineglass.

    Face touched it with his own. "Good to be  collaborating
with you, Admiral."










Lara could almost feel the stare of Tonin's holocam eye on her.
The  R2 had been  very solicitous since her return from the
Comkin mission. Worse, it seemed to sense the way her spirits
lowered as she reviewed the data they continued to receive
from the secret chamber on Iron Fist.

    It was awful stuff. She didn't get into the worst of it in the
summary she recorded for Mon Remonda. The attached data
file would give the New Republic the most gruesome details.

    "Project Chubar is what they call the techniques used to
raise the intelligence of sapient and near-sapient beings. The
name derives from a character in a series of children's holos
about a bilar, a cute mammalian creature, who is a clever pet of
a young girl. The holos used animated graphics instead of 
actors. It's a twisted sort of touch that Face Loran supplied the
voice for Chubar. Maybe you ought not tell him that one of his
roles was the inspiration for the name of the project. Anyway,
Chubar involves chemical treatments and a teaching regimen
to bring a humanoid's mental functions up to those of human
average-sometimes higher. In the case of creatures that are
already intelligent-for instance, Ewoks-the process enhances
mental traits that bring its type of intelligence more in line
with a human's. Less reliance on sensory data and more on analysis,
for instance.

    "Project Minefield derived from Chubar. It involves a sec-
ond, and much faster-acting, set of chemical treatments that 
affect the victim's mind on a much shorter-term basis. While the
chemicals are at their maximum effect, Zsinj's  agents can 
implant a delusion and a mission in  the victim's mind. The 
delusion is usually that some awful situation is in effect and can't
be stopped until the mission is accomplished.

    "Both the delusion and the mission are associated with a
trigger, usually a code phrase. Until the phrase is used, the 
victim is unaware of what has been done to him ... in theory.
Some of  the doctors's annotations indicate that the victims
sometimes suspect that something is wrong. But when the phrase
is used, the mission pops to the top and becomes the victim's
number one priority. Um, this  conditioning wears off after a
while. The length of time it remains viable varies from species
to species, but seldom exceeds one standard year."

    She scrolled through screens of data on her terminal. "The
code phrase can have a variable in it. Let's say the mission is
'Kidnap someone' and the trigger phrase is 'I need a new speeder,
someone broke mine.'  You'd tell the brainwashed agent, 'I
need a new speeder, Elassar Targon broke mine,' and the victim
would interpret that as 'Kidnap Elassar Targon.' It's a fairly
versatile setup."  She skimmed through more screens of data."
So far, the treatment only works on mammalian species.

    "Project Funeral is Zsinj's major operation using the
Minefield technique. Our brainstorming session pretty much nailed
its purpose and intent-fomenting suspicion between the 
humans and nonhumans of the New Republic. Added to the
files suggest that the project has recently been suspended, 
pending a new direction or a shutdown. In other words, it's been
stopped dead, at least temporarily.

    "I'm going to do what I can  for the test subjects on Iron
Fist. I'll end their suffering, one way or another.

    "End Session Three." She switched off the recording and
leaned back in her chair.

    She felt strange. Growing up on Coruscant,  raised in the
planet's long-standing traditions concerning other species, she'd
always believed in the basic superiority of humans. Oh, it wasn't
necessarily wrong to have affection for  a member of another
species-a household servant, or a reliable merchant who knew
his role in life-but Coruscant was a world for and made by
humans. Imperial doctrine solidified these traditions into 
something like duracrete.

    Then, as an infiltrator in the Rebel navy and, later, Wraith
Squadron, she'd run again and again into evidence suggesting
that these traditions simply made no sense. With Wraith Squadron,
her long-standing assumption of superiority over even the
nonhumans she'd liked simply wilted away.

    And now,  with only a droid-held by the Empire in even
lower esteem than nonhumans-for a friend, longing to return
to a society full of what she'd once considered aliens, she once
again knew that the Gara Petothel that had been her childhood
identity was dead. Dead and unmourned.

    And the nonhumans in their cages deep in Iron Fisfs belly
were beginning to haunt her dreams.

    Words popped up on her screen. ARE YOU SAD?

    "No," she lied. "Just tired. But it's time to get back to
work." She leaned forward again. "What's our situation with
thehyperdrive?"

    WE HAVE UNITS IN PLACE ALL OVER THE ENGINES. THEY
CAN BEGIN THEIR SABOTAGE AT ANY TIME. BUT THERE ARE NOT
YET ENOUGH IN CRITICAL POSITIONS FOR  US TO BE CERTAIN
THAT THEY CAN DISABLE THE HYPERDRIVE.

    "Keep pouring on resources," she said. "We have to be
able to bring those engines down when we want to.

    "Let's see here ... even though we have some access to the
ship's computers, we can't afford to play  around with them
too much. We'll be detected. Zsinj's slicers aren't bad. So I've
been thinking about the most efficient way to give Solo's force
an advantage in any direct confrontation with Zsinj's fleet. To
me, that suggests messing with Iron Fist's strategic coordination 
of Zsinj's fleet. We might be able to flag friendly ships as
enemies, temporarily, and enemies as friendly.  Can we proceed 
that way?"

    YES.

    "Chance of being detected?"

    VERY LOW,  IN OUR INITIAL PHASE OF MANIPULATING THE
PROGRAMMING. ONCE THE PROGRAM IS ACTIVATED,  DETECTION
CHANCE IS 99% IN THE FIRST SECOND OF OPERATION,
WITH  ODDS INCREASING EACH ADDITIONAL SECOND.  PROBABLE 
DURATION  OF PROGRAM ONCE IT IS RUNNING  IS ABOUT
TWELVE SECONDS.

    "Not good enough. How about something to lower the
ship's shields?"

    PROBABILITY OF SUCH A THING SURVIVING EVEN IN 
LATENT FORM FOR MORE THAN A FEW MOMENTS IS VERY LOW. THE
MAIN  COMPUTER'S SECURITY MEASURES LOOK FOR PROBLEMS
THAT CATASTROPHIC.

    "So most forms of self-destruct are not even worth 
looking into."

    THAT IS CORRECT.

    "Well, then what..." She stopped as a new idea occurred
to her. "Ooh."











The document on Wedge's screen was labeled "Routine 
Examination," but Wedge knew it to be anything but. It was a
fitness report, the accumulated conclusions of Mon Remonda's
most experienced medics and analysts.

    About Myn Donos.

    The review board had been unable to confirm or deny that
the torpedo launch was an accidental discharge. That was a
break in his favor.

    However, the medics collectively pronounced him borderline.
One medic said it was a certainty that he'd lose control
again; the trauma from the loss of his squadron and his 
conflicting feelings concerning Lara Notsil made it inevitable. The
others disagreed, but indicated that his stress levels made him a
less than ideal candidate for missions.

    It was the sort of data-based torpedo that could sink a 
career. All Wedge had to do was accept their conclusions, scrub
Donos permanently from the active flight list, and the problem
he represented would go away forever.

    But one party hadn't voted yet, and that was Wedge's gut
instinct.

    A knock sounded on his door. "Come," he said.

    Donos entered, saluted. "Reporting as ordered,  sir." His
expression was somber, but was not the rigid mask Wedge 
remembered from most of their earlier interviews.

    "Have a seat."

    Donos complied, then quirked a smile. "Shall I take off my
boot,  sir?"

    "Not this time. Lieutenant, I've asked you in here to find
out what role you'd like to play in the Vahaba mission."

    "If I could do anything I wanted?"

    "That's right."

    "I'd be back in my X-wing. That's where I feel I belong."

    "And if that were denied you?"

    "I'd like to  be  put in command of the Millennium
Falsehood."

    Wedge leaned back. Donos's comment had taken him 
momentarily off guard, though he believed he'd kept his surprise
from his face. "That has been my role."

    "I expect you'd rather be back in your X-wing, sir."

    "I don't recall inviting you to attempt mind  reading,
Donos."

    Donos's expression became  more serious. "No, sir. But
we've flown in the same squadron. Learning to anticipate the 
reactions of your squadmates-emotional ones as well as physical
reflexes-is a survival trait. Maybe you find it a gross insult for
me to make predictions this way, sir, but I'd say you wanted to
get back in your X-wing cockpit and were doing these Falsehood
runs because of duty.  Because you're most qualified-second,
perhaps, to General Solo. If I can't fly my own snubfighter, I'd
be happy to free you up to fly yours."

    "Very generous of you. What if you couldn't pilot at all?"

    "Then  I'd volunteer  for  a gunnery position  on the
Falsehood."

    "And in any of these three roles, what would you do about
Lara Notsil?"

    Donos hesitated, and his expression went from somber to
melancholy. "I'd follow orders, sir."

    "What orders would you prefer?"

    "Let her go."

    "And if you were ordered to fire on her?"

    "I'd do it.  I've  sworn an oath to the New Republic. To
hold its needs above my own."

    "And if you killed her? What would you do then?"

    "I don't know, sir." Donos's eyes lost focus as they stared
off into the distance-perhaps to some future. His expression
suggested that this future was not appealing to him. "I don't
know who I'd be then,-sir."

    "Fair enough." Wedge  regarded the lieutenant for a
moment.

    This wasn't the Donos he'd met several months before.
Not a man whose every worry, every crisis was kept bottled up
inside.

    Wedge typed a few words into his terminal and sent the file
on to the  ship's central computer. "Donos, for your information,
you were right. I'd rather be in an X-wing, and for the 
upcoming and future engagements I plan to be. And so will you.
I'm certifying you fit to fly. You'll be back with the Wraiths at
Vahaba."

    Donos's eyes opened wide. "Thank you, sir."

    "Thank me after you've performed your duties to my
satisfaction. That's when I'll know I haven't made a mistake.
Dismissed."











Vahaba was a red giant circled by numerous planets. At some
time in the past, a celestial catastrophe had destroyed the 
largest of those worlds and scattered its remains in a thin ring
around the sun. The asteroids were spread across such an enormous
distance that the Vahaba Asteroid Belt was not a hazard to naviggation; 
any capital ship could blast through it at full acceleration with 
minimal worry about collision with one of the belt's
misshapen stony satellites.

    Not that Mon Remonda was close enough for her 
handlers to feel even that minimal worry. To Han Solo's eye, 
Vahaba was a distant red dot, and none of the system's planets
was visible to the naked eye. Solo's fleet hung in space so far
out that no set of Imperial sensors within the planetary system
would pick them up. Meanwhile, pairs of X-wings off Mon
Remonda and his fleet's other cruisers scoured the system.

    And found nothing.

    He resisted the urge to gripe, to drum on his chair arm, to
ask once more if there were any updates. Or to tell the new 
sensor officer to quit looking at him. He'd felt the woman's curious 
gaze on him ever since Stellar Web joined his fleet.

    To the bridge crew, Stellar Web was an unknown, tagged
Contact M-317. It hovered some considerable distance from
the rest of the fleet, far out of the range of the most capable 
visual enhancer. Messages from Contact M-317 were supposed
to be sent directly to Solo, and the communications officer was
under direct orders not to monitor, not to record them.

    Solo and a few others knew the distant ship to be an 
Imperial Interdictor-class cruiser, the new flagship of Admiral  
Rogriss. But it would be best for that information not to spread. 

    "New contact, sir." The sensor officer's quiet words nearly
jolted Solo out of his seat.

    "Let me see," Solo said, and brought up his own chair's
terminal screen.

    It lit up with a wobbly visual image. Distant ships, forming 
up slowly into an attack group. Solo nodded. Two Star
Destroyers, one Imperial-class, one Victory-class. Two Dreadnaughts. 
One smaller ship, a featureless needle at this distance;
Solo couldn't recognize it.

    "Standard for a Zsinj group," Solo said. "The question is,
is this all he's deploying to Vahaba, or is it just part of his
fleet?"

He raised his voice. "What's the source of this recording?"

    "A wingpair from Corsair Squadron, off Mow Karren," said
the comm officer. "They recorded this, using only visual sensors
so they'd be harder to spot. Then one of the pair returned with
the data while the other stayed out there to monitor."

    "Where is this?"

    "At the approximate orbit of the outermost planet, on the
approach from Halmad."

    "Reinforce the X-wings monitoring this group with another
pair. As our reconnaissance units come in  for refueling,  assign
half of them to concentrate on the orbit of the outermost planet,
on the direct-line approaches from other surrounding stars."

    "Yes, sir."

    Solo settled  back. His heart was pounding just a little
faster.








"Sick of it yet?" Face asked his temporary wingman.

    "We  are growing absolutely sick of it, Face," said Runt.
The need for hyperdrive-equipped reconnaissance pairs had
placed him with Face for this mission.

    The starfield outside their cockpits was brilliant, unchanging.
They cruised at sublight speeds at what would be considered the
boundary of the Vahaba system.

    "Good." Face changed the timbre of his voice, dropping it a
register, making it smooth, insidious. "'Please don't insult my 
intelligence. Please don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking
about.'" He forced a falsetto. "'I don't, I really don't. Please
put down the blaster. You're frightening me.'" He dropped into the
lower register again. "'Fright is the least of what you will
suffer.'"

    "Are we wrong?" Runt asked. "Or is this as terrible as we
think? The writing is awful.  You are not improving on it."

    "Sometimes you rise above your material, sometimes you
don't. I had to learn this when I was seven. It has never left
me." He dropped his voice again. "'Now, tell me where the
map is, or I...'"

    "New  contact, course thirteen  degrees, down eighty-two." 
Runt's voice was suddenly crisp, professional.

    "Roll for visual inspection, kill forward thrust, kill cockpit 
lights, passive sensors only."

    "Acknowledged, One."

    Face rolled his X-wing upside down. It would have been
an unsettling experience in a vessel not equipped with an 
inertial compensator, but to his perspective it appeared only that
the universe rotated around him. He shut down most of his 
vehicle systems and visually scanned the area of space Runt had
indicated.

    Nothing; the target was too far away. He brought up they
visual enhancer on his sensor board and directed it toward the
target area.

    A minute's worth of careful panning and searching yielded;
the target: a group of four ships in close formation. The 
smallest of them was too tiny to identify by class, but the other three
were not. Three Star Destroyers, one of them an ancient Victory-class, 
one an Imperial-class, and the other....

    "We have her," Face said. "Iron Fist.  Give me a minute
while I calculate range, Six."

    "Yes, sir."

    Face ran numbers through his navigational computer and
compared them with what he knew about the likely sensor
ranges of Imperial capital ships. "All right," he said. "Six, I
want you to run ahead at one-third acceleration for ten minutes,
then set your course to Mon  Remonda's station and transit
back there. You were recording, weren't you?"

    "Yes, sir! Wait, let us check. Yes, we have it."

    "Good. Go."











The news hit Mon Remonda's bridge like a concussion mission
Solo came up out of his chair, began issuing orders. Captain
Onoma did the same. Often their words overlapped one another.

    "Recall all starfighters in close range," Solo said. "Launch
our hyperdrive-equipped shuttles to the regions we sent recon
units to and have them transmit the new coordinates."

    "Battle stations," Onoma said. "All spacetight doors to be
closed in three minutes."

    "Transmit our course to Contact M-317," Solo said. 
"Dispatch Skyhook and Crynyd to form up with M-317. They're to
shadow her at all times, protect her at all costs, not to
interfere with her operations."

    "Bring our course to one-oh-six-point-two-two-four, 
elevation thirty-six-point-oh-nine-nine. Transmit same to fleet."

    "Tell the Falsehood crew to stand down and go to their
secondary mission parameters; we won't need them as bait."

    A low, unsettling rumble filled the bridge. Solo felt the hair
on his arms and the back of his neck rise. He swung around to
see Chewbacca standing in the doorway, his expression happy,
uttering the jubilant hunting call. "That's right,  Chewie," he
said. "It's our best shot yet."








                          15








Lara was nearly jolted out of her seat by the high pitch and panic
in the voice of the sensor officer, three seats down from her in
the crew pit. "Contact, contact, a drop out of hyperspace, I read
four, five, seven vessels cruiser size or better, total fleet size
thirteen vessels. They're already deploying starfighters."

    Boots clattered on the command walkway overhead and
Lara saw Zsinj, General Melvar, and Captain Vellar, the 
sternfaced man who would have been master of Iron Fist had not
Zsinj chosen the vessel as his flagship, running forward, toward
the main  bow viewports. Zsinj skidded to  a  sudden stop
halfway there and Melvar nearly crashed into him. It was obvious 
that Zsinj  could see the enemy with the naked eye-they
were close.

    Lara rolled her chair back to get a look at the sensor officer's 
terminal screen. It was filled with red blips, outnumbering
Zsinj's group more than three to one.

    "Return to original course," Zsinj shouted.  His face  was
red. "Prepare for hyperspace. Signal the group. Inform  Groups
Two and Three. Tell them our situation and instruct them to
stand by to jump to the abort rendezvous locations."

    "Yes, sir."

    Lara rolled back into place and nudged the technician next
to her, an Intelligence operative dedicated to analyzing 
patterns in comm traffic. "Why is he running?" she asked. "They
outnumber us, but they couldn't possibly destroy us before the
rest of our fleet jumps in."

   The analyst gave her a look of scorn. "Zsinj's doctrine,"
he said. "No matter what the odds look like, if the enemy has
chosen the battleground, he  has more resources than we're
aware of. It becomes imperative to choose a new battlefield,
one the enemy can't have prepared. Don't mistake that for
cowardice."

   "I never would  have, sir." She returned her attention to
her terminal, then typed a command, sixteen characters of 
gibberish, into her keyboard, and sent the command.

   Somewhere under the floor beneath her, a utility droid
that was spliced into  the data cables should be intercepting the
command, interpreting it, then switching the terminal over
from its analysis duties to a direct connection with her quarters-
a connection the ship's computer was not set up to monitor.

   HELLO, KIRNEY.

   She donned a set of goggles and plugged it into the termi-
nal. "Hello, Tonin,"  she whispered. "Are we set to disable the
hyper drive?"

   His next transmission showed up on her goggles. YES. BUT
FROM THE MOMENT YOU ISSUE THE COMMAND, IT WILL TAKE A
FEW MINUTES TO TAKE EFFECT.

   "Understood.  On my command,  we pin him in place and
make our run for it. Three, two, one..."

   "Sir, we're in a gravity well," the sensor operator shouted.

   "Hold it, Tonin."

   Zsinj leaned down to look into the  crew pit. "We're not
even  near-damn. Sensors, identify the Interdictor. Captain
Vellar, that's  our primary target. Dispatch Red Gauntlet and
Serpent's Smile to annihilate that nuisance. Keep Blood Gutter
ui tight to us. Communications, new message for Groups Two
and Three. Send them our current position-update it constantly. 
Tell them to hold in readiness to  jump to our position
on my order.  If we're not able  to jump out of here before we're
ukely to be disabled, we'll just have to bring the fleet in here
and fight on Solo's  preferred playground."

    "I'm disconnecting, Tonin. We may not have to reveal 
ourselves yet." She typed and sent the countercommand, restoring
the terminal to its proper function, and got back to work.









Wedge led his group in a wide loop around Skyhook, Crynyd,
and Stellar Web,  the lead ships of Solo's fleet;  around Red
Gauntlet and Serpent's Smile, the Star Destroyers  coming in to
eliminate the Interdictor; and then straight in toward the
retreating Iron Fist.

    Wedge was lead fighter in the lead squadron of twenty-four 
squadrons of fighters-every fighter in Solo's fleet except
those from the Skyhook and Crynyd, which were charged with
the defense of Stellar Web. Several of the X-wing squadrons
were light, with pilots still scattered across the solar system,
awaiting word that the battle had materialized, but the group
was still imposing, the largest force he'd led in quite a while.

    "Rogue Leader, this is Mon Remonda. Still no sign of
starfighter deployment from your target."

    "Thanks, Mon Remonda. X-wings, set your  S-foils to 
attack position. All fighters, arm your weapons." Wedge looped
around so he was  lined up more perfectly with Iron Fist's long
axis. The lack of starfighters didn't surprise him; Zsinj was
hoping to make a jump to hyperspace and didn't  want to lose
time and pilots by deploying his TIEs and then summoning
them back in. But  that decision was about to cost him.

    Ahead, the Super Star Destroyer's turbolasers and other
weapons flared into life. Space around the group was suddenly
bright with laser flares and the ball-shaped detonation of 
concussion missiles.

    "Leader to group:  make a trench." Wedge  threw more
power to acceleration and Rogue Squadron leaped out ahead.
The X-wing squad to his starboard, the Gauntlets off the 
Allegiance, dropped back and sideslipped in directly behind. The
Y-wing squad to his port, Lightning Squadron off Battle Dog,
slid in just as neatly behind them.

    In a matter of seconds, the broad wing of starfighters 
became a single concentrated line.

    Wedge brought them down low over Iron Fisfs stern and
fired down at the Star Destroyer's top hull, his lasers striking
into but being dissipated by the great ship's shields, his proton
torpedoes  detonating on impact with those defensive screens
rather than against the hull itself. Still, every shot he took
battered away at shield integrity and drained badly needed energy
resources . . . and more than two hundred fighters strung
behind him were doing exactly the same thing. He veered  from
side to side, varying his altitude as he came, and turbocannon
fire was so dense  his cockpit interior was constantly
illuminated by its brightness.

    Then Iron Fist dropped away beneath him. He'd run the
gauntlet. Tycho was still tucked  in beside him, and his sensor
board read all Rogues still accounted for. "At the end of your
run," he said, "break by squadrons and make further passes at
your discretion."











Zsinj knew from the way Iron Fist rattled that some of those
detonations were taking place at the hull, not above it. The
beeps and wails  of damage reports began to sound. A 
near-constant line of  starfighters flashed forward past the bridge
viewports.

    "What was that?" he asked of no one, then leaned over the
edge of the command walkway. "Petothel! What is he doing?"

    His new analyst  looked up. "He's concentrating fire on
your centerline, since you don't have a starfighter screen out to
prevent such a move. But he won't do it on his second run. He
knows you'll concentrate your gunnery crews's attention on
the centerline now, so he'll break his group up for more 
standard strafing runs. Don't be fooled."

    "I asked for your analysis, not your advice," Zsinj said,
and was surprised by the snap in his voice. He turned to 
Melvar. "Prepare for them to come back by way of the bow the
same way. Alert the gunners on top and below for a repeat of
the same tactic."

    Melvar looked uncertain. "Yes, sir."

    On the sensor screens, the deadly line of starfighters emerged
from its strafing run off Iron Fisfs bow, then broke up into 
individual squadrons and looped back toward the ship, a broad
cloud of enemies.

Lara allowed herself a small smirk of triumph. She'd thought
that if she phrased her reply a certain way, suggesting that
Wedge Antilles could outthink the warlord, Zsinj would 
respond with pride instead of with his tactical ability. And she'd
been right. It didn't make much of a difference in this situation;
the gunnery crews were now receiving corrections, being told
to abandon the previous orders. But Zsinj's response meant she
might be able to manipulate him again.  If only she could 
persuade him to abandon his group, leave them behind. Then,
wherever he emerged, she could shut down his hyperdrive and
summon Solo's fleet for the kill.

    She sat upright. Wait a second. Maybe she could get Zsinj
to abandon his fleet. It wouldn't take persuasion, ekher. Just a
minor course correction.

    She switched her terminal over to direct communication
with Tonin and plugged her goggles back in. "Has Iron Fist 
already transmitted its jump course to the rest of the fleet?" she
asked.

    YES.

    "Can you enter a course correction? I don't mean enter  it
as a new course-they'd notice that. I mean, like an automated
minor correction, as the  nav computer continues to process
new data?"

    YES.

    "Is there a star within range of the  kind of variation you
can enter?"

    YES. SELAGGIS. JUST WITHIN ZSINJ-CONTROLLED SPACE.  A
FEW LIGHT-YEARS AWAY. A YELLOW STAR, SEVEN WORLDS.

    "Never mind the almanac data. Correct Iron Fisfs 
jump-course so that the distance is unchanged but the destination 
is on the far side of a direct line through Selaggis's sun."

    COLLISION DETECTION IN THE NAVIGATIONAL SOFTWARE
WILL PREVENT IT.

    "Oh." She sagged.

    UNLESS I DELETE SELAGGIS FROM THE STARMAP.

    "Doit!"

    DONE. WE ARE NOW BOUND FOR SELAGGIS.

    "Tonin, you are wonderful. Kirney out."

    Perfect. Either Iron Fist would remain here, trapped by the
Interdictor, until Solo destroyed it, or it would jump to 
Selaggis, where Solo's fleet could finish it off.

    She didn't switch back to normal terminal functions. 
Instead, she lifted her goggles and glanced right and left, making
sure that the analysts oneither side  of her were fully occupied
with their tasks. Then she began recording.

Zsinj watched in pained fascination as the battle unfolded.

    Red Gauntlet, the Imperial-class Star Destroyer, and Serpent's 
Smile, the Vicfory-class, had  now dropped behind far
enough to engage the Interdictor cruiser and her two escorts. His
forces were somewhat overmatched; the Interdictor's screen 
consisted of two Imperial-class Star Destroyers, and they had their
starfighters deployed to offer additional damage to Zsinj's ships.

    But Red Gauntlet and Serpent's Smile didn't have to destroy
the enemy. They merely had to make one ship driver flinch.

    They had to do it quickly, too. Zsinj took in the broader
range of the sensor data available to him. Mon Remonda, two
more Mon Cal cruisers, another Imperial Star Destroyer, two
frigates, and a  swarm of smaller ships were converging on
Iron Fist.

    Already swarming with Rebel  starfighters-Zsinj could
see the tiny flashes of their lasers and torpedoes in the 
long-distance visual feed-his vessels dropped within range of the
enemy capital ships's guns. Brilliant streams of light lit up 
between them.

    Red Gauntlet began a stately turn to starboard, bringing
her main batteries to bear on the enemy ships. Her flank 
offered more firepower than the bows of all three Rebel vessels-
and more target area, too. Zsinj bit his lip. "Bring up damage
and diagnostics holos for Gauntlet and Smile," he said.

    "Yes, sir." A starboard viewport was replaced by the giant-
sized holoprejection of a data screen. It showed both his ships
with shields intact, minor damage accumulating throughout
their systems, especially on the older Serpent's Smile.

    But that ship had a canny captain who was a fine pilot. As 
Red Gauntlet rained destructive - and distracting - fire down
on the enemies, Serpent's Smile rotated ninety degrees on her
long axis to narrow her approach profile and sideslipped 
between the Rebel Star Destroyers.

    As they advanced, the Rebel ships unloaded only a portion
of the full might of their flank batteries against Serpent's
Smile - any miss might continue on to hit the other Rebel ship. And,
though Smile had only a few stern guns to bring to bear against
the Interdictor, she had one other weapon-her considerable
mass, which was decelerating right in the Interdictor's path.

    "Flinch," Zsinj said. All the Interdictor had to do was veer
away from the collision. Then Iron Fist and, ultimately, all the
ships in Zsinj's group could get enough distance from the 
Interdictor to jump into hyper space.

    The Interdictor came on, her own guns now-firing on Serpent's Smile.

    "Flinch, damn you," Zsinj  said.

    Melvar said, "We've identified the Interdictor. She's Stellar
Web."

    "Stellar Web? Nonsense."  Zsinj shook his head. "That's
an Imperial craft.  Captained by Barr Moutil.  He doesn't have
the nerve to do what that captain's doing."

    "You were the one who said  the Rebels and the Imperials
were cooperating against you," Melvar reminded him. "And
Stellar Web has been observed to be part of Admiral Rogriss's
task force."

    "Rogriss." Zsinj took a look at the sensor board.  Stellar
Web still came on, straight at the Victory-class destroyer 
decelerating into its path. "If he's transferred his flag to the
Interdictor... he has more nerve, better timing than my man. My captain
will flinch first. We may have to summon the other groups and
fight this one out. On their chosen battlefield."

    The communications officer called up, "Communications
lost with Serpent's Smile."

    Zsinj scowled down at him. "Nonsense. We still have data
feeds."

    "Sorry, sir. I meant bridge communications."

    Zsinj looked at the enhanced view of the battle zone. The
    hull of Serpent's Smile was afire, with much of the flame
concentrated around the command tower. Increasingly, the old
destroyer looked like something a giant beast had chewed upon.

    "We're getting communications from their auxiliary bridge.
They're requesting orders."

    Zsinj felt a sense of loss as he realized what needed to be
done. "Tell them to lock down their current course, launch all
starfighters, and abandon ship."

    "They say they can save her, sir."

    "Do as I ordered." Zsinj turned to Melvar. "It's  a heavy
loss. But now they can't flinch."

    Melvar nodded.










Solo watched as the stern of Serpent's Smile slid ever closer to
the bow of the oncoming Stellar Web. He was unconscious of
the  fact that he was rocking forward  and back in his seat.
Games of head-to-head between capital ships tended to result
in disaster for both participants, and disaster was almost upon
the two ships he watched.

    "They're going to hit," Onoma said.  "They cannot avoid
know."

    Stellar Web finally vectored, her bow turning slowly away
from the oncoming destroyer wreckage. Solo waited for the 
inevitable collision between ships, but Serpent's Smile seemed to
slow as it approached the Interdictor. Stellar Web shot away
from the destroyer, her course taking her dangerously close to
Crynyd, then vectored away from that vessel as well. Suddenly
she was headed out to space, away from the surviving Imperial
Star Destroyers.

    "How did she do that?" Onoma said.
    "I'm not sure," Solo said. "But if I were driving a dragship
in that situation, I'd reverse the gravity-well generators so they
pushed instead of pulled. That would give me extra propulsion
bounce away from any mass in the area. Must have wreaked
havoc with the ship's artificial gravity, though. She can't be
set up to  do such a thing normally."  He couldn't keep dull
disappointment out of his voice. Stellar Web's course was now 
at an angle to Iron Fisfs. Distance increased between the two
ships. "Weapons, how soon before we overtake Iron Fist?"

    "They'll be within firing range in thirty-eight seconds,^
the weapons officer said. "Within effective damage range in al
minute ten."

    "Sensors, how soon, assuming optimal piloting by Stellar
Web, before Iron Fist is out of her projected mass shadow?"

    "Two minutes fifteen, sir."

    "Weapons, ready your guns."










Wedge brought the Rogues around for another pass. Casualties 
had been high in his group owing to the sustained effort
against Iron Fist, of the Rogues, Hobbie had been hit by an ion
cannon and his snubfighter was out of combat, though he was
undamaged, and Asyr Sei'lar had been forced to punch out
when turbolaser damage sent her X-wing into a fatal spin toward
Iron Fisfs hull. A shuttle off Mon Karren was now endeavoring 
to pick her up. Losses had been even more severe among
many other squadrons, especially the slower-moving Y-wings
and the Cloakshape fighter squadron off Battle Dog.

    But Iron Fist was starting to look bad, portions of his
deck gouting flame. Mon Remonda reported Serpent's Smile
destroyed, and Red Gauntlet sustaining heavy damage  from
the two Imperial-class Star Destroyers she faced.

    "Rogues, stay on her bow," Wedge ordered. "Solo's group
is coming up off her stern and we don't want to get caught
in the crossfire." He rolled toward the Super Star Destroyer
evened out his shields, and opened fire once more.

    His lasers plowed into Iron Fisfs shields and through -
saw hull plates explode out under the  pressure of the
atmosphere they'd once contained. As he looped around from this
side-to-side strafing run, he saw the guns of Mon Remonda,
Mon Karren, and Mon Delindo chewing away at Iron  Fisfs
stern, the destroyer's batteries returning fire against the  Mon
Cal cruisers.

    Then Iron Fist became a single streak of light leaping out
into space. A moment later, the destroyer was gone. Only the
ill battered-looking cruiser that had been hugging her belly 
remained, and a second later it disappeared as well.

    Wedge set his jaw. This  wasn't the sort of victory they
needed. "Rogues, form up. Let's assess remaining threats."

    But the flaming wreckage that was Serpent's Smile was no
threat, and neither Red Gauntlet nor the three ships around
her - Crynyd, Skyhook, or Stellar Web-was firing. Zsinj's other
destroyer had surrendered.








"I can't beat him," Solo said. His voice was duller than before,
even to his own ears. He couldn't seem to muster the energy even
to pretend to be enthusiastic. "We've lost."

    Captain Onoma regarded him steadily; the Mon Calamari's 
eyes were wide, evaluative. "We have reduced him."

    "He'll swell up again. And there  we'll be, locked in this
struggle forever." He heaved a sigh. "All right. Recall the 
starfighters. Assemble the group. Secure Red Gauntlet and put a
crew aboard her.  Maybe we can draft her against Zsinf until
Fleet Command decides to reallocate her."

    "Yes, General."

    The communications officer said, "Message from Contact
M-317."

    "Put it through."

    Admiral Rogriss's  face came up on Solo's private screen.
He looked unshaken, undismayed by the events of the last few
minutes. "General Solo."

    "Admiral. Let me compliment you on your flying."

    "Thank you.  I think we're done here,  however. A shame."
The admiral shrugged. "It was a trap that could have succeeded."

    Solo nodded. "Let me ask you. Would you do it again?"

    Rogriss froze. After a moment, he gave a slight nod. "I
imagine I would. You have my frequency."

    "I do. Good luck ... against the warlord, anyway."

    Rogriss laughed. Then his image vanished from the screen.
A moment later, Stellar Web made the jump into hyperspace
and was gone.

    Solo sat, alone with his thoughts, his crew choosing not to
disturb him.

    In the murmur of their voices, he could pick up details of
their status. How many pilots lost. How many starfighters 
temporarily out of combat, how many permanently. Damage tallies.
Reports on reconnaissance pilots finally rejoining the group.

    Then his communications officer said, "Sir, we're receiving 
holocomm traffic."

    "That will be Zsinj," Solo said. "Calling to brag."

    "No, sir."












Long before she was supposed to, Iron Fist dropped out of 
hyperspace. Directly ahead, though at a sufficient distance that
they were in no danger, was a yellow sun.

    Zsinj leaned over to bellow down at his navigator. "What
is this?"

    "A star, sir," the navigator said, then wilted as he realized
how unnecessary the statement was. "Name unknown. It's not
on my charts."

    "Not on your charts?" The words escaped Zsinj in a bellow. 
"Just how incompetent are you? How far did we travel?"

    "Less than eight light-years, sir."

    Zsinj felt himself gaping like a fish. "There are no unknown
systems eight light-years from Vahaba!" He turned to Melvar,
dropped the volume of his voice to a whisper. "Are there?"

    "Well,  if we knew," the general said, "they wouldn't be
unknown. But to answer the question more appropriately, no
yellow sun  like this could exist eight light-years from Vahaba
without the people of Vahaba knowing-and so it would be on
our star charts."

    Zsinj returned his attention to the navigator. "Well, turn
us around,  get us out of this gravity well and into hyperspace,
and get us to our rendezvous point." He didn't bother to keep
anger out of his voice.

    "Sir?"  Another voice, the officer in charge of engineering.
"New damage reports. We're experiencing a progressive failure 
in our hyperdrive system."

    Zsinj felt his gut turn cold. "Define 'progressive failure."'

    "Primary subsystems are shut down and secondary systems
and optional reroutes are failing. But it's not instantaneous.
It's spreading, like a disease."

    "How long before the system is inoperable?"

    "One minute, maybe two."

    "Navigation, how  long before we  can make our next jump?

    The navigator looked up and slowly shook his head.

    "Fix it," Zsinj said.  "Now. Now. Now."

    "We have a holocomm message," called the communications
officer.

    "Directed to whom?" Zsinj asked.

    "I don't know, sir. It's not to us. It's from us."

    "I didn't authorize... Oh, Melvar, we're in trouble. 
Communications, put that message up where I can see it."

    The holoprojected status board was replaced by a face-that
of Gara Petothel. She had goggles pushed up on her forehead
and was leaning in close to the holocam. Her expression was
somber. The view behind her was of the back wall of the crew
pit. Zsinj looked down at her seat in the pit; it was empty.

    "General Solo," the woman said. "If everything has gone
correctly, Iron Fist is now in the Selaggis system with her 
hyperdrive inoperable. Other portions of Zsinj's fleet are con-
tinuing on to their rendezvous points and won't be able to get
to him for a little while-minutes in some cases, hours in 
others. I recommend you come by and take a look. Oh, bring your
fleet, too. Lara Notsil out." The image faded.

    Zsinj stood there a moment, his mind a blank. For the first
time in years, he couldn't think of anything to say. He did 
notice the deadly quiet that had fallen on the bridge.

    Finally, he turned to Melvar. "Dispatch Security. Have her
found and brought to the interrogation chamber." He took a
deep breath. "I intend for her death to be so horrible that it
will give me nightmares."

    Melvar nodded and brought out his comlink.

    Zsinj addressed the  navigator. "We're at Selaggis. Selaggis
is normally on our charts. What does that suggest to you?"

    "Our charts have been tampered with, sir. I'm already
restoring them from our archives."

    "Very good. You just saved your own life."

    Zsinj turned his  attention to Captain Vellar. "How soon |
can we reassemble the fleet here?"

    "If they've already launched for the rendezvous points,"
the man said,  "about six hours for the other units of Group
One, four for  Group Two, two and a half for Group Three.
But, sir, Groups Two  and Three had no urgent reason to leave 
Vahaba. If they've lingered, they're only minutes away."

    "Communications! Direct a holocomm signal to any 
remaining units at Vahaba. Bring them here." Zsinj returned his
attention to Vellar. "Bring in Second Death. We may actually
have to use her in her primary role. Bring in any stray vessels
under my command in this region. Bring in any pirate or 
mercenary forces we've used in the past. Hire any vessel of any sort
operating in or near this system. Find a good spot in this 
system for us to hide until our reinforcements arrive or our 
hyperdrive is fixed." He took a deep breath to calm himself. "And
prepare all our starfighters to launch. We're in for a fight."












At a half trot, Lara followed the tiny utility droid down the
busy corridor, and Ensign Gatterweld followed her. "Should
you be doing this?" Gatterweld asked. "Aren't you supposed
to be on station?"

    "No, I'm not," she said. "I'm tending to an emergency."

    "What's with the droid?"

    "It knows where to go."

    The droid pulled over to stop beneath a utility access
hatch. Lara typed numbers into the keyboard beside it. "If this
weren't authorized, would I be able to open this?" The hatch
offered up a clank of confirmation and swung open. Beyond, in
the narrow access shaft, waited another utility droid. A broad
box was strapped to its top.

    "I suppose not. Where are we going?"

    Lara reached in, opened the box partway, and fumbled
within it.  Her hand rested first upon a trigger housing. She
grabbed the weapon's grip and switched the weapon over from
blast to stun settings. "I'm going to go get killed. If you're not
smart, you will, too." She reached back with her free hand to
give him a shove, rocking him back on his heels, then she turned
and shot him.

    The stun beam caught him in his midsection.  He fell
backwards, hitting the corridor's metal flooring with a clang.
Passersby-officers, crewmen, pilots rushing toward their
launch bays-stared in momentary surprise, and some lunged
toward her.

    She stepped into the access shaft and yanked the hatch
closed. The hammering of fists sounded against the hatch.

    Lara pulled the empty package from the utility droid's
back and discarded it. Then she tapped the droid three times.

    It turned obligingly and headed off into the shaft, Lara
close behind it.













"But can we believe her?" Solo asked.

    Captain Onoma gave him a shrug.  "Your analysis team
believed her before, and our engagement here at Vahaba 
confirmed the data she gave us."

    "True. But it could still be a plan to draw us into some trap
Zsinj has set up at Selaggis. Trusting her could mean the end of
the fleet." Solo sat back, frustrated, struggling with conflicting
impulses.

    "Sir," the comm officer said, "we have more holocomm
traffic. A recorded message, not a live transmission."

    Solo sat up. "From Notsil again?"

    "No, sir. From some sort of automated router in the 
Halmad system. It didn't come straight from there, though. The
route data says it went to a holocomm relay satellite in New
Republic space first, then  Coruscant, then to a  high-security
fleet satellite, then to us. It's eyes-only for Commander Antilles
or Captain Loran."

    Solo frowned. "That's odd.  And Halmad is so close the
timing can't be coincidence. Captain, is either Wedge or Loran
back on board?"

    Onoma nodded. "Both are."

    "Get them up to the closest conference room, right now."

Solo met the two pilots in the conference room. As soon as the
door was shut, he said, "Bring up the message."

    The room's comm terminal responded in what sounded
like a recorded female voice. "State your name and rank for
verification purposes."

    Wedge looked at the general, who nodded, and said, "Wedge
Antilles, Commander, New Republic Starfighter Command."

    "Thank you."

    The room's holoprojector activated and a hologram swam
into focus in the center of the conference table. It showed 
Warlord Zsinj against a neutral gray background. "General Kargin
and the Hawk-bats, greetings," the warlord said.

    "It's a recording," Solo said. "You're not compromised."

    "I have a proposition  for you," the warlord continued.
"It's my hope that you're still stationed out of the Halmad 
system, because if you are, I can offer you a considerable sum to
join me on a  sort of impromptu exercise. If yotf're  available,
please transit immediately to the Selaggis system-practically
your next-door neighbor. However, our window of opportunity is 
very narrow-in a very few hours from this  message's
time stamp, it will close. I hope to see you soon." With a
confident smile, the warlord closed down the transmission and his
holo image faded.

    "Notsil was telling the truth," Solo said. "Zsinj  is trapped
at Selaggis." His expression transformed from tiredness and
premature age to his familiar cocky appearance.

    "And he's desperate for troops," Face said. "He's calling
in the Hawk-bats and probably every pirate he's dealt with
within a few light-years. We've got him."

    "Do you want to go in as the Hawk-bats?" Solo asked.

    Face shook his head. "We'd have to put on the makeup,
repaint some of the interceptors. Call it half an hour to an
hour's delay. And all it would get us is proximity to Iron Fist in
a half dozen TIEs."

    "Where do I know the name Selaggis from?" Wedge asked.

    "Another Zsinj strike zone," Solo said. "One of the first I
looked at after I assumed command of this task force. One of
the moons of Selaggis Six was colonized. I guess Zsinj decided
to make a lesson of someone colonizing on his border without
his permission. Iron Fist wiped out the whole colony. I think it
would be very appropriate if he were wiped out in the same
system."

    "Right."

    "Get back to your squadrons," Solo said. "We'll jump 
immediately. " He raced from the room, showing haste 
inappropriate for a general.

    Wedge and Face headed back for their hangar at a trot.

"Shalla is going to be so relieved," Face said.

    "How so?"

    "Her assault on Netbers back in the Saffalore complex.
She's been beating  herself up for a while, wondering whether
she should have risked all our lives to keep the Wraith Squadron
Hawk-bats link a secret. Now she gets to know she was right."







                         16











"Second Death is on station," announced Iron Fisfs commu-
nications officer.

    "Very well," Zsinj said.

    "Sir."

    Zsinj turned at the sound of Vellar's voice. "Captain. What
is it? You're almost smiling."

    Vellar did in fact smile. "I got through to the Chains of
Justice.  Group Three had not yet entered hyperspace at Vahaba.
The entire Group Three is en route to us now."

    Zsinj beamed at him.  "We might not only survive-we
may have just won this engagement, Captain. Thank you."










Mon Remonda and the New Republic fleet dropped out of 
hyperspace well within the Selaggis system.

    "Contact," announced the sensor operator. "Multiple contacts
moving well ahead of us. Their course takes them toward
Selaggis Six."

    "Show me," Solo said.

    The holoimage brought up to hang before Solo's chair
jerked and flickered, the result of the extreme visual enhancement
needed to offer any detail at this range. It showed a gradually
lengthening line of ships headed toward a distinct yellow-orange
world. The closest ships, those at the rear of the formation,
were two Star Destroyers-one Imperial, one Victory-and a
smaller vessel. Like Carrack-class cruisers, the small ship looked
like a thick bar with thickened areas fore and aft, but Solo 
recognized it as a Lancer-class frigate. Smaller than Carracks, the
Lancers were configured to repel starfighter squadrons. 
Stretching out ahead of these vessels were two Dreadnaughts and, in
front, a smaller craft that would have been difficult to identify
if seen from an above angle, where it would look like a simple
triangle. But Mon Remonda's position was slightly below the
flight path of the outbound ships, and from this perspective
Solo could  see the teardrop-shaped  command pod hanging
from the bow, the boxy starfighter  bay depending from  the
stern. It was a Quasar Fire-class starfighter transport. Solo had
one in his own fleet.

    Solo ran the numbers through his head. It was a habit he'd
gotten into  as a general; the Corellian habit of ignoring odds
until one crashed right into them was inappropriate for an 
officer who had lives depending on his decisions.

    "If they join up with Iron Fist, they will outgun us," 
Captain Onoma said, confirming Solo's calculations.

    "But not by an impossible amount," Solo said. "We'll just
have to be better than they are."

    The world the enemy forces approached, Solo knew, was a
gas giant, a beautiful yellow-orange thing whose atmosphere was
characterized by constant storm activity. The storms unceasingly
changed the planet's patterns of swirls and lines of color, so
that each new day offered variations in the worldscape. It must have
been an ever-changing work of art for the colonists on one of the
world's moons. Selaggis Six also had a heavy debris ring thought
to have been another moon at one time.

    Solo nodded. "Selaggis Six is the perfect place for Zsinj to
make a stand. He can  use the terrain to his advantage. An 
asteroid ring to hide in, a planetary atmosphere he might even be
able to bring Iron Fist into for cover. That's our destination,
Captain. Follow that group."











Leaving Tonin behind, Lara stepped out of the turbolift onto a
deck of Iron Fist that wasn't supposed to exist.

    She'd only  seen it through holocam recordings taken by
utility droids. It didn't seem quite as cavernous from a human
perspective.

    Ahead was a long, dimly lit corridor. To the right was a
bank of viewports showing more brightly lit chambers.

    The first chamber she passed was the one she thought of as
the zoo. In it were a couple of monitoring consoles and an 
entire wall of metal and transparisteel cages, stacked three high,
the upper ones accessed by a sort of portable turbolift - a
metal floor in an open-air upright frame. Most of the cages still
seemed to be full. Two human men were seated at a desk, one
typing  away on a large terminal. Neither noticed Lara. She
wasn't surprised; inside the more brightly lit room, the 
transparisteel of the  viewport would be very reflective. If they did
see her, all they'd see was a  naval officer walking - at a slow,
measured rate.

    It was making her crazy, having to pace herself now that
she was within sight of humans and holocams again-though
Tonin's measures should have rendered those holocams 
ineffective. She wanted to dash down to the end and do her  
business. But she couldn't afford to attract attention, not now.

    The next chamber was a surgical  theater. The operating
table featured an inordinate number of straps and fasteners of
varying sizes. There were also injectors on robot arms, monitor
screens, tools she couldn't recognize. She suppressed a shudder.

    Then, the office. Within it, another two men, medical tech-
nicians. One looked up as she passed, squinted, and shaded his
eyes to see her through the partial reflection.

    She rounded the turn to the right and punched the 
combination  Tonin had given  her into the door keypad there. The
door slid open.

    The two technicians, dark-haired men of ordinary appearance, 
their features  so similar they were probably brothers,
glanced at one another and their expressions brightened. "A
new liaison officer?" asked one.

    "That's right." Lara entered and shut the door.

    "Would you please..." said the first.

    "Please please please," said the second.

    "Tell us what's going on with the ship?"

    "We were in a battle, weren't we?" said the second.  "I
could feel the vibrations even down here."

    "I felt them first."

    Lara looked between them. "You two, and the men in the
containment chamber, are  the most  vomitously despicable
creatures I think I've ever met."

    The two men looked at one another.  "You haven't even
gotten to know us yet," said the first.

    From where she'd tucked it into her belt at her back, she
drew her blaster. Both men flinched. "Take me to the containment 
chamber," she said. "Or I'll kill you."

    In moments she was in the largest chamber, four prisoners
standing splayed against one blank wall, while she examined
the cages at ground level.

    Inside the nearest was an Ewok. "Do you understand Basic?" she asked.

    It nodded,  its motion  quick and  very  human. Its  eyes
looked like those of an Ewok but possessed an understanding
that was unsettling.

    "I'm going to free you and get you off this ship. So you can
go home or live where you please. Would you like that?"

    It nodded.

    One of the medics said, "Zsinj will kill you for this."

    "No, he's going to kill me  for several other things." The
lock on the cage was simple, mechanical; she lifted it and the
Ewok emerged. The creature looked at the medics and uttered
a low, rolling growl.

    Then, to Lara's discomfiture, it spoke, its voice rising and
falling in a singsong that did not  belong to any Basic  dialect
she'd ever heard. "I will kill them."

    "No," she said. "You will  go to each cage. Ask each
prisoner if it will refrain from attacking me if it is freed. Tell it
that I will get them all off this ship. Then free the ones who agree."

    The Ewok looked up at her, so obviously considering her
command and his other options that Lara could almost seen
strategic program running behind his eyes. Then he shrugged
like a human and moved to the next cage.








Out the forward viewport, Zsinj could see little but tumbling
asteroids and brilliant flashes of light as  Iron Fisfs forward
guns blasted the largest of them.

     The communications officer said, "The shuttles report our
explosives packages being planted on schedule."

     "Good."

     "And Chains of Justice reports sensor contact with Solo's
fleet, sir."

     "Very well."

     "And we have a report from the chief engineer."

     "Hold on." Zsinj stepped back to his hologram pod in the
security foyer directly behind the bridge. "Send it to me here."

     The face and torso of the chief engineer, whose light build
and scrupulous cleanliness belied his profession, swam into fo-
cus in the air. "Sir, we've identified the trouble/The engineering
compartments are swarming with, well, saboteur droids."

     Zsinj gave him a look to suggest the man shouldn't make
jokes. "Would you like to try again?"

     "Standard MSE-6 utility droids, sir. They've gone mad or
been reprogrammed. With their internal tools, they're opening
access hatches, chewing  their way into wire clusters, sending
false data, dragging chips out of their housings. All in the 
hyperdrive systems."

    The absurdity of what the man was saying hit Zsinj and he
almost snorted. "And what are you doing about this?"

     "We're, uh, kicking the things to pieces with our boots,
Warlord. Between the primary and redundant systems, we're
restoring the system to functionality. But when we jump, we'll
need to make it a careful one; there won't be any backup 
systems in case of component failure."

     "Understood. How long?"

     "Pessimistically, an hour. Optimistically, somewhat less. I
don't know how much less."

    "As much less as possible, if you please. Out." 

The image faded.
??????????????????????291

    Zsinj turned to Melvar. "Very clever. I wish our analysts
had anticipated such an approach to sabotage. We need thinkers
like her in my organization, General."

    "Are we not going to kill her, then?"

    "I said thinkers like her. But loyal ones. Her fate will serve
to reinforce that loyalty."










The starfighters of Solo's fleet finished forming up, then broke
off by task.

    Wedge's task force included four X-wing squadrons, one
A-wing, and the Wraiths. They turned toward Selaggis Six and
leaped forward, drifting a little out from the path taken by
Zsinj's group, their intent to pass it by and reach the planet first.
Other groups of starfighters would head straight for the Star
Destroyers at the rear of the formation, hoping to get some early licks
in, while still others remained on station with Solo's fleet as a
defensive screen.

    "Group, this is Leader. When we reach the ring, we'll break
by squads to our assigned task. Rogue and Wraith Squadrons
will head counter-spinward and spread out the width of the ring
for reconnaissance. Corsair and High Flight Squadrons will do
the same spinward. Polearm and Shadow Squadrons will break
by wingpairs and do recon runs on the moons. First pilot to spot
Iron Fist gets an extra three-day leave."









Iron Fisfs communications officer announced, "Chains of Justice
reports starfighter launch and deployment from Mon Remonda.
X-wings incoming. Y-wings remaining behind as a screen."

   Zsinj smiled. "Launch all our squadrons, except the One
Eighty-first  and the experimentals."  He turned to Melvar.
'While they send their fastest fighters looking for us, we can
concentrate ours on them. Mon Remonda is in for the beating
she deserves."










"Incoming starfighter squadrons from Selaggis Six," the sensors
operator said.

    Solo nodded. "Bring the Y-wings up front. Let them think 
that's all we have. Array the rest behind Mon Remonda." He had
four squadrons of Y-wings, two each from Mon Karren and Mon
Delindo, plus two more Y-wing squadrons and a Cloakshape
squad off the Battle Dog.

    The Y-wings were good at hammering large targets, and 
rugged enough to sustain a lot of damage from enemy starfighters.
But they weren't fast or nimble enough to keep TIE fighters from
bypassing them and hitting a target like Mon Remonda.

    However, the last ship in Solo's formation, the Imperial Star
Destroyer Skyhook, after its capture from the Empire, never had
its complement of Imperial fighters replaced by the New Republic's 
ubiquitous Y-wings. Instead, it retained its original 
complement of six TIE fighter squadrons, crewed mostly by former
Imperial pilots who'd joined the Alliance over the years.

    The approaching force, nine squadrons of TIE fighters and
interceptors, came on in a spread pattern toward Mon Remonda,
ignoring the other ships in Solo's group. Several kilometers out
from Mon Remonda, as they  reached maximum firing range
from the Y-wing squadrons, they opened up with a salvo of
lasers, then broke around the Y-wing force in four groups, 
leaving the slower New Republic starfighters to turn awkwardly in
their wake.

    "Open mass fire," Solo said. "Forward guns only. Prepare
to drop them at my command. Bring up the TIEs."

    The cruiser's forward turbolaser batteries and ion cannons
flashed into life, and Solo could feel vibrations in the heels of
his boots as wave after wave of destructive energy poured out
toward the enemy. On  his sensor board,  the cluster of TIEs
waiting to Mon Remonda's stern, colored blue to indicate their
friendly status, suddenly leaped into motion, half moving up
over the cruiser, half under her hull.

    Off the cruiser's bow, the incoming TIEs began reaching 
effective fire range. The cruiser throbbed and vibrated as her
shields absorbed concentrated laser fire from a hundred starfighters.

    The friendly TIEs reached Mon Remonda's midway point.
Solo said,  "Cease mass fire. Begin individual defensive fire by
sensor only-with friendly TIEs out there, they can't rely on 
visuals. Good luck to the pilots." Then, all he could do was wait
and watch.

    He saw a collective waver along the line of enemy TIEs as
their pilots, momentarily freed from the distraction of the 
turbolaser barrage, recognized that the incoming TIEs were not
friendly. Some looped back the way they'd come. Two red dots
vanished instantly, destroyed by incoming fire from the 
pursuing Y-wings. Then the clouds of red and blue targets became
hopelessly intermixed.

    The turbolasers opened up again, their fire more intermittent, 
their gunners firing more discriminately now that friendly
and enemy forces were in such close proximity.

    Far ahead, Solo's X-wing reconnaissance  squadrons should
be reaching the ring  of Selaggis Six about  now.  "Come on,
guys," he breathed. "Get me what I need, fast."

"Group Leader, this is Polearm One. I have the Iron Fist."
Captain Todra Mayn, once of Commenor, now a Starfleet Command
lifer, had only to glance out her port viewport to see the mighty
vessel. "I'm flying parallel to the center of the interior rim of
the debris ring. Iron Fist is about forty kilometers deep in the
ring. She  seems to be blasting herself a channel parallel to the
edge. It's the turbolaser flashes that let me spot her."

    "Polearm One, Group Leader. Good work. Stay in position and 
we'll form up on you."

Iron Fist didn't alter course in the minutes it took Wedge to form
up his group of six squadrons. "Group, Leader. Any guesses as
to her intent?"

    "Leader, this  is Shadow One. This sort of ring includes
particles much finer and closer than we see in normal asteroid
fields. Most of them won't worry a shielded Star Destroyer. But
even finger-sized bits can wreck an X-wing at high speeds. I
think he's giving himself a second set of shields here."

    "Good point," Wedge said. "But space around the larger as-
teroids should be a little clearer-their gravity will have drawn
in some of the proximate particles. We'll take it slow going in and
move from asteroid to asteroid until we're close, an 
island-hopping approach. Break by squads, each squad choosing its
own approach." He suited action to words by heeling over to
starboard, descending relative to Iron Fisfs orientation, along
the inner rim of the debris field. Rogue Squadron formed up behind him.

    Entering the debris field was like flying into an odd 
sandstorm. The asteroid debris was mostly small, and was 
sufficiently well spaced so that only the larger asteroids interfered
with vision. But every few seconds, forward shields would light
up with the impact from a tiny asteroid, or Wedge would hear
a metallic clank as something hit his hull. His diagnostics 
continued to register full atmospheric pressure, though.

    He set his course from large asteroid to large asteroid.
Some of them were the size of small moons, the others merely
as large as good-sized houses.

    His comm unit crackled. "Group Leader, this is Wraith
One. Wraith Squadron in position to begin assault run."

    "Wraith One, Leader. Good flying. Stand by until all 
squadrons are in position."

    "Acknowledged."

    Rogue Squadron  finished a half orbit around one of the
larger asteroids and suddenly Iron Fist was in full view 
again - less than a kilometer  below. Other than the  bow guns being
used to clear a path for her, the ship's weapons were not active.
A few large asteroids floated between the Rogues and their target, 
partially obscuring Wedge's view.

    "Maintain this orbit," Wedge said. "Rogue Squadron in
position."

    "Shadow Squadron in position."

    "Corsair Squadron in position."

    A minute later, the remaining units had reported in.

    At the end of another quick orbit, Wedge said, "Leader to
group. Set S-foils to attack position. Begin your assault runs."
He looped away from his orbital path and dove toward the Su-
per Star Destroyer.

As Wraith Squadron formed up to begin its assault run, Do-
nos suddenly felt uncertain. More than that, he felt awash in
unreality.

    He'd been here before. He knew he had.

    The last time he'd felt this way-above a moon circling the
third planet of solar system M2398-he'd witnessed the destruction
of his astromech, Shiner. Then the sense of unreality
had claimed him and he'd found himself back in the ambush at
Gravan Seven, the one that had cost him his squad ... and his
sanity.

    It was happening again...

    He clamped down on his feeling of desperation. But 
neither Gravan Seven nor M2398 had had an asteroid field. 
Neither resembled the  space around him. What was here that
threatened to send him back into a state of collapse?

"Break off, break off! It's an ambush!"

    Wedge grimaced. The voice was that of Donos. Wedge had
been wrong. The pilot's mind had snapped back to the Gravan
system ambush yet again.

    "Group Leader, this is Wraith Three." Donos's voice was
in control again. "Please order an abort on the assault run. This
is an ambush."

    "Group, abort. Pull back  and regroup."  Wedge  hauled
back on his yoke, veering away from Iron Fist. "Wraith Three,
this better be good."

    Abruptly the  Star Destroyer's gun batteries went active,
pouring laser blasts into the asteroid field all around it. Wedge
could see bright flashes as dozens of asteroids detonated. Comm
traffic told the story of the other pilots's conditions. "This is
High Flight Three. I'm hit by debris. Experiencing engine 
shutdown." 

"Shadow Twelve is gone, repeat, is gone! He ran right
into a chunk of asteroid."

    "Wraith Three, that's  two  casualties and all we did was
break off," Wedge said. "You'd better have a good reason."

   Still out of range of Iron Fist's  guns, he put Rogue Squadron
into ortbit around another planetoid.

    "Yes, sir. I thought I was going crazy for a minute. I
distinctly remembered going through this exact raid once before. 
I hadn't, really-it was a simulator run back when I was first 
getting pilot training with the Alliance."

    "Go ahead."

    "The sim was based on a story, a lesson from one of my 
instructors. He'd been a Y-wing pilot. His unit encountered an
old Victory-class Star Destroyer in a debris field like this one.
Took the same kind of approach in, island-hopping from big
asteroid to big asteroid to minimize damage from debris. When
they got close enough, the destroyer opened up - shooting the
asteroids they were nearest. The rock debris superheated and
exploded like bombs. It was a disaster for the Y-wing unit. I ran
through the simulation of it several times. It was a nightmare."

    Wedge thought about it. Their target's barrage had seemed
to hit a lot of the asteroids near his starfighters. "Which
Victory - class Star Destroyer was it?"

    "Iron Fist, sir. The original one. Zsinj's first command."

    "Good work, Wraith Three. Group, we have a  new plan.
Squads who feel up to it can still approach  laterally, but stay
away from any asteroid large enough for them to target and
blow up-say, anything half the size of your vehicle or larger.
The rest, drop down into Iron Fisfs wake, into the path they've
already cleared out for us, and strafe her stern. Resume your
assault runs." He heeled his X-wing over, choosing a path 
between asteroids, and began another run,  Rogue Squadron 
following close behind.











Deep in the automated processes of Iron Fist's main computer,
a watchdog program, recently activated, detected the fact that
the ship's laser batteries had recently fired on targets in a 
nondrill  fashion. A timer associated with the program started up,
counting down from three minutes.

Zsinj offered up a heavy sigh. "The starfighter trap appears to
have failed," he told Melvar. "Bring back our own starfighters
from Mon Remonda. We'll need them."

    "They suffered substantial losses before they understood
what they were facing there," the general said. "It'll be even
worse when they have to disengage and run home."

    "I know." Dispirited, the warlord looked down at his feet,
a neutral image that could bring him no bad news. "I'm getting
tired, Melvar. Making mistakes.  Not anticipating my opponents'
moves the way I should. And I'm going to have to sacrifice more 
if I'm to win this engagement. I'm pouring credits on
this problem instead of solving it with ingenuity." He looked
up at his general. "Bring them back."











The four medics lay with their limbs tied, their mouths gagged, as
Lara assembled  the humanoids she'd freed. There were two
pachydermal Ortolans, three Ewoks, male and female Gamorreans, 
three bilars looking like large children's toys, two knee-high
Ranats with suspicious eyes and frequently bared incisors, one
huge,  white-furred Talz with four  pain-racked eyes, and five
waist-high Chadra-Fan whose ears flicked back  and forth 
between listening to Lara's words and to the struggles of the
medics.

    "We can get you out on escape pods," Lara said. "Unless...
can any of you pilot a shuttle?"

    One of the humanoids raised a paw.

    The Ewok.

    Lara  stared at him. "You're kidding."

    "No," he said. "Doctors put  me in sim-u-la-tors. See if
Kolot can learn to fly."

    "And you can."

    "Yes."

    "Kolot, you can't even reach all the controls."

    "Warlord had mechanics make me pros-the-tics. For hands
and feet..."

    "Stop it!" The words emerged from Lara as a shout and
she buried her face in her hands. "I  know this joke already."

    "Joke?"

    After a moment,  she uncovered her face and knelt before
the Ewok to look at him from his own altitude. "Kolot, we're
the same  thing, you and I. We're both lies that eventually
become the truth."

    The Ewok shook his head, not comprehending.

    "Don't worry. You'll understand someday. Let's go."

    Tonin was still in the turbolift, his scomp-link inserted
into the lift controls. He uttered a relieved whistle when he saw
Lara returning safely.

    She counted heads  as her rescuees entered the  turbolift
and came up two short. "Where are the Gamorreans?"

    She saw them now, down at the end of the corridor, 
coming toward her at a trot.  As they got closer she could see 
something different about them.

    Blood. It was splashed across their chests and dripped from
their tusks.

    She laoked at the viewport into the zoo. She couldn't see
much of the containment chamber, certainly couldn't see where
she had left the bound medics, but  she could see the splash of
blood across the inside of the near corner of the viewport.

    She looked at the Gamorreans and could think of nothing to
say. How could she protest their actions, not knowing what was
happening behind their eyes, not knowing what the medics had
subjected them to? As they entered  the turbolift, they regarded
her steadily, with no hint of regret or apology in their eyes.

     Her voice emerged in a whisper. "Let's go."









Zsinj's fleet moved out over the broad portion of Selaggis's 
debris ring, then turned back toward Solo's. Two of the ships, the
antistarfighter frigate and the bulk cruiser acting as a TIE
carrier, continued on toward the inner edge of the ring. The
stream of TIE fighters fleeing Mon Remonda and the starfighters
pursuing them caught up with the two smaller ships, passed
them by, then dove into the debris ring.

     "That's where they're making their stand," Solo said. "All
 right. Bring up Allegiance, Crynyd, Tedevium, Etherhawk, and
 Ession Strike to engage and hold Zsinj's fleet. The rest of our
 fleet will bounce around them and head on straight for Iron
 Fist. Except Warder-keep the medical frigate out of the en-
 gagement zone."

     Solo's two Imperial-class Star Destroyers, one of the
 frigates, his Marauder-class corvette, and his Corellian
blockade runner surged ahead, a spearpoint aimed at Zsinj's fleet.
Solo waited until they were well ahead, then directed the
navigator to enter the angled course that would take the three Mon
Cal cruisers, remaining Star Destroyer, and Quasar Fire carrier
toward Zsinj himself.




Within Iron Fist's computer system, the three-minute countdown ended.

    The program looked for and found the fleet diagnostic
data being piped to the ship's bridge-damage analysis from
each ship in Zsinj's fleet. It was already assembled in a 
convenient package to be displayed as a holoimage for Zsinj's use.

    The program took the package and encrypted it under a
Wraith Squadron communications scheme. Then  it checked
Iron Fisfs threat board, identified the distant target Mon 
Remonda as the chief designated threat, and broadcast the 
package to that cruiser as an ordinary data stream.





"Comm transmission from Iron Fist, sir."

    "Chewie, your favorite correspondent is calling you again."

    "No, sir," the comm officer said. "It's a data stream." His
voice indicated confusion.  "It's diagnostic data, sir. For all
the ships in Zsinj's fleet. It's being broadcast under a recent Wraith
Squadron encryption on New Republic frequencies."

    Solo looked up at his comm officer, then glanced at 
Captain Onoma, who regarded him with one eye turned  back
toward him. "That would be Notsil again," Solo said. "Probably. 
Are all our ships getting this data?"

    "No, sir."

    "Send it to all our ships. They're to use the data until I say
otherwise."

    "Yes, sir."

    Solo allowed himself a smile.






    ft comlink beeped. He brought it up. "Yes?"
??????????????????????????

    "Sir, Engineering. We have the hyperdrive functional again.'

    Zsinj checked his chrono. "Thirty-eight minutes. Excellent.
Continue with repairs. Perhaps you can get some of the
redundant systems functional and improve the odds that we'll
survive a hyperspace leap."

    "Already on it, sir."

    Zsinj pocketed the device. "Put him down for extra leave
time and a raise in pay. I approve of efficiency."

    Melvar nodded, but did not look at the warlord. His
attention was fixed  on the holo showing the damage Iron Fist
had sustained and was continuing to suffer. The primary 
projection showed a  series of wire-frame renderings of the  
destroyer as shown from above; blinking red zones indicated
damaged areas. A secondary list indicated system failures. "We
have a radiation leak on Deck Four."

    Zsinj grimaced. "I see six radiation leaks." There was a
tremendous bang from overhead and the bridge lights 
momentarily dimmed as a nearby torpedo strike momentarily 
overloaded some ship's systems. "Ah. Seven, now. Deck Four is the
least of our troubles."

    "Yes, sir. Still, I want to check it out personally. On a
hunch."

The general bowed and headed back toward the bridge exit.

    Zsinj followed him but stopped at  one of the secondary
communications consoles in the security foyer. He leaned over
the shoulder of the man there.

    The officer didn't turn, but said, "Our TIEs have returned
to Iron Fist. Now making an attack on the squadrons assaulting us."

    "Good. Is any of the units assaulting us now confirmed as
Rogue Squadron?"

    The man nodded. "Yes, sir. Eighty-three percent probability. 
We haven't cracked their current transmission scramble
code, but based on performance we still get a better than fifty
percent probability that Antilles is leading them."

    "Excellent." Zsinj pulled out his comlink again. "Zsinj to
Baron Fel."

    "Fel here."

    "Prepare to launch. Don't worry about  defending Iron
Fist. We'll give you a course that will take you within visual
range of Rogue Squadron, then you can head out to an engagement
zone of your own choosing. Do whatever it takes to draw
them away-faraway."

    "And then?"

    "I'll send a support squadron a couple of minutes later. 
Between your pilots, your special systems, and this support, you
should be able to kill Antilles. Please do so."

    "Warlord, it will be a pleasure."

    Zsinj pocketed the device and moved slowly back up to his
preferred station on the command walkway. It was time, almost
time to decide. The next few minutes would show him whether
Solo's fleet or his own would prevail in this battle. In the 
latter case, he would send Solo yelping back to Rebel space...
or, best of all, kill him. In the former, he would have to destroy
Iron Fist.

    Temporarily, at least.











Solo's Star Destroyer group closed with Zsinj's force. Even at
this range, Solo could see the needles of laser light flash 
between ships engaged in that action.

    His sensor operator kept data on the status of all his ships
projected as holos up on one of the bridge viewports. But now
those images were smaller than usual, joined by similar data
being broadcast from Iron Fist.

    Solo saw red areas creeping through the engine compartments 
of the data screen labeled Flash Fire. The captains of his
own ships Tedevium and Etberhawk began concentrating their
fire on  the stern of the Dreadnaught and  the redness spread
even faster.

    That engagement was visible through his starboard viewport. 
Ahead was the glorious color  pattern that was Selaggis
Six. Below was the debris field that, from a  distance, was just a
ring, an attractive ornament for the planet.

    "We're above Iron Fist now," the navigator said.

    "Very well," Solo said. "Make your  course straight for
iron Fist. Bow shields to maximum. Sensors, relay data to 
gunners on all asteroids in our path that could conceivably harm
us. All other ships in the group are to line up behind Mow 
Remonda. We're going to drill a hole straight to Iron Fist, and
we're going in fast."









Wedge and Tycho whipped across a massive stone ridge on a
city-sized asteroid; the instant they knew the pursuing TIEs
had lost sight of them, they decelerated.

    Their pursuers came around at full speed, hugging the 
asteroid's surface more closely than they had, and overshot the
two X-wings. Wedge fired, saw his twin-linked lasers hammer
the side of his target. The TIE, not penetrated, struggled to 
return to its original course, but the  blast had sent it tumbling
too close to the asteroid surface. It  veered straight into a 
hill-sized projection and detonated.

    Wedge glanced at Tycho, then at his sensor board. His 
wingman was intact; the other TIE was a ball of orange-and-yellow
gases half a kilometer back. The other starfighters of his group
were holding up well in spite of the sudden arrival of several
TIE fighter squads-and not all the new arrivals were enemies.
Some were friendlies off Skyhook.

    Wedge looped back around toward Iron Fist for another
strafing run-or another head-to-head with TIEs.

    A  new cloud of TIEs, two squads of interceptors,  rose
from the destroyer's belly and veered off into the asteroid field.
All wore red horizontal stripes on their solar wing arrays.

    Wedge checked their course. It took the interceptors away
from Iron Fist, away from Solo's engagement, toward Selaggis
Six's once-occupied moon.

    "Leader, Two. I don't like the sight of that."

    "Me either, Two." He switched  his comm unit to the group
frequency. "Group, this is Leader. Polearm  One, take command
of the group. Rogues, Wraiths, form up on me. We have something 
to check out."












Lara pushed open the access hatch just a few centimeters anil
peered out into the corridor beyond. It was empty, echoing
with a radiation alarm, flashing with the red lights appropriates
to such a dangerous condition.  Opposite the hatch was the
door into the hangar bay she wanted.

    She stepped out and helped haul Tonin over the hatch lip.
"Give us a minute to get the door open," she told the 
nonhumans crowded into the access shaft. "Then look both ways to
make sure no one is coming, and join us."

    They nodded, a little excited but confident, like a roomful
of businessfolk just before an important meeting. She was left
with the unsettling impression that she was leading a horde of
humans dressed up for no particular reason in humanoid suits.

    The hangar door opened to their approach. She breathed a
sigh of relief; she and Tonin wouldn't have to run a lengthy
bypass on the door controls. She toggled the control so the door
would remain open for the humanoids following; despite their
human-level, or genius-level, intelligence,  they might still be
startled by the suddenness with which ship's doors tended to
shoot up into their housings.

    Within the hangar, only three vehicles remained: Lara's
X-wing, a Lambda-class shuttle, and a larger shuttle of similar
design, an Imperial landing craft. "We'll give them the landing
craft," she told Tonin. "I'll get it  prepped for launch. You
still have the file on my X-wing?"

    Tonin twee tied an affirmative.

    "Open it up, disable all transponder systems, and disengage
whatever else the file  says they've done to it. I don't want
them to be able to detonate it remotely."

    "They won't need to." The voice, cultured and self-assured,
came from behind her, from the hangar corner nearest the door.

    She whirled. General Melvar stood there, a blaster pistol
in his hand, and Ensign Gatterweld, looking surly and betrayed,
held  a blaster rifle at the ready beside him. Both men moved
toward her.

    "You had to come back here for your souvenir X-wing,"
Melvar said. "Perhaps your only mistake  in a skillful escape
attempt. I knew your arrival was pending when you or your
droid falsified the radiation leak for this deck."

    Lara saw shadows  congregating behind the  two men, at
the door into the bay. She raised her hands. "That's why the
hangar doors were not secured. You were waiting for me."

    "Correct."

    "Will you be killing me now?"

    "No. That's the warlord's prerogative." Melvar looked
sad, and Lara had the unsettling feeling that the emotion was
genuine. "I do wish you'd been faithful. You could have helped
the warlord lock down this quadrant of the galaxy. He's 
generous with those he respects. You could have owned a world."

    "I wish I had something witty to say to you," she told him.
"But the thought of helping Zsinj is turning my stomach."

    The humanoids moved forward, a nonhuman mob, the
sounds of their passage masked by the alarm sounding in the
corridor.

    "I think..." Melvar stopped, his eyes darting right, where
one of the Gamorreans had just moved up within his peripheral vision.

    He turned, brought the blaster around. The other Gamorrean, 
the female, grabbed his forearm and slammed him to the
hangar's metal floor. Gatterweld spun, panic on his face-

    And  then the nonhumans were all over the - two  men,
pounding them, raking claws across their faces, biting at limbs
and heads and torsos.

    "Stop it!" Lara yelled.

    The humanoids looked up at her.

    "Just bind them. Leave them. They'll die when Iron Fist is
destroyed."

    They looked at each other, then rose from the downed men.
In minutes, she and Tonin had the two vehicles ready for de-
parture. She fitted a ladder to the side of her X-wing. "You're
sure you can fly this thing."

    The Ewok, standing at the base of the shuttle's boarding
ramp, nodded. He carried the objects he'd brought with him
from the hidden  medical facility-four prosthetic extensions,
two with articulated hands at the ends, two with long-toed feet.

    Tonin rolled up to her and whistled a question.

    She didn't have to know the musical speech of droids to
understand. "No, Tonin. You're going with them. You have to
broadcast all that data I recorded about Zsinj's projects. The
medical data."

    He whistled again, more urgently, shrilly, a complicated
message.

    She drew her goggles from her pack, put them on, plugged
the trailing wire into Tonin's side.

    WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

    "I'm going to rejoin my unit."

    YOU SAID THEY HATED YOU. THEY WILL BE YOUR ENEMIES.
THE WARLORD'S FORCES ARE YOUR ENEMIES. YOU'LL DIE IF YOU
DO THIS.

    "Maybe," she said. "Probably."

    DON'T.

    She stared  down  into his holocam eye, and suddenly
found it, and Tonin's stance, to be as expressive as any human
mannerism. "Oh, Tonin. I have to. I have to do this to be who I
decided I want to be. Do you understand?"

    NO. YOU'VE ALREADY REPROGRAMMED YOURSELF. THAT'S ENOUGH.

    "I wish it were. But an intention isn't anything unless you
carry it out." She knelt, wrapped her arms around the droid,
gave him a squeeze she knew he could not feel.

    YOU WILL TELL US IF YOU NEED HELP. WE WILL HELP.

    "I have my comlink," she said. "I'll tell you." Tears blurred
her vision for the first time in days. She rose, pulled her
goggles free of Tonin's jack, and hurriedly climbed up into her cockpit,
unable to face the droid again.

    Tonin wheetled one last, sad sound and rolled toward the
landing craft.







                         17








On Wedge's sensor board, the interceptors of the 181st had a
commanding lead; they were already entering the atmosphere
of the moon, once home to Selaggis's colony.

    Four friendly starfighters trailed the 181st, not losing
ground to them-Kell, Elassar, Shalla, and Janson, flying four of Wraith
Squadron's own TIE interceptors. The X-wings of Rogue and
Wraith Squadrons trailed by a distance that increased with every
minute.

    "Wraith Five to  Leader. They're descending toward the
west coast of the primary continent. I think that's where the
colony used to be. Atmospheric conditions not helpful. Heavy
rain, heavy winds."

    "Acknowledged, Five. Do not engage. Continue to update
us on their progress. Transmit us your sensor data." Wedge 
suppressed a curse. He preferred the X-wing to every other 
starfighter ever made, for its nearly ideal balance of ruggedness,
speed, and firepower, but sometimes-such as now-he devoutly
wished for more speed.

    "They're banking toward a set of ruins-the colony,
guess. No sign of life in the ruins-they're strafing! There has to
be a living target down there, Leader. Permission to engage."

    Wedge closed his eyes. He'd already confirmed that there
was no native comm traffic from Selcaron. Mon Remonda's
records had reported no survivors from Zsinj's barrage of five
months ago. And yet Zsinj was dedicating his best pilot, his
best-trained starfighter unit, to pound those ruins flatter.

    It had to be a trap. Had to be. But if it wasn't...

    The New Republic wasn't here to protect itself, but to pro-
tect innocents. There might be colony survivors down there. It
was that simple.

    He opened his eyes again. One second had clicked by on
his console chrono. "Permission granted."














Kell banked and dove toward one of two rearmost pairs of 
interceptors. It was difficult to see them; the sky was overcast,
and fierce winds blew sheeting rain almost horizontally across
his path. His heart hammered-in his throat, it felt like-and
he knew that he might at any moment introduce his lunch to
the inside of his helmet.

    The old fear. It had paralyzed him at the Implacable fight.
In the months since, it had never entirely left him. It might
never leave him.

    It made him feel like hell. He decided to take it out on the
enemy.

    The rearmost interceptor of the  wingpair he'd targeted
chittered for a split second in his targeting brackets, then broke
to starboard. Its wingmate made a sudden deceleration, 
seeming to blast backwards past Kell's port side, preparatory to 
setting up for an attack on him...

    It exploded, vanishing from his sensor screen. "Good shot,
Nine." He banked tighter, trying to stay inside his target's turn
radius, but the enemy interceptor's maneuver was sharper than
any Kell had ever made. A moment later the interceptor came
up behind him, a quarter klick back. :Kell heard his sensor
system howl with the confirmation of his enemy's targeting lock
on-him.

    He dove toward the ground-a two-tone surface, gray seas
to his port, brown  soil to starboard, the wreckage of 
prefabricated dome buildings where the two colors met. Lasers
flashed above him, visible through his top viewport. He angled
over toward the sea, dropping almost straight toward the
shoreline.

    As the range meter dropped, he felt wind kicking him to
port. He struggled with the piloting yoke, heard the howl of his
sensors again, and juked to throw off his pursuer's aim. He was
kicked to port again, and from the sensor's unmusical complaints, 
this time it had to have been from a laser graze rather
than atmospheric conditions.

    At a  mere couple of hundred meters from the ocean's 
surface he fired his lasers and hauled back on the yoke. The lasers
hit  the water's  surface, boiling it, sending  up a column of
steam. He flashed through it, actually felt the drag of the mist
as his interceptor hit the column, and banked to port, a 
maneuver so fast and tight his vision began to gray out.

    His pursuer emerged from the column of steam, not 
banking instantly-its pilot had to be taking a moment to find Kell.

    That was the moment he needed. He held his turn, 
struggled against the centrifugal forces trying to slam him into the
starboard side of his cockpit,  and came  around behind his
enemy. The TIE vibrated in his targeting brackets and he fired.

    The  TIE exploded spectacularly, transformed into the
biggest fireball Kell had ever seen yielded by an interceptor's
detonation, a hundred-meter-diameter ball of destruction. Kell
climbed to stay above the rising cloud of smoke and flame,
then shook his head to try to clear his vision. "Two down," he
said. "Twenty-two to go."

    "Twenty." That was Janson's voice. "But they're changing
tactics."

    Kell  looped around, back  toward the ruined town, and
Elassar fell in beside him.

    Ahead, the interceptors of the 181st continued with their
low-level strafing runs against the ruins. They seemed to have
no particular target; their aim seemed to be the transformation
of the entire set of ruins into smaller rubble and dust.

    Kell saw Janson and Elassar come in from the east, aiming
for a pair of interceptors near the ruins's border. Their targets
shied away toward the colony center; two more turned in the
direction of Janson and Elassar for a head-to-head. Janson and

   Elassar banked toward the newcomers, but those targets, too,
looped away as a third pair maneuvered to engage the Wraiths.

       It was a deadly game of keep-away, fliers of the 181st 
turning to engage the Wraiths just long enough to get their 
attention, then breaking away to return to their strafing. As Kell
and Elassar neared shore, two interceptors turned toward them.

       "If they come at us," Kell said, "standard head-to-head. If
   they bank away, don't follow."

       "Acknowledged," Elassar said.

       Their enemies banked away well before they were in
 targeting range. A new pair angled in from the north, timing their
   approach so they'd  hit Kell  and Elassar from the side if the
   Wraiths continued their straight-line approach.

       "Up," Kell said, and drew back on his yoke. His interceptor 
rose at a dizzying pace.  "I don't get it.  They're playing defensively."

       "They're waiting," Janson said. "For the rest of the Rogues
   and Wraiths."









   Zsinj watched in mounting disbelief as his fleet's damage 
displays grew ever redder. "Melvar," he said.

       Captain Vellar looked over from his position on the 
command walkway. "He's not back from his errand. Did his errand
   involve a shuttle launch? We have a landing craft taking off
   from the personal-vehicles bay. It seems to be in pursuit of an
   X-wing."

       Zsinj  shook his head, unconcerned.  "Never mind that.
   Vellar, are they that good? Oh, Sithspit, we just lost Venom"

   Red flashes crossed and crisscrossed the display of the 
Victory-class Star Destroyer like a flash fire.

       "They seem to be, sir," the captain said. There was tension
   in his voice, but his expression was unwavering.  "Mon 
Retnonda is almost in position to engage us."

       "Your opinion?"

       The captain gave the sensor holoprojections a long look.

     "Our group isn't going to defeat their secondary group.
They're being pounded to pieces. Solo's main group, which is almost
unhurt, is going to hit us in just a minute. We're damaged, and
we don't know the extent to which we may have been further
sabotaged. Eventually Solo's secondary group will reinforce
the main group." He turned a regretful face  to Zsinj. "Sir,
we're not going to win this fight."

    "All ahead full," Zsinj said. "Get us out of the debris field.
Set your course for Second Death's position. Bring in all
starfighters from all ships-except the 181st and their support -
to harass Solo's group."

    "Sir, that will accelerate the damage the rest of our group
is taking."

    "You don't think I know that?" Zsinj couldn't keep  the
venom out of his tone. "As soon as we're free of the debris ring,
issue orders for the ships that survive to flee at their 
discretion." He felt something sharp in  his chest, a pain that had
everything to do with the sudden loss of his reputation for 
infallibility on the battlefield.















Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron broke through the high
cloud over into a dark world lashed by rains. They dove toward
the colony ruins, breaking by wingpairs, each pair of pilots
seeking  out prey-starfighters that were frailer but far faster
than theirs. They saw the enemy interceptors scatter by pairs,
each trying to find an advantageous angle to repel the X-wings's
assaults.

    Wedge tried to pick out by eye which of the enemies was
Baron Pel.  He needn't  have bothered. A pair of interceptors
rose straight toward him and Tycho.

    "Fel, is that you?"

    "Antilles," came the familiar voice. "So good to see you at
last. Again  at last."

    "Iron Fist isn't doing so well. You can save yourself some
trouble by surrendering."

    The interceptors came on straight at them. The range 
meter dropped below two kilometers and the interceptors fired.
Wedge sideslipped, sending his X-wing into a defensive dance,
and pressed his own laser's trigger.

    Then the TIEs were past, roaring back the way Wedge and
Tycho had come. Oddly, they didn't immediately loop around
to gain an advantageous position on the X-wings's tails. They
continued their run eastward, then looped around south, headed
once again toward the coastline.

    Wedge and Tycho turned to pursue. The maneuver was
made a little more difficult by a ferocious crosswind that 
threatened to drive them eastward. "Fel, let's not do this. You've been
a Rogue. I really don't want to kill you."

    "Why ever not, Wedge? I don't share any such sentiment
about you."

    Wedge gritted his teeth. Because you haven't yet told me
where my sister is. Tell me that, and I may lose all compunction 
about vaping you where you fly.











Kell and Elassar veered in opposite directions, the Devaronian
to rejoin Face, his regular wingman. Kell swung around and
came up behind Runt's X-wing.

    "Welcome back," Runt said.

    "Good to be home. Let's get 'em."

    They turned toward a new pair of interceptors. The 181st
seemed to have abandoned their defensive, scurrying tactics;
now they seemed  eager  for  runs  against the Rogues  and
Wraiths. A pair veered toward Kell and Runt, accelerating*

    Kell dropped behind Runt, constantly adjusting his 
position to keep the X-wing between him and the oncoming 
interceptors. As the range closed to nearly two kilometers, he popped
up above Runt for a snap shot against the rear interceptor, then
dropped below his wingman for sustained fire against the lead
TIE. Incoming laser fire hammered against Runt's forward
shields, diffusing to a pastel green as  it failed to penetrate.

    Kell's sustained fire finally tracked on the ball of the 
interceptor. He saw the green  of his own lasers stitch the 
fuselage. There was no visible change to  the interceptor's exterior,
but  the lead enemy dropped on a ballistic course toward the
ground below. His wingman veered off at an angle seemingly
impossible even for a TIE and headed back toward the colony
center.









"He's running away," Onoma said.

    Beyond the forward viewport, they could see wave after
wave of TIE fighters making suicidal runs against Mon 
Remonda. Three had already come within tens of meters of 
crashing into  the  cruiser's side;  only brilliant  gunnery by the
turbolaser handlers had prevented collisions. Solo's TIEs were
helping, but they were outnumbered by the enemy force, which
had been bolstered by squadrons diverted from the other 
engagement zone.

    And Zsinj's choice of a battlefield was proving to be a
good one for the warlord. Solo's Y-wings, tough as they were,
weren't nimble enough to handle the debris field at dogfighting
speeds-report after report came in of pilot loss because of an
injudicious turn into the path of an asteroid. Between the speed
Mon Remonda had to make to catch up to the destroyer and
the necessity of diverting most  of the  gun batteries to 
anti-starfighter use, the cruiser didn't have enough laser power to
clear the path ahead entirely of asteroids; every few-moments,
stones, some the size of R2 units and some the size of X-wings,
would hammer into the cruiser's shields or penetrate and crash
into her hull.

    Though Mon Karren and Mon Delindo followed in Mon
Remonda's wake, Solo knew they had  to be suffering worse.
Their shields and hull were not up to Mon Remonda's specs.

    "We're in range," said the sensor officer.

    "Bow batteries, open fire on Iron  Fist." Solo breathed a
sigh of relief. At last they were in contact.

    The topside stern  of the  destroyer lit up under 
Mon Remonda's barrage. But Iron Fist's own batteries opened fire and
suddenly space before the forward viewport was bright with
laser flashes.

    Mon Remonda shuddered under impacts against her shields.








Ahead, Fel and his wingman lost speed. Wedge and Tycho 
rapidly overtook them. In a moment, Wedge could see them again,
two dots that grew into interceptors blurred by rain and 
distance. There was only ocean beneath them, shore a mere 
kilometer or two off to starboard.

    One of the interceptors dropped behind the other, losing
ground  rapidly, but maintaining the high-speed side-to-side
maneuvering that was so effective at throwing off a pursuer's
aim. Wedge and Tycho squeezed off ranging shots.

    Then the interceptor decelerated further, right into Wedge's
path. Reflex took over, twitching his yoke to port so that he
veered out of its path.

    Tycho veered in skillful mimicry of Wedge's move-right
into the  interceptor's path.

    It should not have been a problem. At their relative speeds
and courses, no collision was possible; he should have been
well clear of the  interceptor. But the decelerating vehicle 
exploded into a  brilliant ball of fire and debris-and Tycho's
X-wing  flew straight through the heart of the detonation.

    Tycho emerged from the explosion, his  X-wing trailing
smoke, its S-foils shuddering. He rapidly lost ground on Wedge.

    "One to Two, come in."

    There was no answer. Tycho banked to starboard, back
toward land.

    "Tycho, come in. Are you all right?"

    His comm unit hissed, then words, partial words, emerged.
"... failure ... hold her ... repulsorlifts out..."

    As Wedge watched, Tycho's starboard lower S-foil began
to shake more ferociously, then to crumple under air friction.
Ahead, the other TIE interceptor began to loop around for a
head-to-head.

    "Tycho, don't try to hold her together. She's a wreck. Get
over land and punch out. Do you understand?"

    "... land ... understood."

    The other interceptor roared toward them.

    Toward Tycho.

    Wedge accelerated forward past his wingman, laser-straight
at the interceptor. "Is that Fel again, or did we get lucky?"

    "No luck for you, Wedge. This is your last engagement
zone."

    The interceptor drifted up, firing. Wedge hit his trigger,
saw his lasers pass harmlessly beneath the TIE.

    Fel's lasers didn't miss. They chewed into the nose of Tycho's
    X-wing. Fel shot past and began to bank again.

    Wedge saw Tycho's snubfighter shudder and begin to 
disintegrate at the nose. The cockpit's cowling popped up and a
moment later Tycho ejected, still half a kilometer short of the
shore.

    "Group, this is Leader. I need extravehicular pilot rescue
at this position. Mark it and get someone here." Wedge 
wrestled his X-wing around to confront Fel once more.

    But the nimbler  interceptor settled into position behind
him, its lasers opening up, bracketing Wedge.

    Wedge set his teeth and flew southward, clearing his head
of distractions, letting the sensor board and targeting brackets
become extra eyes.

    Fel settled in on his tail and would not be shaken free. But
the onetime Rogue had no more luck firing than Wedge did
shaking him; burst after burst of laser fire  flashed to the left,
the right,  beneath  the X-wing as Wedge used every trick he
knew to make the man miss.

    Another violent crosswind hit Wedge.  He didn't struggle
against it; he let it  propel him  toward shore, a sudden 
movement that caught Fel off guard. Then Fel, too, crossed  into
the wind and was pushed eastward, farther even than Wedge
had been.

    Wedge felt his spine stiffen. That was it. The interceptors -
were lighter than X-wings, with much  broader cross sections...

    He  resumed his original course and waited until another
crosswind hit him. As it propelled him  shoreward, he wrrenched
his yoke that way, turning in the direction he was being shoved,
and saw out his starboard viewport as Fel was victimized by
the same wind. The interceptor rolled eastward, momentarily
out of control.

    Wedge maintained his loop, was pressed hard into his 
pilot's couch as he came around ...

    And then, for a brief moment, his targeting brackets went
green around Fel's interceptor. Wedge fired and  saw the red
flashes of his lasers score the squint's engines.

    Pel's interceptor dropped, half out of control, and he banked
toward shore. Wedge  followed, alert for a trick. But Fel 
continued to lose altitude at a dangerous rate and  hit the ground in a
skidding, rolling, half-controlled crash that constituted the
worst landing Wedge had seen in years.

    He circled the downed interceptor and angled in to land.














Corran Horn dove toward his target interceptor, trying to bring
his targeting brackets to bear over it, hoping for a 
maximum-distance shot-these enemies were more maneuverable  than
even he was used to. His target continued sideslipping, dancing
around, avoiding the target lock...

    He blinked. There was something fundamentally wrong
with his target. Something that turned his gut cold.

    It wasn't his pilot's skills telling him this. It was the
other, his slowly improving ability with the Force ...

    "Group, this is Rogue Nine. Be advised. My current target
is not a living being. Repeat, not living. I think it's a droid
ship."

He finally got a green flicker on his brackets and fired.

    His lasers hit the interceptor's fuselage. The squint 
detonated  with far more force than was appropriate for a vehicle
with twin ion engines. The blast was powerful enough to 
engulf his target's wingman fifty meters behind the  explosion.
That interceptor emerged from the fireball spinning, flaming,
out of control, and smashed through the already-ruined dome
of one of the colony buildings. It exploded, too, but in a 
fashion that was subdued by comparison.

    "Group, Wraith Eight." Piggy's voice, jarring and mechani-
cal. "I am an idiot. This is why the wingman of each pair at the
Razor's Kiss fight behaved in such a similar fashion. They have
droid pilots. And they are packed with explosives. A moment
while I calculate."

    Corran looped back toward the fight and Ooryl, his
wingman, stayed tight with him.

    Piggy's voice  came back a moment later. "Observation
suggests that each wingpair is one human pilot, one droid. In
free flight, the droid falls back to wingman position. The droid
units'  maneuverability increases  as your  range to them 
decreases. Their performance suggests they are enjoying 
computerized coordination. They must be transmitting sensor data to
the ship handling coordination. Who is the Rogues' communications specialist?"

    "That's me. Rogue Seven."

    "With the permission of the Wraith and Rogue leaders, I
offer apian."

    Corran Horn's voice came back instantly. "Go ahead
Wraith Eight."

    Face's followed a moment later. "Let's hear it."

    "Rogue Seven and Wraith Six use their comm gear to jam
transmissions in the area for thirty seconds. In that time, we'll
either enjoy dramatic improvement in our ability to handle the
enemy ... or we're no worse off than before."

    "Wraith One authorizes," Face said.

    "Rogue Nine says go," Horn said.










Mon Remonda dropped into the channel Iron Fist had already
blasted through the debris field and began gaining cm the Super
Star Destroyer. Still close enough for long-range fire, the Mon
Cal cruiser continued blasting away at Iron Fist's stern, despite
the distraction of TIE fighters making constant assaults against
Mon Remonda's bow and bridge.

    "Gaining," Solo said. "Gaining."

    "Detonation ahead!" said the sensor officer.

    "Iron Fist?"

    "No," she said. "To  starboard of her course. Something
on the far side of that planetoid she's passing."

    Solo brought up his visual enhancers to focus on the
area she described. She was correct: asteroids opposite a 
two-kilometer-long hunk of rock were illuminated by some sort of
sustained explosion taking place just on the far surface of the
larger asteroid.

    Whatever its cause, the explosion was propulsion as well
as detonation. The two-kilometer rock began  moving slowly
toward the channel left in Iron Fisfs wake.

    "Navigator?" Solo asked.

    The Mon Calamari navigation officer turned an eye toward
him. "It will partially block the  channel. We must destroy it or
pass it by."

    "Weapons?"

    His weapons officer shook his head. "Too big for our guns
to dismantle before we get there."

    Solo offered up a rich curse he'd learned on the back streets
of Corellia. "Navigator, divert our course around it. Through
the debris. Alert the rest of our group what's happening. Zsinj
has set up at least one asteroid, maybe more, with explosives or
thrusters to move it in our path. Stay alert."

    Mon Remonda  began a slow maneuver, veering to 
starboard inside the path of the asteroid. As the bow of the cruiser
entered the uncleared  portion of the debris field, Solo  heard
ominous clankings and felt trembling under his heels.

    Red lights flashed across more portions of Mon Remonda's
diagnostics display.

    The numbers on the gauge showing the distance between
Mon Remonda and Iron Fist slowed their rapid descent. The
numbers stopped and then began climbing.

    Mon Remonda was falling behind.














Lara's sensor board had shown the Rogues and Wraiths de-
scending into Selcaron's atmosphere, and the ten strange TIEs
she pursued did likewise. She entered the moon's atmosphere
at the angle necessary to keep air friction from burning her
alive, then set her S-foils to attack position.

    When she broke through the cloud cover she could see,
ahead and below, the unusual fighters split up by pairs, most
heading to the main engagement, four vectoring to the south.

    Her sensor board said Rogue One, Rogue Two, and one
unfriendly lay in that direction. Then it updated and only
Rogue One and the unfriendly were left.

    She looped around to the south and dropped nearly to the
surface of the water.












Janson hit his trigger and the distant TIE interceptor detonated
m a brilliant flash, leaving behind one of the hundred-meter-
diameter fireballs the Rogues and Wraiths were coming to expect.
The jamming technique had been a spectacular success-this unit
of droids and humans had been trained to function under
coordination and fell to pieces without that benefit. In
the first thirty seconds, the Rogues and Wraiths had reduced the
number of interceptors by half. Then they sustained a 
one-minute jamming period... and the last of the interceptors
had now  fallen to Janson.

  The communications jamming fell away. "Group, Wraith
Eight. We have incoming traffic descending from high
altitude from the east-northeast."

  Janson veered in that direction and climbed. Yes,
there were more starfighters coming in.

  He gave them a second look. "What in the world are those?"












  Wedge swung his legs over the lip of his cockpit and
slid with reckless haste to the ground. He drew his blaster and
moved at a full run across the sand toward Baron Fel.

Fel, evidently injured, was crawling at a good pace
away  from his smoking interceptor. Fel was not in a
traditional TIE fighter pilot's gear;  the black jumpsuit was standard,
but the red featureless mask, gloves, and boots, and the
poisonous yellow piping on those accouterments were pure Raptor
uniform.

   Wedge reached him and prodded his boot with his toe.

Fel rolled over on his back. His right leg did not turn the
way it should have; Wedge could see it was badly broken
beneath the knee.

 Wedge  aimed  his blaster. "Mind   answering  a few questions?"

 "Not at all." Fel's voice was muffled. He reached up to
pull his helmet free.

 Wedge blinked. The man under his gun had Fel's height
and build, but his blond hair and  homely features were
not Fel's. "Who are you?"

 The man offered him a pained smile. "My name is Tetran Cowall."

"I know that name." Wedge frowned.  "Some sort of actor.
Face Lor an doesn't think much of you."

 "That's because he  is my inferior in every way," the man
said. His voice did not resemble Fel's. It was higher in pitch,
though melodious.

    "You used computer voice enhancement to sound like Fel."

    "Very good."

    "Where is Fel?"

    The man shrugged.  "You should know. You had him last.
Where was he when you last saw him?" He gave Wedge a smirk.
"Really, we have no idea."

    "So this was all a ploy." Wedge felt sudden exhaustion 
begin to eat at him. All these months, hoping that this man would
have some word of his sister... and this man turned out to be
the wrong one. "Why?"

    Cowall slowly put his hands behind his head, a posture of
relaxation and contentment that was belied by the sweat on his
face and the odd angle at which his right leg lay. "Well, you, 
actually. Scuttlebutt had  it that Fel had deserted you and that
you'd taken it rather personally. Had arranged for him to be
looked for since then. The warlord decided that his reappearance 
would be a mystery you just had to solve. He put together
a new One Eighty-first. Half with human pilots, half with 
flying bombs that could  sidle up next to you and
detonate-making hash of the famous Wedge Antilles despite your overly
vaunted skills."

    "So your only job was to lure me out and kill me."

    Cowall smiled. "And it worked."

    "Not exactly."

    Cowall pointed eastward. Wedge sidestepped to be sure he
could keep the actor under his gun while he looked.

    In the distance, two or three kilometers off, TIE fighters,
their  outlines unusual, were looping  around  from east  to
south, obviously intending to turn northward near or at the
shoreline.

    "TIE Raptors," Cowall said.'"New design, nice to fly.
They'll be on us in a few seconds. And you can't get into the air
by then. You're dead, Wedge Antilles."

    For a quarter second, Wedge debated shooting the man,
then sheathed the blaster and made a sprint for his X-wing. He
heard the actor laugh behind him.

    Cowall was right, of course. He could hear the distant shriek
of the TIEs. They'd be in firing position about the time he was
sliding into his cockpit.

    He reached his X-wing, leaped up to swing himself in,
dropped into his chair.

    There were three incoming TIEs, and they were of a type
he'd never seen before. They had the standard TIE ball cockpit,
but lacked wing pylons. Instead, four trapezoidal wings, smaller
than half the  size  of a regular TIE fighter's wings, protruded
from the cockpit at even intervals. They rolled to port to line up
along the straight  section of beach and came on, their engines
shrill, a second from firing.

    Then Wedge saw something blue flash over his head from
behind and the center TIE exploded. The other two broke left
and right, momentarily abandoning their run.

    Wedge finished shutting his canopy and got his X-wing up
on repulsorlifts. He had his S-foils locked into attack position
before he'd drifted ten meters forward.

    Another X-wing flashed by mere meters overhead. It was
painted in the darker gray of Wraith Squadron and had no 
astromech. Wedge put power to acceleration and checked his sensor
board. The X-wing wasn't returning a transponder signal.

    The X-wing looped in pursuit of one of the alien-looking
TIEs, climbing in its wake. Wedge turned in the direction of the
other, coaxing his X-wing up to speed. "Lara, is that you?"

    "Sorry I was late." She was banking hard, trying to get her
X-wing around at an angle that could fire on her target. "Had
to hit one of these weird TIEs that was trying to strafe a  downed
Rogue."

    "Tycho-is he..."

    "He's under cover now. Hopping mad, I think."

    "When you come around north, you may get crosswinds
He'll get them worse. They may blow  him back across you
path. Hold tight." Wedge turned  after his target TIE Raptor,
saw that the unusual vehicle  was now looping around to ge
behind Lara. "I owe you one," he said.

    "I owe yow," she said.  "I... there!"

    The Raptor pilot hit a bad patch of crosswind and wa

??????????????????????????????????????????? 320


tumbled eastward. Lara fired, her lasers creasing the rear of
the TIE.

    A plume of smoke emerged from her target. The starfighter
dropped tumbling into the sea, hitting with enough force to
turn anything within it into something resembling jelly.

    But the last Raptor dropped in behind Lara and began
stitching her rear with laser fire. Wedge put all discretionary
energy into acceleration, hurtling toward the engagement.

    The TIE Raptor fired again. This was no laser-a 
concussion missile detonated just below Lara's X-wing. Wedge saw
her stern leap up, and then the X-wing was tumbling, 
unaerodynamic, slinging components in all directions as it dropped.

    "Punch out, punch out," Wedge said, but had no time to
watch. He turned after the TIE Raptor.

    That pilot tried an immediate roll to port, diving toward
the water, a frantic effort to shake Wedge from his tail. Wedge
flicked his targeting brackets back and forth but was unable to
get a lock.

    So he fired directly over the TIE Raptor's hull,  
immediately above its top viewport.

    The pilot dodged out of reflex.

    Straight down.

    The leading edges of its odd wings dipped into the surf.
The TIE rolled forward, its wings breaking free and being flung
into the air with more speed and violence than anything 
coming off Lara's X-wing.

    Wedge looped around, looking for Lara.

    He found her X-wing fifty meters offshore. It was a twisted,
broken thing, slowly rolling over from its belly onto its side.

    He cruised over it at a slow rate of speed, running on 
repulsorlifts, and looked into the cockpit. Then he shook his head
and banked back toward Tycho and the colony.













 "On my command," Piggy said, "Wraith Nine and Ten, begin
 straight-line flight but maintain evasive maneuvering. Rogue
 Three and Four, climb at a thirty-degree angle, target their
 pursuit, and fire. Ready... now."

    Two kilometers below him, Shalla and Janson discontinued
their efforts to get around behind the unusual TIEs pursuing
them. They accelerated into straightforward flight toward the
west.  Their pursuit accelerated, swinging into firing position
behind them.

    A kilometer below that, Pedna Scotian and Hobbie Klivian 
rose toward the  engagement now passing above them.
Piggy could tell the exact moment they acquired targeting locks:
both pursuing TIEs suddenly wobbled in flight as their pilots
were alerted to the danger they were in.

    But it was too  late.  Both Rogues  fired. Hobbie's lasers
sheared through the lower portion of one TIE's forward viewport
and continued cycling against that target. A moment later, Piggy
saw his lasers emerge from above the TIE's engines. The TIE 
hurtled forward ballistically for half a kilometer, then detonated.

    Scotian's  lasers missed the second TIE. It veered abruptly
upward. Shalla and Janson looped around in tight maneuvers
and gave pursuit.

    Piggy turned away from that engagement, looked again at
the swirling colored dots on his sensor  board. Flight vectors,
acceleration rates, probabilities ran through his mind like 
unregulated data streams. He saw the blip designated Rogue One
returning. That would begin to  figure into  his calculations in
two minutes.  He  saw  another blip, yellow for unknown, 
descend from low lunar orbit toward Wedge's earlier engagement
zone. He dismissed it. It wouldn't factor into his equations 
until it came closer to his  current  engagement zone.

    His comm system lit up, indicating reception of a recorded
message. He glanced at the data portion of the screen. It was a
lengthy message, flagged as low priority, going to all vehicles
on New Republic frequencies.  He dismissed it from his mind.

    Numbers and formulae clicked into place in his  mind.
"Wraith Seven, two targets will be crossing over your space
from the east  in six-point-four seconds." 

Dia, her fuzial thrust engines malfunctioning, was now running on repulsorlifts only;
Face had directed her to stay under cover, and she now hovered
within a half-ruined colony dome, able to swivel her guns toward
any one of three large holes in the dome. "Wraith Five, please
make your course due east and come up to full speed. You
should pull two of the new intruders...  yes, you have." 

Kell veered as Piggy had requested, momentarily abandoning his
slower-moving wingman, and both new TIEs that had been 
lining up for a run on Wraiths Five and Six opted to pursue him.
Kell blasted across Dia's position and the lead TIE pursuing
him was suddenly illuminated from the dome, painted and then
penetrated by Dia's lasers. It rolled, a deceptively pretty 
cork-screw, and then hit rubble that had once been a duracrete street.

    Piggy started to speak again, then saw KelPs TIE interceptor
vector back at a sharp angle toward Runt's position. Kell
and Runt closed on one another as though they planned a
head-to-head, but when Runt fired, it was Kell's pursuit he hit.

The unusual TIE fired, too, its concussion missile flashing past
Kell and hitting a ruined wall, before Runt's lasers punched
through the TIE's hull. It became, to Piggy's eye, a tiny, pretty
ball of red, yellow, and orange.

    Piggy sat back and  nodded to himself,  satisfied. He
loved math.








"We're in open space, Warlord," the captain announced.

    Zsinj offered him a tight, unhappy smile. "Make  your
course directly toward Second Death. Instruct Second Death
to deploy the Nightcloak in a channel long enough for us to
make a hyperspace jump from. And to finish this masquerade,
I'm going to have to stand by in a shuttle. The fleet is in your
capable hands."

    "Yes, sir."

    In his shuttle bay, Zsinj and his pilot found his personal
shuttle unharmed, but Melvar and Gatterweld were there in much
less intact condition. Both men were tied, bleeding, unconscious.

    He clucked over them but didn't delay. Time was pressing.
He called in a medical team  as he and his pilot prepared the
shuttle for flight.







"Iron Fist is outbound," Onoma said. "And as much as the 
debris field is delaying us, we're not going to be able to catch
her."

    Solo looked at the damage diagnostics projections, which
showed an ever-mounting damage total for Iron Fist. "Keep
the starfighters on her. There's a chance they can crack her
open before she can jump. See, concentrate there on the 
forward top shield projector and the starboard engines. Both 
systems are faltering like mad. Her hyperdrive is damaged, too.
There's got to be a chance it will fail when activated."

    Mon Remonda's own damage totals were mounting, too.
Numerous asteroid impacts had reduced her shields, battered
her bow hull in several places, even vented atmosphere from
portions of the bow near the keel. And Iron Fisfs starfighter
screen had been insane in its prosecution of Mon Remonda.

    But suddenly the enemy starfighters were running, fleeing
in the wake of Iron Fist.

    Solo sat, his muscles knotting, uncertainty burning at his
gut. It didn't matter that he and his force had just destroyed or
captured the rest of Zsinj's group. It didn't matter that they'd
survived each trap Zsinj had set, each ploy he had initiated.
Nor did it matter that they'd sent Iron Fist fleeing for the 
second time in the mighty destroyer's career.

    The only thing that mattered, the only acceptable  
outcome, was Iron Fisfs capture or destruction.

    More data crawled across his personal  screen. Rogue
Squadron and Wraith Squadron were returning from Selcaron.
They were requesting shuttles for pilot rescue and enemy 
pilot capture. Rogue One was among the pilots returning. Solo
breathed a sigh of relief. He had few enough friends. Win or
lose, he didn't want to lose any more in this engagement.








Tetengo Noor, Polearm Nine, finished another pass across Iron
Fist. He'd dumped more laser fire across the great ship's bow.
Turbolasers and ion cannons had failed to touch his A-wing.
Now he banked around for another run. His wingman was
dead; most of the friendly starfighters within sight were Y-wings
and even TIE fighters.

    Selaggis Six was growing small behind him and his target.
But Mon Remonda was coming on strong. His home was 
chasing him. He got lined up for another run and dove toward the
 destroyer, his lasers stitching destruction across her hull.

     Halfway across, he sensed something wrong to his port,
 toward the ship's bow. He glanced that way, saw nothing 
be yond the bow.

     Nothing. No stars. No starfighters. Blackness, an immense
 sea of blackness. It so jarred him that he ceased fire, ceased 
maneuvering until a near miss from an Iron Fist turbolaser jolted
 him out of his surprise.

     Iron Fisfs bow entered the darkness and disappeared.
 The blackness rolled across the  ship's hull and swallowed
 Tetengo Noor.

     All the stars disappeared, but he could still see Iron Fisfs
 lights, still see the glows of fire from friendly and enemy 
star fighters. He shook off his apprehension and banked for another
 run at his colossal enemy. "Polearm Nine to Mon Remonda.
 Something odd is going on here."

     He heard nothing but the alarmed comm chatter of other
 pilots near him.

     Sensor data was strange. It showed new blips where none
 had been a moment ago. There were now two capital ships in
 his near vicinity. Iron Fist, immediately to his stern, and 
something about a third of Iron Fisfs size-still larger than any 
Im perial Star Destroyer-well below Zsinj's flagship. In addition,
 there were four stationary objects arrayed in a square back the
 way he'd come, and four more, similarly arrayed, kilometers
 ahead along Iron Fisfs outbound course.

     He looped around to get a look at the new capital ship.
 "Polearm Nine to Mon Remonda, come in. I think Iron Fist
 has additional support up here."

     Only static answered him.









 Zsinj stayed on his comlink while his pilot did the work. His
 shuttle lifted off, moved smoothly out into the eerie darkness
 now surrounding Iron Fist, and headed off at a course 
perpendicular to the Super Star Destroyer's.

    "Captain Vellar, report."

    "Thirty seconds to hyperspace entry. I've transmitted the
countdown to Second Death."

    "Second Death, report."

    "Yes, warlord. Our detonation is linked to the countdown.
Countdown plus two seconds. We've already abandoned ship.
Our crew is on the landing craft and we've launched."

    "Well, get clear of here or you'll be nothing but a dim
memory and a pension bonus." Zsinj turned to his pilot. "That
stands for us, too."

    The taciturn pilot nodded and  brought the shuttle up to
speed. A few moments later, the stars returned as though they'd
been switched back on by some cosmic being.

    Zsinj checked his sensors. There was nothing behind him,
no trace of Iron Fist, Second Death, or the starfighters battling
around them.










"No, no, no," Solo said. "She can't have jumped. We don't have
??????????????????????????????????????????????
Seen the sensor signs of hyperspace entry."

    The sensor officer offered him a face full of confusior

"No, sir. But she's gone. It's strange. Several minutes ago,i
thought we detected a ship out there at that position; her 
sensor echo wasn't anything we could identify, and she vanishe
almost immediately. Now Iron Fist goes out there and 
vaniqishes, too - and all the starfighters on her, ours and their
We're not even getting comm traffic from them. We do have
an odd visual."

    "Bring it up."

    The visual enhancer brought up a hologram of-nothingness. 
A black square  blotting out the stars directly ahead of
Mon Remonda, on the exact path Iron Fist took, many 
kilometers ahead. Three shuttles were outbound from the anomaly.
Several Y-wings from Mon Remonda approached it at cautious
speeds.

    "What is that?"

    The sensor operator shook her head. "It's not on any 
sensors but visual. It's not like anything I've ever seen."










Captain Vellar stared out the forward viewport and tried to
keep all emotion out of his face.

    It was hard. He had to focus all that energy on his task.

    He was a soldier. He always did his duty.

    This time, his duty, as defined by the warlord, demanded
that he be party to the murder of dozens of his own pilots.

    "Captain," called the comm officer, "the starfighter group
leader is asking if it's time to bring the TIEs in."

    "Tell him one minute," Vellar said. "Then we'll open up
the bay and transmit approach channels where they won't be
chopped to pieces by our own batteries."

    "Yes, sir."

    A moment later, another officer called, "Ten seconds to
hyperspace."

    "Very well." Vellar closed his eyes. He would not bear the
sight of the eyes of the bridge crew. They knew why all the
pilots were being sacrificed-so Iron Fist would not be delayed
in her jump to safety. So the  intermixed wreckage of friendly
and enemy starfighters would convince Han  Solo that Iron Fist
and her starfighter screen were destroyed.









Tetengo Noor brought in his A-wing close to the misshapen
capital ship.

    It was not  illuminated and was firing no weapons. He
switched on forward lights as he cruised over it.

    He saw an engine pod, a bridge pod, a long spar connect-
ing them,  and three kilometers of vehicle wreckage between
bow and stern.

    One piece of wreckage was instantly recognizable. The 
triangular point of a Star Destroyer's bow. On it were painted the
words IRON FIST.

    Apprehension seized him-not fear for himself, but fear
for his mission, his fleet's mission. He turned back toward Mon
Remonda and accelerated.

    Behind him, the utter blackness became pure, burning
brightness. For a moment, as it swept forward across him, he
thought he felt heat.











As Solo and his bridge crew watched, flame gouted out from
the center of the blackness, then spread to engulf it entirely.
The approaching Y-wings veered away. Metal debris, brilliantly
glowing, hurtled from the center of the explosion. In moments,
the bright ball of explosive gas faded - and the blackness, too,
was gone, the stars beyond it restored.

    The sensor operator blinked. "We had signs of a hyperspace 
entry just before the explosion, sir."

    "Find out," Solo said. "Find out if it was Iron Fist or that
phantom ship."

    "Yes, sir."

    A moment later, the communications officer rocked back
in his chair as if slapped. He turned to Solo. "Sir, I have a 
transmission from one of our Y-wings. The pilot thinks you ough
to see this right away."

    "Put it up."

    The enhanced starfield wavered. The stars change, and
much of the view was replaced by a tumbling piece of debris, an
enormous triangle of metal trailing cables and metal spars. 
Portions of the debris still glowed from the heat of the explosion.

    Painted on the side of the triangle, rotating into and out of
sight as the debris spun, were the words IRON FIST.

    Captain Onoma joined him. "That is her bow."

    "Yes." Solo let  out a breath and felt five months of pres
sure and frustration  begin to leave him. If he could breathe like
that for a while, expelling the nightmare of this command on
lungful at a time, he could someday become a real human again

    He moved back to his control  chair and sat heavily. Al
across the bridge, officers began applauding, offering hand
shakes, exchanging embraces.

    "Comm, let me  address the fleet."

    "Ready, sir."

    "This is General Solo.  Iron Fist  is destroyed. We'll tell
you more  as we know more." He gestured for the comm officer to
cease  the transmission. "Sensors, Communications, what about
our pilots who were close to her?"

    The sensor officer shook her head. "They were awfully
near to the explosion. Unless they move under their own power,
we won't be able to distinguish them from debris."

    "I have a transmission from a Y-wing pilot," the comm 
officer said. "He's injured, coming in on one engine. He was just
emerging from the darkness field when Iron Fist blew. He was
pretty disoriented while he was in the darkness field. He saw a
second capital ship on sensors; it must have been the one that
made hyperspace. He thinks most of our starfighters are gone,
sir."

    Solo closed his eyes.

    Maybe, just maybe, those were the last beings he would
ever have to order to their deaths.

    "Incoming message, sir. From one of those outbound 
shuttles. He says it's Warlord Zsinj."

    "Of course," Solo murmured. "He wouldn't stay aboard
Iron Fist and let himself be blown up. Not even if I asked him
nicely."  He raised his head. "Chewie, you took the last one.
Come join me for this one."

    Chewbacca moved in to stand behind Solo. "Put it on,"
Solo said.

    Zsinj's image, against the background of a Lambda shuttle
cockpit, appeared both on Solo's private screen and as a 
holoprojection over the bridge's main viewport.

    There was no humor remaining to Zsinj's expression. Sweat
darkened parts of his  white uniform. His mustachios drooped
in what might have been, under other circumstances, a comical
fashion. "I've signaled you to offer congratulations," the 
warlord said. His voice was low, pained. "You realize you have cost
me very dearly."

    Han summoned up the energy to give him a mocking smile.

"I don't have much to offer you in compensation. Maybe I could
let you kiss my Wookiee."

    Chewbacca grumbled, a noise of dissent.

    The color rose in Zsinj's face and he spoke again - words
Solo did not know, each few  syllables sounding different in
character and pitch than the ones before. The rant went on for
nearly a minute, and Solo was glad they routinely recorded
bridge communications - he wanted one of the 3PO units to
translate this multilingual composition of profanity for him
One blast in the Rodian language he understood quite well; it
described Han Solo's chemical composition in a fashion that
would make any Rodian's blood boil.

    Then Zsinj sagged, all energy seemingly having fled him
"General," he said, "we will meet again."

    "I'm sure we will." Solo lost his smile. "Zsinj, I'm not a
rich man. Not really an ambitious man. Maybe you should take
that into account. It means that you can never cost me as much
as I've cost you. Never."

    Zsinj regarded him soberly for a moment. Then his 
holoimage faded.

    "Shuttle's made the launch to hyperspace," reported the
sensor operator.

    Solo nodded. Then he looked up at Chewbacca. "We got
him. He's not dead, but his fleet is a shambles and his financial
empire is coming to pieces. He may never recover."

    Chewie rumbled a reply.

    "No, I never really would have asked you to kiss him."








With the colors of hyperspace flowing past the forward viewport, 
sign of safety that was finally his, Zsinj turned to his pilot. 
"What did you think of my performance?"

    The man looked at him blankly. "I suppose it was pretty
good, sir."

    "You obviously have no appreciation of the theater, dear
boy. Oh, well. In a few minutes, we'll rendezvous with Iron
Fist and head on to Rancor Base, where you won't be called
upon to provide artistic criticism you're not qualified to offer."
He heaved a sigh.








                        18








Dr. Cast lay on her bed in the tiny chamber that was her cell,
bored, and watched the same holodrama for the third time in
as many days. It was called High Winds, and told the story of
performing wire-walkers, madmen who stretched fibra-ropes
between the skyscrapers of Coruscant and then tried to walk
across for the entertainment of others. It was a tragedy, of
course; any such account, made by Imperial holomakers, of
such nontraditional and independent behavior always ended
in sadness and death.

    There was a murmur of voices from outside, her guard
talking to someone, and then there was a knock at her door.

    She  paused the holo. Actor Tetran Cowall froze in 
midslip, his plunge to death delayed for a few moments, his 
expression wide-eyed and hopeless. "Come in," she said.

    Nawara Ven entered, stared at  her impassively. "You'll
launch tomorrow in the shuttle Narra for Coruscant. Nobody
wants you to arrive with Solo's fleet." He tossed a packet tied
together with cord at her feet. "Your new identity," he said.
"Maharg Tulis, home decorator from Alderaan. It will stand
up to any scrutiny, New Republic or Imperial."

    She didn't reach for the packet. "That's an ugly name."

    "To accompany an ugly spirit."

    "And my money?"

    "I'll give you one more chance on the money. Tell me you
don't want it, that you're donating it back to the New Republic 
cause to save lives. That could be your very first step in 
returning from what you've become."

    "I'll take the money, thanks."

    "As you wish. I won't ever again try to protect you from 
yourself." He offered her a toothy smile. "We have to send out
a holocomm request for your money. How would you prefer!
your credits-New Republic or Imperial?"

    "Imperial, of course. What did you think?"

    "Imperial it is.  As  soon as they arrive, you'll be off to 
Coruscant."

    "I need a  bodyguard! I'll be carrying half a million credits.
It wouldn't do to let me be robbed. That would reflect badly on
your New Republic."

    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.

    Cast 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 Fisfs 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 Lo
ran 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 ha
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 seem
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, Wraitl
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 i
say yes and your transfer to the new Wraith Squadron will be
accepted instantly-and with thanks. General Cracken offer
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. Cast,
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 vic-
tim  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.

    Cast 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. Cast'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 incomig
 messages through  a voice-analysis program. So you could
 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 orig-
 inally 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."

    The screen faded.

    "Stand by, Communications." Solo shut off the cockpit
microphone and gave Wedge an accusing look. "You said, when
you overflew her X-wing, that you saw no sign she'd ejected."

    "That's right." Wedge stretched lazily. "There was no 
automated comm signal indicating an ejection."

    "Of course, that could have been damaged in combat, or
she could have disabled it."

    "Sure, sure. Anyway, as the X-wing was rolling over and
sinking as I flew over her, I couldn't see whether the pilot's
chair was still in there."

    "Commander Square Corners himself, showing a streak
of duplicity. Lying by omission. I can't believe it."

    "Maybe, ultimately, I believe in happy endings," Wedge
said. "I can hope for them, anyway. Besides, with Wraith 
Squadron on one side of me and Han Solo on the other, how can I keep
from being infected with duplicity?"

    "Good point."  Solo considered. "She could come back.
What she did as an Imperial agent is nothing compared to what
she did for us."

    Wedge shook his head. "I think the way you do, but the
law doesn't. In her false identity, she swore an oath to the New
Republic, then transmitted classified data to the Empire during
a time of war. That's treason. The only legal outcome for her
would be the death sentence. Regardless of what she did for us.
Regardless of the fact that she's not remotely the same person
who served the Empire and Admiral Trigit."

    "You're right." Solo reactivated the comm unit. "Communications, 
you have a false reading. The sender's vocal similarity to Lara 
Notsil is a coincidence. She's dead. Understood?"

    "Uh, sir, our correlation is something like ninety-nine-point-
nine-nine-seven..."

    "Tell you what. I'll send Chewbacca up there and have
him explain to you what I just said."

    "No, sir, not necessary. I understand."

    "Forward the message to Lieutenant Donos and then erase
all other ship's copies of the message. Nothing goes into
archives.  Understood?"

    "Fully, sir."

    "Solo out." He rose. "Come on, we've got an hour before
arrival at Coruscant. I'll buy you a drink."

    "I'll let you."

    As they walked down the Falsehood's loading ramp, Solo
threw an arm over Wedge's shoulders. "Corellian to Corellian,
you know what the great thing about being a general is?"

    "No, what?"

    "In lots  of circumstances, you can pretty much do 
whatever you want." With his free hand, Solo reached over and gave
Wedge's hair a thorough mussing.

    Wedge batted his hand away. "Hey, stop it."

    "No. I don't have to. Hey, you  should try this general
thing. You'd like it."

    "I don't think so."

    "I'm going to send a message to Ackbar and tell him just
what a natural you are for that rank."

    "General, I'm warning you ..."










        THE STORY OF HAN SOLO AND WARLORD ZSINJ
                     CONTINUES IN
             THE COURTSHIP OF PRINCESS LEIA
                  BY DAVE WOLVERTON