DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The Wraiths
Commander Wedge Antilles (Leader, One) (human male from
CoreIlia) l,ieuteuant Wes Janson (Three) (human male from
Taanab) Lieutenant Myn Donos (Nine) (human male from
CoreIlia)
Lieutenant Garik "Face" Loran (Eight) (human male from
Pantolomin)
Lieutenant Kell Tainer (Five) (human male from Sluis Van)
Hohass "Runt" Ekwesh (Six) (Thakwaash male from Thakwaa)
Ton Phanan (Seven)(human male from Rudrig)
Voort "Piggy" saBinring (Twelve) (Gamorrean male from
Gamorr)
Tyria Sarkin (Eleven) (human female from Toprawa)
Castin Donn (Two) (human male from Coruscant)
Shalla Nelprin (Ten) (human female from lngo)
Dia Passik (Four) (Twi'lek female from Ryloth)
Lara Notsil (Thirteen) (human female from Aidivy)


Rogue Squadron Support Personnel
Cubbet Daine (human male from CoreIlia, squad mechanic)
Chunky (Tyria's R5 unit)
Gate (Wedge's R5 unit)



Squeaky (3PO unit, squadron quartermaster)
Tonin (Lara's R2 unit)
Vape (Face's R2 unit)


New Republic Military
Colonel Atton Repness (human male from Commenor)
Captain Onoma (Mon Calamari male from Mon Calamari)
Captain Valton (human male from Tatooine)

Zsinj's Forces
Warlord Zsinj (human male from Fondor)
General Melvar (human male from Kuat)
Captain Todrin Rossik (human male from Coruscant)
Captain Vellar (human male)
Captain Netbers (human male)
Captain Raslan (human male)
Lieutenant Bradan (human female)

  The Hawk-bats
General Kargin (human male)
Captain Seku (Twi'lek female from Ryloth)
Lieutenant Dissek (human male from Alderaan)
Lieutenant Kettch (Ewok male from Endor)
Qatya Nassin (human female)
Morrt (human male)

 He made no pretense at being fully human. He had probably
been born human, but now mechanical limbs - obvious prosthetics 
with no skinlike cover concealing their artificial
nature - replaced his right arm and both legs, and the upper-
right portion of his bald head was a shiny metal surface
with a standard com-puter interface.

 He made no pretense at being friendly, either. He approached 
the members of Wraith Squadron as they sat, crammed
into their booth, and with neither threat nor comment he
snatched a wine bottle from the next table over and brought
it down on Runt Ekwesh's head.

 The bottle didn't break. It offered a musical toonk sound
and coughed up a little wine from its open neck, and Runt,
the furred alien with the long, big-toothed face, slumped in
his seat, his eyes rolling up in his head.
Most of the members of Wraith Squadron were pinned in
place-with nine pilots crammed into a circular booth built
for five, they had little room to move. But Kell Tainer,
seated at the opposite end of the ring from Runt, scrambled
to his feet.

 Instead of diving toward his wingmate's attacker, instead
of charging with a fist cocked back to punch the man, he slid
sideways toward his target, then came up in a side kick that
caught the cyborg under his chin and lifted him clean off
the floor, slamming him to the bar's floor.

 Most of the members of the squadron slid out of the booth in
Kell's wake. Other patrons of the bar, human and otherwise,
also rose, their expressions suggesting they were unclear on
whether to join in this traditional form of bar entertainment.

 Commander Wedge Antilles, the squadron's leader, stayed put.
He turned toward the squadron medic, Ton Phanan-the man with
the mocking manner, well-trimmed beard and mus-tache, and
prosthetic plate over the left side of his head. 

 "How is he?"

 Phanan shook his head as he delicately moved his fingers
across Runt's skull. 

 "I don't think anything's cracked. He's probably just concussed. 
You knew he had a hard head."

 The cyborg was up now. He and Kell were an odd contrast.
The cyborg looked like a fatal skimmer-and-pedestrian
accident whose remaining parts had been cobbled together by
an insane mechanic, while Kell, with his classic blue eyes
and sculpted features, his formidable height and obvious
conditioning, looked like a holoposter for military
recruitment. But their smiles were identical: humorless,
cold, threatening.

 The cyborg reached into the next booth, past bar patrons who
shrieked and ducked away, and yanked free the table bolted
to the floor. He hauled it backward, then swung it faster
than any human could manage, but Kell ducked forward, rolled
under the table, came up on his feet a mere hand span in
front of the cyborg, and planted one-two-three blows in his
at-tacker's gut. The cyborg staggered backward and Kell
lashed out with a foot, kicking the table from his fingers
with an ease that made the move look casual.

 The other bar patrons seemed to settle on a consensus: They
held back and began putting down bets. Wedge nodded over the
wisdom of that choice. Though the Wraiths were in civilian
clothes, it was obvious they were in good condition, and for
all the patrons knew, Kell might be only typical of their
fighting skill rather than one of their best hand-to-hand
fighters.

 Piggy, the Gamorrean pilot, leaned back against the 
Wraiths'table to watch the proceedings-to the extent that the
semipermanent smoky haze hovering at chest level and above 
permitted easy viewing. He glanced over his shoulder at Runt.

 "Is he hurt?" 

 His voice emerged both as incomprehensible grunts
and as electronic words, the latter being emitted by a
nearly invisible speaker implanted in his throat.

 "Everybody asks that," Phanan complained. Through with his
examination of Runt's skull, he now shone a small light into
Runt's eyes one by one. 

 "Nobody ever says, 'What a mess! I hope the doctor is not 
emotionally harmed by having to deal with it.'  He's coming 
around. He'll probably be dizzy for a few days. I need to 
look up information on how his species deals with concussions."

 The cyborg's next punch, the second part of a skillful one-
two combination, connected with Kell's midsection. The big
man spun as he was hit, diminishing the punch's power, and
used that spin to add force to his reply, a snap kick. The
cyborg took it in the sternum and staggered back, looking
outraged.  Kell bent over, holding his stomach where hit,
and then straight-ened, obviously in pain.

 Then the bar was filled with uniforms - a stream of men and
women pouring in the main entrance, dressed in the distinctive
outfit of New Republic Military Police.

 Wedge sighed. "As deep as we are, they arrived pretty
quickly."

 Phanan held a small rose-colored vial full of liquid under
Runt's broad, flat nose. The nonhuman's nostrils flared and
he jerked, reflexively trying to get away from the smell.

 "Easy, Runt," he said. "We're about to go somewhere you can
relax for a few hours. In the company of some charming
people, too, I'll bet."

 Wedge grinned.

 The military police led them out of the smoke-filled bar
into the only slightly less oppressive atmosphere of street-level
Coruscant. It was raining, a steady spray of liquid that felt
like three-quarters rainwater and one-quarter vehicle lubricant. Wedge
looked up, trying to spot some distant speck of color
representing Coruscant's sky, but all he could see were clifflike
building sides rising to infinity. Awnings, high roads, bridges
between skyscrapers, and other obstacles blocked out any glimpse of
clouds far above, yet still the rain came down, much of it
probably runoff from rain gutters, vents, and flues far
above.

 Tyria Sarkin, the slender woman with the blond ponytail,
grimaced. 

 "It would be nice to be posted to a clean world next," she 
said. Then she saw the military policemen
gesturing toward the waiting skimmer, a slab-sided model
without view-ports, used to transport prisoners, and she
obligingly followed the other Wraiths in that direction.
Phanan, supporting the still-dizzy Runt, fell in behind her,
and Wedge and the cyborg who had caused all the trouble
brought up the rear.

 Toward the front, Face Loran, the once-handsome actor whose
face was now creased by a livid scar from his left cheek to
his right forehead, noted the nameplate on the nearest MP.

 "Thioro," he said. "That's a Corellian name, isn't it?"

 The officer nodded. "I'm from CoreIlia. Born and bred."

 Face turned back toward Wedge and smiled. "Ah. Just like
our reception committee back on M2398, eh, Commander?"

 Wedge managed not to stiffen. The "reception committee" on
the moon of System M2398's third planet had not been made up
of Corellians. It had, in fact, been a trap, an invitation
to land that turned out to be a fatal ambush. Wedge nodded,

 "Just like it, Face. And just like then, I'm your wing."

 Wedge saw casual little glances exchanged between the
Wraiths and knew they had all just become alert and ready-
except, perhaps, the dazed Runt. Face hadn't been Wedge's
wingman at the time. Face now knew Wedge was waiting for his
move.

 Face walked a little faster within the crowd of Wraiths,
until he was at the front of the double line of prisoners,
immediately behind the first pair of military policemen. He
reached the rear of the prisoner skimmer, nodded at their
gesture to board-and struck, slamming his fist into the
throat of one MP, jumping on the other.

 Wedge saw Kell strike out almost instantly, his side kick
connecting with the side of his guard's knee-and saw that
joint bend sideways, a direction it was never meant to take.

 That guard screamed and fell.

 No time to watch things unfold - Wedge heard blaster pistols
clearing leather behind him. He grabbed the cyborg and
swung around, hauling the startled assailant into position
between him and the guards.

 The guards fired, their blasters converging on the cyborg's
chest, charring it black. Steam and the smell of scorched
flesh rose from the wound. Wedge shoved the fatally wounded
cyborg into the guards, continued pushing, bowled them
over - and saw one guard's blaster go skidding across the
duracrete of the sidewalk. He dove after it.

 Noises he knew well: the whuff Piggy the Gamorrean made
whenever he struck at someone in practice, followed by the
impossibly loud, meaty noise his fist always made when it
hit. Two blaster shots in quick succession. A howl from
Runt.  The man with the broken leg still screaming. Shrieks
from passersby and the clatter of their feet as they
retreated from the danger zone.

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

 Wraiths struggling with military policemen.

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

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




 Face Loran, his voice in a reasonable tone Wedge knew to be
forced, answered, "He didn't walk like a Corellian."
 They were now in a debriefing room in Starfighter Command 
Headquarters, a room as spotlessly white and clean as
the bar and street had been filthy. A colonel Wedge didn't
know was conducting the interview, but Admiral Ackbar, commander-
in-chief of New Republic military operations, was also
seated at the interrogators' table. Though Ackbar was a Mon 
Calamarl, a species with huge, rubbery features that seemed more
fishlike than humanlike, he was a friendly presence in Wedge's 
estimation.

 "That's not enough justification to attack someone with
proper credentials," the colonel said.

 Face stiffened. "Respectfully, sir, it is when I'm correct."

 "Don't be preposterous. You can't classify a man's homeworld 
just by looking at him."   

 "Yes, I can, sir."

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

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

 The colonel resumed his seat. Surprise was evident on his
face. 

 "Correct on both counts. How do you do that?"

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

 Ackbar finally spoke up, his voice a not-quite-human rum-
ble. 

 "You admit, Colonel, that Lieutenant Loran is capable
of recognizing when someone's physical mannerisms do not
match his professed planet of origin?"

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

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

 The colonel ignored the statement and turned to Phanan.

 "You defused the situation by putting down one of the ersatz
military policemen and seizing his weapon."

 Wedge saw Phanan struggling with a reply - probably something
to the effect of the colonel being able to recognize simple
facts when they played out under his nose - but restraining
himself. 

 Phanan merely said, 

 "Yes, sir."

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

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

 "I'd say so. Did you surrender this weapon to our guards
before coming before me ?"

 "What weapon, sir ?"

 "The laser scalpel."

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

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

 The colonel closed down his datapad. 

 "All right. Pending the results of further investigation 
into this matter, I'm going to release your squadron."

 Wedge said, 

 "Thank you, sir."

 "How are your injured squad members? Ekwesh, wasn't it, and
Janson?"

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

 The colonel rose; Wedge and his subordinates followed
suit. 

 The colonel said, 

 "I wish them every luck in getting back to duty as soon as 
possible." 

 He left unstated the obvious fact that he far  preferred them 
facing Imperial stormtroopers and warlord forces than the civilians 
of the planet Coruscant. An exchange of salutes later, he departed. 

 Admiral Ackbar came forward. 

 "Before you go: What are your thoughts on this matter?"

 Wedge said, "I'd prefer to see what General Cracken's people
get out of the survivors, but my guess is Zsinj. We hurt him
pretty badly when we destroyed the Implacable." 

 That ship, an Imperial Star Destroyer, belonged to Admiral 
Apwar Trigit, a subordinate of the warlord Zsinj, who was now the
chief enemy and target of the New Republic. 

 "He's shown a vengeful streak in the past, and has enough 
intelligence and contacts to mount a plausible-looking trap 
like that. I'd say that he's figured out who Wraith Squadron 
is and has decided to make us pay."

 Ackbar nodded. 
 "My own conclusion as well. I will leave the matter of protection 
of your subordinates to you, Commander Antilles - I am sure you 
are fit to decide whether to complete your leave or return to duty 
and the safer confines of Starfighter Command's barracks and 
facilities. But I do have orders for you." 

 He tapped the bulge of the datapad in his pocket.
 "I have transmitted them to your datapad. I think you will find 
them to your liking; they play to the, how should I put it, 
improvisational strengths of your new squadron."

 Wedge smiled. "Those improvisational strengths are beginning 
to give me gray hairs, Admiral. But thank you in spite of that." 

 He let the smile fade. 

 "I hope I'm not being presumptuous, sir, but I was wondering 
if you'd heard anything about Fel."

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

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

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

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

  "Thank you, sir. I appreciate it."




 In the hangar temporarily assigned to the vehicles of Wraith
Squadron-seven battered X-wing snubfighters, two battle-scarred 
captured TIE fighters, and a comparatively pristine-
looking Lambda-class shuttle - they explained the colonel's
decision to the Wraiths who had not been called in for the
second stage of interrogation. 

 "I hate to say it," Wedge said, "but leave is effectively 
canceled. I want volunteers to act as guards for Runt and Wes 
until they're discharged. I want someone on duty here with our 
vehicles until we lift for our next assign-ment, and I want 
everyone walking around with eyes behind as well as in front.
Understood?"

The Wraiths nodded. "I'll work out a duty roster," Face
said.

 "Why you?" Kell asked.

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

 As the Wraiths moved their separate ways, Phanan threw
his arm over Kell's shoulder. He looked at Tyria. 

 "Tyria, if you'd excuse us for a moment, I have a few words 
to say in private to your toyfriend..."

 She gave him an arch look. 

 "My what?"

 Kell straightened, causing the shorter man's arm to slide
off, and glared. 

 "Her what?"

 "What did I say?" Phanan shrugged. "A few moments."

  She shrugged and moved to her X-wing.

 "Did you catch the name of the colonel?" Phanan asked.
Kell's scowl turned from irritation to confusion. 

 "I don't think Commander Antilles mentioned it."   

 "Repness."

 Kell glanced over at Tyria, but she had one of her snub-
fighter's engine ports open and was intent on the machinery
within. 

 "That's the name of the trainer who tried to get her
to steal an X-wing. Before she joined the Wraiths."

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

 Kell took a deep breath. Atton Repness was an instructor for
New Republic pilot trainees who were on the verge of washing
out of the training program. He had a reputation as being
good at salvaging pilots thought unsalvageable. But Kell and
Phanan knew that he had secretly altered Tyria's failing
grades to make them passable, then tried to enlist her in an
effort to steal an X-wing, and had used the revelation of
the grade forgery to blackmail her into silence. 

"You wouldn't have mentioned him if you didn't already have a
plan," Kell said. His voice was hard.

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

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

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

 "Ah, but you don't have my superior intellect, do you?"

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

 Phanan leaned close, unfazed by or oblivious to the threat.

"When I was in the hospital on Borleias, the patient in the
next room was a woman. A beautiful woman. A survivor off the
Implacable."

 "So she's a military prisoner now? Ton, we can't break her
out of jail for your plan..."

 "Not a prisoner now. She was a prisoner aboard the Implacable. 
Admiral Trigit's mistress - unwilling mistress. She was snatched
off a planet colony Trigit bombarded into sand, she was kept 
drugged... you can guess the rest."  

 Kell grimaced.

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

 "You've already mentioned that she was a beauty."

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

 "We could sponsor her to pilot training and catch Colonel
Repness in his same pathetic tactic." 

Kell glanced again at Tyria. 

"I'm in."

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

 "And if he won't?"

"I'll bring him in on the plan." Anticipating Kell's objec-
tions, Phanan hastily continued, "I won't mention Tyria by
name. I can keep her out of the story."

 "Well... all right. Let's keep her out of this end of it, too."

 "Done."





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

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

 "Lots of news today," Wes Janson said, looking over his
datapad. He was, Face saw, back to his usual self, his
eternally youthful features merry, no sign on them of
discomfort from the injury to his side. "Most of it good,
some bad.

 "Bad news: I'm back. Bad for me, because I was enjoying my
rest, and bad for you, because if some of you had been a lit-
tle quicker, I wouldn't have been shot. Keep it in mind as I
make up assignments over the next few weeks."

 He smiled at the chorus of groans that resulted. "Runt,
also, is fit for duty, which is probably both good and bad,
because some of his personalities enjoy working and some
don't." 
 
 The greatest mental peculiarity of Runt's Thakwaash
species, now well known to the Wraiths, was that most had
multiple personalities-not caused, as they were among 
humans, by great emotional trauma, but occurring as a natural
part of their mental development. Each of Runt's
personalities was adept at a different task, and new
personalities tended to emerge as he learned.

 "We have new pilots to fill our roster." One of the Wraiths
had died at the battle on the moon of System M2398; two more
had perished in the fight that destroyed the Implacable.  "I
present to you Flight Officer Castin Donn, our new computer
specialist."

 The blond-haired man nodded cheerfully.  
 
 Janson continued, "Castin is a native of Coruscant, so the next
time we decide to walk into a trap here, we'll take him
along to make sure it's a better grade of trap.

 "Flight Officer Dia Passik is a native of Ryloth." 

 The Twi'lek woman nodded, looking among the Wraiths as if to
guess which one would attack her first. 

 Janson said, "She has experience with a broad variety of
New Republic and Imperial vehicles, especially larger space
vessels, and knows quite a bit about criminal organization
- she's a new resource for us where things like smuggling, 
the slave trade, and mercenary operations are concerned.

 "Our third pilot is Flight Officer Shalla Nelprin-"

 "Oh, no," Kell said. He banged his head against the fuselage 
of Face's X-wing.

 Janson looked vaguely amused. 

 "You have something to say, Lieutenant Tainer?"

 Kell stopped hammering the snubfighter for a moment.

 "You're related to Vula Nelprin?"

 The new Wraith's smile broadened, causing dimples to ap-
pear. "She's my older sister."

 "And your father trained you, too?"

 "Yes... though I think I'm a little better than Vula."

 Kell sighed. "I think I've told you all about my hand-to-hand 
instructor in the commandos, the one who could throw me
around as though I were a dust rag without even letting me
see her sweat - this is her sister."

 Janson said, "This should come as no surprise to you, then:
Nelprin is going to be our new trainer in unarmed combat.
You make her the best pilot she can be, and she gets to 
reward you by beating the life out of you. But she's also well
versed in Imperial Intelligence doctrine and tactics, which
is helpful to us, since Zsinj seems to be fond of employing
Intelligence personnel. Wedge ?"

 Wedge said, "Make the new pilots welcome, Wraiths.
We're going to put them, and you, immediately to work on our
new mission." He drew his datapad from a pocket and punched
in a command on its keys. "I've just transmitted to your
datapads the details of our assignment... one which,
unfortunately, won't take us off Coruscant yet." He waved
down the chorus of groans that resulted. "Sorry. But our
results on this task may determine where we're assigned
next, so pay attention.

 "Our efforts in tracking Admiral Trigit and insinuating
ourselves into his confidence have gone over very well with
High Command. We've demonstrated that we have both skill and
luck on our side. But now we have to prove it beyond a
doubt.

 "We're going to divide ourselves into three groups. Each
group is to ask the following questions: What is Zsinj up
to?  What are his specific plans and strategies? Once you've
arrived at a set of theories, we'll put them to the test:
We'll go out into the field and look for evidence to
corroborate the best of the theories.

 "I'm choosing three of you to head these groups based on
your ability with tactical thinking and skill in getting
into your enemies' heads." Wedge nodded toward three pilots
in turn. "Runt, you're Zsinj-One. Piggy, you're Zsinj-Two.
Face, you're Zsinj-Three. Choose your teams and confine
yourselves, as much as possible, to research resources
available here at head-quarters. Questions?"

 Janson's hand went up. "Are we going to be working with
Rogue Squadron on this?"

 Wedge nodded. "Once we're off-planet, yes, but not in the
theoretical phase. The Rogues are being assigned to General
Solo on the Mon Remonda to look for Zsinj; once we get out
into the field, we'll work with them as circumstances
demand."

 Tyria was next. "Have they found out whether it was Zsinj
who arranged the ambush on us?"

 Wedge managed a sour smile. "The survivors of that little
operation have been free with their information. But none of
them knew who they were working for except the organizer,
who assembled them as a team, trained them for this operation, 
and led the mission. He was the one whose throat
Phanan cut."

 Phanan didn't look abashed.
 "Oops."

 "General Cracken's field investigators are trying to back-
track their expenditures and movements; maybe that will turn
up some leads for them. Not our problem. Anything else? No?
Dismissed."

 In the organizational chaos that followed, Runt chose Kell
and Tyria as his partners; Face took Phanan and Janson; and
Piggy chose Myn, and rounded out his group by adding

 Squeaky, the unit's 3PO quartermaster, to his roster. By
silent agreement, each of the three virtual Zsinjes took one
of the new squadron members: Runt took Shalla, Piggy chose
Castin, and Face took the Twi'lek Dia.

 "And may the best Zsinj win," Face said. "Until he runs into
Wraith Squadron, that is."


                                 2


 Gara Petothel rechecked the code for the last time, her
attention skipping back and forth across screens of data,
then sent the command to compile the ungainly-looking mess
into what she hoped would be the final version of her
program.

 A work of art, it was. It would transfer a number of packets 
of encrypted data from her terminal deep in the lowrent
warrens of the city-planet of Coruscant to public computer
repositories, disguising the data as ancient archives of
accounting data. Then, once the trail back to Gara's
terminal was cold, it would transmit the data out across the
New Republic HoloNet, to HoloNet addresses Gara had
committed to memory weeks before... addresses that would
lead eventually to the communications station of the warlord
Zsinj.

 lf he's a smart man, she thought, and by all accounts he is,
within a few weeks I'!! have gainful employment again. Away
from this cesspool and away from the Rebel police and
Intelligence agents...

 A heavy knock fell on the door. She jumped. Sign of a guilty
conscience, she thought, and tried to school her features
back into an expression of innocent curiosity. She switched
off power to her terminal's screen.

 As she rose to answer the door, she looked into the mirror
to make sure she looked the part she was supposed to be playing. 
Her downy white-blond hair, cut very close, still
seemed odd to her, as was the absence of a mole she'd
carried on her cheek since childhood-a mole she had secretly
had removed when preparing this identity. No, this identity
shared only a certain delicacy of features with Gara
Petothel, and hair and makeup were sufficiently different
that no one should recog-nize her in the time it would take
her to leave. She opened the door.

 Two Rebel pilots stood outside, both in pilot's jumpsuits
topped with transparent slickers more suited to Coruscant's
frequent thunderstorms. One had saturnine features and a
prosthetic faceplate over the upper left half of his face, a
red glow where his left eye would have been. The other would
have been startlingly handsome, with luxuriant dark hair
framing intelligent, active eyes and features suited to
raising heart rates, but his face was marred by a puckered
scar-a blaster graze, she guessed-running from his left
cheek to his right forehead.

 She knew the one with the faceplate, and it was he who spoke
first. 

 "Lara Notsil." 

 It was a statement, not a question.

 "Yes." She looked beyond them, to the pedestrian traffic in
the tenement hallway. Though her tiny quarters were on the
fortieth floor of a building, this hallway was part of a
tube access allowing people to walk across kilometers of
Coruscant at this altitude, and traffic was always heavy.
Her hallway was a place of thefts and assaults, but also a
way for her to lose herself quickly in a crowd, which is
why she'd chosen it.

 She returned her attention to her visitors. "It's Lieutenant
Phanan, isn't it? From the hospital on Borleias? Please,
come in before someone sticks a vibroblade in you." She
backed away and allowed them to enter, then shut the door
against the ceaseless stream of humanity outside.

 "Actually, it's just Flight Officer Phanan," her visitor said.

 "The smart one here is the lieutenant, Garik Loran."

 She froze in mid-handshake and gave the other pilot a closer
look. It was him, and it embarrassed her, the way she
suddenly felt light-headed. 

 "The Face? You're still alive?"

 Face gave her a smile. She knew it was an actor's smile,
carefully rehearsed to suggest amusement, comradeship, and
attraction, but despite the fact it did not fool her, she
was still half washed away by the emotions it caused. She
felt as though she'd just been invited into his intimate
acquaintance. Her light-headedness worse than ever, she sat
heavily at her terminal chair.

 "That's me," Face said. "I get that a lot. No, the story of
my death was a sort of propaganda thing cooked up by the
Empire to make people think the Rebel Alliance was full of
evil people who'd kill a child actor. I'm a pilot these
days."

 "Obviously." She struggled to bring herself under control.
Remember, she thought. You're Lara Notsil now. Farm girl
from Aidivy. Former prisoner of Admiral Trigit. That's what
they're here for, more debriefing on Trigit. Phanan had been
there, one of the Rebels shooting at Implacable-shooting at
me.

  "Please, sit down. I'm sorry about the mess-it's hard to
keep anything clean here. How did you find me?"

 Phanan sat on the edge of the bed. Face took the only other
chair. Phanan said, 

 "Anyplace you can walk or sit without sticking to everything 
is very hygienic by low-level Coruscant standards. Believe me, 
we know. As for finding you-we asked around New Republic 
Intelligence. They said you'd been discharged and had declined 
transportation back to your homeworld. We ran a search on the 
worldnet looking for your name and recent employment application.
You're working as an information processor for a shipping concern?"

 "Yes. It pays" - she gestured at the tidy squalor around
her-"for all this."

 Face said, "How would you like a better job and the chance
to live in better conditions?"

 "I'd like that. What would I have to do?"

"Go through New Republic pilot training. The full academy
course."

 No, thanks. How would you like to get me a ticket to Warlord 
Zsinj fleet instead? But she had to play her role.

"That would be... nice. But it can't happen."

 Face gave her another smile, this one full of confidence.

"Why not?"

 Gara injected a note of wistfulness into her voice.

 "When I was back on the farm on Aidivy, that's something I thought
about every day. Learning to fly. I got to be pretty good on
the farm's skimmers. I studied things like voice and Basic
to sound less like a farm girl."

 "It shows," Face said. "Your Aldivian accent is almost gone."

 If you knew that I was born and reared less than a hundred 
klicks from here, you'd appreciate how much work it
takes to speak with the barest trace of that accent, Gara
thought. 

 "But then, when the Implacable came, destroyed New Oldtown, 
and took me away, I sort of lost interest. All I wanted to do 
was see the Implacable destroyed. And then when Admiral Trigit 
chose me for his" - she broke eye contact, put an extra rasp 
into her voice, let a tear fall-"mistress, all I wanted was for 
him to die.

"You did that. You killed him. Your squadron and the other
ones. Thank you." She modulated her voice to sound as though
she were feigning nonchalance and concealing pain.  "But I
guess I don't have anything left. Any ambitions."

 "I'm sorry to hear that."

 "Besides, since I've been... associated with Admiral
Trigit, the New Republic wouldn't trust me." She shrugged
fatalistically.

 "They cleared you. You were never charged with any crime."

 She nodded. And what work it had been, all those weeks ago,
to generate the Lara Notsil identity, careful planning ahead
just in case her employment with Trigit didn't work out.

 Hooking her new identity to a real event, Trigit's punitive
bombardment of a farm community that had refused to provision 
him. Finding and modifying the pitiful few records concerning 
a farm girl whose body was now a carbonized mass of
powder in a charred Aldivian grainfield, replacing key bits
of data with Gara's picture, Gara's fingerprints, Gara's
cellular coding. Spinning a tale of secret chambers on the
Implacable - so secret other Implacable survivors could
plausibly not have known about her - where Trigit imprisoned
his "unwilling mistress" and maintained her on a diet of
glitterstim and other drugs.

 They'd accepted it, the whole package, especially eager for
the scandalous details of her captivity and Trigit's evil...
lies she'd been happy to offer out of her anger at the man.
Trigit had been willing to sacrifice his crew to death when
he didn't have to, a crew that had been efficient and loyal.

 But this whole Lara Notsil identity had only one purpose, to
get her out of New Republic hands and back to Imperial
service-or service that would someday be acknowledged as
Imperial.

 She shook her head. "I don't think I can help you." Then she
frowned. "Wait. You said 'trade favors.' What would I do for
you?"

 Phanan leaned forward. "Ah. That's the tricky bit. We'd want
you to struggle a bit with your pilot training. Skirt along
at the bottom of your class, sometimes dipping just under 
acceptable skill, sometimes skimming along just above. Sort of
terrain-following flying, if you get my drift."   

"Why? Why not do the best I can?"

 Phanan said, "Because we think someone will come to you and
offer to help train you, improve your scores... and then
want to use your pilot's skills in a deal. Some sort of
illegal operation."

 "You're setting this person up. I would be bait."

 Face nodded. "He's the sort of man who uses people,
Lara. Uses them like Admiral Trigit. We thought, maybe,
you'd be able to take out on him the vengeance you'd been
saving for Trigit."

 She shook her head. "It wouldn't be the same, and I
wouldn't..."

 And then the idea hit her, detonating in her mind like a
proton torpedo. A plan, a simple one, one that would
increase her worth in the eyes of Warlord Zsinj or any
Imperial officer to whom she wanted to sell her services.
The idea made her as dizzy as her long-faded teenage longing
for an actor named Garik Loran had.

 "Lara?" Face asked. "Are you all right?"

She began to cry. A useful talent, that, being able to cry
on cue; her teachers at Imperial Intelligence had been
delighted by it. 

"I can't do it," she said. "I'll lose everything."

 Phanan leaned forward and took her hands. "What will you
lose? What could you lose?"

 "Everyone at home is dead. All I have left are people I've
met since I was rescued. I was hoping for a career in the
mili-tary, some civilian post. If I do what you say, if I go
through pilot's training, I won't be able to help
myselfmit'll wake up that old wish and the only thing I'll
want is to be a pilot. And then if I set this man up and
ruin him, everyone everywhere will say, 'That's Lara Notsil.
The traitor.' No one will want me. Every-one will distrust
me."

 "That's not true," Phanan said. But Gara saw Face lean back,
considering her words, and she knew he recognized the truth
of them.

 "It is true," she said. "What commander would take me on as
a pilot? Everyone will think I'm spying on them, and friends
of this person you want me to burn down will do what it
takes to ruin me. I'll have terrible scores from doing
exactly what you wanted me to do, so the civilian piloting
services won't have anything to do with me." She stared
between them, defiant, allowing tears to continue streaming
down her face.  "You know it's true. And you can't speak for
any squadron except your own, and you know Wedge Antilles
would never take me on after I'd done what you asked."

 Face still looked troubled. "We don't know that."

 "But you can't speak for him."

 "No, we can't."

 "So you two want me to trade my entire future for a little
piloting training. Thanks for the offer. There's the door."

 "Wait." There was no artifice in Face's voice or manner now.

 "What if we could guarantee you a piloting station?

 Somewhere you'd be accepted for your skills, where the 
consequences of this operation play in your favor instead of
against you ?"

 "Where ?"

 "I don't know yet."

 She shook her head. "I can't trust that the commander will
be as fair as you think. I just don't believe it."

 "What if it were Wedge Antilles?"

 She caught her breath. Then: "You just said you can't
speak for him."

 "Not yet. I haven't put any details of this in front of
him. But I will. And if he says yes?"

 She paused. She already knew her answer, but they had to
think she was considering it. Finally, she said, "If it were
Wedge Antilles's command, either Rogue Squadron or that new
one, Wraith Squadron, yes, I'd do it."

 "I'11 talk to him today." Face rose and Phanan followed
suit. "I'll let you know as soon as I have an answer from
him." She gave him a brave little nod.

 And when they'd gone, she clamped both hands over her mouth,
the better to hold in the whoops of victory that threatened
to escape her.




 When they were a few steps from Lara Notsil's door, Phanan
said, "Commander Antilles is going to take you to pieces."

 "I know." Face shouldered his way through the thick stream
of pedestrians.

  "You'll be pulling punishment detail until you're forty."

  "Probably."

 "When you put this idea in front of him, flames are going
to come out of his mouth and burn you from head to foot."

 "That's true. But one thing makes it easier for me to take."

 "What's that?"

 "You're going to be there burning with me."

 Phanan grimaced. "You're such a good friend."





 Flight Officer Shalla Nelprin dove toward the ground - as far
as the narrowing gaps between Coruscant's endless sea of
buildings would allow her to descend. She could see blurs in
the viewports, blurs that had to be startled faces.

 The pair of TIE fighters on her tail pursued her with agility,
matching her maneuver with little effort, still firing their
linked lasers at her tail. She leveled off, juking left and right
as much as the narrow confines would let her, and green laser blasts
slammed into buildings on either side of her and into her
reinforced rear shields.

 "I can't shake them, Control," she said. "They're good."

 The voice of Runt Ekwesh came back. "Shalla, why do
you think Warlord Zsinj employs so many former Intelligence
officers? Implacable, Night Caller, and more ships and
officers we're learning of..."

 Shalla's snubfighter shuddered as another laser blast
slammed into her stern shields and penetrated to reach her
hull. She glanced at her diagnostics board. Minimal damage
to hull, no indication of other problems. Yet. "Control, do
you mind? I'm flying for my life here."

 "It is only a simulator run. Your scores are not being
recorded."

 "Treat every simulator run like the real thing and stay
alive longer. That's what my daddy says." She dropped down
another ten meters to fly under, rather than through, a walk-
way connecting two skyscrapers. One TIE fighter mimicked
her, the other rose and flew over the obstruction. "All
right.  First, they were available. Ysanne Isard, head of
Intelligence, is killed a few months ago by Rogue Squadron.
This gives every one of her subordinates a choice. Work for
this council now running what's left of the Empire, work for
one of the warlords, go pirate, or go hide. Wait a second."

 Below and ahead was another enclosed crosswalk; beyond it,
immediately below the crosswalk's level, two buildings
widened so that there was scarcely any room between them.
Shalla dove again, came up immediately beneath the walkway,
and rotated ninety degrees, her wings now pointing skyward
and groundward, to fit in the narrowing gap between
buildings.

 As before, one TIE fighter went high and the other followed
her closely. But the TIE-fighter profile was not as variable 
as that of an X-wing; because of its solar array wings,
no matter how it was turned, the TIE fighter needed more
than six meters of clearance in any direction.

 In this narrow gap, her pursuer didn't have them. It hit the
four-meter opening between buildings and the buildings sheared
both wings off, top and bottom. The TIE fighter dropped, its
ball-shaped cockpit bouncing between buildings on its way
down until it detonated.

 A new voice - Shalla thought it was Kell Tainer's-came across
next. 

 "Good flying, Nelprin. One to go."

 "Thank you." The gap between buildings widened. She rotated
until she was horizontal again. "So, all of a sudden there
are lots of Intelligence operatives and ships available.
That's the supply.

 "Demand is trickier. Zsinj's records say he's sort of a compulsive 
liar. So why hire people who are trained to see
through those lies? My guess is that he doesn't mind. He
doesn't lie to fool people-except his enemies, of course. He
does it to entertain. To impress people with his
brilliance."

 The remaining TIE fighter resumed firing on her; lasers
flashed past her strike foils to blow through building walls
below, and her stern shields took more hits.

 Ahead and above was a crowd of high-altitude skimmers-
aerial traffic following one of the posted routes. But these
skimmers were all decorated with the colors of Coruscant
police.

 "Hey, fair game." Shalla rose into the cloud of skimmers,
flashing just below most of them, using them as a screen.
Her pursuer's lasers hit skimmers all around her. Several
detonated, raining shrapnel upon her.

 When a skimmer ahead of her blew up, she decelerated as hard
as she could and was vibrated by her snubfighter's shudder.
Half on main engines and half on repulsorlift landing engines, 
she rose through the cloud of flame and debris...And as she 
cleared it she saw the other TIE fighter racing along ahead, 
not having anticipated her sudden deceleration.

 It was slowing now, preparing for one of the impossibly
tight turns TIE fighters could manage.

 She bracketed the TIE fighter with her heads-up display.
The brackets went almost instantly from yellow to red and
she fired, sending a proton torpedo straight into the
Imperial vehicle's cockpit. It detonated, a brilliant flash
of light and debris.

 Then Shalla's view spun as she was hurled out of control.

 She saw a building side rushing toward her, frightened faces
in the viewports - and then everything went black.

 The canopy opened over her, admitting light. Runt, Kell,
and Tyria stood nearby, all of them wearing headsets. "What
happened?" Shalla asked, complaint in her voice.

 Kell smiled. "You were hit by a skimmer. It was flying blind
through that first explosion and slammed into you from the
side."

 Shalla hissed in vexation and climbed out. "They say the
city is a dangerous place."

 "Otherwise an excellent run," Kell continued.

 "So," Runt said, "the Intelligence operatives are available,
and Zsinj doesn't mind that they can see through some of his
deceptions. What else?"

 Shalla gave the others a look. "Runt is pretty single-minded,
isn't he?"

 They laughed. Kell said, "No, more like multiple-minded.
But any one of his minds might get very focused."

 "I see." She didn't, but she figured she would eventually.
She turned back to Runt. "Maybe it's more than that Zsinj
just doesn't mind. Maybe he likes having an appreciative
audience.  Someone knowledgeable enough to understand what
he's doing and be impressed by it. He has to have a tremendous ego."

 Runt frowned. It wasn't a proper human frown, but his very
mobile eyebrows came down over his large, expressive eyes to
suggest concentration. 

 "He likes to be appreciated."

 "I think so."

 "He would enjoy playing the hero. Hero of the Empire."

 "Certainly. Why else make all these very public assaults on
New Republic colonies and outposts? It's not all for their
strategic value. They're not all valuable, and he could do
more damage by being sneaky. It's to show somebody that he's
a warrior. His audience, whoever that is." She bent over,
pressing her head to her knees, then straightened, arms
high in the air, and began repeating the motion.

 Tyria sighed. "She's exercising. We have a compulsive
exerciser."

 Shalla didn't look up. "Just stretching. I get leg cramps
when I'm in the cockpit too long."

 Kell said, "Her sister is like that, too. Always in motion.
Want to drive her completely insane? Tie her to a chair for
an hour."

 Shalla straightened and gave him her most wicked smile.

 "Try it, Lieutenant."

 "No, thanks."






 Wedge stood so fast that his chair slammed back into his
office wall. 

 "You promised her what?"

 Phanan and Face were already standing. Face said, "We
promised her nothing-except that we'd look into it."

 "Gentlemen, this is a matter for New Republic Intelligence.
Hand it off to General Cracken's people."

 Face looked uneasy. "With all due respect, sir, Cracken's people
haven't noticed this man yet. That means he might have
a friend, a fellow officer, in Intelligence, covering for
him. If he's stolen spacecraft before, and we have no reason to
suspect he hasn't..."

 "Or any knowledge that he has."

 "True. But if he's stolen spacecraft before, having a friend
in Cracken's group would account for the failure of any
investigation to turn up evidence against him. If we turn
this over to Intelligence, we may just be giving him advance
warning so he can cover his tracks, play the good little
officer for a couple of years... and then go back to
stealing things and luring young, struggling officer
candidates into his employ."

 Wedge considered that. "If you carry out this little operation, 
Cracken's people may decide they don't care for us very much. 
For intruding on their territory."

 Phanan nodded. "That's a possibility. But another possibility 
is that we can do this without even alerting anyone it is
an 'operation.' Let's say Lara Notsil gets into flight
school on the recommendation of a dashing, preposterously 
attractive pilot she met in the hospital on Borleias..."

 "One of Blue Squadron's pilots, I assume."

 "Thank you for that vote of confidence, sir. Anyway, she
goes through training, Repness starts his shenanigans. Lara
calls in her old friend from the hospital, they expose
Repness immediately. That's the story, and it'll hold up to
most scrutiny."

 "To casual scrutiny, maybe." Scowling, Wedge finally resumed 
his seat. 

Phanan and Face looked a little more relieved and sat as well.

 Wedge continued, "But the likelihood is that we'll be on
assignment elsewhere when her troubles with Repness begin.
Are you planning on resigning from Wraith Squadron to stay
here near her?"

 "No. But Face here is going to deposit some credits in an
account for her to use for HoloNet access. Whenever it hap-
pens, she can get in touch with us almost immediately..."

 "Assuming we're not undercover."

 "Assuming that, yes. I'll leave instructions for her for
what to do if she can't reach us. But if she can, we'll find
out who's on Coruscant, someone we trust that she can depend
on.  There's bound to be somebody. There's always somebody."

 Phanan gave his commander a diffident little shrug. "You
might even be able to call on Princess Leia Organa..."

 "Absolutely not. She's a busy, busy woman. Besides, she's
gone on some diplomatic mission nobody will talk about."

 "Just a thought. Anyway, if we're not here to help Lara
through the endgame, we'll put her in the hands of a friend
who is. And that will be the end of it."   

 "Except for her career."

 Both of the other pilots nodded.

 Wedge leaned back, away from them. "All right, you two.
I'll give you this. If she carries out this operation, I'll
consider her for transfer to one of my squadrons. And I'll
base my acceptance or refusal of her completely on my own
evaluation of her skills and her character. Not on her
academy records, not on her participation in your operation.
She has to be fit to fly as a Rogue or a Wraith... but if
she is, the next time I have a slot available I'll take her.
That's the best I can do."

 They took that as a signal and rose. "That's the best we
could hope for," Phanan said. "Thank you, sir."

 "Dismissed."

 When they'd gone, Wedge said to the empty air, "Wes,
they're doing it to me again."


                                3


 "I think it's all wrapped up in the symbolism of the Iron
Fist," Face said.

 The Wraiths were in the officers' lounge of Sivantlie Base,
their temporary station on Coruscant. Once a hotel catering
to mid-level Imperial bureaucrats from offworld, it now
housed units of the armed forces that were in transition:
soldiers awaiting transport to their assignments, squadrons
in rotation between bases, new units being assembled. Two
stories down, where the base's tower just began to extend
above the surrounding buildings, there were hangar accesses
large enough for small cargo vessels. The lounge itself had
vast viewports that gave the Wraiths and other officers
present a clear view of the limitless sea of Coruscant's
building tops, as well as storm clouds concentrating only a
few kilometers away. Tiny dots like insects, actually
shuttles and other craft, buzzed above the cityscape and
beneath the clouds.

 Face was at the viewports, staring down into the dark depths
of Coruscant's streets, trying to shift his tastes around,
trying to become the sort of man who would look upon this
world as a thing of beauty. Trying to become a loyal
Imperial officer, if only temporarily, to understand how
they thought, reacted.

 "You're saying the Iron Fist is his hammer, symbolically as
well as effectively?" That was Janson, stretched out on one
of the lounge sofas, a tumbler of brandy on the table at his
head.

 Face nodded absently. "He uses it for strikes against high-
profile targets. Not targets that are easier than the
others, nor harder, just more visible. Such as the assault
on Noquivzor, designed to destroy Rogue Squadron - what a
coup that would have been. He named Iron Fist after his
first command, an elderly wreck of a Victory-class Star
Destroyer. It's a symbol to him, of his rise from obscurity
to power. It's the key to him, I think." He glanced over at
Runt, who leaned lazily against a support pillar on the
other side of the main viewport. "What do you think?"

 The brown-furred nonhuman turned toward him. Face felt his
own spine stiffen. This wasn't Runt's usual body language,
and the long-faced pilot's eyes drooped almost closed. 

 Runt said, "Did I give you leave to speak?" His voice was rich
and deep, without his usual melodious tones and odd inflections.

 "Your pardon," Face said. He felt oddly formal. "Iron Fist?
Zsinj's primary and most important act of symbolism?"

 Runt shook his head, sending his long, glossy ponytail
swaying. His smile showed his large teeth but did not seem
in the least friendly. "You don't understand Zsinj," he
said. "To Zsinj, symbols are for others. Zsinj uses them as
simple controls. Knobs and buttons by which he can cause
his lessers to do their duty. Dials and gauges by which he
can measure their fear. No, Zsinj's tool is that fear
itself, fear and respect. Zsinj smashes with one hand and
feeds with the other. One act impresses the unaligned
governors who used to support the Empire. The other hand
beckons them. As more and more feed from that hand, still
more will be forced to." Runt finally looked fully at Face.

 "It is the governors. It must be. Zsinj will do whatever it
takes to draw them into his camp, one by one or ten by ten.
Smash them, entice them, seduce them, terrify them."

 Face glanced back at Janson. The squadron's second-in-
command grinned at him, obviously amused by Runt's
performance, then cocked his head to one side and froze-
near-universal pantomime of a droid whose power has just
been shut off, pilot's shorthand for someone whose brain is
receiving no power.





 One of the lounge's simulators hissed as its canopy opened.
The new Twi'lek pilot, Dia Passik, bounded out as though she
were partially made of springs. She had a smile on her face,
nearly a smirk, and she headed straight for the bar.  Face
watched her closely; there was something odd about the way
she moved...

 That was it. Hers was the strut of a Corellian pilot. A male
Corellian pilot, to the extent that her build would allow
her such motion. She, too, knew something about body
language and simulated manners.

 The adjoining simulator opened and Phanan climbed out more
sedately. He came over to Face. 

 "Well, she dropped the heavy end of the hammer on me," he said.

 "Vaped you?"

 "Three times out of three. I don't think she's up to Kell's
level, and certainly not up to the commander's, but she's
deadly." Phanan added, a hopeful note in his voice, "Perhaps
she'd show me some mercy on account of my physical appeal
and personal charm."

  "I'm sure she would if you had any."

 They joined Dia at the bar, flanking her, and ordered a
nonalcoholic fruit fizz to match hers. Squeaky, the 3PO unit
with mismatched gold and silver component's, drew their
drinks, uttered a sigh, and murmured something about the
scarcity of fresh fruit in the Coruscant market.

 "Ton says you're a pretty hot shooter," Face said.

 "It won't work," she said.

 "Eh?" Face glanced across her at Phanan, who returned
his confused expression. "What won't work?"

 "You wouldn't have said that to a male pilot unless it had
been a real run. Which means you only said it to ingratiate
yourself with me. You want to provoke an emotional response,
gratitude, that a lowly flight officer might find worth
under the eyes of the famous Garik Loran. At some point I'm
supposed to swoon into your arms, aren't I?"

 Face blinked. "That actually hadn't occurred to me."

 "I didn't see your holos, Face. When you were acting your
heart out as a child star, I was a slave dancer in training,
not permitted choice rewards like seeing entertainment
holos. You don't occupy a place in the adolescent quadrant
of my heart the way you do with most females my age. I am
immune to your alleged charms."

 Face glanced at Phanan again. The other pilot was turning
red with the effort not to laugh. Face modulated his voice
to low, resonant, romantic tones. "I am so glad I met you,"
he said. "I've been looking for you all my life."

 "You have?" Her expression turned to confusion.

 "Why?"

 "The one woman in all the galaxy immune to my charms?  Do
you know how often I've said, 'Where is she, does she truly
exist?'"

 Phanan got himself under control. "It's true. I raised Face
from the time he was a cub, and since almost the day he
could talk, he's been saying, 'Find me the one woman who can
withstand me. Who can loathe me for who I really am.' He's
had a long, lonely life until today. Now you can abuse him
and give me a rest."

 Face nodded sagely.

 Dia's face twitched into a smile, which she quickly sup-
pressed. "Now you're making fun of me."

 Face let his expression and voice return to normal. "Oh,
we've barely gotten started. Anyway, after a casual remark
about your skills to open up the conversation, my plan
actually was to ask you how you fouled up."

 "Fouled up." She looked between the two men. "I don't recall
fouling up."

 "Then what brings you to Wraith Squadron?"

 "I volunteered. After the story broke on your destruction of
the Implacable, I wanted to join a unit as savage as that.
Why? Are you supposed to be screwups?"

 Phanan whistled. "She doesn't even know. We didn't even have
time for our true reputation to circulate before another
reputation swam up and swallowed it."

 Face gave Dia a stern look. "I'm sorry, you appear to have
been transferred here under false pretenses. We're a hard-luck 
squadron. If you're not a real screwup, we're just going to have 
to make you an honorary screwup. Keep that in mind."

 "I will," she said, her voice solemn.

 "She'll do," Phanan said.

 "Even if she doesn't swoon."

 "How did you get into Starfighter Command?" Face asked.

 She looked between them as if evaluating them, then
shrugged. "My... owner... was a very rich man of Coruscant, 
founder of a firm that made communications equipment.
Very reliable HoloNet receivers, for example. He and his 
preferred advisers lived on an enormous yacht called the Violet
Hernia reference to the Emperor's robes. Anyway, over the
years I was able to persuade several of his personal pilots
to teach me how to control their vehicles. Few things make a
male feel as grand as the opportunity to teach a young,
fascinated female." She opened her eyes wide in an
expression of innocence.

 Face snorted. "So you stole a vehicle ?"

 "My owner was visited by a pilot with an armed shuttle. I
stole it and turned it over to the New Republic."   

"And the Violet Hem?"

 This time her smile was not that of an innocent. "Before I
left, I locked her shields down so they could not be brought
up.  My first combat action of any sort was to blow Violet
Hem out of space."

 Face suppressed a shudder and decided to change the subject.

 "I wonder if the other new pilots are just as unaware
of our true nature. Hey, Castin!"

 The blond pilot, seated in a stuffed chair nearby, looked up
guiltily from the datapad in his lap. "I wasn't doing
anything."

 Face grinned. "I'm not monitoring you. I just wanted to know
what you did to end up with the Wraiths."

 "I volunteered."

 "Why?"

 Castin looked thoughtful. "I wanted to be where things
happened. And things always happen around Commander Antilles. 
I want to go after enemies like Zsinj and eliminate them.
Erase them. Overwrite them to the point that no one in the
galaxy even remembers them."

 "Well, that's admirable... but again, why?"

 "People like Zsinj, they have to be squashed as hard and
as fast as you can. Because the next thing they do is going
to be something awful. They never do anything that isn't
awful, and ordinary people get killed." Castin's tone was
bitter, and other Wraiths perked up to listen.

 "You're speaking from personal experience."

"Oh, yes." Castin looked around blankly, staring not at
his fellow Wraiths but at some point in the past. "The day
the Emperor died-what were you doing?"

 Face didn't have to think back. Most people recalled exactly 
what they were doing the moment they heard that Palpafine had 
been killed at Endor. "I was in civilian flight
school on Lorrd. In class studying astronautics. Why?"

 "I was in one of Coruscant's plazas. A little one, couldn't
have held more than a couple of hundred thousand people, way
up high where only a half-dozen buildings cast shadows down
on it. The word spread like fire through an old building.
The New Republic HoloNet broadcast was being rebroadcast on
a wide band so that every personal comlink would pick it up.
All holoprojectors were showing the second Death Star
exploding.

 "The crowd went crazy. Loyalists were turning white.
Some of them fainting dead away. Rebels and people with
Rebel leanings were going berserk. Before very long, they
were actually tearing a statue of Palpatine down. A big one.
It took cables and skimmers to knock it over." Castin
shrugged. "And then stormtroopers came."  

"To restore order."

 "If you want to call it that. They opened up on the crowd
pulling down the statue. And their blasters weren't set on
stun.  You could smell the burning-meat odor all over the
plaza. I was right next to a young mother who took it right
in the head.  I grabbed her baby on the way down so he
wouldn't be trampled in the stampede." He shook his head,
his expression bleak, and fell silent.

 Face said, "The Imperial HoloNet wouldn't have transmitted
the news of the Emperor's death over normal channels like
that. Not before they'd had time to sweeten up the story and
turn it into some sort of Imperial victory."

 Castin shook his head, not meeting Face's eye.

 "So someone else, someone technically proficient, had to
have intercepted it and rebroadcast it like that. You?"

 Castin nodded. "My group was one of them, yes."

 "So Zsinj is another Imperial killer, and if you don't stop
him personally, it's the plaza all over again. Is that it?"

 "Maybe."

 "Well, that's as good a reason as any." But that was an 
answer for Face. Castin might have volunteered for this duty
without a blemish on his record, but there was still a
possibility of volatility there. Now he had to wonder if Dia
and Shalla were also carrying around emotional demolition
charges just waiting to go off.

 "Pirates," Piggy said, interrupting. The Gamorrean settled
into a stuffed chair situated between Janson's sofa and the
bar, near Donos and Castin.

 "Pirates to you, too," Phanan said. "Is that a new greeting?
Something Gamorrean? 'Scabrous pirates to you this morning.'"

 "'And bleeding pirates to you.' "Face gave his wingman a
formal bow.

"Zsinj was negotiating with the pirates on M2398, trying to
enlist their services," Piggy continued. In spite of the me-
chanical simplicity of Piggy's voice translator, Face
thought he could detect a contemplative quality in the
Gamorrean's tones.  "It's a tactic we haven't seen with him
before. Is he in such dire need that he must rely on
pirates? I don't think so. He's assembling a second navy,
perhaps a disposable one."

 Runt shook his head again. "Zsinj needs such scum only to
hear what their prattling mouths have to say. To obtain
news, intelligence, that he cannot derive from some more le-
gitimate source. The pirates are nothing."

 Piggy grunted a laugh. "You'll need plenty of cleanser for
that scum when it assembles and comes at you. At all of us."







 "A minute of your time, sir?" Castin Donn stood at the door
to Wedge's interim office. Rather, he leaned against it, his
body language suggesting a man who'd prefer to be elsewhere-
definitely anywhere but a military base. He was unshaven,
his eyes tired.

 Wedge would have accepted this pose and manner from one of
the established Wraiths, but not from a newcomer. He merely
cleared his throat and looked expectant, as though the pilot
hadn't spoken.

 Castin apparently got the hint. He straightened, slowly
enough to demonstrate reluctance, and threw a salute.

 "Flight Officer Castin Donn reporting, sir. I was wondering
if I might have a moment of your time."

 Wedge took a moment before responding with his own salute.

 "Certainly, Donn. Have a seat."

 Donn's posture, once he was seated, reverted to that of a
career code-slicer; he slumped into his chair as though he'd
left his spine in his locker. 

 "I was wondering if I could get assigned to different quarters."

 Wedge brought out his datapad and tapped up the information
on living assignments. It showed that Donn had been put in
the same bunkroom as Runt Ekwesh. Runt's former roommate had
been Kell Tainer, but that pilot had been assigned solo
quarters ever since his promotion to lieutenant. 

 "Is something wrong with your current assignment?"  

 "Yes, sir.I'm not getting any sleep."

 "I don't understand. Does Runt snore?" Kell had never made
any such complaint.

 "No, sir. It's just not working out."

 "Personality conflict."

 "No, sir."

 "Request denied, Donn. Unless you can come up with something
a little more substantial than 'it's just not working out.'"

 Castin squirmed in his chair. Wedge thought it an unusually 
childlike mannerism from a grown man who'd been through
pilot training and scored high enough to be fit for Wraith
Squadron. 

 "Sir, he, uh... he smells."

 "I take it you mean he smells bad."

 "Yes, sir. It's keeping me up at night."

 Wedge kept his face impassive and thought about it. Runt
Ekwesh was a member of the Thakwaash species, humanoids who
averaged over three meters in height and were covered with
fur; Runt came by his nickname because he was, in fact, very
short for his species, the only reason he could fit in standard 
New Republic cockpits. And his odor was indeed different from
that of humans, though it was very faint, usually undetectable 
except when he was wet or had been in the cockpit for several hours.

 Wedge kept the pilot waiting, still squirming restlessly,
while he brought up Castin's full record. The man, a native
of Coruscant, had been a code-slicer since he entered his
teens, and had belonged to a rebel group not associated with
the Alliance. Shortly after the Emperor's death, nearly
four years ago, he had forged himself a false identity;
arranged passage offworld, and had ended up in New Republic-
controlled space, where his technical skills had served him
and the New Republic well. After two years as a coder for
the fleet, he'd transferred to Starfighter Command and
entered pilot training.

 The synopsis said very little about him as a man. Wedge
switched to the record of his citations and reprimands. He'd
seen all this data before, while reviewing the new pilot
candidates for approval, but he'd been looking only for
specific types of information then.

 There were citations for courage and ingenuity under fire,
but also many punishments for failure to perform routine 
duties in a reliable fashion. That hadn't bothered Wedge; he
knew Castin would either shape up in that regard or be
kicked out of Starfighter Command altogether, a motivation
that should keep him in line. But in the record was also a
chronicle of personality conflicts with fleet bridge crew
members, mostly Mon Calamari. Transfer from the fleet
accepted after a fistfight...  with a Sullustian navigator.
Hmm.

 "I could put you in with Piggy. Voort saBinring," Wedge
said.

 Castin's squirming became more acute, and Wedge sus-pected
he had the answer.

 "I'm not sure that would work either," Castin said.

 "Same reason ?"
 "Yes, sir."

 "Donn, this independent revolutionary faction you belonged
to - were there any nonhumans in it?"   

 "No, sir."

 That was interesting. Most such factions on Coruscant had
high proportions of nonhuman members. The factions that
didn't include nonhumans tended to be just as antiImperial... 
but had still supported Coruscant culture's legendary suspicion 
and dislike of nonhumans.

 "So you've had very little protracted contact with nonhumans."

 "Well... that would be correct, sir."

 "I'm sorry, Donn, but I'm afraid this is something you're
just going to have to get used to. Whenever it bothers you,
you need to ask yourself, 'I wonder what I smell like to
them?'"

 Castin's voice dropped and came close to but did not quite
cross into the realm of surliness. "I don't smell at all,
sir. I keep myself very clean."

 "But their senses aren't like yours. If you ever get up the
nerve, ask them sometime if they can smell you and what it's
like. You might be surprised by the answer."

 Castin's expression became one of distress. "But, sir, we
have plenty of room here at base..."

 "But not everywhere we're going. I'll modify room assignments 
when there's a genuine reason to do so. Not before."

 "Sir..."
 "That's all, Donn."






 It looked just like the bridge of the Iron Fist. It had its
own command walkway facing the forward viewports, the ones
that stared out into depthless space. It had its crew pit
below, with its numerous crew stations.

 But it was actually a portion of Warlord Zsinj's private
quarters, a replica of the true bridge, and it had no crew.
The viewports were actually screens receiving holocam views from
the real viewports. The viewscreens at the crew stations
showed the data or visual feeds the crewmen on duty would be
accessing if they were here; commands flickered across the screens and
were executed as though the station operators were in place.
But sounds from the console speakers-beeps, dialogue, noises
indicating errors or computer achievements-were the only
ones to be heard. No one spoke.

 Warlord Zsinj moved among the ghost stations, peering over
the shoulders of imaginary crewmen as if to evaluate their
performance. A small man whose waist outperformed his chest
in dimension and magnificence, he looked like a holo comedian 
pretending to be an officer: His spotless white uniform
was that of an Imperial grand admiral, while his bald head,
luxuriant mustache, florid complexion, and too-cheerful man-
ner suggested a backwater bandit.

 He bent over the back of a chair; the screen before him
showed a fleeing Y-wing attack craft as if seen through the
viewport of a pursuing TIE interceptor. The background was a
busy battlefield; Zsinj recognized the chaos of the battle
above Endor's sanctuary moon, just under four years ago.
He leaned closer to see the name of the crewman logged onto
the computer. 

 "Ah, Ensign Sprettyn," he said. "Running attack simulators 
again while on duty. Shirking your responsibilities again."

 "Perhaps he wants to become a pilot."

 The voice, smooth and reassuring, came from behind Zsinj. 
The warlord straightened and turned. "General Melvar.
What have I told you about creeping up behind me?"

 The general, a tall man with features that were elegant when
he was paying attention but impossibly bland and unmemorable 
when he lost concentration, smiled. "Not to."

 "And what did you just do?"

 "I stomped up to you with all the silent grace of a gut-shot
rancor. You were so intent on your observation of poor
Ensign Sprettyn's activities you failed to notice me."

 "It's the sign of pure concentration. The ability to shut
out all other concerns."   

 "Of course."

 "What do you want?"

 The general handed him a datapad. Lines of data were 
already up on its screen. "A private communication for you.
Through Admiral Trigit's old routing system."

 Zsinj gave him a look that was all raised eyebrows and
curiosity, then scanned the text. "Hmm. Lieutenant Gara
Petothel.  Expects to be a member of one of Antilles's
squadrons within a few weeks. 'Would you be interested... ?'
I see she has a fine sense of irony. What do you have on
her?"

 "I've put her file in there with the communiqation in short,
she's an Imperial Intelligence prodigy who was orphaned - she
was in deep cover as a Rebel mission coordinator when Ysanne
Isard was killed. Her controller was a member of Isard's 
support staff and also died. Petothel managed to get in touch
with Apwar Trigit, offered her continued services to him,
and fed him information that led Trigit to some important
temporary provisioning centers and allowed him to annihilate
an entire Rebel X-wing squadron. She joined his crew and was
presumed dead when the Implacable was destroyed."

 "Oh, she's that one. So she eluded capture. Or perhaps not.
Perhaps she was captured, then turned, and is being used to
flush us." Zsinj shrugged. "Where's her holo?"

 "We found that holos of her in both Imperial and Rebel
records show the wrong woman. She has covered her tracks
well. I'm having a simulation assembled from people who were
in her Rebel academy class... which will take some time and
caution."

 "Very well." Zsinj handed the datapad back. "Pursue this.
Have an agent or a cell on Coruscant try to do independent
verification of what she's saying. Find out what identity
she's currently wearing. Once that's determined, we must
find out where her loyalties lie before we commit any real
resources to her."

 "Done. And Ensign Sprettyn?"

 "Do you want to handle that? It's a task for his executive
officer."

 "I'd be happy to."

 "Very well. Sprettyn is under direct orders not to waste time
with the simulators, but he just wants to fly too much. So
spirit him off into the night. Tell the rest of the crew he's been
executed for disobeying orders. But tell him that he's being taken
aside for pilot evaluation. Put him through the simulators."

 "And if he turns out to be a good pilot trainee?"

 "Weren't you listening?" Zsinj looked regretful. "I deplore
the waste of good crewmen, I really do. But we can't have
pilots who disobey orders. Evaluate his piloting performance, 
chastise or compliment him as appropriate, then execute him."







 "The evaluations of the three Zsinj theories have come back
from Admiral Ackbar's office," Wedge said.

 They were in the briefing room temporarily assigned to
Wraith Squadron. This was an office far enough down in the
building that there were no viewports; viewports would only
have shown a depressingly bleak vista of dark, grimy
duracrete corridor between the lower reaches of skyscrapers.

 Instead, the orange walls were decorated with large
holoscreens that tran-sited between views shot from
planetary orbits, vistas of distant and beautiful worlds,
and promotional images of hotel resorts belonging to the
same chain that had once owned this facility. The Wraiths
were all seated near Wedge's lectern, except for Shalla
Nelprin, who paced at the back of the hall - until Wedge
caught her eye. She quickly sat in the seat nearest to her.

 "Before I get to the admiral's conclusions," Wedge continued,
"I think we ought to let the writers of the three reports 
synopsize their conclusions; not everyone has heard
these.  Runt?"

 The long-faced alien stood up. His body language changed;
his posture became that of a human carrying a fair amount of
extra weight and he folded his hands over his belly in the
fashion of a well-fed senator. 

"In our considered opinion," he said, once again taking on the 
mellow voice of the ersatz Zsinj, "the warlord's overt and covert 
tactics suggest that he will continue to add resources, industrial
and planetary, with as much cost-effectiveness as possible. This
means continuing the expansion of the secret financial empire 
whose edges we detected... and a more direct appeal to the unaligned 
governors that previously belonged to the Empire and now belong to 
the Empire's successors. I think this means using Iron Fist in 
actions of direct interdiction that benefit these governors more than
Zsinj himself, an effort to bind the governors to him in debts of
gratitude."

 "And your recommendations for ways to counter this?"

 "Examine the resources of unaligned governors, find out
which one it would best serve Zsinj to court, and cause that
governor problems only Zsinj can solve... luring him to that
system and confronting him directly."

 "You're very erudite in this mind, Runt."

 Runt's body language changed back to normal; he once again
seemed lanky, overtall, a little awkward. 

"But it makes our ego puff up like a gas giant." 

He sat. 

"Piggy ?"

 The Gamorrean stood. He cleared his throat. Once upon a
time, that would have blasted the Wraiths with a burst of
static, but his throat translator had since been
reprogrammed to squelch a wider variety of irrelevant
sounds. 

 "In the last few weeks, as we were nibbling at the
edges of Zsinj's organization, we found three anomalies. One
was the network of manufacturing corporations owned within
unaligned and even Alliance-controlled space by Zsinj under
false identities. One was his attempt to hire a pirate nest
made up of outlaws somewhat under his usual standards. And
the third was the presence, at one of his companies, of
prison-cell components identical to the cell where I was
raised after Imperial scientists altered my biochemistry."

 The scientists' alterations were what gave Piggy his
unusually temperate personality-for a Gamorrean-and his
inhuman mathematical acumen, both traits that allowed him to
become a proficient New Republic pilot.

 Piggy waved, his gesture taking in Myn Donos, the 3PO
unit Squeaky, and Castin Donn. 

 "My group feels that the industrial connection is something 
better suited for New Republic Intelligence to pursue, so we 
eliminated it from our recommendations. Of the two that remain,
the site where I was scientifically modified and reared is of 
great interest to me personally, but we all feel that we would 
have a greater chance of discovering Zsinj by disguising 
ourselves as a pirate band and trying to impress Zsinj enough 
for him to employ us. This would keep us in close association 
with starfighters and play to the strengths that I think we 
demonstrated in the pursuit of Admiral Trigit and the Implacable." 

 "Well put, Piggy. Face?"

 The onetime actor stood.

 "Well, first I have to admit to a certain dissension in my 
own group. Lieutenant Janson and Ton Phanan here think that 
Runt's idea is best. Dia Passik and I both favor Piggy's 
pirate scheme. But since I was obliged to come up with a 
tactic, I have. Intensive analysis of Zsinj's history suggests 
that he draws much of his inspiration from the performances of small
theatrical companies. I suggest that we pose as a traveling
troupe of players performing the sorts of works he seems to
have the most affection for."

 Confused, Wedge scanned his records of the proposals the
group leaders had generated. Face's was on top, but its contents
did not match what he was saying.

 "I've discovered that Kell has a pleasant tenor singing
voice, and Runt is actually an accomplished mime, a skill
that few know is widespread on his homeworld of Thakwaa. By 
integrating modern holographic technology with traditional
song-and-dance routines, we could capture the warlord's
attention..."

 By now the other Wraiths were snickering. Wedge caught
Face's eye and glowered.

 "Perhaps you could give us the set of conclusions you turned 
in to me, Loran?"

 Face had the gall to look surprised. "Oh, those. Sorry." He
sobered. "I think the Iron Fist is of tremendous importance
to Warlord Zsinj, not just as a powerful weapons platform
but also as a symbol, both of his career and his power. If
Warlord Zsinj were more like us than he were like himself, I
think he'd launch an expedition deep into the territory
governed by Ysanne Isard's successors, make a strike on the
Kuat Drive Yards building facilities, and steal the next
Super Star Destroyer in production."

 Wedge gave him a look of amusement. "That presupposes
that Kuat is working on another Super Star Destroyer.
They're horribly expensive. And even though they can do an
incredible amount of damage, they can be destroyed by a much 
less expensive enemy force... though usually at a tremendous cost
of life."

 Face nodded. "Correct. But Zsinj doesn't admit anyone is his
equal in military intelligence, so he thinks he can keep it
intact. And I keep remembering that he, Zsinj, hinted that
he was promoting Admiral Trigit to a better position. We all
thought maybe he meant captain of the Iron Fist, but what if
he meant another Super Star Destroyer?"

 Phanan spoke up. "Don't forget your goofy ideas that never
made it into your final proposal."

 Face waved him away, but Wedge asked, "What goofy ideas?"

 Face looked unhappy. "Just an idea. Ysanne Isard is alive."

 "What?" Wedge looked as stunned as if someone had picked up
a chair and broken it over his head.

 Ysanne Isard had been the head of Imperial Intelligence when
Emperor Palpatine died years ago. She survived Palpa-tine's
successors, a consortium of Palpatine's advisers, and
gradually assumed control of the Empire herself-though not
in name. Months ago, she had died, killed fleeing the planet
Thyferra in a battle-equipped shuttle, shot down by Rogue
Squadron's Captain Tycho Celchu.

 "Follow me on this," Face said. "Months ago, Ysanne
Isard is chased off the world of Coruscant. Actually, she
abandons it voluntarily to let the Krytos Plague infect the non-
human population and lock up all of the New Republic's
resources when we occupy Coruscant. But she actually stays
on Coruscant for quite some time after she pretended to
flee.  Eventually she really does leave, goes to Thyferra,
takes over there, and is finally wiped out by the Rogues.

 Except - she was never seen climbing into the shuttle she was
supposed to be using for escape. 

 Except - it was not particularly intelligent for her to run 
off in a vehicle slower than the X-wings she had to have 
suspected would follow her.

 Except - she'd already shown a tendency to hide out with her
head down when she was supposed to have fled. It raises the
question: What if she actually wasn't on that shuttle, and
was communicating with the Rogues 'chasing' her through a
remote-control link ?"

 Wedge said, "You've got to be wrong. There was no lag time
in her transmissions, nothing to suggest she wasn't there."

 "A shuttle she'd personally fitted as an Emperor's escape
vehicle might have a miniaturized hypercomm system. With
instantaneous transmission and reception, there wouldn't be
any lag time."

 "Face, do you believe she's alive?"

 Face shook his head. "Sometimes I hope she is. I'd still
like to kill her myself. But I believe Captain Celchu actually
killed her. Still..." He shrugged and resumed his seat.

 Wedge gave him an exasperated stare. "Well, here's your
punishment for nearly giving me a heart attack. Write this
theory up and I'll route it on to the new Thyferran
government and to General Cracken at Intelligence. Between
them, they should be able to sniff out any other evidence
for Iceheart's survival... if there is any."

 His expression cleared. "All right. As I said, Admiral 
Ackbar has evaluated these theories and made a decision. He's
asking Intelligence to step up any operations involving
Kuat Drive Yards to find out if, in fact, they are building
a new Super Star Destroyer. But that's low priority and not
our concern. For us, he wants to combine both Runt's and
Piggy's ideas. We'll be founding our own pirate band,
Wraiths, and then assaulting a planetary system that Zsinj
is courting-or should be, if he isn't. Officially, we'll be
assigned to the Mon Remonda with Rogue Squadron; funny,
though, the other pilots will never see us in the ship's
corridors.

"We have a little reorganization to do to accommodate our
new pilots. Flight Officer Donn, you're now Wraith Two, and
my wingman."

 The pilot with the unruly blond hair smiled. He couldn't
have known that the position of Wraith Two, by Wedge's
policy, usually went to a raw pilot, one in need of
additional instruction or protection.

  "Wes, you're now Wraith Three, with Dia Passik, Wraith
Four, your wing." Janson waved at the Twi'lek female, who
gave him a grave nod.

 "Kell, Runt, you're still Five and Six. Runt, incidentally,
is in training to be our new communications specialist.
Phanan, Face, still Seven and Eight. I'd hate to break up
the best comedy team this side of the janitor's closet."

 "I love an understanding commander," Phanan said.

 "Know where I can get one?"

 "Myn Donos, still Nine. Flight Officer Nelprin-can you still
hear me back there?-- you're his wing, Wraith Ten. Piggy,
you're still Wraith Twelve, and Tyria, you're now on his
wing as Wraith Eleven. I lead Group One, Face leads Group
Two, and Donos leads Group Three. Questions?"

 Wedge waited for the inevitable reaction from Kell. 
Previously, Kell had led Group Two and had been very twitchy
whenever Face received recognition that might affect his
own-Kell's-position, and now Face had replaced him as
group leader.

 But Kell looked easy with the new arrangement, which
surprised Wedge considerably.

 It meant-Wedge wasn't sure. Either Kell was content to let
Face have a go at command, or Kell's goals had changed and
command was not so high on the list.

 Wedge would wait. The truth would come out eventually.

 "Intelligence gives us a good candidate for our new
piratical occupation. The world is called Halmad. It's an
Outer Rim world not far from the loose border to what we
consider Zsinj-controlled space. It's also a trade center at
the hub of several well-traveled trade routes. A century or
so back, their mining industry-ground, lunar, and asteroid
belt-failed, leaving a number of facilities abandoned there.
New Republic Intelligence has a team already in-system to
check them out for us; if they haven't found us a base by
the time we arrive, they will at least have found us a place
from which to stage."

 Kell asked, "Do we get the Night Caller back? Since we'll be
pirating in TIE fighters, I assume we'll have to have something 
to haul us around when we hit sites out of our home system."

 Wedge shook his head. "Not the Night Caller. Think about it.
Admiral Trigit is destroyed by a covert fighter squadron
supported by a Corellian corvette, and then a pirate
squadron pops up supported by a Corellian corvette? That
would probably set off at least one alarm bell in Zsinj's
mind." He gave Kell a grim smile. "No, we'll receive
hyperspace transport from an old Xiytiar-class transport.
Unarmed. Slow. Creaky. Leaky. And instead of having a cargo 
bay full of your sophisticated metal brackets to hold our 
fighter craft, we'll be using a few crossbeams and netting-so we can
quickly switch out X-wings for TIE fighters without having
to reconfigure our brackets every time."

 Kell sat back, his expression suggesting he'd just swallowed 
a mouthful of hydraulic fluid.

 Phanan's hand shot up. "Do we get new snubfighters?"

 Wedge shook his head. "No. No new X-wings for the
foreseeable future. We got lucky when we were putting the
squadron together; when Rogue Squadron captured Ysanne
Isard's facilities on Thyferra, we also seized a number of 
X-wings she'd been accumulating for various Intelligence missions. 

  That's where four of our snubfighters came from. But
the New Republic hasn't had another windfall like that, and
Incom is producing new X-wings as slowly and meticulously as
ever. So we're stuck with what we have... and what we can
seize. Dia Passik was transferred with her snubfighter, but
we're still four short to make up a full squadron. However,
the two TIE fighters we have remaining from the Implacable
attack, the ones Wes and Piggy were flying, are assigned to
us.  And part of our assignment involves acquiring new
fighter craft for our pirate identities... and that means
stealing whatever we can get our hands on. From the Imps
and from the warlords, that is. Do any of you new pilots
have TIE-fighter experience? Simulated or real?"

 Both the women raised their hands. Castin Donn looked
unhappy that he couldn't follow suit.

 "Excellent. Castin, Kell, Phanan, since you three lack 
X-wings and TIE experience, I recommend you spend time in the
TIE-fighter simulators and checking out our small complement 
of TIE fighters. Once we're at our new station, that is.
For now, you have only a little while to pack and settle
your affairs; the transport Borleias takes off for Halmad in three
hours." He ignored the chorus of groans and cheers. "Dismissed.
Phanan, Face, can I see you for a minute?"

 As the others trickled out, he asked, "What is the news from
what's-her-name, Notsil?"

 The two pilots exchanged glances. "Well," said Face, "Lara
seemed reassured by what you offered. We helped her put
together her application for fighter-pilot training, and
both of us and Kell wrote recommendations for her. Face set
up an account for her so she could afford some limited
HoloNet access to us; we'll leave a router so she can reach
us through Sivantlie Base. Things are in motion."

 "This had better work . . . or had better produce absolutely 
no results," Wedge said. "Because if there are any foul-ups, 
General Cracken will personally feed you, and me,
into a food reprocessor."


                               4



 He made no pretense at being fully human. He had probably
been born human, but now mechanical limbs-obvious prosthetics, 
shiny stainless metal arms and legs with crude-looking 
joints-replaced his original flesh, and his entire
upper face was a shiny metal surface with a standard
computer interface inset in the center of his forehead.

 He made no pretense at being friendly, either. He approached
the booth where the big, good-looking businessman drank
alone, and with neither threat nor comment he swung the wine
bottle he held in his hands and brought it down on the
businessman's head.

 The bottle shattered, spraying glass and red liquid all over
the businessman. The man blinked, stood-demonstrating both a
resilience and a physique others in the bar found admirable-
and struck the cyborg, a blow that rocked the mostly
mechanical man's head and staggered him back into the booth 
filled with carousing Imperial pilots.

 The pilots seated at the aisle shoved the cyborg forward,
straight into the businessman's professional-looking right
cross.  The blow caught the cyborg across the jaw, spinning
him around. The cyborg staggered back to fall across the
laps of two of the pilots in the booth. His flailing arm
caught their glasses and bottles, throwing wine and liquor
across everyone.

 The pilots shoved him off to the floor and rose.

 "Don't do that," the bartender said. But his voice was a
plea and he wasn't aiming a weapon. No one paid attention.
Suddenly hard-faced, a formidable group of six, the pilots
glowered at the businessman and the cyborg. Their leader,
the shortest of them, a dark-haired man with a face craggy
enough for tiny snubfighters to fly their famous Trench Run
Defense across, said, "You two owe us for a round and two
bottles of local press, and we'll take your booth and a
hundred extra credits for our trouble."

 The businessman gave him a frosty smile. "With a hundred
credits I could buy a pilot of your qualifications to lick
my boots clean."

 "I'm calling the military police," the bartender said.

 The pilots surged toward the businessman. The first of
them caught a knuckle punch in the solar plexus and dropped
like a sackful of tubers. The second one was tripped up as
the cyborg grabbed his knee and squeezed; the pilot's shriek
was shrill enough to resonate on empty glasses throughout
the bar.  The other four slammed into the businessman and
bore him to the floor.

 The bartender punched his emergency code into the comlink
and began wailing to the distant listener.

 Two minutes later, it was all but over. Two tables had been
smashed, their entertained patrons now occupying booths on
the other side of the bar. Five pilots and one cyborg lay at
intervals across the floor, stretched out in various poses
of very uncomfortable rest, often lying among broken
glasses and platters of unhygienic appetizers. The
businessman and the pilot leader were still standing, the
latter glassy-eyed, barely responding to outside stimuli,
while the former still occasionally swung ineffectual blows
against his stomach. Both were drenched with sweat and
booze, staggering with every slight move they made.
Then a half-dozen stormtroopers in the uniforms of military
police poured into the bar. Some patrons-those who still had
bets going on which of the fighters would win-groaned, but
the bartender breathed a sigh of relief.

 With calm efficiency, the stormtroopers manacled the
eight malefactors' hands behind their backs; the two men
still standing put up no fight. Three of the downed pilots could
not be brought back to consciousness, but one of the
stormtroopers picked up two of them, slinging them with
considerable ease over his shoulders, and a second picked up
the last stubbornly unconscious pilot. The stormtroopers
began to move out.

  "Wait," the bartender said. "Where do I sign?"

 Two of the stormtroopers exchanged a glance. "Why
would you want to sign?" asked one, the ranking officer.

 "So I can put in a claim for damages!"

 The cyborg sighed. "Oh, just tally up the bill. I'll pay for
the damages."

 The bartender rocked back, mollified. "Well, all right,
then. Come back soon. We appreciate your patronage."

 As they swept out through the door, onto a rainy street of
Halmad's capital city of Hullis, the ranking officer among
the pilots, the one who'd taken so much abuse at the
businessman's hands, gave the cyborg a dizzy but
appreciative look.  "Hey, you're not all bad."

 "I just like a good scrap now and then." The cyborg
shrugged. Unfortunately for him, the motion put extra pres-
sure on his shackles. They opened and dropped to the muddy
ground behind him.

 The pilot leader stared. "Hey, what the..."

 "Fire," said the stormtrooper leader.

 Three of the stormtroopers obliged him. Stun beams hit
the pilots' torsos. The pilots dropped into the mud.
The stormtrooper leader looked around. There was no one to
see, not much skimmer traffic this rainy evening, no one 
entering or coming out of the bar. He pulled off his helmet,
revealing the features of Wedge Antilles, and took an
unencumbered view around. No sign of witnesses. "Let's
hustle, people."

 The other troopers grabbed the three fallen pilots. They
dragged and carried their prisoners around the corner of the
building, then around behind, where their skimmer awaited in
the darkness of a fallow field. It was no military skimmer,
just a medium cargo carrier with a deep bed.

 While the others dumped the pilots into the rear and
draped blankets and netting across them, Wedge stripped off
his stormtrooper armor and threw it in after them. "Good
work, Tainer, Phanan. Either of you hurt?"

 Kell shook his head and flexed, popping his unsealed
manacles loose. "This suit's probably a loss."

 Phanan waggled his head. "Kell didn't do me any harm, but
the bottle one of them hit my head with wasn't fake glass
like mine was. It didn't even break. I hear ringing."

 "Sounds like a mild concussion. See our doctor about it."

 "Oh, I'm too important a doctor to see anyone as lowly as
myself."

 Wedge waved at one of the ersatz stormtroopers. "Face, grab
these pilots' wallets, money pouches, whatever they're
carrying. I want every credit they have, hard currency only.
How much damage did you two jokers do?"  Kell and Phanan
looked at one another.

 "Maybe a hundred," Kell said. "Counting everything."

 "All right," Wedge said. "If these pilots' personal fortunes
don't add up to a hundred and fifty, we'll make up the
difference ourselves. Face, run the credits in to the
bartender. Tell him the cyborg paid off, instant
compensation for the damage, so sorry, he's a miserable old
drunk whose only entertainment is causing trouble at bars."

 "Hey," said Phanan. "I resent the use of the word miserable."

 "Then get back here fast. We take off in three minutes."



 Wedge and Janson, still in stormtrooper armor but with their
helmets off, lay atop a hill overlooking the nearby Imperial
base. The optics Wedge held before his face made greenish
day-light of the night. "Same as last night and the night
before. I make four TIE fighters at the ready scramble-pad,
under the watchful eye of half a stormtrooper squadron."

 "Not that we care," Janson said.

 "Not that we want those starfighters," Wedge corrected him.

 "But we may have to deal with them on the way out. Anything
coming up the road ?"

 Janson cast a negligent eye the other way. Down at the
base of the hill to his left, the other Wraiths, their
prisoners, and their cargo skimmer waited. Down to the right
was the main road into the base. "A distant set of lights,"
he said. "On-coming. Probably just another staff skimmer
carrying an officer home after a night on the town."

 "Castin Donn laid enough money down at enough cantinas,
we're bound to get what we want."

 "You may be right. That thing's not maneuvering like a staff
skimmer. It's big and sluggish."

 Wedge twisted to look at the oncoming vehicle through his
optics. "Imperial Military Police. Signal Runt."

 Janson waved a handheld light down at the other Wraiths,
flicking its beam three times across them. This close to an
Imperial base, Wedge preferred they not use comlinks, whose
transmissions, even if coded or extremely short,. might be
noticed. At the base of the hill, Runt would now be using a
portable scanner on the distant vehicle ....

 From the Wraiths' position came an answering blink of light,
a single pulse.

 "Runt signals yes. It's loaded with personnel," Janson said.

 "Move out."

 Wedge and Janson scrambled down the side of the hill, not
directly toward the other Wraiths, but angling toward the
right, an intercept course. By the time they reached the
base of the hill-with Janson's armor now somewhat battered
by a fall he'd taken during his descent-the other Wraiths
were almost to the road.

 Wedge and Janson caught up to them and put their helmets
back on.

 "Snap it up," Wedge said, "march formation. Left foot, right
foot."

 And the Wraiths managed something like a proper formation
in spite of the loads they carried.

 Runt carried one of the unconscious pilots over his shoul-
der, moving without difficulty. The Gamorrean Piggy could
also have carried one of the pilots with fair ease, but
could never have worn one of the sets of stormtrooper armor;
he remained with the skimmer. Kell, now suited up as a
stormtrooper, and Dia dragged an unconscious pilot between
them;

 they held the pilot's arms over their shoulders so the man
remained upright. Phanan, also in a set of stormtrooper
armor, and Face also dragged one of the pilots, as did
Castin and Shalla, with Donos and Tyria dragging the fifth.
The sixth pilot, the ranking officer among them, remained
with Piggy.

 It was several hundred meters to the gate into the base, but
if Wedge calculated correctly, they wouldn't have to walk
the entire distance.

 They heard the humming of the heavy skimmer behind them and
Wedge turned to look. It was a large model, nearly identical
to the one that had been part of the trap on Coruscant: It
had an enclosure over the bed, and only the pilot and the
guard assigned to his protection were exposed to the elements. 
On the side was painted the stooping bird-of-prey insignia of
Victory Base; over that design were the crossed
batons of the base's military police.

 The skimmer pulled alongside Wedge's troop of ersatz
stormtroopers and prisoners. Its pilot called, "What
happened to you?"

 "Skimmer broke down," Wedge said. "Repulsorlift failure in
the energy transference array."  

 "Care for a lift?"

 "I'd put you up for a Hero of the Empire medal."

 The pilot tapped a button and a door in the rear enclosure
opened; its hinge was at the bottom, allowing it to open
down into a ramp. Wedge peered inside. The spacious
enclosure held four stormtroopers and another pair of
prisoners in the uniforms of Imperial maintenance
personnel. Both prisoners were awake, though apparently
anesthetized by alcohol.

 Wedge's people hauled their unconscious prisoners up the
ramp and settled them down on the padded benches against the
enclosure walls. Wedge, at the rear of the line, stayed
tense.

 The stormtrooper armor the Wraiths wore-seized from prisoners 
during some of the countless clashes the Alliance had
had with the Empire and brought as part of the squadron's
gear - was authentic enough, but the military-police insignia
the Wraiths had meticulously painted on the armor might not
pass close inspection. Also, the officer in charge of these
real military police should, if he kept strictly to procedure,
demand to see Wedge's papers, and the forgeries Castin had put 
together... well, Wedge just didn't know the new pilot well
enough to rely unquestioningly on the man's work as he'd
come to do with Grinder, the squadron's former computer
expert.

 But the Wraiths all shuffled into the enclosed bed of the
skimmer, Wedge followed, the door closed behind him, and the
vehicle lurched into motion, all without an unwelcome 
demand for papers. Wedge smiled. If security was lax here, it
might be just as lax within the base.

 "Hey, that's Lieutenant Cothron," one of the real stormtroopers 
said.

 Face nodded. "He's a pretty belligerent drunk."

 "Nice guy the rest of the time, though."

 "Oh, yeah."

 "Ever play sabacc with him?"

 "Sure, he took me for a week's pay once."

 "You're joking. He's the worst player I ever saw."

 There was the slightest of delays in Face's response as he
adjusted his story in light of new information. 

 "No, I think I'm the worst."

 "Really? You up for a game tonight?"

 "No, I've learned my lesson."

 The stormtrooper settled back, his posture one of disappointment.

 Moments later, the skimmer slowed. Wedge heard a verbal
exchange between the pilot and what must have been the gate
guards, but he couldn't make out the words. Then they were
in motion again.

 It was a long minute before they slowed once more. Then the
skimmer's repulsorlift depowered and the vehicle settled to
a hard surface.

 The door beside Wedge opened. They appeared to be in a
vehicle hangar, and a few steps away was a table where a
uniformed officer and another pair of stormtroopers waited. The
officer, a man with graying hair and hard lines to his face,
looked bored and irritable. "Move them out. It's time for 
instant justice."

 Wedge waved the real stormtroopers and their prisoners to
proceed while his people got their unconscious prisoners up.
Then the Wraiths moved out. Wedge was the last one out of
the vehicle.

 "Papers," said the officer in charge. Wedge tensed. But the
stormtrooper he addressed handed him standard identity cards
bearing the likenesses of the prisoners in his charge. Wedge
glanced at Face, who discreetly held up the handful of
identity cards taken from their own prisoners. Wedge turned
away again.

 The officer looked over the identity cards. "Facts?"

 The stormtrooper in charge said, "Drunk and disorderly
at Ola's."

 The officer grimaced. "You two idiots ought to find a 
better class of drinking establishment. Charges?"

 The stormtrooper in charge shook his head, the motion
exaggerated by his helmet. "None."

 "Well, that's not too bad." The officer glanced up at the
two prisoners. "You two are confined to base for six days."

 The prisoners looked relieved.

 "That's three days starting now," the officer continued,
"and three days starting next payday." He ignored their 
expressions of dismay and gestured for them to be on their
way.  

 "Next."

 Wedge stepped up. He reached over without looking. Face put
the identity cards in his hand and he presented them to the
officer. "Drunk and disorderly at Rojio's. Brawling with
civilians."

 The officer gave him an I-don't-want-to-believe-you look.

 "They're all unconscious. They lost to civilians?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "How many?"

 "Two."

 The officer looked pained. "Five of them against two civil-
ians, and they're too drunk to make a good accounting of
themselves. They'll pay for letting the unit down." He
frowned. "Five.  Say, these are Captain Wanatte's drinking
buddies. Where's the captain ?"

 Face spoke up: "Before he passed out the last time, Lieutenant 
Cothron said the captain had found some companionship for the 
evening."

"Ah. Well, then. Let's see the damages."

 Wedge said, "One of the civilians paid for the damages
before we dropped them off with the city authorities."

 "Commendable. All right. I think these five will be improved 
by doing a few days of cleanup and breakdown work for
the next morale event. Get 'era to their quarters."

 Wedge saluted smartly and headed off in the direction the
other stormtroopers had taken to leave the hangar. He heard
the Wraiths fall in step behind him and the dragging noise
of their prisoners' boots scraping against the duracrete.

 Then he heard the skiminer's engines start up again.
He breathed a sigh of relief. The pilot of the skimmer
hadn't noticed that eleven footsore stormtroopers had
boarded the skimmer, but only ten had emerged. Janson had
taken Shalla's place and was working with Castin to carry a
pilot.  Now, if this base followed standard Imperial
procedure, that pilot would take this skimmer back to the
military police motor pool.

 Then it would be up to Shalla. She was still in the skimmer's 
enclosure, and her job was to prevent the pilot and his guard 
from talking to anybody.

 Her first job. She had other things to do as well. Wedge was
reluctant to assign so much responsibility in a commando
mission to a newcomer to the squadron, but Kell had spoken
in such glowing terms of the Nelprin family's formidable
skills that he'd decided to go ahead with this approach.

 Outside the hangar, he took a moment to get his bearings,
and silently cursed the restricted field of vision afforded
by stormtrooper helmets; lacking peripheral vision, he had
to turn in a slow, complete circle to acquire a mental
picture of his surroundings. He had a fair idea of the base
layout from the reconnaissance they'd clone on the hilltop,
but not an idea of where in the base they now were. When he
had his bearings, he headed straight toward the group of
dome-topped buildings he'd earlier decided were officers'
quarters.

 They'd never make it there, of course. They'd dump the
unconscious pilots in the first dark alley or trench they
found and go about their mission.









 Lara Notsil, originally Gara Petothel, flinched as pair
after pair of TIE fighters broke formation and dove, their
engines screaming, toward her and her wingmates. A good
mannerism, flinching, she decided. fithey're observing me,
they'll log it.

 Her wing leader's voice came over the comm unit: "Gold One
to Gold Squadron. Break by pairs and engage."

 Lara keyed her own comm unit. "Gold Seven?"

 "I'm your wing, Eight."

 She rolled to starboard, getting clear of the main formation 
of X-wings, and saw other paired fighters also breaking off.

 Then the first blasts of green Imperial laser fire fell
among them. Lara's X-wing was rocked by a stern hit; her aft
shields were knocked partway down and she reinforced them
with en-ergy from her forward shields. The pair of TIE
fighters raining laser fire down on both her and Gold Seven
slid neatly into killing position behind them.

 "Dive for cover, Seven," Lara said, and nosed the stick 
forward. The terrain below, a sprawling city in ruins, grew
larger.  She and Gold Seven dropped into a debris-littered
street, flying lower than the tops of the surrounding
buildings, but their pursuers never lost sight of them and
stayed tucked behind.  Lara's snubfighter was hit by another
pair of laser blasts and its aft section slewed slightly to
port; she corrected with a deft application of etheric
rudder.

 Up ahead, the road forked left and right. She knew from
seeing the area from above that the two forks turned toward
one another farther on, rejoining after only a couple of
kilometers. That should have been her tactic: send Gold
Seven to starboard while she went to port, then fire upon
Seven's pursuer while Seven fired upon hers once the roads
rejoined.

 But that would probably have worked. And that wasn't what
she was here for.

 "Seven, at the big blue building, hard to port."

 "I read you." Seven's voice sounded a bit worried.

 Lara suited action to words. As the X-wings came alongside 
what had once been a warehouse of tremendous size,
painted an eye-hurting cyan, but was now a hollowed, burned
wreck of a building with scorch marks surrounding blast
holes in the walls, she executed a smart portward turn down a
street that ran at right angles to the one over which they'd
been flying. She rotated ninety degrees leftward, so the
street was to her left and one row of buildings was beneath
her keel.

 The sharpness of the angle was more than the X-wing's 
inertial compensator could bear; she felt weight again,
settling into her seat, as the snubfighter turned through
the tightest portion of her maneuver.

 There was a sharp metal shriek as her keel scraped along one
of the building facades; her X-wing lurched. The snubfighter's 
shields were no protection against such a graze.

 She glanced at her diagnostics board, looking for the
telltale red glows of system failures.

 Behind her, the sky lit up. The sound and shock wave of an
explosion rocked her X-wing. And the blue dot representing
Gold Seven disappeared from her sensor board.

 Lara grimaced. Gold Seven didn't have the skill to manage a
turn like that. Lara had known this, had counted on it, but
it wouldn't do for her observers to see a smile of
satisfaction cross her face. Knowing she would get no
answer, she keyed her comm unit. "Seven? Gold Seven, come
in."

 Behind her, the two TIE fighters, having no trouble with the
sharp turn into this side street, came screaming through the
smoke cloud that was what was left of Gold Seven. As soon as
they cleared the smoke, they opened fire again.

 Lara felt her aft section shudder. It slewed again. Lara 
deliberately overcorrected and let an expression of shock
cross her face as she veered into the side of a building.

 She had just enough time to read the words WELCOME TO
MOFFICE'S GROCERS before impact...

 Or lack of impact. There was no sharp blow, no deceleration, 
just the abrupt dimming of all cockpit lights to nothing-ness. 

 Then the canopy opened above her.

 Captain Sormic - short, bald, human, usually apoplectic, with
a face like pink clay molded into a fair approximation of
human features-stood outside the simulator, glaring at her.

 "Candidate Notsil. Would you explain, for the benefit of the
class, just what you were trying to accomplish with that
last maneuver?"

 Lara let a note of uncertainty creep into her voice. "I
was trying to regain control..."

 "Not that. The suicide turn down the side street."

 "Oh. Uh, I was trying to shake the TIE-fighter pursuit..."

 "Right. You presumed that a pair of novice pilots could
outmaneuver more experienced pilots in more agile spacecraft
in clear air. Correct?"  

 "Well, uh..." 
 
 "Say, 'Correct, Captain.'"

 "Correct, Captain." Lara kept an expression of distress on
her face.

 "And you got yourself and your wingmate killed."

 "Correct, Captain."

 "Candidate Lussatte, is that the tactic you would have chosen?"

 Lara glanced at her wingmate, who was still in the next
simulator over. The Sullustian female gave Lara a look of
apology.

 "No, Captain."

 "What would you have done?"

 "I would have fired a proton torpedo..."

 "The Imperial fliers were already behind you, Lussatte."

 Lara saw Lussatte take a deep breath. "Yes, Captain. Let
me explain. I figure I can't outfly the Imps. I figure that
if I make a rapid deceleration, they'll make an even more
rapid one, because they're better fliers in more
maneuverable craft. But if I drop a torp about a city block
up, that gives me a smoke cloud to fly through and a few
moments where they can't see me. If I have the impact site
visualized well enough, I can risk a turn down a side
street, throw them off, maybe get turned around so I can get
them under my guns before they're on me again."

 Captain Sormic paused, then gave her a brief nod.

 "Pay attention to what she just said, class. It would give her a
one-in-four, maybe one-in-two chance of surviving the next
ten seconds and perhaps bagging one of the TIE fighters.
Which is a much better chance than she had following
Deadstick Notsil here. Dismissed."

 Pilot candidates rose from the classroom seats; others
climbed from the simulators. Lara didn't rise; Captain
Sormic still stood outside her simulator, blocking her exit.

 He turned back to face her, and his expression was suddenly
sympathetic. He dropped his voice nearly to a whisper.

 "Candidate Notsil, you earn great scores in astronautics and
communications. Just say the word and I'll transfer you over
to officer training in one of those divisions. You have a
tremendous career ahead of you as a technical specialist on
a capital ship's bridge."

 "No, sir. I'm going to be a pilot."

" It's not as though you'll be washing out. It's just a transfer.
And you'll be a real asset to the Alliance there."

 "No, sir. I'm going to be a pilot."

 His face hardened. "Then I have one piece of advice for
you."

 "Yes, sir?"

 "You think about Candidate Lussatte and anyone else you
might have made friends with. You think about how you're going 
to feel if you get them killed for real. Trust me, the
kind of pilot you're shaping into, it's going to happen. And
that's not the worst thing that could happen to you. The
worst thing it would be for you to survive a bad decision
that kills everybody you care about." He turned away and
followed the last departing pilot candidates from the room.

 Lara sagged into the simulator seat. Only part of her dejection
was simulated. It felt bad to be considered such a I
screwup when she was capable of doing so much better.

 She shouldn't even care what these Rebels thought; they
were her enemies. But her fellow candidates had such naive
enthusiasm, such a light of life within them, that it was
growing increasingly hard not to like them.

 She felt a little tickle at the back of her neck. She turned
to look through the simulator's rear viewport.

 At the back of the classroom, a man in an Alliance uniform
was turning away, heading toward the room's rear exit. From
his height and build, she recognized him as Colonel Repness.

 When had he come into the classroom? Had he been watching
her in the moments after her exchange with Captain Sormic?
She watched until he was gone, until she was alone in t the
room.

 She checked her chrono. There were no classes scheduled 
in this room for an hour. She pulled up the instrument panel
before her and did a little bit of deft rewiring, a bit of
electronic trickery at which she was becoming quite adept. 
Then she clicked the panel back into place and manually pulled the
canopy back down.

 When she hit the button that, on a real X-wing, would initiate
an emergency restart, the simulator came back online.
But now it would not transmit its results and recordings to
the training facility's central computers. Whatever she
accomplished here would remain her secret.

 The world with the ruined city came into view again, and
once more she was surrounded by a squadron of X-wings.


                            5


 Shalla tried to interpret every sway, every course change
taken by the skimmer in whose enclosed bed she rode.

 Eventually the vehicle had to return to a motor pool or
other vehicle hangar.  Eventually she'd be able to begin her
portion of the mission...  a portion she had to accomplish
alone.

 The vehicle went through a protracted right turn, then
slowed and settled to the ground with an unmusical metallic
clang. Shalla raised her blaster rifle to cover the door.
Some stormtroopers were thorough and efficient enough to
police their vehicles; others weren't.

 Hers apparently fell in the latter category. The door 
remained resolutely closed. Then the lights went out.

 She heard, from outside the skimmer, a man's laughter. She
tensed. But the laughter was the type that came in response
to a joke, not malicious laughter directed at a trapped
enemy.

 When she heard the heavy footsteps of stormtrooper compos-
ite armor falling on duracrete, she relaxed.

 She gave it another minute. She wanted the stormtroopers to
be well away from the skimmer, but couldn't afford them too
much time to realize that something was wrong. Then she
rose, used her glow rod to find the door switch, and pressed
the switch.

 Nothing, not even a beep. It had been deactivated with the
rest of the power to the skiminer's enclosure. She swore to
herself, but it was only a minor inconvenience.

 She switched off her helmet comlink. She took off her storm-
trooper helmet and spent a couple of minutes carefully
extracting the comm gear inside it, then detached the
miniature power pack from the gear. It took another couple
of minutes to remove the door-switch cover and wire the
power pack into it. Then she put the now comm-free helmet on
again and took up her rifle.

 This time, the door opened smartly. Outside was the slab-like 
side of an identical skimmer just barely far enough
away to let this skimmer's door descend as a ramp. When
Shalla peered out, to the right she saw another row of
skimmers of various types, some small and sporty, and the
motor-pool wall beyond; to her left was open duracrete and
then closed hangar-style doors of the motor-pool building.

 Voices reached her; she couldn't make out the words, but
they were male, two or three at least, raised in laughter
and amused comment. They came from the rear of the motor-
pool building. She thought she also heard a man's voice, in
conspicuous speech, from the front.

 So far, so good. She stepped out, alert to trouble, and hit
the button to close the door again. But the ramp raised only
halfway up, then made a whining noise and stopped. It slowly
began to sag back toward the duracrete floor.

 She got under it and lifted. The power pack from her helmet
was obviously not up to powering door machinery. By sheer
strength she got the door lifted back into place. Though it
did not lock, it fit snugly and would look normal to casual
inspection.

 Now, three problems to solve: two groups of Imperial workers
or stormtroopers, plus whatever security was installed
within the motor-pool building. She looked around for the
places, often at corners and on the metal beams supporting
the curved ceiling, where sensors tended to be set up.

 Nothing. She breathed a sigh of relief. Skimmers weren't
valuable enough to this base to require constant surveillance. 

 One problem down.
 She walked forward, toward the source of the droning speech, 
and wished she had Tyria's aptitude for near-silent movement.





 The Wraiths kept themselves flat against the exterior wall
of the hangar, deep in the darkest shadow cast by the
building.

 Wedge, one man back from the building's front corner,
suppressed a snort. The glossy white stormtrooper armor they
were wearing practically glowed in the dark. Even in deep
shadow they would be impossible to miss if a passerby
glanced in their direction. Still, old habits of stealth
died hard, and Wedge didn't want them to die at all.

 Janson, ahead of him, helmet off, turned back and held up
two fingers, then shook his head. Two guards on the front of
the building, and they weren't going to be easy pickings.
Wedge traded places with him and took off his own helmet,
luxuriated for a moment in the sensation of air moving once
again on his face, and hazarded a peek.

 The front of the hangar was well lit by two overhead sources
of light, both attached to the building's front wall. The
center of the wall was dominated by a large sliding door in
two sections; one section would slide right, the other left.
The duracrete leading up to the door was decorated with
many thin scorch marks, sign of numberless too-hasty
departures by TIE fighters shooting out of the hangar and
angling immediately for the sky. That suggested the pilots
on-base considered themselves hotshots and had a commander
who encouraged such behavior, also not a good thing for the
Wraiths.

 On either side of the door, perhaps twenty meters apart,
were guards in stormtrooper armor. Their stances were angled
in toward the door, and each had the other plus most of the
front of the building in sight. They might have been
chatting over a private channel on their helmet cornlinks,
but otherwise they were very much on duty.

 Wedge dismissed the simplest of tactics for such situations,
the make-a-noise-and-one-of-them-will-come gambit. Guards
like these, professionally on duty even when out of sight of
their officers and fellows, would certainly investigate, but
first they'd call in the anomaly. If the investigating guard
didn't report back continuously to his fellow, the other one would
call that fact in, too. Within moments the place would be 
swarming with stormtroopers. Wedge and the Wraiths needed some
considerable uninterrupted time with the vehicles inside-
perhaps as much as half an hour.

 There was another door on the building front, immediately
left of the leftmost guard, but it was securely shut and
looked like an armored door-quite defensible if someone 
inside wanted to make a stand of it.

 Wedge switched places with Janson again and let the man act
as guard. In a whisper, he explained the situation to the
others and asked, 

"Ideas?"

 Castin said, "I might be able to slice into the base's main
computer and have them relieved of duty; we just march two
of us in and dismiss them or blast them."

 Wedge considered it. 

"That could work, but you'd have to maintain the computer 
breach or execute another one just a few minutes later when 
we sort out our escape vector."

 "True."

 Dia said, "I vote we wait until we can be sure there's no
cross traffic nearby and no one observing them..."

 "Which means waiting until we also know they're not in
communication with someone else over their headsets," Kell
said.  "Demand just step out and shoot them. Two shooters, no
waiting. Run out, grab them and haul them back beside the
building, substitute a couple of us for them. Then take as
long as we need to get their access keys and codes and go
in."

 Wedge shook his head. "Sounds too simple." Then he 
reconsidered. "On the other hand, that's probably a virtue.
All right, we'll do it that way. But first, Runt, can you
find out whether those two are broadcasting? Search
nonstandard frequencies in the Imperial ranges and look for
low-powered signals; if they're just chatting, they're not
going to be on the usual bands."

 Runt nodded and, from a belt pouch, brought out the
field dispatcher's comlink that was among the latest toys 
the New Republic had given him when he volunteered to be the
squadron's new communications specialist. The item looked like a
slightly bulkier datapad. It had nowhere near the range of features
of the field communications unit their former comm specialist,

 Jasmin Ackbar, used to carry, but it was the biggest comm
unit they could carry inconspicuously while in stormtrooper
armor.

 Runt tapped through a series of functions, grew impatient
with the device, and traded places with Wes. There, he could
set the device on the ground and protrude its nose just
beyond the building corner. Finally he nodded. "We have it,"
he whispered back at the others. "Their signal sounds like
dispatch information, but it is confusing. Set your
coralinks to oh-three-oh-seven-four if you want to hear."

 Wedge did so, and immediately picked up the two guards'
traffic.

 One of them, his voice a mellow bass, said, "Light assault
vehicle twelve to block alpha two."

 The other, whose hoarse voice probably started in the
baritone range, replied, 

 "TIE four to block delta sixteen."

 "That's outside your range."

 "It is not."

 "So you're crossing through the plasma wall and exploding?
Nice of you to concede a piece that way."

 "Uh... make that TIE four to block delta twelve."

 "Heavy eraplacement one fires on TIE four. Scratch TIE
four."

 "Damn. Target-paint heavy emplacement one."

  Wedge switched off the channel and looked at the others.

 "Anyone recognize that traffic ?"

 Dia nodded. Wedge imagined that she had to be quite 
uncomfortable with her brain tails stuffed up in her
stormtrooper helmet, but she hadn't made a noise of
complaint. She said, "It's called Quadrant. It's a game out
of the Imperial Academy.  An old game, but it has recently
become all the rage."

 Wedge asked, "Runt, is there a data transmission accompanying 
that vocal signal?"   Runt shook his head.

 Wedge snorted. "They're playing just by visualization.

 Wonderful. We get the hangar guarded by intellectuals. All
right, here's how we play our game. Wes, Donos, you're
our shooters. Wes, march around to the far front corner
and situate yourself. We're not going to use a comlink
signal - it might be picked up. We'll time it. You two set
your blasters to stun. Sync your chronos and fire at three
minutes from sync... unless you hear or see anything
anomalous, in which case you duck under cover and try again
at six minutes. If no opportunity presents itself by six
minutes, scrub the mission and get back here. Tainer, you go
with Wes to haul off the other guard; Phanan, you take the
place of the other guard. Runt, at this end you'll haul off
the unconscious guard; Face, you'll take his place."

 It was a long three minutes. Halfway through it, a flatbed
skimmer hauling two stormtroopers and some sort of laser 
artillery piece cruised by the hangar. Wedge and the others
flattened themselves against the building wall, but the
skimmer's occupants didn't even glance in their direction.

 Wedge saw Donos keeping a close eye on his chrono. At twenty
seconds of three minutes, Donos pulled his helmet off.  At
fifteen seconds, he checked his blaster rifle to make sure
it was switched to stun and ready to fire. At ten seconds,
he peeked around the corner, and did so again at five
seconds.  Then, precisely on cue, he stepped around the
corner.

 The sound of the stun blast was impossibly loud; Wedge was
sure it could be heard off in the city of Hullis. Wedge
stayed flat against the wall while Runt and Face ran past
him.  Only then did he peek around the corner, his own
blaster ready in case his squadmates needed cover.

 Runt almost tripped as he skidded to a halt over the 
unconscious form of his target; he picked the man up with 
inhuman ease, slung him over his shoulder, and came charging
back toward Wedge. Beyond him, Kell arrived from the far
corner, repeated his action with less speed and less pure
strength, but was still swift. He arrived mere seconds
behind Runt, his un-conscious cargo bouncing painfully
across his shoulder.

 Now there were just two guards in front of the hangar, 
angled toward one another, at attention. Wedge checked his
chrono. Fifteen seconds had passed, and the world was, 
cosmetically at least, the same as it had been at the start of
those brief seconds.

 "Castin," he said.

 "I'm way ahead of you," his computer and security expert
informed him. "Helmets off, no traffic from their control,
I'm checking now for their orders and passcards. No
passcards.  That means a transmitted or spoken password.
Let's hope it's transmitted. Hmm..."





 Shalla stayed in a crouch behind a self-powered tool cart.
Not four steps away was the doorway into the motor-pool
office.  Two stormtroopers-she suspected they were the ones
who'd been in charge of the vehicle she'd ridden in - were
within, one seated, both with helmets off. One, tall and
fair-skinned, stood by the door, holding a glass with blue
liquid on the inside and condensation on the outside. The
other, apparently of average height and with skin as dark as
Shalla's, was seated at the main terminal, dictating in a
bored tone. Shalla could catch most of his words. It sounded
like a routine report, which made him the ranking officer.

 "... without struggle. No charges expended. Net
expenditure: skimmer fuel, total of seventy-eight klicks."
The other said something Shalla didn't catch. The seated man
nodded, then continued, "On return, about half a klick from
base, stopped to offer aid to patrol of Sergeant-what was
his name?"

 The other one shrugged.

 "I'll put a placeholder there for now. Sergeant
Placeholder, whose skimmer had broken down; gave him, his squadron,
and his prisoners, including Lieutenant Cothron, transportation 
to base. Additional expenditure: fuel of hauling mass of
five extra prisoners and ten additional stormtroopers..."

 "Eleven," said the other man.

 "Ten." The seated man thought about it. "Well, you were
paying attention and I wasn't. Eleven additional stormtroopers,
distance of two kilometers." He frowned, then shook his
head. "End of report. Let me go through and edit out 
redundancies and program that placeholder to fetch the name of
that squad leader, and we're done for the night." But he didn't
reach for the keyboard yet. 

 "You're sure about the eleven thing."

 "I'm  sure."

 Shalla stood and walked, as confidently as though she were
the base commander, to the door. She shouldered aside the
man standing there and tapped the door switch. The office
door dropped into place with the disconcerting suddenness of
Imperial engineering.

 Both men looked at her. The man she'd shoved aside said,

 "You know, it's been a long time since I taught a neff-herder
like you some manners."

 "It's going to be a while longer," she said, and swung the
butt of her blaster into his jaw. The man dropped, splashing
his glass of blue ale across the floor.

 The ranking officer was halfway out of his seat before she
shot him. The blaster shot took him in the chest, burning
through the armor and dropping him to the floor.

 She froze. She thought she had set the weapon to stun.
Then she was hit from the side as her first target slammed
into her, barely slowed by the blow she'd dealt him. His
rush propelled her and bent her sideways over a desk. If not
for her armor, she'd have been impaled on the collection of
trays, spikes, and knickknacks littering its surface;
instead, the force with which she hit the top of the desk
smashed them flat.

 Instead of struggling to get free, instead of wrestling with
him for control of her blaster, which his big hand now
gripped, she braced herself with a free hand on one edge of
the desk, extended one leg as far as she could, and then
swept with it with all her strength. Her kick caught her
assailant behind his knees and knocked his legs out from
under him. He crashed to the floor, dragging her on top of
him.

 With his free hand, he reached for her throat. She aban-
doned her grip on her blaster, swept aside his hand, and,
her striking hand formed into the flattest, tightest fist
she could manage, struck at his throat.

 Her blow was hard and true. She felt his windpipe give way
under it. Her opponent's eyes grew wide in sudden shock and
he, too, released her blaster, clutching at his throat with
both hands.

 She grabbed her weapon and stood away from him to watch him 
die. He made strangling noises as he tried to draw
breath through a channel no longer capable of conveying it.
He cast an imploring look her way, but she shook her head;
this injury was beyond anything she could repair.

 A sudden wave of trembling swept her. She knew it wasn't all
the aftereffects of adrenaline. Two men dead because she'd
fouled up. Killing didn't bother her unduly; it was the act
required of a warrior in wartime. But killing because of a
lapse in judgment... well, her father would not be proud of
her.

 She shook her head, willing away the unwanted vision of the
old man's stern features, and tried to force the trembling
to stop. She stepped around the dying stormtrooper and hit
the light switch on the wall. Now the other hangar
residents, if they looked over, would see a dark and
presumably unoccupied office.

 She made a quick checklist of things to do, and found that
it had lengthened considerably because of her mistake. Move
the two bodies into the bed of the skimmer she'd come in on.
Clean up this office so the next person in didn't wonder
about the spilled fluid and ravaged desk. File that
stormtrooper's report. Repair her helmet comm system with
components from one of these troopers' helmets. Choose a
skimmer, perhaps the one she came in on, mark it out of
service if possible, disconnect its comm system so that it
couldn't be used to trace the skimmer or override its
controls. And then stand by. All within hearing of the men
working, or playing cards, or doing whatever they were
doing at the back of the motor-pool building...  unless she
chose to assault them, too.

 She sighed. It was going to be a long several hours' work...
packed neatly into half an hour or less of available time.







 It took Castin another agonizing five-minute wait before he
cracked the guards' code. One of the two guards had thirty-
two classic Quadrant games recorded on his datapad-every
move the games' master-level players had made, plus 
commentary by analysts who were far too serious about the game.
Thirty-two was also, Castin pointed out, the number of days
in the local monthly calendar. He transmitted the name of the
match whose number corresponded to the day of the month, and
the front personnel door opened right up.

 Wraith Squadron marched into the hangar in formation...  a
formation they lost as soon as they saw the hangar's
contents.  "Boss," Tainer said, "we have hit the jackpot."
Wedge was, for once, grateful for the stormtrooper helmet.

 It concealed his openmouthed surprise.

 In the hangar was not a complement of TIE fighters, but
eight far more formidable, far faster TIE interceptors.
Wedge took a moment to find his voice. "Even better. It's
the pirate's life for us, and these are better pirate
vehicles.  Come on, people, Phase Three, snap it up."

 Castin found the hangar's main computer terminal at the back
of the building. He brought up the main menu and began
looking at what was available to him. The others, once they
were sure that the roof-mounted holocams observing the
hangar were positioned to view only the vehicles, clustered
around him.

 Castin leaned back from his keyboard. "Good news and bad
news, Commander."  

 "Let's hear it."

 "I can get into this pretty easily, do everything I'm sup-
posed to do from here."   

 "But ?"

 "But, security seems to be based on flag counting. For every
anomaly in routine the computer registers a marker, or flag,
that it keeps track of. When flags grow too numerous at any
one site, the computer raises an alarm. It might send a
routine query, in which case an incorrect response would
raise more flags; it might just send investigators out. If
this system works like other, similar Imperial systems,
flags have greater or lesser 'weight' depending on just how
anomalous they are. For example, a storage-room door being
unlocked at the wrong time will raise a little flag, while
the door into a hangar full of valuable interceptors being
unlocked at the wrong time will raise a big one."

 Wedge nodded. "Have we dropped any flags yet?"

 "Probably not. We did open a door, but the guards outside
have to have regular access to the refresher, so I doubt
that's a flag."

 "Very well." Wedge considered. They had to ready six of the
interceptors for departure, disconnect any tracer comm units
functioning within them, sabotage the other two vehicles and
perhaps the hangar, exit the hangar, and cover tile separate
escapes of the interceptor hijackers and the Wraiths who
would be departing on foot. "I assume, then, that a change
in maintenance schedules would raise a smaller flag than the
holocams observing a bunch of anomalous pirates moving
around their hangar."

 "That's a fair assumption."

 "Then get into the base scheduler. Forge a request for 
immediate maintenance of this hangar's interceptors. 
Time-stamp it an hour or so ago. Assign it to a fictitious work
crew, or, if you can get into the personnel listings, a crew
that's off-duty. Follow this up with an acknowledgment of
the arrival of the work crew a few minutes ago. Then do the
same thing with a request for servicing of the hangar's
holocam system. Time-stamp that one earlier today, lower
priority, also with an acknowledgement of arrival in the
last few minutes."

 Castin managed the task within a few minutes, then switched
off the hangar holocams. The Wraiths got to work.

 Castin stayed at the computer terminal and began working on
their escape distraction.

 Wedge, Janson, Kell, Runt, and Dia checked out the eight
interceptors. All but Runt had some experience flying TIE
fighters; Runt, as communications specialist, used what gear
he had to find and disable slave circuitry that might enable
the base commanders to seize control of the interceptors
remotely, then disabled automatic tracer systems built into
the comm units.

 Tyria and Donos had what the others enviously referred to
as "vandalism duty." With the hangar mechanics' own industrial 
cutters, metal-shearing tools utilizing a tight, focused
form of the same destructive energy that made blasters formi-
dable weapons, they burned messages across the interior
walls of the hangar: HAWKBATS NEEDED THESE MORE THAN YOU! KNEEL
TO THE HAWKBATS, WORMS. GET OUT OR BE SORRY; THIS PLANET IS
NOW OUR PROPERTY. Then there were some choice epithets, and
Donos's fairly artistic rendering of a hawk-bat, one of the
tenacious flying predators of the duracrete canyons of
Coruscant.  Tyria added some creative misspellings to her
efforts.

 When they were done, they looked over their handiwork.
Donos nodded. "Pretty close to the work of ego-ridden, 
semiliterate pirates," he decided.

 Tyria smiled. "As a former counterinsurgent, are you
offended?"

 He managed a wry grin. But he was saved from answering by a
sound-a warning pop across the comm channel the Wraiths were
using.

 All the Wraiths stopped what they were doing and either
donned their helmets again or held pocket comms up to
listen.

 Face's voice came across in a whisper. "Skimmer full of
stormtroopers approaching. Not a hostile attitude, but
they're coming right here."

 Wedge replied, "Stay loose. Keep us informed." He looked
among the Wraiths. "Tyria, Donos, get on the door. Be 
prepared to support Face and Phanan. The rest of you, what's
our status ?"

 Kell answered, "Five interceptors prepped, Runt and I are on
the last, no work yet on the two we were going to sabotage."

 "Don't worry about the sabotage. If we're pressed for
time, we'll just blast them on our way..."

 Phanan's voice came in over the corem: "It's shift change.
They're supposed to drop off two and take us away. Face is
talking to them. He's been listening to those Quadrant
recordings and knows the guy's voice. But-it's not going well..."

 The next sound was the scream of blasters from outside.
Blasters, shouts, armored bodies hitting the duracrete.





                               6



 Face had tried to be reasonable. "We're ready to go, Lieutenant. 
But our packs are inside. Permission to go inside and retrieve 
our packs."

 The stormtrooper seated next to the skimmer pilot sounded
contemptuous. "What idiot let you bring unauthorized gear
out on a normal sentry watch?"

 Tactic: When asked for information you don't have, try to
present the asker with a variable he can define himself.
Face said, "The new one, sir. What's-his-name."

 "Balawan?"

 "That's him, sir."

 "Well, he's an idiot. But sharing some kitchen duty with
you two might smarten you all up. All right, you can get
your unauthorized gear. First, let's finish this." 

 The officer turned to look at the bed of his skimmer; he nodded.

 Two stormtroopers stepped out. They stood before Face and
Phanan in the same stance of attention. 

 Face said, "I relieve you of this post."

 Face swore to himself. That was a nonstandard phrase.

 Tactic: When obliged to participate in a ritual you know
nothing about, provide a reason and grab all the sympathy
you can.

 Face said, "I..." And then he coughed, a deep, racking cough
that shook him. The coughs continued and bent him nearly
double. Still, he half straightened several times, saluting
all the while, the very picture of a man fighting to do his
duty in the face of overwhelming opposition.

 If anything, the officer's contempt increased. "What is this
man doing on duty? He should be in his deathbed." 

 Face heard Phanan say, "Dedicated." 

 "Oh, very well. Just give me the damned password."

 Phanan said, "Amelkin versus Tovath." That was the name of
the classic Quadrant game that had given them access to the
hangar.

 "What? The shift password, you idiot."

 Tactic: When no other options present themselves, shoot
everything in sight. Face straightened, grabbed the top edge
of the chest armor of the stormtrooper before him to hold
him in place, and shot the man in the stomach. Phanan shoved
his own stormtrooper back and fired, catching the man in the
helmet.

 Face dragged his dead or dying target to him, holding him up
as a human shield, and, one-handed, swept fire across the
occupants of the skimmer. He saw at least two men, including
the lieutenant, hit, but there would still be only a split
second before the stormtroopers brought their own weapons
into line and fired...

 To Face's and Phanan's blasts were added lethal cross fire
from the door into the hangar. Face hazarded a glance. Two
Wraiths stood there in stormtrooper armor-he couldn't tell
who-and then advanced, firing as they came.

 A bad tactic, Face thought, abandoning the shelter of the
doorway, but he understood when their place at the door was
taken by more Wraiths.

 The pilot of the skimmer banked up and away from the
firing Wraiths, a maneuver sharp enough to shake the surviving 
stormtroopers in back but skillful enough to place the
skimmer's bottom between them and the Wraiths for a few
long moments. The skimmer's maneuver carried it across the
wide lane between buildings. It had to level out or smash
into the face of one of the buildings, but when it did so it was
far enough away, and moving fast enough, that the Wraiths' 
concentrated fire was not so lethal. With all the blasts they
poured into the moving target, Face saw only one more strike a
stormtrooper, and assumed that the anonymous Wraith who
fired it was Donos, their sniper. The skimmer made a corner
and was gone.

 The stormtrooper at the door was Wedge; his shout was
distinctive. "Two, get the hangar doors open and lock them
that way; we can't afford for the central computer to lock
them closed. Do you have a distraction ready?"

 "My number two distraction is ready. My best one will take a
couple of minutes more."

 "Go with the number two. Then join Six, Eight, Nine, and
Eleven, get out of here on foot..."

 Castin's voice rose in something like a whine. "But I was
going to fly one of the interceptors!"

 "Pipe down. We only have five. Move out in any direction but
the one those stormtroopers took, running in Imperial formation, 
and get in contact with Ten for whatever transport she can provide.
The rest of you, to your interceptors."

 "They have the hangar door open," reported the skimmer pilot,
now standing at the corner of a building not far away.

 "I can hear ion engines inside firing off. I've got my men
scatteing to firing positions. I..."

 His next words were lost in the wail that rose all around
him. It was the anguished cry of some long-forgotten god, a
moan that rattled his bones despite his armor; he saw 
transparisteel viewports on the buildings around him vibrate
under the fury of that sound.

 It was, in fact, the base's air-raid siren system, an antiquated 
measure to inform every person on base and anyone
within several klicks that enemies were coming by air. In
the days when this base was first built, those enemies were
the Empire; after the Empire took over, the base operators
maintained the system. Just in case.

 And now the impossible had happened, someone was attacking the 
base from the sky. The stormtrooper saw columns
of light crisscross the sky in search of targets, then heard
and saw the base's huge automated turbocannons begin firing at
targets high up in the air. He couldn't see the targets...
but if the big guns were firing, they were up there.

 Distracted by the aerial show, the stormtrooper did not see
the first of the interceptors emerge from the hangar.





 Face broke formation to draw abreast of Castin as they trotted. 
He had to shout to be heard over the siren wail. "Two, what did 
you do?"

 Two's body language momentarily suggested an aw-shucks
embarrassment. "I found some of their old wargame projections 
about Imperial raids. They weren't under much security;
they were just archives. But I was able to patch the data
into their sensor net, as though it were data being received now,
and it triggered an automated response. Any second now..."






 In the distance, two squadrons of TIE fighters lifted, racing 
toward the sky and the presumed enemies waiting there.

 Instead of continuing his thought, Castin just pointed.

 Face said, "Six, do we have anything from Ten?"

 "We have. She is coming. We have given her our vector."

 "Coded, I hope."

 "Coded." The Wraiths' code for this mission included a
very simple method for transmitting locations, in case their
scramblers were decoded: Locations were given in standard
Imperial grid format, but with the values reversed, south
for north, east for west. It might take only one visual
check by stormtroopers to confirm that the locations were
incorrect, but the time tolerances for this mission were so
tight that this might be all the help the Wraiths needed.
Kell and Phanan, the pilots least experienced with TIE
fighters-and experienced not at all with TIE interceptors,
even in simulators-were the first to emerge from the hangar.

 Running close to the ground on repulsorlifts, they crept out
tentatively from the hangar's interior. Even with their
caution, Phanan failed to decelerate correctly and slowly
glided into the building across the lane, stopping with a
bump.

 Wedge, Janson, and Dia, more sure of their control over
the vehicles, emerged next. On Wedge's cue, they turned, 
orienting back toward the open hangar door, and fired, 
destroying the three interceptors remaining within. Then they
turned up the lane and cut in their twin ion engines,
accelerating far faster than their X-wings. Phanan and Kell
fell into position behind them.

 "Stay next to the ground," Wedge ordered. "Keep repulsorlifts 
running at full until I give the word." He glanced
over his sensors. They showed his small squad of five
interceptors running at just above ground level, plus
another thirty-six TIE fighters, three squadrons' worth,
rapidly ascending toward presumed enemies.

 One switch gave him access to the sensor data being
broadcast by the base. It showed a sky crowded with enemies.
Initial telemetry identified them as somewhat antiquated TIE
fighters and some other Imperial-style support vehicles.
Though they were Imperial vehicles, their sudden appearance,
their aggressive pattern of approach, and their lack of
response to normal hails had caused the base computer to
flag them as probable unfriendlies. The three squadrons of
base TIE fighters looked decidedly overmatched in numbers,
but as Wedge watched, another two squadrons rose to join
them.

 As buildings flicked by right and left, Wedge locked down
the broadcast sensor signal and transmitted its source to
the others. "All right, Wraiths. We're doing one pass, then
we're going home." He pulled back on the stick, popped up
over the rooftops, and angled toward the source of that
signal. The others fell into formation behind him.

 They came within firing range almost instantly. Wedge linked
his four lasers for quad fire. The interceptor's weapons
screen initially had a little difficulty identifying the
base's command center, a huge, rounded bunker, as the
intended target, but once it locked the target in, it
managed to define the building, its bristling gun
emplacements, and its numerous sensor emplacements as
discrete targets. Wedge tagged the nearest set of sensors as
his first target and said, "Fire."

 The interceptors roared toward the bunker, their twenty
lasers acting as five channels of destruction, laying waste
to the surface of the bunker, tearing through the sensor arrays and
gun emplacements as though the metal were so much paper.
Wraith Squadron screamed across the bunker, mere meters
above its now nearly molten surface, and then banked off
toward freedom.











 There was now traffic on all the base's lanes-skimmers carrying 
stormtroopers to ready areas, civilian workers running
on foot, some of them only partially dressed, to their duty
stations.

 But no one seemed inclined to question a well-disciplined
group of five stormtroopers running with purpose.

 Up ahead, two squads of stormtroopers, more than twenty,
turned onto the Wraiths' lane and headed toward them. "Stay
alert," Face said. "If they address us, respond on the run.
If they challenge us, open fire and run harder."

 But a skimmer with an enclosed bed turned onto the same lane
behind the dual squadron and accelerated into them, flattening 
some of the stormtroopers, knocking others hard out
of the way. The skimmer accelerated toward the Wraiths. Runt
said, "We think our ride has arrived."

 The skimmer pulled up and swerved as it settled, placing its
port and rear sides between the Wraiths and the nest of an-
gry stormtroopers. The door was already half down when the
skimmer touched the ground.

 "Good work, Ten," Face said. "I'11 take gunner position.
Everyone else in back." Face slid into the seat beside
Shalla; the rest trotted into the bed.

 Face heard one of them, Donos from his voice, trip, fall,
and swear. He glanced at Sha!la. She shrugged. "I had to
leave a couple of casualties back there," she half
explained. A moment later, the first of the blaster shots
from the pursuing stormtroopers hit the vehicle's rear and
side armor, and Donos came over the corem: "Go - go - go!"

 They exited via the same gate by which they'd entered. This
time, though, they didn't stop to get authorization or for the
guards to open the gates. As they approached at full speed, 
Face raked the guardhouse with blaster fire, forcing the officer on
duty to duck, preventing him from activating the magnetic
locks, magnetic containment fields, repulsor-activated land
mines, or other traps the Imperials routinely had laid out
for vehicles approaching or departing a base in an
unfriendly fashion.

 They hit the spare metal gates, slamming them open and off
their hinges, and roared up the road out of the base.

 But a mere half klick away, around the first of the bends in
the road and sheltered from sight by the very hill Wedge had
earlier used for reconnaissance, Shalla set the skimmer down
again. The Wraiths scrambled out. Shalla keyed a code into
the keypad on the control panel and the skimmer rose once
more, winging off into the night toward the distant lights
of the city.

 "What course is it taking?" Face asked.

Shalla shook her head. "I wrecked most of its higher
processes when I destroyed the comm system. All I was able
to do was give it a ballistic course toward the city."

 "That should be enough. Let's get out of sight."

 The Wraiths were in a ditch, helmets off, only the eyes and
the tops of their heads showing, when the three pursuit 
skimmers flew by, following the skimmer's course.

 A minute later, they were with Piggy at the site of the
civilian skimmer that had brought them here. Captain
Wanatte, still unconscious, was trussed up in back.

 The Wraiths peeled out of their stormtrooper armor, leaving
them in sweat-drenched street clothing appropriate to the
world of Halmad. They quickly loaded all the armor components 
into a plastic crate in the back of the skimmer. Then
they boarded.

 "Back to the spaceport," Face said. "Slowly. Sedately.  As
befits a bunch of tourists who've been off drinking and 
recreating all evening and are now too tired to twitch."

 Shalla nodded. "Pretty close to an accurate description."








 Hawkbat Base was situated on a large spherical rock deep in
the asteroid belt of the Halmad system. Years before, it had 
been the Tonheld Mining Corporation's Site A3, tasked with 
bringing high-quality metals up from the depths of a large
asteroid formed during the long-ago destruction of one of the 
Halmad system's outer planets.

 The asteroid had a thick outer shell of stone and a center
made up mostly of cooled nickel and iron. Tonheld Mining
Corporation, all too efficient, had removed the majority of
the useful metals, leaving only those that were trapped in
veins and pock-ets within the stone shell. Then the company
had dismantled its machinery and housing modules and
departed, leaving the site deserted and cold for forty
years.

 Now, when approached by spacecraft, it still seemed the
same. Its thick stone sheath, still intact, was sufficient
to block sensors from detecting the life-forms and vehicle
emissions now within it.

 Halfway down the main shaft, a side tunnel, once a staging
area for the mining corporation, turned off at a ninety-
degree angle, running parallel to the asteroid's surface.

 This was now sealed off by a duracrete plug perforated only
by large motor-driven doors at either end.

 Beyond, inside, where the side shaft was broadest and
tallest, was the hangar area where the Hawk-bats' vehicles
rested. There were two TIE fighters and five TIE interceptors, 
and the biggest vessel on site, a Xiytiar-class freighter 
named Sungrass.

 Among the least elegant of all cargo vessels serving in the
galaxy, the Xiytiar-class freighter consisted of a long
blocky bow that was mostly cargo space, an equally long
connective spar in the middle, and a short blocky component
that was mostly engines at the stern. Sungrass didn't
improve the vehicle line's reputation for stylishness;
scarcely a centimeter of its once-gleaming surface was
unmarked by scrapes, sloppy paintwork, ion scoring from 
too-close passes alongside other vessels, or old blaster burns.

 But its hull was solid, its engines were recently rebuilt
and in fine tune. Once it had belonged to an Imperial shipping
corporation. It had been in dry dock in a repair hangar when 
the entire site was destroyed by elements of New Republic 
Intelligence. Its bow cracked, its superstructure buried 
under the wreckage of the hangar, it had been reported as 
destroyed by reconnaissance units of the Empire. Now, after 
a couple of seasons of repair, it flew again, its name changed, 
its history fabricated, its mission to support Wraith Squadron.

 On its bridge, Wedge Antilles snorted. He supposed that was
symbolic of the New Republic as a whole. Making use of the
Empire's castoffs, getting a few extra years of functionality 
out of them, almost always making do with scraps and crumbs in 
a way that confounded the remnants of the Empire. Yet it was a 
far cry from the pretty vision of an Empire-free future that the 
New Republic still doggedly pursued. He wondered if that image, 
where everything was new and gleaming and free of any memories 
of the Empire, would ever come to pass.

 He glanced over at the man in the captain's chair. Captain
Valton seemed ideally suited to command of this ship. He,
too, looked weathered and battered but still fit for many
years of useful service. His long, tanned face was
unmemorable, though his eyes were sharp, possessed of
intelligence. Wedge thought that if they put him in a
janitor's uniform he'd blend right in with the service
personnel of any New Republic or Imperial station, and
wondered if the Wraiths might someday make use of that fact.
And, mercifully, he didn't apparently have a need to hear
himself talk. He saw Wedge's side glance, looked over in
case Wedge were trying to get his attention, and when he saw
that was not the case, returned to the datapad on which he
was calculating fuel-mass ratios, all without saying a
word.

 Wedge turned his attention to his Wraiths, visible through
Sungrass's forward viewports, hard at work painting the
stolen interceptors. The one Tyria and Kell worked on was
now decorated with a red spiderweb pattern, a design that
was at once rakishly dangerous-looking and a little
unsettling. Phanan and Face left the basic paint job of
their interceptor unchanged but had added a ludicrous number
of kill silhouettes to the hull - including a number of 
X-wing silhouettes to rival the genuine kills of Baron Fel,
the Empire's greatest ace after Darth Vader.

 Shalla and Donos were painting theirs with fake blaster scor-
ings and had even painted the engine to look as though it
were slightly askew, as if knocked out of alignment by enemy
fire.  Wedge wondered about the advisability of that; it
would probably convince some enemies the interceptor was
damaged, perhaps persuading some opportunistic pilots to
finish it off when otherwise they might treat it with more
caution.

 He decided not to interfere. It was an experiment. They'd
see how the enemies responded to their "damaged"
interceptor.

 His personal comlink crackled into life. "Commander."

 "Yes, Runt."

 "Narra returning. ETA fifteen minutes."

 "Thank you. Please set up the conference module. Out."

 He exited Sungrass through its docking tube and passed
through the hangar, where the sharp smell of the paints
scratched at his sinuses and the chatter of his pilots was
so much more immediate. Good men and women in a brief
respite from making war. He wished such respites were the
norm.

 Then, passing their interceptor, he saw Tyria finish an-
other line of red spiderwebs, set her brush down atop her
paint can, and wrap her arms around Kell to kiss him.

 Wedge stopped short, a rebuke on his lips, a reminder that
public displays of affection were not appropriate... and
then he turned away and kept walking.

 Such a warning might have been appropriate for other units,
but not elite squadrons under his command. There were no
restrictions against relationships between pilots, even when
there was some disparity between their ranks, as was the
case with Tyria and Kell. There were no regulations against
demonstrations of affection in off-duty and most light-duty
situations, such as this little painting exercise. They
were doing no wrong.

 Then why was he so annoyed? Why had he been ready to drop
kitchen duty on either of them, had his warning been
protested?

 He passed through the third set of motorized doors, lead-ing
deeper into the shaft, into what Wraith Squadron called the
Trench. It had been a squarish tunnel bored out of solid stone,
a straight shaft notable only for its featurelessness. Now its
two walls were lined with medium-sized locking cargo modules
stacked three high and stretching for some distance down the
shaft. Some had been outfitted as living quarters, some as
refreshers, others as conference chambers or communications
offices or storage lockers. Roll-away staircases gave
pilots easy access to the upper tiers of modules.

 Face had been the first to note that if you flew a toy X-
wing down between the rows of modules, the shaft would look
a little like one of the deadly surface trenches of the
original Death Star. Then, a few days later, when returning
from a scouting mission to the surface of Halmad, Wedge had
discovered that some joker had painted the shaft's ceiling
black, except for the lights, and had strung strings of
miniature twinkling lights here and there, creating an
illusion of star-filled sky.

 Wedge had let the decoration stand. It was a bad idea to
interfere with things his pilots did to make a gloomy place
like this more inhabitable, or, so long as it didn't
interfere with morale or efficiency, with things they did to
make their lives happier.

 Yet he'd been ready to do just that a few moments ago, and
he grew increasingly annoyed with himself because he
couldn't figure out why.

 The main conference module was on the second tier of the
left-hand bank of modules. He took the stairs up and found
Runt still there, still sweeping bottles and wrappers from
someone's impromptu meal into a bag. The long-faced alien
gave him a salute before finishing up.

 Wedge settled into a seat beside the main table. "Runt."

 Runt straightened. His ponytail swayed. 

 "Sir."

 "Do your minds ever confuse one another?"

 The alien grinned. At least, that was how Wedge and the
others had learned to interpret it when Runt pulled his lips
back over his enormous teeth in an expression that looked
more like a prelude to a biting attack. 

 "Yes, Commander. Often. If they were meant to be the same, 
and therefore easily comprehensible to one another, none of 
us would have more than one."

 "Right... What do you do when one acts in a confusing manner
and its answers don't really explain why?"

 Runt sobered and thought about it for a moment, taking
the opportunity to pick up one last piece of wrapping.
 
 "We have to remember that there are many paths to every answer.
The thought path. The emotion path. The memory path. The
biology path - we cannot rule out hormones and natural 
cycles. And every problem might be made up of combinations of
those four things."

 "Good point." Wedge gave him a nod, his leave to depart.

 And Runt might be right. He couldn't think of a logical
reason to protest Tyria's show of affection. Nor had
witnessing a kiss ever caused him emotional turmoil in the
past. He ruled out biology; he was not irritable with fever,
had experienced nothing to unsettle him.

 That left emotion, and he already knew what emotion he'd felt.

 Or did he? He'd recognized irritation. Had it masked
something else? He thought back over the incident, Tyria's
unthinking affection....  Jealousy.

 He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. Nonsense.

 There was nothing for him to be jealous of.

 He'd never entertained any notions about Tyria. She was, to
be sure, physically attractive, but she was a very junior
officer under his command, and he preferred to steer clear
of the extra complications a relationship like that might
bring. Too, she was just not the type of woman he was drawn
to; she was a little too unsure, too self-critical.

 Nor had he felt any jealousy when it became obvious that

 Kell and Tyria had fallen in love. If any time were the time
to be jealous, that would have been it. So it wasn't jealousy.

 Except that was what he was feeling. A hard little knot of
envy.

 Maybe it was just the fact that he had no one of his own.
Every so often, he would indulge himself and wonder about 
the man he would have been had his parents not died in
the mishap that had destroyed their refueling station. Who
he'd be had he not turned first to smuggling, then to
piloting fighter craft for the Alliance and discovered a tremendous
aptitude for it. Had he not dedicated himself to a cause that
must inevitably kill him. This other Wedge Antilles was probably
safe in the Corellian system, owner of a chain of refueling
stations, with personal wealth and a waistband measurement
that expanded in relationship with one another, with a wife
and who knows how many children. A happy man. That was the
person Wedge was envious of.

 Not that the real Wedge was unhappy. He was content...  but
alone. Probably best if he kept it that way. He'd beaten the
odds for so many years, years in which literally hundreds of
pilots he'd known had died in battle around him, as though
they were living shields for his X-wing. Someday his luck
would run out and the deadly statistics would catch up to
him.

 Yet marriage and family and some sort of normalcy could be
his. All he had to do was accept Admiral Ackbar's offer of a
generalship and a staff position.

 Angrily he pushed the idea away. That was a selfish thought.
His life meant more as a pilot and squadron commander than
it would as a deskbound planner. More citizens of the New 
Republic were alive and more Imperial enemies were dead 
because he was the master of a pilot's yoke instead of a
datapad.  So long as that remained the case, he didn't have
the right to accommodate himself or pursue his own wishes.

 "Wraith Three to Wraith One."

 Wedge jolted out of his reverie and stared up into the face
of Wes Janson. Behind Janson, Dia Passik stood at attention.
Wes was grinning, and even Dia's stone face suggested
amusement.

 There were drinks, still in the bottle, on the table, with
condensation collecting on their surfaces. Wedge hadn't
even noticed whether it was Janson or Runt who had brought
them in.

 Wedge cleared his throat to cover his momentary discomfiture, 
then asked, "What's the word from Coruscant?"

 "Well, they're cracking down hard on officers caught napping 
on the job." Wes handed over a sealed case. "Orders."

 Wedge popped the seal. From within the case he drew a datapad.

 Dia asked, "Should I leave, sir?"

 "No. Have a seat. You can be the pilots' official spy for
the moment. If there's anything sensitive here, I'll discuss
it with Lieutenant Janson later."

 Janson and Dia made themselves comfortable as Wedge scanned
the text on the datapad. 

 "Congratulations on the raid on the base at Halmad. They seem 
to think that five interceptors is a better haul than projections 
called for. Authorization to fund our continued operations from 
our pirate activities."

 Janson said,

 "Whoa. You don't see that very often."

 Dia's brow furrowed. "If I may ask, why is that so unusual ?"

 "It's the place where a lot of long-term secret operations
go off course," Wedge said. "The mission commander sets up a
private means of income and funds his operations with it.
Then he begins reporting less income than he's actually
taking in. He stashes the surplus away somewhere or uses it
for missions not authorized by his control. Soon enough, he
has some of his subordinates working with these unauthorized
activities, and they're coming up with more effective means
of generating money-such as spice smuggling-that will never
get reported.  Left long enough, an operation like this can
become a full-fledged criminal syndicate within a few years.
That's why the New Republic, particularly Intelligence,
doesn't like doing that. They're putting a lot of faith in
us."

 Janson glanced at Dia. "In us, he says. He actually deludes
himself that anyone's reputation but Wedge Antilles's
figured into that equation."

 She managed another cool little smile.

 Wedge returned his attention to the orders. "Authorization
to conceive and execute missions against the Imperial and
governmental forces in the Halmad system and other systems.
In addition, we have a couple of missions here to perform as
Wraith Squadron, strikes in collaboration with Rogue Squadron 
and the Mon Remonda. And no word on replacement X-wings." 

 He shut down the datapad. "Pretty much as expected. Passik, questions?"

 "No, sir. Thank you for letting me stay, sir."

 "I know all about the relative value of fresh news. Dis-
missed."

 When she was gone, Janson said, "I've got some of the
mad painters unloading the Narra. We came back with some
entertainment holos, some luxury holos, some more ID sets
squeezed out of Intelligence, an interceptor simulator
module for the TIE-fighter simulator, and that passive
sensor set you wanted to monitor the Imperial base."

 "Good."

 "Is everything all right?"
 
 Wedge nodded. "Just feeling my years. Speaking of which,
I think I'll get in some simulator practice and beat up on
the youngsters."

 "That'll make you feel better. It always does me."




 Wedge punched his personal code into the keypad located on
the hatch of the TIE-fighter simulator. Instead of being
located atop the ball-shaped cockpit, where the standard
hatch was on real interceptors, the simulator hatch was at
the cockpit's stern, where the twin ion engines would
normally be mounted.

 The hatch swung open. Beyond, a shadowy figure pointed a
blaster at Wedge. Wedge dropped out of reflex, rolled to the
side, came up on his knees with his own blaster in hand.
But no enemy emerged to fire upon him. He kept his own aim
on the hatch and reached for his comlink.

 "Is there a problem, Commander?" That was Face, leaning
unconcerned against the X-wing simulator only a few me-ters
away.

"Get down, there's a hostile in there..."

 Face half ducked behind the corner of his simulator, then
took another look. "I don't think so, sir." His mouth
twitched, a partially successful effort to hide a smile.

 Wedge rose and came forward, leaned out far enough for a
quick peek into the simulator cockpit, then leaned in again
for a longer look.

 His intruder was an Ewok.

 Not even a living Ewok. It was a stuffed toy the size and
girth of a real Ewok, and designed to look just like one,
but just a toy.

 It was dressed in a scaled-down version of a New Republic
fighter pilot's uniform, down to the authentic-looking suit
system control panel on his chest, helmet on his head, and
blaster in his paw.

 In his other paw was a datapad. Wedge retrieved it and
looked at the message. It read:

 Lieutenant Kettch reporting for you, sir. Yub, yub, Commander.

 Wedge shook his head sorrowfully. "Sometimes I miss my
sanity." He retrieved the toy and handed it to Face. "Deal
with that."

 Face, who was working so hard to repress a laugh that he
couldn't speak, simply threw a salute and escaped with the
Ewok pilot.





 "Transferred to Colonel Repness's group?" Lara glanced again
over her orders and feigned ignorance. "I don't understand.
I haven't completed my basic training set in X-wings. I'm
going to get advanced training now?"

 The student leader of her own group, a redheaded man, barely
out of boyhood, whom she could outfly on the worst day of
her life if she weren't shackled by the demands of the role
she was playing, gave her a superior smile. "You don't
understand. Repness handles the remedials. Including you.
Notsil, you've washed out. All Repness is, he's a temporary
reprieve for you. This time next week, you're going to be
an empty bunk."

 "Lowan, you're a stain."

 "I'll forget you said that. You'll be tossed out of here
fast enough without my putting you on report."

 Lara stared after him as he departed, and pictured a target
painted on his back, a blaster in her own hand, and a sudden
improvement in the average merit of this class of candidates.

 But, no, that wouldn't be appropriate. Better still to make
her way to Zsinj's company, return as a TIE-interceptor
pilot, and flame Lowan in a dogfight.

 Then again, what if she came up against Lussatte, who was
also not her equal as a pilot but was not the blemish Lowan
was? A simple matter to vape her... but Lara had the uneasy
feeling that such an action would cause her a lingering
regret.

 She shook off the feeling. Transfer to another group meant
transferring to another dormitory. It was time to pack.





                            7


 If this is a reward, Face thought, I need to stop earning
them.

 He sat in weightlessness, strapped securely into the control 
seat of one of the captured interceptors, staring at
stars and a tiny, distant sun through the starfighter's
viewport. The image hadn't changed in an hour, and the music
he was playing on the fighter's internal speakers was, on
its eighth repetition, getting on his nerves. He resolved to
carry more entertainments on missions, especially those
where keeping corem silence was a priority.

 In a bar in Hullis, Face had been the one to spot the
freighter navigator whose hand trembled with more than 
eagerness when the man reached for his first drink of the
night.  He'd been the one to get the man so drunk that
discretion wasn't an option, and to listen to the fellow's
rambling praise of his captain's intelligence.

 The ship the alcoholic navigator served on was the Barderia,
and it hauled cargo on three-way runs out of Halmad
with an admirable record for avoiding pirates. With enough
liquor in him, the navigator told Face their secret for
success. "Leave each system from a random point, enter each
system at a random point. Your courses can't be plotted."

 "That makes for pretty complicated courses," Face had said.
 
 "Not really. On arrival in each system, you first drop out
of hyperspace just outside the outer planet's orbit to
sample the comm frequencies and get any pirate reports
available, then make a course correction and jump in where
you want to arrive."

 "Ah. And this first arrival, before you make your course
correction, is to the same spot every time?"   "That's what
keeps things simple."

 Face was nice enough to make sure the man made it back to
his ship when all the night's drinking was done and the 
navigator was too far gone to recognize surroundings, friends,
or his own features. But first Face played a hunch and
assumed that a man sloppy enough to reveal a crucial detail
to a stranger might be sloppy in other ways. He copied the
encrypted contents of the fellow's datapad to his own, and
when back at Hawkbat Base from this intelligence-gathering
run, he handed that data over to Castin Donn. Castin cracked
the code and the files yielded up no information about
freighter routes... but did have a file of specific
locations just outside a large number of planetary systems.
It was a simple matter to find out to which planets
Barderia's next cargo run would take her.

 The skin around Face's mouth itched, but he could not
scratch it, even if he took his Imperial pilot helmet off.
His whole face was crisscrossed with horrible puckering
scars - artificial ones, created by painting a makeup
chemical across his skin and letting it dry. His own genuine
scar was not missing; it was just incorporated into the
design of false scar tissue.

 That real scar made things a little difficult. Every
disguise he wore had to conceal it or incorporate it. A
simple, if somewhat pricey, cosmetic skin abrasion and bacta
treatment would eliminate it. But it was part of him now, a
constant reminder of the debt he would never he able to pay
off. As a child star of holo-dramas, he had unknowingly
helped boost Imperial morale, promote Imperial projects,
even improve Imperial military recruitment. Crimes he'd
never be able to erase. The scar was the living sign of
those crimes. Look at me. I know what I did.

 Regardless, all the extra scars, the false ones, made a good
disguise, but they itched. And itched. While the same music
played over and over again.

 His sensor board lit up as an eighth blip suddenly joined
the seven waiting there in space. Barderia had arrived,
within range of his guns, of Wedge's.

 His comm crackled as he reached for his yoke. "This is One,
targeting engines. Shields still down. Firing!"

 As Face brought his interceptor around, he saw the bulk of
Barderia, a boxy Corellian freighter about a hundred meters
long, below him and to his starboard. Green laser fire from
a point in space nearly two klicks away was dancing across
its stern. Face marveled at the speed of Wedge's response;
the commander hadn't been any closer to or oriented any
better toward the freighter's arrival.
Face got his guns lined up on the freighter, saw a turreted
turbolaser swinging around to aim in on Wedge. He gritted
his teeth, but that was not the ship's most dangerous
remaining system. He ignored the gun and targeted the ship's
communications array. He fired, his first shot scoring the
ship's hull, the second turning the comm gear into molten
metal and escaping gas in a minor explosion. Then, as he
accelerated toward the vessel, he belatedly linked his
lasers to quad fire and opened up on the turbolaser.

 This blast was larger and much more satisfying, eliminating
the turret completely. His interceptor and Wedge's crossed
one another in flyovers of the crippled vessel as they
visually surveiled the damage.

 "This is One. Engines out. No sign of atmosphere venting.
Hull integrity seems to be fine."

 "This is Eight. Comm antenna down. Main weapon down. I'd call 
this definitely a strong negotiating position. I'm
opening communications." He switched his comm frequency
to a wide band including the range normally used by personal
comlinks and jumped his power setting up so personal systems
would be likely to receive him. He cleared his throat in a
deep growl that was his mnemonic for this character's vocal 
mannerism, then said, his voice a gravelly rumble, "Barderia,
this is General Kargin of the Hawkbat Independent Space Force. 
We are seizing your vessel. We are businessmen and will do no
harm to surrendering crew members, to whom I guarantee safe
passage into the hands of this system's rescue forces. But
we are rather short-tempered businessmen and any crewmen offering
resistance will be brought back to our base for a debriefing
session they will never forget... much less survive.
Surrender your vessel and prepare your docking ports for
boarding... or prepare to breathe vacuum."

 His response was not long in coming. A man's voice, raspy
and dismayed, replied, "This is Captain Rhanken of the 
independent cargo vessel Barderia. I surrender my vessel. Port
and starboard docking ports standing by."

 It seemed like such a small boarding party. Face, Castin,
and Phanan, wearing only gray versions of the standard 
TIE-fighter pilot's uniform, arrayed against whatever forces
occupied the cargo ship. But five sets of starfighter guns
in the hands of the other Wraiths kept Barderia in their
sights, and the freighter, lacking engines to power its
shields, stardrive, and weapons, would be easy prey to any
one of them.

 The Wraiths, led by a visibly trembling navigation and
communications officer, the very man who had inadvertently
given Face the information he'd needed for this act of
piracy, entered the freighter's spotless bridge. Waiting
there were other members of the bridge crew: the captain, a
middle-aged, graying man with the look of a former Imperial
officer about him, and a younger chief pilot whose hard look
and demeanor suggested that he was also the ship's master
at arms and would like nothing more than to eradicate the
pirates.

 Face took off his helmet, revealing his gloriously horrible
makeup job, and was rewarded with sudden intakes of breath
from the two younger officers. "I am," he said, "the
glorious General Kargin, founder and leader of the Hawk-bats." 
He kept his voice low, gravelly. "Captain?"

 The freighter's master did not salute, but he straightened
with pained formality. 
 
 "Captain Rhanken of the Barderia."

 "Captain?" Face injected a note of menace into his voice.

 "And I am obliged to surrender this ship to you."

 Face extended a hand. "Cargo manifest?"

 The communications officer, jolted into action by the demand, 
searched his uniform pockets increasingly frantically
until he found the object he was searching for - a datapad,
which he handed to Face.

 Face handed it in turn to Castin. "Two, slice into their
master computer and find the cargo manifest there. If it
does not agree one hundred percent with this list, we
execute them all." Face turned his gaze back to the captain.

 "Though I can be forgiving. If you anticipate any errors in
your list, you can tell me about them now and avoid
unpleasantness."

 Captain Rhanken met his eyes unflinchingly. "I anticipate no
problems. If my crew has done its customary good work." He
glanced at the communications officer. "Will there be a
problem, Lieutenant?"

 The communications officer, no master of concealing his
emotions, went pale. "I d-d-don't recall whether I called up
the final inventory-match manifest or used last week's
projected manifest, sir."

 "Get the final manifest and give it to him. Just to be sure."

 "Yessir." The officer bent to his task.

 Interesting. Face had to work to keep both amusement and
contempt from his expression. The captain wanted to play the
unerring officer and was willing to let his subordinates 
assume responsibility for a tactic that had to be the
captain's own decision. Depending on the pirates involved,
that could have led to the lesser officer's death.

 Long minutes passed while the officer brought up the correct 
manifest and Castin verified it by scutting through the
computer's defenses and slicing his way down to the
original file.  They matched and Face and Castin looked
through their winnings while Phanan kept the bridge
officers under guard.

 "Look at this," Face whispered. "Halmad Prime, shipped by
the ton. Halmad's best and most expensive grain alcohol.
You can't get it on-planet except through the black market;
they ship it to other Imperial worlds as one of their major
exports. Various medicines. Duracrete sprayers. Prefabricated
shelters. We'll take all the Halmad Prime and a cross section 
of the medicines; that's about all we can load on Sungrass. 
See anything else we need?"

 "TIE fighter and interceptor parts."

 "What ? Where ?"

 Castin turned his datapad so Face could see the screen. It
showed a different inventory list. "I pulled this off their
computer when I was verifying the current manifest. It's an
estimated inventory from the second leg of their voyage. We
could really use some spare parts and maintenance gear."

 "True, but our little raid here is bound to change their
schedule for the rest of their mission."

 "But if we can figure out what they'll change it to..."

 "Good point." Face straightened and glared at the captain.

 "Rhanken, have your cargo handlers assemble lots twenty-
eight through one hundred twenty-seven and two hundred at
your cargo bay. Two, call Sungrass and have them move in to
accept delivery."

 "And then what?" asked Captain Rhanken.

 "Then we leave."

 "Leaving us to drift, without communications, without
enough power to limp into the system, to die out here?"

 Face gave him a tight smile. "You have escape pods suffi-
cient to get a message to your rescuers. But we'll save you
some time and call in an emergency signal. Wouldn't want you
to be inconvenienced. And you can tell your fellow captains,
whom I'll be meeting in the foreseeable future, that the
Hawk-bats don't kill. Unless we're annoyed. Or become bored.
They can take that under advisement."









 Colonel Atton Repness, leader of the Screaming Wookiee training 
squadron aboard the New Republic frigate Tedevium,
pointed the device at Lara as though it were a miniature
blaster.

She looked curiously at it. It was shaped like a standard
cylindrical comlink, but that's not what it was. She was
sure of this because she'd examined the device inside and
out, and done far more than that, when she'd broken into
Repness's quarters two days ago. "I'm sorry, sir. Should I
be putting up my hands? Or making a speech?"

 He smiled. "Very funny. This isn't a weapon. It just en-
sures that we aren't being recorded."

 "Who would want to record us?"

 The colonel looked around, though he and Lara were the
lightly furnished conference room's only inhabitants. "You'd
be surprised. I'll just keep this on."

 "You're the colonel." But, inwardly, she smiled. He wasn't
speaking as a colonel; his mannerisms had shifted, probably
without him realizing it, to those of a friend. Or conspirator.

 "You're aware that your scores have come up since transferring 
to the Screaming Wookiees."   

"Yes, sir."

 "Well, this is in part from improvement in your skills."

 "Only in part?" She affected surprise.

 "Only in part." Repness pulled a datapad from a pocket
and slid it over to her.

 The file it displayed was her training record. But the
scores from after her transfer were shown in two columns,
labeled "True" and "Adjusted."

 She gave him a troubled look. 

 "I don't understand, sir. The 'True' column would indicate 
that I'm still failing. Just barely failing. What are the 
adjustments from the other column?"

 "Oh, I merely wanted your scores to be higher."

 She let her features go slack, as if caught so far by
surprise that she didn't know how to react or what to say.

 "You see," he said, "I think you have the potential to 
become a good pilot. So I've temporarily adjusted things to
keep you from being booted. But I don't think you can do
this without help. It will take a team effort... and you
haven't been a team player, have you?"

 "Well, I'd... like to be. I just don't know how. Things are
so different here."

 "Excellent! We could use you on my team. Working on my team
calls for some extra effort on your part... but it comes
with rewards you can't get from any other unit."

 And then he told her of a mission. It would be a milk-run
training mission within the atmosphere of the nearest uninhabited
planet in an A-wing. Her control boards would register a critical 
failure of the engines, which would overheat and threaten detonation. 
She'd be ordered by Repness to eject, which she would-well after 
the trouble-free A-wing was safely on the ground. An ion bomb 
detonated in the atmosphere would give investigators the evidence 
they needed to corroborate the fighter's utter destruction, and a 
rescue crew would pick her up well after Repness's crew ferried the
expensive fighter away for sale in some distant black-market port.

 Lara listened, bored, to the whole inevitable deal, feigning
puzzlement, shock, indignation, futile resistance, and
finally pained acceptance as the hopeless nature of her
situation was made clear to her.

 And she knew, with a growing glee that was hard to conceal,
that every word she and Repness said was being sent, by the
very device he thought was a transmission-detecting sweeper,
to a file under a forged pilot account on the frigate's main
computer.

 Contact Wraith Squadron for help when matters with Repness
came to a head? Why bother, when she could engineer his
destruction and her own career's salvation with far more
panache than those pilots could ever manage ?







 It was a different star system-the Halmad system, well outside 
the orbit of its outermost planet-but the situation was very 
familiar.

 Captain Rhanken could not maintain an expression of 
imperturbability the second time the Hawk-bats boarded his
freighter. His voice was one of pure despair: "How did you
know where we'd be?"

 "We asked the right people," Face said. "Your trade guild
has a security breach in it I could pilot a Death Star
through."

 It was a lie, a big one. Castin Donn had downloaded a number
of the cargo ship's records the last time they were aboard,
and covered his tracks. The records didn't say how
Barderia's master would adjust his schedule to account for
the act of piracy committed upon him... but they did show
how he'd reacted in the past to such situations. And now the
Hawk-bats had taken him a second time, on his return leg
home.

 If the analysts of the trade guild didn't believe the lie, that
was all right; nothing would change. But if they did, they
might institute a sweeping change in the guild's standards for
secure transmissions and information flow. Eventually that
would be an impediment to the Hawk-bats' piracy, but in the
short term, possibly as long as the Hawk-bats were to exist
as a pirate band, it would cause disruption and confusion in
the guild, changes that New Republic Intelligence had a
couple of agents ready to examine and take advantage of.  It
was a good time to be a pirate.

 Face said, "Rhanken, have your cargo handlers deposit lots
forty-three through seventy-nine at your cargo door. Then
we'll be on our way. Good doing business with you again."










  When Lara Notsil examined the file containing the recording
of Colonel Repness's offer to her, it seemed much larger
than their conversation should have accounted for. Perhaps,
she thought, he's been using his transmission-detecting
sweeper in conversations with others.

 He had. In the file were her conversation with Repness, plus
the colonel's subsequent discussions with one of his "team"
subordinates, an instructor captain named Teprimal; in their
talk, they noted details of their plan for the hiding and
subsequent sale of the A-wing.

 And there was more. Lara discovered, with glee mixed with a
measure of professional horror, that Repness tended to turn
on his sweeper whenever doing his most private work at his
computer terminal. His paranoia about unseen listeners was
his undoing, because he tended to mumble to himself, 
verbalizing his passwords and secret computer account names
when working this way.

 Within minutes of listening to the recording, Lara could 
access all of the man's recordings that concerned his
lucrative side business. It was a black-market business,
well entrenched on Coruscant but just getting under way on
the training frigate Tedevium, in which cargo was diverted
from its intended destination-not even making it onto
incoming-supplies manifests - and sold, profits making their
way into the pockets of Repness and his team.

She found records of her own scores as a pilot trainee, plus
those of a dozen other pilots Repness had subverted or tried
to subvert this way. Some, like Wraith Squadron's Tyria
Sarkin, had refused to steal for him... but had been
blackmailed into keeping silent. Others had joined his team.

 The records didn't indicate whether they had been willing or
reluctant. Still others, pilot trainees Lara knew, were
going through the ensnaring process even now.

 There was no sign that Repness had any allies in the
Intelligence division of the armed forces, or in the Inspector-
General's office. She wrote a letter to both General Cracken of
Intelligence and to the latter military division. 

 It read, i am the unseen, the unknowable, the unstoppable.
no computer can stand before me. gates open for
me. back doors are revealed to me. knowledge willingly
spools itself out for my inspection. I am the jedi of the
electronic world. i have found evil aboard tedevium. 
i  have found corruption. like the jedi, i shall cut it down.
examine these files. test them for integrity. you will
find they are the truth. go where these files lead you.
do what you must do, as i do what i must do.

 signed, white lancer

 She went back in and inserted some random misspellings and
some painful grammatical errors. When it was done, it was,
she decided, a note typical of code-slicers who performed
anonymous sabotage on computer systems. The true extent of
her computer skills were not known on Tedevium, and those of
many other crewmen and pilot candidates were; many of them
would be suspected of this act, and in order to boost their
reputations, some would probably allow the investigators to
believe that they were, in fact, the secretive White
Lancer.

 To the letter, she attached Repness's recordings and all the
passwords and account names she had so far uncovered.

 Then there were the files demonstrating how Repness had
ensnared other pilots. She paused over those.

 Best to expose all those pilots, she decided. Their careers
would be ruined, at tremendous training cost to the New 
Republic-that is, the Rebels-and this would help deplete the
Empire's enemy of skilled pilots. Besides, if they became
pilots, most of them would eventually die in action against
Imperial pilots. They were better off having their careers
torpedoed.  If they knew she'd done it to them, someday
they'd thank her for it.

 Still her hands paused over the keyboard. As a child, she'd
hoped to be a starfighter pilot. When she'd followed her 
parents career path instead, going into Imperial Intelligence,
she'd demonstrated skills necessary to become a pilot and
had undergone basic pilot training, which her controllers
had decided would be a valuable side skill... and there
she'd discovered a genuine love for flying. But her request
for permanent transfer to the pilot corps was denied. Her
intelligence-related skills were better and rarer than her
pilot's skills, so against her wishes she'd been obliged to
stay in Intelligence. Believe us, it's better this way, her
instructors had told her. Someday, you'll thank us for this.

 It came before her, the face of pilot candidate Bickey, in
her class under Repness. He'd been transferred to the
remedial training unit just days after Lara had. If Repness
kept true to form, in just a few days, Bickey would be
approached on some similar scheme of theft. He was such a
young, eager, boyish pilot, anxious to demonstrate his
skill and bravery. He had once said he'd prefer to die
young, in battle against his enemies, than old and content
on a farm somewhere. No, he'd never thank her for what she
was about to do.

 Uneasy, Lara attached her own file of scores to the letter
she was sending General Cracken, then systematically
destroyed the original and backup files implicating other
pilots and pilot candidates now serving. Let them die as
they choose, she told herself. Let them die as pilots.

 She arranged for the package of letter and files to make its
way through secret routes to the offices of General Cracken.
It would be at his headquarters office and under the eyes of
one of his subordinates by day's end.

 Which left her one thing to do today.




 She looked at the sweeper in Repness's hand and let an
expression of contempt cross her face. "Careful as always,
aren't we, Atton?"

 The colonel looked around, concealing nervousness, though
the classroom was empty of other personnel. "You'll address
me as Colonel Repness and show respect."

 "I'll address you as Colonel Bantha Sweat and show you
whatever I want."

 He looked at her, mouth open, but didn't respond immediately. 

 Lara pressed on: "I've decided not to join your team,
Repness. I'm not going to steal an A-wing for you. In fact,
I'm going to tell your superiors about what you're up to."

  He managed to laugh. "That won't do you much good.
There's no proof. And that's the end of your flying career.
You'll never sit in a cockpit again. Think about what the
rest of your life will be like."

 "I don't care. I can live without flying. I can't live
without honor." For a moment, she was troubled as the
unwelcome possibility flashed through her mind that the
words she'd just spoken had come from her true self, not the
role she was playing. She suppressed the thought, shoving
it aside. "That's the end of your career."

 "I don't think so. When they look over your psychological
profile - a new one I'll be working up over the next few days
- and see what a compulsive liar you are, they wouldn't believe
you if you told them that hard vacuum is bad for the
lungs."

 She gave him a mocking smile. "And you think I'll give you
those few days to falsify my records?"

 "Certainly. You'll be sleeping." His blow was so fast that
she saw it only as a blur. His fist struck her high on the
cheek.  She felt her skin part under the force of the blow.

 Everything went white, her vision gone, sudden shock de-
priving her of most of her senses. She drifted a moment,
aware that she may have overplayed this hand, and dimly felt
her back and head hit the floor. It should have hurt, but it
didn't.

 Her vision cleared a little, momentarily, and all she saw
was Repness standing over her, his leg drawn back.

 Then his booted foot swung forward to connect with her
temple and that was the last she knew.





 The X-wings of Wraith Squadron-the eight snubfighters remaining 
in the unit-made one pass before the bridge of the
Mon Calamari cruiser, waggling S-foils as a show of respect,
then curved around smartly and lined up, by pairs, for their
approach to the vessel's portside landing bay.

 Wedge and his temporary wingman, Face, were first through
the magcon field separating pressurized hangar from
depressurized space, first to see the reception party that
awaited them in the one clear area tucked in among a sea of
X-wings and shuttles. Wedge cut in his repulsors and reduced
power to his main engines, settling into a slow glide
forward, and was pleased to see Face mimicking his maneuver
precisely. They settled onto the first pair of landing
zones, facing the crowd that had gathered there, and brought
their canopies up in unison.

 Rogue Squadron stood before them, arrayed as precisely as a
firing squad. In front of the line of pilots was General Han
Solo, uncomfortable-looking in his New Republic uniform, his
expression a cocked smile that had to be from relief at
seeing Wedge.

 Wedge climbed down from his cockpit and removed his helmet.
He could feel as well as hear the repulsorlift whine of the
other Wraiths' arriving, plus the distant metallic chatter
of powered tools being used on repairs. That, and the smell
of fuel and lubricants, of ozone coming off the magcon
shield, made this hangar more comfortable and homey than any
set of quarters Wedge had occupied.

 He approached Solo and threw a precise salute. "Commander
Wedge Antilles and Wraith Squadron reporting for duty, sir."

 Solo's return salute was far less military. "Welcome
aboard Mon Remonda. Let's get the rest of your pilots in...
so I can get out of this torture suit,"

 Wedge affected surprise. "But, sir, I was just going to say
how smart you looked in your uniform. I think we ought to
stay here, in uniform, a couple of hours so the holographers
can capture the image. You know, for the historians."

Solo's grin didn't waver, but his expression was suddenly
somehow different. Something like an animal backed into a
corner. He kept his tone cheery. "Wedge, I think I'm going
to have you killed."

 "Yes, sir. I trust you'll wear your dress uniform for an
event like that."

 Han slumped in mock surrender. "You know, with my history,
I'd be the laughingstock of the New Republic if I ever
brought one of my officers up on charges of insubordination."

 "Yes, sir, I was sort of counting on that."

 Once the other pilots had landed and their X-wings were
shut down, it was handshakes all around. Wedge introduced
Rogues to Wraiths, and met Captain Onoma, Mon Calamari
master of the Mon Remonda.

 On the walk down from the hangar to the officers' quarters,
through hallways that seemed more organic than constructed
with their smooth curves and eye-pleasing rather than
industrial colors, Solo filled Wedge in on some pertinent
facts.  

 "Mon Remonda officially has four fighter squadrons
assigned to her. The fighter squadrons are: Rogue; Wraith;
Polearm; an A-wing unit; and Nova, a B-wing squadron. Of
course, you Wraiths are usually out on long patrols. In
practice, of course, Rogue, Nova, and Polearm have been
doing all the work while you Wraiths play pirate."

 "Is that irritation or envy in your voice?"

 "Envy. Want to trade?"

 "NO."

 "You could boss this whole anti-Zsinj task force. I could
arrange for a generalship for you."   

 "No."

 Solo sighed tolerantly. "Anyway, we've been cruising at the
theoretical borders of so-called Zsinj-controlled space.
When our scouting missions or Intelligence auxiliaries
report a good target, we go in and blow it up. We also assemble 
data on probable movements of Iron Fist, hoping to determine her
home port or predict her next destination. So far we're not
having much luck on that front, though we're pursuing data
and leads as aggressively as we can."

 "You might actually want to pursue leads a little less 
aggressively than that, if you get my drift."

 Solo led the parade of pilots into a large personnel 
turbolift, which carried them downward into the vessel's
interior.  

 "What do you mean?"

 "Zsinj uses a lot of intelligence-oriented techniques. If
he's planting any of the leads you're following, he may be
building up a profile of how Mon Remonda responds to leaked
information. Once he has a reliable profile in place, he
can drop the exact type and quantity of information to lead
you into the kind of trap not even a cruiser like this comes
out of."

 Solo whistled. "Good point. The data we've been getting
has been so fragmentary, so difficult to piece together,
that we haven't had any reason to believe any of it was
fabricated. But if we assume that Zsinj demands a pretty 
high level of performance even of enemy analysts..."

 "He does. If you'd like, I can have my intelligence
specialist-Shalla Nelprin, you met her in the hangar..."

 "Yes."

 "I can have her analyze the data you've been getting
and your responses to it to see if you're exhibiting any
sort of pattern."

 "I'll have it sent to the terminal in her quarters." Solo
now no longer looked uncomfortable. He looked serious and 
intent, and finally seemed the officer his uniform said he
was.






 Face came out of the turbolift behind Dia and one of the
Rogues, a Twi'!ek who had been introduced as Nawara Ven, and
overheard the Rogue try to start up a conversation. Face
didn't understand the words, assumed they were in Twi'leki,
the language of Ryloth, homeworld of the Twi'leks.

 But Dia's response was not in the same tongue. Her voice was
emotionless. "Speak Basic, please."

 Nawara Ven took a second to compose himself. "I'm sorry. I
said, we must get together sometime at your convenience to
talk."

 "About what?"

 "About home. About our experiences as Twi'leks in the armed
forces."

 "Rylotb was where I was born, but then it spat me out, made
me property of an Imperial crime-syndicate leader. Ryloth is
not my home. I don't have a home. And I doubt our experiences 
have been similar. Unless you've been a slave."

 "Well, no, but..."

 "Then we've probably exhausted available topics of 
conversation." She picked up the pace and moved up away from
the Rogue.

 Nawara turned to the other Rogue Twi'lek pilot, a larger man
with the upright, aggressive posture of a warrior. Face 
remembered that he had been introduced as Tal'dira.

 Tal'dira shrugged and gave Nawara a little smile. "I think
you lost that case, Counselor."

 "I don't think I was ever even in the courtroom."

 Face was just getting settled into the quarters he'd be
sharing with Myn Donos when his comlink blipped. It was
Wedge's voice: 

 "Lieutenant Loran, report to Commander Antilles."

 "Yes, sir."

 When he arrived in Wedge's quarters, his commander was
seated behind a fold-down desk and scowling over a datapad.
Face saluted. Wedge returned it absently and gestured for
him to sit, all without looking up.

 Wedge said, "The Lara Notsil situation seems to be... resolved."

 Face felt a little coldness settle in his stomach. "That
sounds pretty ominous, sir."

 Wedge finally met his eyes. "Well, not as ominous as all
that. She appears to have dropped the heavy end of the 
hammer on Colonel Repness... without involving you or Phanan.
Or indicating in any way that this was a setup."  

 "Sir?"

 "I've just received her record, because she has put in 
applications for transfer to Rogue Squadron or Wraith Squadron.
According to this document, Repness attempted to recruit her
to his unit of black-market thieves, she refused, he
assaulted her and had her drugged out of commission, a
prisoner in the infirmary... but a mystery code-slicer
aboard Tedevium caught Repness's activities in recordings
and forwarded them to Intelligence. They moved in and
seized Repness before any further harm could come to her."

 Face thought that over. "But if she otherwise kept to the
plan, then her scores would probably not let her graduate."

 "Right. According to this, when she was recuperating from
Repness's attack on her, she told Tedevium's commanding
officer that deciding to oppose Repness had settled some
problems she'd had, some issues remaining from the 
destruction of the colony where she'd grown up. She insisted on a
chance to demonstrate those changes, and the training
officers decided to give it to her. She went through an
accelerated training regimen and vaped it. Even averaging
those results with her earlier scores let her graduate-and
her efficiency profile puts her within the range suitable
for inclusion in my units."

 "I'm glad to hear it."

 "Both Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron are at full pilot
strength, so neither unit needs her. However, she has been 
assigned-and this is fitting-Colonel Repness's personal X-wing."

 Face snorted. "An act of revenge on the part of Tedevium's
commander?"

 "Probably. Tedevium's new commander is General Crespin, from
Folor Base, and that sounds just like his sense of humor.
It's also possible that Repness's snubfighter was considered
bad luck-you know how superstitious some pilots are. So,
anyway, I'll be bringing her into Wraith Squadron to help
boost our complement of snubfighters."  

 "That's great news, sir."

 Wedge gave him a challenging look. "Your job, and Phanan's,
is to make sure that it stays great news, Face."

 "Yes, sir."

 "You're awfully subdued, Face. Your sarcasm generator
not getting any power?"

 "Something like that, sir."

 "Relieved that this whole Lara Notsil situation hasn't shot
your career into a black hole or made an enemy of General
Cracken?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Well, I'll inform the smartmouths in the Wraiths that
you're temporarily easy pickings for them. Dismissed."




                                8




 "She has just been assigned to Wraith Squadron, which is
aboard Mon Remonda," said General Melvar.

 He and the warlord were alone in Iron Fist's officers'
lounge.  Yet the lounge was full of the noise of leisure and
pleasure - pilots chatting, glasses clinking, drinks
pouring-all part of an ambient-noise recording Zsinj usually
played at such times.

 The warlord froze with his drink halfway to his mouth.
Melvar could smell the drink; it was a good Coruscant brandy.
But Melvar knew that this had to be a synthesized
substitute, alcohol-free; despite appearances, Zsinj never
drank while in command of a ship. Yet he would knock down
shot after shot of the synthesized stuff and allow his
subordinates to believe that he was getting drunk, and his
body language and speech would confirm that analysis.

 Zsinj said, "But that's perfect. Arrange for her to give us
Mon Remonda's course and schedule. We'll destroy it, and
General Solo, and those most annoying X-wing units. For a
prize like that, I'll set Gara Petothel up for life and give
her whatever position on Iron Fist she wants."  

 "Other than mine, I hope."

 "Including yours." Zsinj smiled. "I'll find something even
better for you."

 "The problem is, we're not yet in contact with her. It took
us some time to put together a visual image of her, and more
time to compare it against and disqualify all current female
pilots in Antilles's squadrons, and even more time to trace
it to Lara Notsil, a pilot candidate in training. She'd
extensively changed her appearance."   

 "Wise of her."

 "And then she was on a training frigate at an unknown 
location, and then in custody there, and then in an advanced
training program there under intense scrutiny. We've been
able to follow her... but never approach her."

 Zsinj merely blinked at him. His expression said, How nice
that you have a problem. Now solve it.

 "So we've found one of her relatives. The relative will make
contact for us."

 "A relative of Gara Petothel?"

 "No, of Lara Notsil, the woman whose identity she took.
The community where she grew up, New Oldtown..."

  Zsinj shuddered. "Surely you're joking about that name."

 "On Aidivy. It was blasted out of existence by Admiral
Trigit when it refused to offer him supplies."

 "You're sure he didn't destroy it because of that name."

 "Since he's dead, I'll have trouble asking him. Anyway,
one of the real Lara Notsil's siblings, from New Oldtown..."

 "Don't ever say that name again. It annoys me."

 "-returned home after spending months at a naval job
under an assumed name. He was supposed to be serving
time in a jail in his hometown-whose-name-is-nevermore-
to-be-said."

 "So you recruited him."

 "I have an agent with him, teaching him to eat with 
implements, wear shoes, and pretend that Gara Petothel is his
sister.  He'll be transmitting a message saying, 'I'm alive,
understand you are the same.' With enough subtext that
she'll have no problem figuring out what's going on."

 "Good. Be speedy with this, Melvar. I want Mon Remonda off
my trail as soon as possible. Its crew and pilots are too
lucky and too efficient by far. Their continued existence
threatens to be very expensive to me."








 The world shown on the briefing room's holoprojector was not
a promising one. A medium-sized chunk of reddish-brown rock
with a few dark seas thrown in for contrast, it circled
around a yellow star notable only for its averageness.

 Wedge, on the dais, gestured to a tiny bright spot on the
world's surface. "This is the world Lavisar, and this point
is its chief port city, Syward. According to Lavisar's
central library, the planet was once part of a much larger
very-high-gravity world, one that was destroyed in a series
of asteroid collisions; Lavisar was ejected. It's a world 
where heavy metals are abundant, with mining and refining 
industries to match, plus a strong economic base in shipbuilding."

 "Just the sort of world Zsinj loves," said Face. At a 
questioning look from Rogue Squadron pilot Corran Horn, he 
explained, "We stumbled across the edges of a financial empire
belonging to Zsinj, one no one knew about previously. He
likes fairly innocuous worlds that have strong economies,
and he usually owns at least one business there under an
assumed name - a different name with each world. It might be
that he wants to have a fallback position in case these
worlds decide to side with the New Republic-his business
would still be able to help fund his military activities."

 Wedge continued, "And recent data supports the idea that
Lavisar is one of these worlds. Although the world is just
outside what we think of as Zsinj-occupied space, a recently
captured transmission, which our Intelligence people have
decrypted, indicates that there is a Raptor unit in Syward,
set up in the main construction plant of Skyrung Manufacturing, 
a licensee builder of Lambda-class shuttles."

 The Raptors were Zsinj's elite enforcement units. Better
trained and better equipped than Imperial stormtroopers,
they were the most commonly seen and recognized symbol of
Zsinj's power, much as the ubiquitous TIE fighter was the
universal symbol of Imperial domination.

 "So what is the plan?" asked Tal'dira, one of Rogue
Squadron's Twi'lek pilots. "Aerial strike, commando strike,
or a combination of the two?"

 "Maybe neither. Shalla, let's have your report."

 Shalla stood, apparently a little nervous under the scrutiny
of the Rogues. "I did an analysis of the way Mon Remonda
and her task force have been responding to various outside
stimuli-captured transmissions, confessions of captured
Zsinj personnel, that sort of thing - not including official
orders from the New Republic. This was against the possibility
that Zsinj has been leaking information to gauge our responses. 
And although there is some variation in response time, this task 
force shows a pretty consistent set of responses.  Each stimulus 
is graded as high priority, medium, low, and of possible interest -
those are my terms, not those of the task force's officer corps -
and a response is assigned according to grade. High priority, for 
example a response to a distress call from a New Republic ship 
that is nearby and under attack, will yield, without variation, an
assault force of a size calculated to be marginally superior
to the enemy force, sent in a straight-line path from Mon
Remonda's current location to the site of the trouble. A
stimulus like this one, the Lavisar signal, will inevitably
call for a ground team to confirm the signal source is a
target, followed by an aerial strike." She shrugged as if in
apology. "These responses have been predictable." She sat
down and began fidgeting.

 "And predictability," said Corran Horn, "gets you killed."

 "Then what should we do?" That was Gavin Darklighter, the
Rogues' pilot from Tatooine, a brown-haired young man whose
innocent features and country-boy demeanor belied his combat
experience. "Instead of an aerial strike, send flowers and
sweets?"

 "It's better than going in as usual," Shalla said. "It would
confuse them."

 Asyr, the Bothan flier, who sat beside Gavin with her arm
upon his, shook her head, rippling her fur. "But at the
first point we don't respond predictably, we tip Zsinj off
that we're onto him."

 Wedge smiled at her, and it was a hard-edged smile. "Welcome 
to the dilemmas of command. You're right. Now, let's make the 
situation even worse. After I received Shalla's-wait a moment." 

 He took his comlink from its clip  and spoke into it. 

 "Yes?"

 The Rogues and Wraiths heard a murmur from the comlink's
speaker but could not make out the words. Wedge said, "Yes,
by all means. A good time for it." He returned the device to
its clip. "After Shalla made her preliminary report on this
matter to me this morning, General Solo, Captain Celchu, and
I went over the data of Mort Remonda's mission so far.
Intelligence reports are very sketchy, but indicate that in
at least five of the sites this task force has attacked in
recent sorties, Raptor movements have drastically increased
and been quite public immediately after the sorties. Anyone
want to hazard a guess ?"

 There was no immediate response. Then the Rogues' executive
officer, Nawara Ven, raised a hand.   

 "Go ahead."

"If Zsinj wants to lead us around and gauge our responses,
he has to do so by giving up targets for us to attack.
Until a moment ago, I was assuming he was giving up targets
he owned or occupied, places that weren't very important to
him. But that wouldn't necessarily result in more public
Raptor activity after the raids." He frowned in concentration.
"But if he were planting evidence that sites that didn't
belong to him actually did..."

 Tyria said, "Then we'd be assaulting sites he wouldn't 
particularly mind being hit."

 Nawara gave her a close look. "Even worse. If they were
planets and facilities he'd been trying to add to his empire
by diplomacy, but failing, our attacks would have knocked
down their defenses drastically. Leaving them open to easier
conquest by Zsinj ... or at least further negotiation with
him, and not from a position of strength."

 Face put his hand on his head to quell a sudden threatening
headache. "You're saying that the task force has been doing
his work for him. All in the name of running down every
lead."

 Wedge nodded. "Very possibly. Further examination of
available data on Lavisar's central library computer
indicates that the population has a strong independent
streak, which accounts, more than anything else, for its
continued lack of interest in joining the New Republic or
Zsinj, or rejoining the Empire, which lost control of the
planet after the Emperor's death.

 "So our task is to respond predictably to this 'stimulus,'
as Shalla puts it, without doing Zsinj's work for him, and
without setting ourselves up for Zsinj's inevitable trap.
Hobbie, this was your idea."

 The mournful-faced second-in-command of the Rogues stood
uneasily. "Zsinj has every confidence that we can penetrate
standard planetary defenses and get our snubfighters and
support crews to the surface. We generally do. So my idea
was to send down a ground crew, plant a bomb on the side of
their main sensor station, and set it off... and it doesn't
destroy the emplacement. They keep full sensors."

 Gavin Darklighter frowned. "Wait a minute, wait a minute.
So we go blasting down toward the planet and they're completely 
aware of our approach ?"

 Hobbie nodded. "And they send up their forces and we turn
tail, having been repelled by the mighty defenders of
Lavisar."

 That got laughter from most of the pilots.

 "Rogue Squadron doesn't run," said Corran Horn, dead-pan. 

 "Unless we really, really have to." That got more laughter.

 "No," said Wedge, "this will be Wraith Squadron's mission."

 "We don't mind running," Face said. "Even when we don't have
to."

 "More importantly," Wedge continued, "we need to establish
that Wraith Squadron is indeed on Mon Remonda. Every chance
we get, we have to support the deception that we're here all 
the time. So-hold on, here's someone I want you to meet."

 The door at the back of the briefing chamber finished  hissing
up and open. In walked a woman in standard New Republic
pilot's uniform, still carrying her helmet and bag of possessions. 
Face recognized Lara, despite the bandage she wore on
her left cheek. He waved her over and she headed his way.

 Wedge continued, "Rogues, Wraiths, I'd like to introduce you
to Lara Notsil, newest pilot in Wraith Squadron. She hasn't
seen any action yet, but she's already brought clown a black-
market ring operating on a New Republic training frigate.
That's a pretty good start."

 Over the other pilots' applause, Lara settled in beside
Face. He decided that she looked weary, probably from her
long flight in, but alert.

  "Thank you," she said. "But before anyone feels that his 
own sideline business is threatened, let me just say that I 
am susceptible to bribes."

 That got a chuckle, and Wes Janson drew a hand over his brow
as if relieved.

 Wedge waved to return everyone's attention to him. "Back to
Lavisar, the subject at hand... we will be sending down an
Intelligence team, to plant our dud of a bomb... and to stay
there after our task force leaves the area. We're going to
take Shalla's analyses and present them to the planetary
governor.  Try to persuade him that Zsinj was setting him up
and that we, in our pragmatic mercifulness, let him go.
Maybe he'll be grateful. Maybe he'll side with the New
Republic. Second best would be him remaining with the Empire... 
but as a confirmed enemy of Zsinj."

 Face said, "That's pretty dangerous for our agents on the
ground, isn't it?"

 Wedge nodded. "Only one member of the team will make contact
with the governor. It'll be a volunteer from our Intelligence 
pool. If he or she doesn't return... the rest of the team will 
transmit the bad news and decide whether to stage a rescue 
operation or just try to get offworld."

 "He likes sunfruit liqueur," Lara said.

 Wedge stared at her. "Come again?"

 "Governor Carmal of Lavisar. He likes sunfruit liqueur. I
mean, just having some as a present for him might help a
little bit."

 "How do you know this?"

 She shifted, a little uncertain under the directness of
Wedge's stare. "When I was making my living on Coruscant, I
worked for a shipping company, processing data for them.
Lavisar was in their records as 'lost by separation,' a term
meaning the company had trade relations with them before
Coruscant fell to the New Republic but not afterward. There
was a lot of data on worlds and companies 'lost by
separation,' including information that the New Republic
doesn't have because it's trade-specific, so the company
representatives might have a slightly easier time resuming
relations once contact was made again."

 "Good to know. Do you have some sort of perfect memory?"

 "Well, a trick memory. Miscellaneous facts, trivia, statistical 
information, they all get pulled into my head and stay
there forever. I'm not so good with faces, but I can tell
you all the official holidays of more than fifty worlds,
and some holidays from another five hundred or so."

 "Interesting." Wedge turned to Squeaky, the 3PO unit
with mismatched gold and silver body parts, who lurked, as
was his custom, at the back of the briefing hall. "We..."

 "You don't need to say it," the droid said, his tone admon-
ishing. "We need sunfruit liqueur. And, doubtless, some of
the good stuff from a tropical world that knows how to turn
it out, not one of the Coruscant synthetics. I'll get to
work on it with my customary efficiency."

 "Well, in that case, let's wrap things up with our customary 
efficiency. The squadrons' senior staff will be putting
together the mission profile, but anyone who wants to earn
some extra points can work up his own version of this
approach-balk-and-run mission, and we'll take the best parts
of what we get. Questions? No? That's all."





 "A moment of your time, sir?" Tyria Sarkin stood in the door-
way to Wedge's quarters. She looked distinctly unhappy.

 "Of course. Come in."

 She declined to sit, instead standing at ease-though her
tense pose suggested that relaxation was impossible for her.

 "Sir, there are lots of rumors about Flight Officer Notsil
and that black-market ring."  

 "Yes?"

 "And I think you ought to know..." An expression of dismay
struggled across her face, but she managed to banish it.

 "No, you should have known some time ago, and I'm sorry I
didn't tell you. But you need to know that you might lose me
as a pilot."

 "Why?"

 "Because Notsil wasn't the first pilot candidate Major
Rep-Colonel Repness came to with this starfighter-stealing
scheme."

 Wedge regarded her steadily. A number of puzzle pieces
suddenly clicked into place. Face's and Phanan's personal 
involvement in this Repness matter. Phanan had talked of a
former trainee who'd spilled the story of Repness's black-
market activities to him... but had hinted that this trainee
had washed out and had met Phanan on Coruscant.

 He wondered if Tyria had been part of Phanan and Face's
plan all along. No; she was unskilled at deception, an
honest spirit who took no satisfaction in lying. A 
refreshing change from most of the other Wraiths. 

 "You didn't..."

 "No, sir. I didn't steal anything for him. But I did
something just as bad. I let him blackmail me into keeping
quiet. I could have turned him in, opposed him the way Notsil did...
but I didn't." Her shame was evident in her expression. "Repness 
was an obsessive record keeper, sir. He has records of my
scores. He can prove that he doctored them to let me pass.
And when that happens, they're going to vape my flying career..."

 Wedge sighed. "In the face of evidence like that, I doubt
I'll be able to offer you much protection."

 "I'm not here to ask for protection, sir. There is no protection. 
But I thought you ought to know-so you can prepare for
itmthat there's a possibility that I'm going to be yanked
from the squadron."

 "I understand. But let's say Repness doesn't accuse you.
That he gets in touch with you privately and says, 'I can
torp your career, but I won't. All you have to do is send me a
few creds to help pay my legal team for my defense.'"

 She took that hurdle without hesitation. "If he asks for one
credit, sir, he doesn't get it. Let him turn me in and be
damned."

 "You're sure."

 "I'm positive. I'm not going to let him have even the most
tenuous of leashes on me. No more. Not ever."

 He was silent a long moment. A shame she hadn't come to him
right away upon joining Wraith Squadron's training program.
If she had done so, he could have...

 Could have? No, perhaps he had done so. Just after joining
the Wraith Squadron, Flight Officer Sarkin had come to him,
not knowing who, further up along any official channels,
might be part of Repness's organization. Wedge had assigned
Face and Phanan to find someone to act as bait, and within
weeks they'd clone so, in the hospital on Borleias. It was
his plan, as well as Face and Phanan's, that had sent Lara
Notsil to Tedevium and Colonel Repness.

 The one thing that made him uncomfortable about this altered
history was that he would be taking credit for initiating a 
plan actually brought into being by two of his subordinates... 
but the results would be worth this little deception. 

 "Flight Officer Sarkin."

 She heard the change in his voice and snapped to attention.

"Sir."

 "You're too good a pilot for the squadron to lose you this
way."

 "I'm at the bottom of the squadron rankings, sir."

 "No longer true. One of the new pilots has taken over that
singular honor, at least temporarily. And even if it were
true, the so-called worst Wraith is one of the galaxy's most
dangerous opponents by any standard, else he or she wouldn't
be in the squadron."

 "Um..."

 "That didn't call for a response. Now, this is a direct order: 
If anyone comes to you with questions about your dealings with 
Repness, you will give no answers. Instead, tell him you are 
under orders, from me, not to discuss the matter-until he has 
come to talk to me. Do you understand?"

 "I understand the order, sir, but not what it means."

 "What it means is that you're going to be with the Wraiths
until you die or you decide to transfer-not until someone
outside the unit decides you're not one of us. Now, dismissed."
 
 Startled, she saluted and fled.

 Wedge sat back. His story would survive interrogation up
until the time anyone involved was called on to testify, but
his gut feeling was that it wouldn't go that far. If it did,
neither he nor his subordinates would commit perjury, and so
they'd be in for punishment from the investigators .... But
they'd all endured such punishment before. And would again,
to retain the skills and loyalty and comradeship of a pilot
like Tyria Sarkin.






 Lara Notsil paused just inside the broad opening to Mon 
Remonda's port hangar doors. Just stepping into the hangar was
entering a different world.

 The high-pitched whine of repulsorlift engines being tested
cut into her. It was a welcome noise now, one she'd come to
appreciate. Less welcome was the cold that accompanied it.

 The great doors at the hangar's far end were open, the cham-
ber's atmosphere held in only by its magnetic containment
field, and magcon was not an insulator-heat fled through the
field into the vacuum of space. Outside the atmosphere,
fighter hangars tended to be chilly places.

 The hangar was occupied by twenty-one X-wings, and they'd
been settled in tight to one another. Taking off without
grazing an adjacent snubfighter would be a minor challenge.
But that appeared to be characteristic of Commander Wedge
Antilles - never letting his pilots grow complacent, even with
such a simple task as taking off for a mission.

 She headed toward her X-wing. As the last squadron pilot to
land, she was in the rear of the packed formation, nearest
the magcon shield, so she'd be among the first to take off.
She waved at various Wraith and Rogue pilots, who
acknowledged her with waves of their own, shouts of
encouragement, or mock disparagement.

 She didn't know what to make of them or how they were
reacting to this mission.

 The mission itself made perfect sense. Go in, stage a failed
assault, try not to kill anyone - but defend yourself with all
necessary force - and then get out safely. Let Zsinj jump to
the wrong conclusion, that they'd fouled up and been driven
off.

 What was different, what was wrong, was the lack of 
disappointment among the Wraiths. Admiral Trigit's TIE-fighter
pilots would have accepted such a mission with just as much
discipline, but they would have been relentlessly unhappy
about the restrictions against unnecessary elimination of
the enemy. How can you reach the rank of ace, establish a
name, gain fame as a fighter pilot, without killing the
enemy? And the very prospect of leaving an armed enemy alive
would have been repellent.

 But these Rebel pilots took the restriction in good grace,
and their relaxed attitude about it seemed to be genuine.

 That, more than anything, bothered her about this unit.
The Rebel pilots were supposed to be barely restrained mad
dogs. Sure, she'd met several at the hospital on Borleias
who didn't match that profile, but those were men and women
recuperating from injuries, anxious to have some rest and
recreation. But these Wraiths and Rogues were gearing up
for combat. Their desire to eliminate the enemy should have
been strong in them.

 Perhaps Imperial evaluations of Rebel pilots were simply
wrong. Not even accidentally wrong-just distorted to provide
the Imperial pilots with more and better motivation to fight
fiercely. Imperial pilots were, in fact, kept at a honed
edge of ferocity, held at a barely contained level of fury
that sometimes boiled out into violence at inappropriate
times-in their quarters, with their families, on leave. By
comparison, these X-wing pilots seemed emotionally quite
healthy.

 She shook her head. That had been a treasonous thought,
dangerous to a woman who would be once again working for
Imperial forces in the near future. She tried to banish it.
She climbed the ladder to her snubfighter's cockpit. A Mon
Remonda mechanic was up there on the fuselage, making sure
the R2 unit tucked in behind the cockpit was securely
attached.  "You've got a beauty here," the man said.
The R2 unit emitted a chirpy series of musical notes, 
acknowledgment of the compliment.

 She stepped up into the cockpit and settled into her pilot's
couch. "Brand-new from the factory." It was true; Colonel
Repness could requisition new gear whenever a shipment was
delivered to his training squadron, and apparently did. Her
R2 unit, nicknamed Tonin, "Little Atton" in the Basic
dialect of Aidivy, since she'd had its memory purged, was
brand-new and unscathed, its base color a pretty silver
white, its trim color an arterial red. It was loaded with
several bells and whistles of top-of-the-line units. Warlord
Zsinj's quartermaster would doubtless feel a little flicker
of gratitude when she handed it over to him.

 "Best of luck, pilot."

 "Thanks."

 Moments later, she had her helmet on and canopy down
and was going through her power-up checklist. Four engines
showing green, full power-Repness had made sure his personal 
X-wing was in tip-top shape, too. She still needed the
mechanics to move the pilot's couch forward; it was
adjusted as far forward as it would go, and she had to
extend herself a little uncomfortably when handling rudder
pedals. Repness had been a tall man.

 Her comlink crackled into life. It was Wedge's voice: 

 "All right, Rogues, Wraiths. Call'em out in order."   "Rogue
One, ready."

 "Rogue Two, four lit and in the green."

 "Rogue Three, ready to dance."




 
 Only the Wraiths would be going as far as Lavisar. The
Rogues would accompany them as far as the Lavisar system's
outermost planetary ring, and would wait there. If, though
odds were against it, this mission was a Zsinj trap against
Mon Remonda, the Rogues would be ready to jump in and give
Zsinj's forces a surprise they might not be ready to
withstand.

 A sudden chill passed through her, one not even her 
insulated pilot's suit and cockpit heater could immediately
dispel.  The Wraiths were supposed to fire a few shots, even
land a few hits if they thought they could do so without
unnecessarily taking life, and then flee.

 But anything could happen. A laser blast aimed at a solar
wing array could miss and hull a starfighter's cockpit. A
sudden maneuver could startle a TIE-fighter pilot into
veering straight into the path of one of his fellows.

 Lara didn't want to kill today, and it wasn't for the
apparently altruistic reasons demonstrated by the Wraiths. If she
killed an Imperial pilot, how would she be regarded when she
returned to Imperial employ?

 "Wraith Twelve, ready for lift." 

 That was Piggy's mechanical voice. She'd left a note to 
herself, in the portions of her mind that were so usefully 
automatic, for his voice to cue her own response. She shook 
away all the thoughts distracting her and said, "Wraith 
Thirteen, four green and topped off."

 "Exit by current formation, by proximity to the magcon
field, then form up by wings and units."   That made her
first.

 She began to run through the checklist in her mind that
covered repulsorlift backing, rotating, exiting this type of
facility - but no, it was not a good idea to overintellectualize 
among these pilots. She took the pilot's yoke, engaged the 
repulsorlift, and pulled up and backward with a smooth motion, 
beginning her rotation before she was two meters into the air. 
She smoothly cruised through the magcon field, which permitted 
her passage without the slightest discernible resistance.  And
she was in space.

 Not for the first time; she'd flown training missions with
the Y-wings of Screaming Wookiee training squadron after
Repness's arrest, had soloed in both Y-wings and Repness's 
X-wing, had flown her own choice of course to rendezvous with
Mort Remonda. But this was her first action.

 She continued with repulsorlifts and rose until her stern
pointed into empty space well above the entrance to the
hangar, then engaged her thrust engines and pulled smoothly
away from the Mon Calamari cruiser. Smooth, and by the
numbers - but she was still acutely aware of the eyes that
were and would be upon her.

 Moments later, Wedge pulled beside and slightly ahead
of her, and Face Loran took up position on the other side of
the commander, drawn back level with her. As the ninth pilot
of a unit that normally flew by paired wingmen, Lara had
been assigned as the temporary third member of an existing
pair.






 They'd timed their arrival so that the face of Lavisar
featuring its capital city, Syward, would be dead ahead when
they emerged from hyperspace. And so it was: When the
dazzling light show that was the end of a hyperspace jump
faded, the Wraiths were aimed squarely at the portion of
Lavisar's red-brown face that featured the largest
recognizable glowing dot. Off to their starboard and ahead
was the planet's largest moon, black in the eclipse shadow
of the planet. The moon's gravity well, whose influence
extended into hyperspace, had, as they'd intended it to,
plucked them back into real-space. While this close to the
moon, they would not be able to reenter hyperspace, and as
they got closer to the planet's surface, the situation got
even trickier; Lavisar had a number of moons, all of them
large enough to hinder hyperspace jumps.

 "Great placement, Twelve." Wedge's voice again. "All right. 
We should have a five-to-ten-minute window before they
can bring online any secondary sensor arrays worth worrying
about. Remember, you'll be aiming for a complex three times
as long as wide, featuring sky-blue buildings..."

 "Leader, this is Eight." Face's voice. "Visual sensors on
the Syward military base show TIE fighters scrambling. I see
two full squadrons mobilizing. They're wearing planetary 
defense colors."

 "They can't be coming after us, Eight. Their sensors-can you
visually scan their main sensor station?"  

 "Working on it, Leader."

 Lara smiled. Though their transmissions were encrypted, she
had to assume the Wraiths would be using a code sequence
that had been in use for a while-one whose useful lifetime
was nearing an end. If the planetary defenders recorded
enough of these transmissions and could crack them, the
Wraiths' pre-scripted dialogue would sound perfectly normal
for a botched mission in progress.

"Tonin, scan normal Imperial frequencies," she said. "Send
anything you hear that sounds like pilot traffic to my
helmet comlink. When Wraith transmissions and Imperial
transmissions conflict, continue recording the Imperial
transmissions but let me hear only the Wraiths."

 The display unit set aside for communication with the as-
tromech popped up with a quick reply: 

 UNDERSTOOD.

 And almost immediately she began to hear faint, fuzzy
transmissions, garbled words: "...ming up. Deploy by fists...";

"...file suggests still in approach vec..."

 "Leader, Eight. Visual sensors show the ground sensor
complex intact. There seems to be some scoring damage on the
northeast wall and civilian crews there. It looks like our
ground team fouled up."

 Even distorted by New Republic comm equipment, Wedge's voice
was hard. "They're going to be sorry they got back to us.
They'll wish they only had Lavisar authorities to deal with.
Wraiths, come about in formation. Twelve, confirm and then
transmit our escape vector."   

 "Twelve, understood."

 The Wraiths began a slow sweep, bringing them around toward
deep space again, taking them back out the way they had
come.

 "...trol indicates enemy force is flee..."; "Stay in formation,
we're chasing them all the way..."; "...like banthas to the
hunters. Stay tight."

 Lara frowned. That last transmission had not sounded right.

 "Tonin, can you plot the origins of the Imperial transmissions 
you've received so far?"

 APPROXIMATELY.

 "Do so. Put them up on my sensor board."

 Her sensor screen, which previously had shown only the
two nearby planetary bodies and a single blue blip representing 
all the Wraiths, now added two fuzzy red fields-one at
the planet's surface, one near the nearest moon's surface at
a point not too distant from the Wraiths' escape vector. The
fields wavered as the astromech continuously recalculated
probable points of origin and projected them onto the
screen.

 "Tonin, subtract the Lavisar transmissions from the image."

 DONE.

 "Transmit the image to Wraith Leader's R2 and ask him to put
it on his sensor screen."

 DONE.

 She activated her comm system. "Leader, this is Thirteen.
I'm picking up indications that we have company ahead. Probably 
the garrison of a lunar station."

 "Understood, Thirteen. Good work. Wraiths, break to
starboard on my lead. Twelve, give us a new escape course."

 "Twelve, understood."

 Wedge rolled out to starboard, a course that would take the
Wraiths past one of Lavisar's secondary moons - and keep them
within troublesome gravity wells, unable to jump to
hyperspace, even longer, but now the shortest course away
from the planet and new enemies. Lara followed, her maneuver
as smooth as that of the commander's other wingman.

 New activity on the sensor board: a single red blip distancing 
itself from the primary moon, heading toward the Wraiths
on an intercept course. As Lara watched, the blip became
two, one ahead, one lagging behind. She adjusted the display
to zoom in on the image and saw that the forward blip was
registering as a full squad of TIE fighters, moving at maxi-
mum speed, while the rear blip was four units "unknown type"
with a 75 percent probability that they were Lambda-class
shuttles.

 That made sense. A manufacturer making Lambda-type vehicles
probably had a production combat model, one with heavier
armor and equipped with heavy guns, to supplement its space
forces.

 "Wraiths, this is Leader. My astromech calculates that the
lunar unit will be on us before we clear the gravity well of
that second moon. Once they encounter us-assuming we engage
them - we'll have about three minutes before the planetary
units catch up to us. Mission Order One is rescinded. Engage
and eliminate the lunar force with all dispatch. Then form
up and get back to our escape course. Twelve?"

 "I have a flexible escape course plotted, lacking only the
crucial variable-the exact point we join up and prepare to
exit."

  "Good. Get ready."



                            9



 When the incoming TIE fighters were only a handful of kilo-
meters away, Wedge announced, "S-foils to attack position.
Break by pairs, choose your targets, make it fast." He
suited action to words by rolling out, a smooth maneuver
that carried him directly toward the enemy force.

 Lara followed suit, with Face Loran a split second late but
equally sure-handed. The sound of someone's breathing, harsh
and ragged, filled her ears, then she realized she was
listening to herself. She forced her breathing to slow,
forced herself to concentrate.

 The first part would be a head-on confrontation between TIEs
and X-wings, the two forces approaching at maximum speed,
firing as they came. Once the lines crossed, the more 
maneuverable TIE fighters would whip around to try to get on
the slower X-wings' tails-simple strategy. And the X-wing
pilots would be doing everything they could, using all their
combined experience, to shake this deadly pursuit.

 She put all shield power to her bow shields for the head-to-
head approach. Wedge and Face had to have done the same by
now.

 That was an interesting thought. Wedge Antilles, flying
mere meters ahead of her with no power to his stern shields.
She could put a quad-linked laser blast into his engines and
erase his name, so hated by Imperial pilots, from the roster
of New Republic warriors.

 Rebel warriors, that is. Then - what? Take out Face Loran with
an identical shot, transmit a surrender to the Lavisar
forces, get an escort down to the planet's surface... and
live the rest of her life in the fame that belonged to the
pilot who shot down Wedge Antilles.

 Such an odd feeling. Wedge Antilles was under her guns, yet
he trusted her with his life.

 He had no reason not to, of course. But he did. No one had
in - how long? Forever.

 She could eliminate him with a twitch of the finger.
It should have been tempting. Yet, somehow, it wasn't.
Such an attack would be treacherous.

 She laughed. Listen to yourself. There's no such thing as
treachery. Only efficiency. That was one of the basic tenets
of Imperial Intelligence, and she had lived by those words.
But at a certain point she had decided that Admiral Apwar
Trigit was treacherous. He'd chosen to sacrifice a shipload
of dedicated servicemen so their vessel would not fall into
the hands of the New Republic, and she had engineered his 
destruction because of that decision. She had taken revenge on
him for a concept as simple, and as out of place for an
Intelligence officer, as personal honor.

 Tonin beeped a warning. The range meter dropped to two
kilometers, the distance at which New Republic targeting 
systems could begin to place shots in an almost accurate
fashion.  The numbers continued to drop, and Wedge and Face
both fired, their red laser blasts, quad-linked beams of
pure destruction, lashing out toward Lavisar's defenders.
Her breath became ragged again as something, a fog that
thoughts couldn't quite penetrate, closed down over her
brain.  Defend your wingman. Can't kill Imperial pilots. The
price on Wedge Antilles head means years of security. Zsinj
is the same as Trigit.

  She switched her lasers to single fire, fast cycle, which
would allow her to fire an almost continuous stream of 
low-powered blasts, and brought up her targeting computer. 
Immediately the system's yellow brackets settled in a jittery
fashion around one of the oncoming TIE fighters and turned
green, indicating a lock. The cockpit audio system howled
in confirmation.

 Reflexively, she fired. Her red laser streaked past the 
on-coming TIE fighter, but she held the stick down and the
system cycled, blast after blast emerging. She shook the
yoke in her hand, spraying fire around as though using a
nozzle to water a patch of grass, and saw one of the beams
strike home, charring a hole in the starfighter's port solar
array wing.

 It was so close - she tried to keep her spray of fire 
concentrated on it, and then there was a tremendous bang and 
her X-wing shook from bow to stern. The module holding the
S-foil configuration switch popped out of its housing and
dropped before her eyes, swaying there, held to the upper
bank of controls by wires.

 She swatted it out of the way, tried to look out the
viewports, at the diagnostic display, at the sensor display all
at the same time. The viewport showed Wedge rolling out up
and to port. She gave up on the viewscreens and followed.

 "Tonin, give me a loud beep if we're badly hit."  

 No beep.

 "Good job, Thirteen." That was Three, she thought.

 "That's a confirmed kill."

 "Thanks, Three." His words hovered outside the shield of
stray thoughts that seemed to be insulating her brain.

 Behind-the enemy would be coming up behind. She looked back, 
saw only the top of Tonin's dome head, and checked the sensors 
again. Yes, two TIE fighters were coming around fast, trying to 
take up positions behind her. But they were making a broad loop 
to do it, perhaps intimidated by the firepower they'd just come 
through. She could try to cut hard to starboard and might be in 
position for another head-to-head by the time they got their guns 
fixed on her... No. Her job was to follow her wingman. Protect him.

 Wedge cut hard to starboard. She followed, her turn not quite as 
precise. The maneuver was too much for the X-wing's inertial 
compensator and the metal box holding the S-foil configuration 
switch swung on its wires, slamming into the side of her helmet. 

 She ignored it, tried to stay with her leader, and held to his 
port rear quarter, though space opened up between them. A glance 
out her own port viewport showed Face there, struggling to maintain 
formation.

 A green laser blast appeared, blindingly bright, between her
and Face. Wedge finished his maneuver, firing already at the
two oncoming TIE fighters. Lara tried to place her targeting 
brackets on one of the two, couldn't manage it-the starfighter 
was too maneuverable, jittering out of the way. She fired anyway, 
her spray of single-shot lasers slicing through vacuum near the 
TIE fighter's starboard wing.

 The TIE pilot jerked away from the bombardment of red fire,
drifted to port... straight into Wedge Antilles's quad-linked
blast. The quartet of lasers sliced cleanly through
the fighter's spherical cockpit. The TIE fighter disappeared
in a glorious explosion of red, orange, and yellow, and Lara
heard clanks and pings as her X-wing sliced through the
cloud.

 There were also the echoes of a scream. Lara shook her head.

 She couldn't have heard the pilot.

 Unless he was transmitting. "Tonin, cut my reception of
Imperial comm traffic at once."

 DONE.

 "Two for Leader, one for Thirteen." That was Two again.

 Lara swatted at his intrusive voice as though it were that
damned configuration switch. She tried to find the other TIE
fighter on her sensors, but the closest enemy was outbound,
head toward the cloud of red blips representing the two full
squadrons from Lavisar's surface.

 In fact, all the remaining TIE fighters-five of them-were
outbound.

 "Wraiths, Leader. Form up. Twelve, make your calculations
and get us out of here. I make it less than a minute before
they overtake us. Give me status reports by number."

 "This is Three. No kills. Minor damage to port topside
fuzial engine. I'm shutting it down."   

 "Four. Two kills. No damage."

 It was there, battering at her head as insistently as the
switch housing swinging into her helmet, a thought that
wouldn't let her go. Zsinj is the same as Trigit. Why had
she thought that?

 Because it was true. Raptor forces had not risen against the
Wraiths. Had this been a Zsinj-controlled planet, Raptors
would have been the first forces up - they had to maintain
their reputation for brutality and efficiency. So this world
was independent and the intercepted Raptor transmission a
false lead, as the Wraiths had said.

 And since the forces of Lavisar weren't set up for the
Wraiths - else there would have been a lot more of them - 
this was just what Commander Antilles had said: a plan by
Zsinj to have New Republic....

 Rebel...  Rebel forces hurt the planer's defenses, maybe 
knock them down. So Zsinj could move in, either as a conqueror 
or a defending hero. Those two choices were the same: Zsinj in
control.

 She wanted to admire the plan, especially as it extended to
the other worlds Mon Remonda had been assaulting. It was
clever, efficient.

 But those pilots, who'd just been sacrificed, who'd died to
satisfy Zsinj's sense of efficiency. It was like Admiral
Trigit.  And it wasn't...

 "Thirteen."

  ...honorable. There was no honor in it.

 And the last fifteen years of Gara Petothel's life closed in
around Lara Notsil like a coffin. Her parents' work for Imperial 
Intelligence. Their arrest and execution for unspecified treason. 
How Gara had hated them, missed them. How she'd learned, so 
eagerly, and demonstrated such loyalty, so that nothing like 
that would ever happen to her.

 "Thirteen."

 All her life, she'd known not to believe the Rebels and
their simplistically optimistic propaganda. Now she could no
longer put her faith in the forces that had taken her,
trained her, shaped her. There was nothing for her.

 Tonin's irritable beeping finally caught her attention.

 LEADER WANTS TO KNOW IF YOU'RE HURT.

 "Oh. Uh..." She keyed her comlink. "Sorry, Leader. Thirteen
reporting..." She finally scanned her diagnostic board.

 "Forward shields down to forty-seven percent but climbing. I
think I took a hit in that first head-to-head. Some gauges
out."

 She grabbed the S-foil switch where it hung and switched it.

 Her S-foils did not close up into cruise configuration. "S-
foil actuator seems to be out. And I think I hit my head."

 "Drop your shield, you don't need it. Don't worry about your
S-foils. Just acknowledge receipt of the new course and
prepare to enter it on my mark."

 "Understood, Leader. Um, I've received the course and it
checks out."

 "Three, I want you to engage hyperdrive five seconds after
the rest of the squad launches, in case battle damage has
knocked out anyone's drive." 

 "Got it, One."

 "On my mark, three, two, one... Jump."

 They returned to Mon Remonda's port hangar much as they'd
left it, a little more battered, with Piggy's fuselage
scored by a laser graze, with Lara's S-foils unable to
assume cruise position, but otherwise unhurt.

 Lara climbed out into a chaotic sea of backslaps and 
embraces, handshakes and congratulations.

 Everyone seemed to move in slow motion. Words were slowed,
almost incomprehensible, and sounds were muted.  Tyria's
blond ponytail swayed with the sinuous motion of a snake.
Piggy's reserved arm motions, as he described some
complicated maneuver or another, seemed to be those of a
Gamorrean in low gravity.

 01Yet the one thing Lara understood was the expressions turned
on her. They were the eyes of a group to whom she belonged.
Not since her parents' loss had she seen that expression.

 And the Wraiths and Rogues weren't saying it, weren't 
deliberately expressing the thought, "You are one of us." 

 No, it was implicit, a backdrop to whatever else they were
saying.  Good job noticing that backup squad. Nice shot;
how'd you manage it with your lasers on single fire? Your
first kill silhouette, congratulations and condolences.

 One of us.

 She worked her way out from the midst of the crowd and
walked, still somehow insulated from the words and physical
sensations of the world around her, to the pilots' quarters
she now shared with Tyria.

 Maybe she could do it. Maybe she could just be Lara Notsil,
forever, with Lieutenant Gara Petothel, that poor, unhappy
creature, truly among the dead of the Star Destroyer
Implacable.

 One of us.

 She slept, and in her dreams Gara and Lara argued with
one another, speaking words she could barely hear and
couldn't understand, exchanging thoughts that would make no
sense when she awoke, and she did not know which of the two
wore her face.






 When the Wraiths returned to Hawk-bat Station, with their
new member in tow, they found that the other members of the
squadron had not been idle. On his own initiative, Kell
Tainer had plotted and led two missions, all because of
Runt.

 "We determined that they, the people of Halmad, had made a
mistake," the long-faced alien said, pride in his voice.  He
stood at the head of the cargo module that served as the
Wraiths' conference room; the pilots were packed in around
its narrow oval table. "They had installed a new set of
sensor stations on the west coast of Hullis's continent and
decommissioned the older sensor stations out in the western
islands. But when we examined the specifications of those
new sensors, we discovered that their effective range was a
couple of hundred kilometers short of the area they were
supposed to cover.

 Meaning that we now possessed a narrow corridor of airspace
we could drop into without any real likelihood of detection.
After that, with terrain-following flying to make other 
sensor tracking difficult, we were able to stage raids on
ground emplacements."

 "Raid number one," Kell said, "was on a port warehouse
district in the city of Fellon. Not much booty there, I'm
afraid. We picked up a large stock of recreational holos 
being produced by the Imperials, propaganda dramas to make 
Face blush..."
 
 "That'd take some doing," Face said. "I'm shameless."

 "True. But also, in taking off, we strafed the marina where
the recreational water vessels of the city's wealthy-and
other people, including the wealthy of the city of Hullis
and the officers of Victory Base there-were docked. Did a
few dozen million credits' worth of damage to some very
pretty vessels.

 "In our second mission, we struck at Hullis herself. We put
Castin on the ground the day before to do what he could with
security systems, and then Phanan and I flew in, blew a hole
in the side of a building, and flew out with as much cargo
as we could load without sacrificing the flying speed of our
TIE fighters."

  "What cargo ?" Wedge asked.

 "Imperial credit notes, coin, gems. We hit one of the offi-
cial money-exchange sites used by the Imperial base."

 Wedge gaped. "You robbed a bank."

 "We did. It was fun, too. Getting clear was a little tricky -
that close in, it's impossible to elude their sensors - but we
just took off straight for space, suffered their antiaerial-
invasion gun barrage, and outflew the TIEs they sent in
pursuit. End result, a few dings and pits in Phanan's
starfighter."

 "To match," Phanan said, "the few dings and pits in its
pilot."

 "Tell them what I did," Castin said.

"Oh, that's right. In the day or so he had before his extrac-
tion, Castin managed to forge us a high-level account on
their global information service. We're now being bounced
visual and sensor data from their planetary defense
satellite network.

 It's not being beamed straight at us, don't worry-we've set
up a relay near one of the existing satellite-belt mining
colonies. If it's detected, we can detonate the retransmitter before
they're likely to get it open. Anyway, we've picked up signs that
they're constructing a couple of small starfighter bases, possibly
as a counter against our ground missions. One of them is near
Fellon, the other way out east of Hullis in a region that
doesn't seem to need the extra protection, so now we have to wonder
what is out there." Kell smiled, his expression reflecting a
simple pride in the Wraiths' accomplishments while most of
the officers were gone. "Castin has also modified the comm
systems in all our TIEs so they distort our voices more
effectively-the new computer-controlled distortion actually
modi+fies accents and changes genders, making it even harder
for listeners to identify our voices."

 "That's good work," Wedge said. "But on this pirate ac-
tivity, I just wish you all didn't look as though you'd
enjoyed yourselves so much."

 Phanan snorted. "A happy worker is a productive worker."

 Wedge nodded. "But a happy pirate is a career pirate. You do
remember that the Hawk-bats are a front, a sham?"

 Kell and Phanan exchanged looks suggesting that this was
news to them.

 "That's what I thought. Anything else?"

 Runt said, "Yes. We have also identified the regular sched-
ule and course of a refueling tanker that leaves Helmed,
takes a tour of government mining operations in the asteroid
belt, and returns to the city of Hullis. It is now escorted
by a couple of TIE fighters, but I think that with the
proper surprise we could take them before a distress signal
is sent. If we capture the tanker but fly it along its
regular course, that gives us one opportunity to drop our
entire squadron and perhaps Sungrass as well down on Hullis,
should we ever need to mount a larger-scale mission there...
or just capture a refueling tanker should we ever need one."

 "Good to know. All right, Wraiths..."

 "Hawk-bats," corrected Kell, absently.

 Wedge gave him a stern look. "Wraiths, make sure your pirates'
take is logged to the last credit for your report to
Coruscant. Now, with the good work you did while we were
gone, you've added quite a lot to the sting the government
of Helmed has to be feeling." He began counting items off on
his fingers.

 "We've hurt them militarily with the theft of the interceptors
and then of the replacement parts. We've put civilian pressure
on them with that water-vehicle raid. We've hurt them economically 
with the money changers' strike, and that will also result in
more civilian pressure. And we've demonstrated that we can
enter their airspace and leave at will, no casualties, no
apparent effort that they can discern, and that's the most
important thing. They've lived at a relative level of peace 
for too long and don't know how to cope with a unit like the 
Wraiths. With any luck, that will put them in the camp of 
Zsinj and his protection..."

 "So Zsinj can come and squash us," said Face.

 Wedge smiled. "If you're as tough to squash as you are to
predict, he'll be in for an unpleasant surprise.

 "All right. Let's keep the pressure up on them. I want those
two starfighter bases eliminated - a clear message to the
Imperial forces on Halmad that anything they can construct,
the Hawk-bats can knock down. And I think, to demonstrate
our superiority and their helplessness, we ought to stage
those two eliminations simultaneously. So let's settle in
and do some planning."








 One of the base's inhabitable cargo modules had been
equipped to serve as the squadron's cafeteria, with an
adjoining module serving as the galley. While most of the
Wraiths had been away on Mon Remonda, Kell and mechanic
Cubber Daine had used laser cutters to open a large portion
of the wall facing the Trench, giving it the aspect of a
large viewport minus transparisteel, and had improvised
additional chairs and tables out there. Now the Wraiths had
a dining choice of "inside" or "outside on the patio." Face
had seen Wedge shaking his head over these minute decorative
differences, but the squadron commander had never stepped in
to regiment the Wraiths on such matters.

 Tonight, after the last long planning session before 
Operation Groundquake - as Tyria had nicknamed the plan to knock
down two Imperial bases - Face ate at a table "on the patio."
Usually he shared a table with Phanan, a platform from which
the two of them could harangue the other diners, but tonight
his wingman was at an inside table with Lara Notsil. Face
couldn't fault Phanan his choice of companions; Lara was 
attractive, quick-witted, good company. He saw her laugh at
one of Phanan's jokes.

 There was a little tension in her body language. She probably 
still didn't feel that she fit in with the Wraiths. It was 
likely that she wouldn't for a while.

 Lara spoke a few words to Phanan, good cheer still evident
in her expression, then policed her tray and left. Phanan
remained behind.

 And Face saw his partner do something uncharacteristic.
Phanan slowly settled into an attitude of stillness so
profound that it would have been difficult for an observer
to tell whether he was alive or dead, had he not been
breathing. Other than the slow rise and fall of his chest,
nothing moved; his one human eye was closed, and his
posture gradually slumped into an attitude of profound
resignation, of complete defeat.

 Face rose and approached him, stepping over the low lip of
the new opening. "Ton ?"

 Phanan jerked upright, and his expression was suddenly
merry. "Face! Just the man. Polish my boots, would you, son?
I have a mission tomorrow."

 Face gestured at his own lieutenant's insignia.

 "Oh, that's right. In spite of my superior intellect, you
figured out who to bribe first. My loss." Phanan rose and
quickly cleaned off his tray, stowing it in the rack set
aside for that purpose.

 "Are you all right?"

 Phanan looked at him, evidently confused. "Of course. Oh, 
the boots thing is a disappointment, of course. Maybe I
can get Wedge to clean them."

 Face snorted. "You're angling to get in some laser target-
ing practice, aren't you ? As the target."

 "No, I've been there. No desire to repeat the experience."
Phanan stretched and yawned. "I'd better hit my bunk. Mission 
tomorrow."

 "That's right."

 Phanan breezed past him with a final smile and headed up the
Trench toward the flight officers' quarters. Face let him
go, but felt unsettled, as though he'd seen some sort of
simulacrum of Phanan walk by, with the real Phanan missing
and unac-counted for.






 An hour later, after doing a last simulation run against
Fellon Base, Face stopped by the quarters Phanan shared with
Piggy.  His initial rap at the door elicited no answer, so
he knocked again.

 "Go away. Or, if you're at lieutenant rank or higher, go
away, sir."

 "I need to speak to you, Ton."

 "Tomorrow."

 "Right now."

 "I'm with somebody."

 "I know. Piggy said you'd asked him to bunk out for the
evening. This will only take a moment."

 The door into the modified cargo module opened with a hiss. 
It wasn't a mechanical hiss; the modules didn't have 
hydraulic doors. The noise was a sound of exasperation, and
Phanan made it. The cybernetically enhanced pilot wore a
loose robe of scarlet silk and an irritated expression.

 "What?"

 Face squeezed past him into the module's first chamber.

 These modules were divided into three chambers, the largest
for socializing, the next largest containing two bunks, the
smallest acting as a refresher. Face saw that the terminal
here in the main chamber was alive but with nothing on it.

 "There's no one here."

 "Keep your voice down. She's back in the bunkroom."

 "There's no one there, either."

 "Are you calling me a liar?" There was no anger in
Phanan's tone, just curiosity.

 "You don't drink when you're entertaining. And I can smell
the booze in the air."

 Phanan shrugged negligently and pulled a bottle from his
robe pocket. The label identified it as Halmad Prime,
doubtless a diverted part of the shipment the "Hawk-bats"
had seized off Barderia. Phanan held it out. 

 "Care for some?" 

 "No. What's the matter, Ton?"

  Phanan shut the module door and sat-slouched, rather - on 
the chamber's inflatable sofa. "I get drunk faster these
days."

 "A sign of age?"

 "No." Phanan shook his head. "There's less of me for the
alcohol to pollute. Every year, less meat, more machine. So
the alcohol goes to work faster."

 Face pulled the terminal chair around and sat wrongways in
it so he could lean forward against its back. 

 "I'm not sure I understand."

 "She wasn't interested, Face. In me."

 "Lara ?"

 "Yes, Lara. Well, actually, at various times, Falynn, Tyria,
various ladies on Folor, Borleias, and Coruscant, then
Shalla, Dia, and most recently Lara." He tipped the bottle
up and took a long pull from it.

 Face snorted. "Maybe you need to work on your technique.
What sort of invitation did you make her?"

 "Ah, that's just it. I didn't make any sort of invitation. I
just sat with her, and talked with her, and read her eyes.
She thought my jokes were funny. She was interested in my
stories about the campaign we waged with Admiral Trigit. She
liked me, I think she did. But... other than that...
nothing. I held no other appeal for her. And that's the way
it's been for quite some time."

 "Look, Ton, being at war kind of limits all our social
lives. I'm sure you'll find someone..."

 "Finish that idiotic gesture of reassurance and I'll be
obliged to put your face through this wall," Phanan said.

 His tone was mild, but there was no mistaking the seriousness 
in his words. He wasn't even looking at Face, he hadn't moved 
or tensed, yet something in his tone made his threat very real. 

 "You don't understand."
 
 "Make me understand."

 Phanan looked up at the low ceiling of the cargo module
as if seeing through it, as if staring at a starry sky in
the hope that it could provide inspiration. "A long time ago, 
back at the Battle of Endor, the frigate I was working on as 
a doctor was hit by an Imperial barrage. Blew out whole sections
of the hull, sucked crewmen out into hard vacuum. I was hit 
by a falling beam superheated by laser fire. One minute I'm 
helping a pilot with a concussion, the next minute that 
pilot's been dead for two weeks and I'm just waking up with 
a mechanical half a face and a mechanical leg.

 "Ever since then, no woman has looked at me with any sort of
serious interest."

 "It's not the leg or the face, Ton."

 "I know that, you moronic nerf." Phanan glared at him,
the glowing optic that served him as a left eye making the
expression malevolent. "But something died when I was hit
in that medical ward, and I think it was my future. I think
people, maybe only women, can just look at me and say,
'There's no future in him.'"

 "That's ridiculous."

 "There's no mechanical replacement for a future, Face.
And every time I take a hit, and they have to cut away
another part of me and replace it with machinery because I'm
allergic to bacta, every time that happens I seem to be a
little further away from the young doctor who had a future.
He can't come back, Face. Not all of him is here anymore."

 "Ton..."

 "Don't give me some line about my not knowing what I'm
talking about because I'm drunk and morose. I know I'm
drunk and morose. But the truth of what I'm telling you is
around me all the time, even when I'm not drunk. Even when
I'm enjoying everything about my life. No future, and no one
in my future."

 "You have your friends, Ton."

 Phanan nodded. "Yes, I do. And I'm grateful for them. But
my friends are my present. And when I try to look from where
they are to where my future is, there's just no one there.
No future."

 "I don't know what to tell you. I wish you didn't feel this
way."

 "Me either."

 "Give me the bottle."

 "I know. Mission tomorrow." Phanan handed over the bottle, 
two-thirds of its contents gone.

 "If you're not right for the mission tomorrow morning, I
want you to tell me."

 "Yes, Lieutenant."

 Face wanted to say more, but the sudden formality of Phanan's 
last reply had somehow propelled him out of the conversation. 
He just shook his head and left.




                                 10




 Tyria entered the bunkroom module she now shared with Lara
and waved the datacard she held. 

 "Mail from home."

 Lara gave her an uncertain smile. 

 "Should I leave so you can watch it in private? That's not 
a problem."

 "It's not for me. Most of my family is gone, and what's left
is on Toprawa - and no mail comes off Toprawa." This was true;
the world, where Rebel Alliance forces had staged delivery
of information that had been vital to the destruction of the
first Death Star, had been punished by the Empire as an act
of warning. Its cities had been destroyed, its people
reduced to barbarism. "And this is addressed to you. I'd be
happy to leave if you want privacy."

 Lara took the card, curious, and slid it into the appropriate 
slot on her terminal. Her name came up at the top of the
screen, and a prompt to enter her password. File information
showed that the message was much too large for a mere text
transmission, so it was bound to be voice and image. 

 "No, that's all right. I have no secrets." She entered her
password and brought up the mail message.

 A man's face, good-looking and somewhat roguish, surrounded 
by black hair cut close and a trim mustache; behind
was a plain beige wall, a table with some holos on it, an
open viewport showing a landscape of blasted, black ground.

 "Hello, Lara," the man said. "I don't imagine you ever
thought you'd hear from me again."

 Lara frowned. Who was this man? Then she recognized his
face, a face she'd only seen a couple of times in files
she'd hastily memorized some time ago, and she felt her jaw
drop. 

 "It's-it's-Tavin Notsil. My brother."

 "I thought he was supposed to be..."

 "I know you must have thought I was dead," the recording
continued. "Just as I thought you were. It seems that fate
has spared us both. I'd made some unusual arrangements with
the town constable and was earning an honest living on the
Sea of Aidiv under an assumed name when New Oldtown was hit.
I came home and everything I knew was gone. But now I find
out that you've survived. I can't tell you how happy I am."

 Lara felt Tyria squeeze her and heard her whisper  "Congratulations." 

 But Lara's mind was racing down pathways far from human contact.

 She'd have to reply to this boob. Somehow break off all
family contact forever, and without letting him see a holo
of her - of Gara Petothel.

 Then her attention fell on the holos on the table behind
Tavin. They showed family scenes. The real Lara Notsil's
mother and father sharing a swing tied to a tree behind
their farmhouse. A much younger Tavin Notsil swimming in the
family pond. And, seated atop a repulsor thresher, her
expression cheerful, Lara Notsil...

 Not the real Lara Notsil. Her, Gara Petothel, in farm
clothes, with fine blond hair, wearing a sunburn she'd 
never suffered in life. She froze the picture, looked at it,
willing it and its wrongness away.

 The world spun and Lara's knees went weak. She slumped back
in her chair and felt Tyria support her. Heard her murmur,

 "Whoa, there. Obviously this is a big shock for you. I'll
get Dr. Phanan."

 Lara clung to Tyria's hand, not letting her leave. "No doctor.
I'm all right." Her words were faint in her own ears, but
she knew she didn't want anyone else seeing her. Not until
she had this sorted out.

 She'd never been on the world of Aidivy. She'd never been
seated on that thresher. Before a few weeks ago, she'd never
been Lara Notsil. Or was that a lie? Was she really Lara,
and her memories of Gara Petothel some bizarre dream? The
walls still seemed to spin as she tried to force her way
through the sense of unreality that possessed her. She
unfroze the message.

 Her brother was now looking at a datapad. "Listen, you'll
probably find this ironic. Do you remember putting in for a
transfer to move to Greenton and transmitting an application
to Lachany Foods there? I have your original letter here.
'If I can effect this transfer, would you be interested in
employing a technician with my skills and special knowledge?
It is my hope that you would.'"

 Lara shut her eyes and resisted the temptation to cover her
ears against the barrage of confusing half memories. She
knew those words. She'd written those words. And if those
were Lara Notsil's words, then she was Lara, not Gara.

 "Well, Lachany Foods wrote back. They apparently didn't
cross-index the destruction of New Oldtown with the season's
applications before they did that-in other words, they don't
know you're dead. I mean, that you're supposed to be dead.
Anyway, they're offering you the job you wanted, at the
salary you were hoping for. They're really interested in
what you have to offer them." Tavin's expression became
earnest. "Listen, Lara, I understand you have some sort of
job on Coruscant processing data. And if you're happy there,
that's fine. But I doubt you are. All those tall buildings -
if you want this job, send me the word. I'll let them know. 
I can even arrange passage for you back to Aidivy. You just 
let me know."

 Tavin's eyes flickered to something offscreen, then back.

 "It looks like I'm almost out of time, if I'm going to keep
this message affordable. Whether you want this job or not,
let me hear from you. Good-bye for now." He half smiled and
the picture froze.

 Words popped up on the screen, superimposed over his
face in white. They were the chronicle of the path the
message took to reach her - from Aidivy to her former quarters 
on Coruscant, then to the main New Republic message authority on
Coruscant, then-with the secrecy flag activated-to Tedevium
and Mon Remonda. Finally it had come here, though there was
no chronicle of that final bounce; the Wraiths' presence in
the Halmad system was still top secret.

 Lara just sat and tried to breathe, tried to sort out what
was happening to her.

 Then it came to her. Those had been her words. But she'd
written them on Coruscant in a letter to Warlord Zsinj. She,
Gara, had written them, not she, Lara, the false identity.
She felt her breathing relax, as though a belt tied across
her rib cage had been suddenly loosened. She knew who she
was again.

 Why was Tavin Notsil quoting her a letter she'd written to
Warlord Zsinj? Obviously, this was an indirect message from
Zsinj. Tavin Notsil was in on it. That made sense. He was
supposed to be a crook, a confidence man.

  She felt wobbly again. That meant Zsinj had penetrated
her Lara Notsil identity. It was no longer a haven for her.

  She felt tears welling up, and for once she could not contain
them - her legendary ability to start and stop crying at will
abandoned her. She buried her face in her hands and cried.

 "It's all right," Tyria said. "Even good news can be a big
shock. Are you sure you don't want to see the doctor?"

 "No doctor." What was she going to do? Just days ago, she
had abandoned her plan, her desire to serve Zsinj. She had
decided to stay here, to belong here. And now Zsinj had
denied her the future she'd stumbled upon.

 She rose, the motion made difficult by her suddenly shaky
legs, and turned an uncertain smile on Tyria. "I think I
just need to walk for a while."

 "I understand. Later, if you need to talk..."

 "Thank you."

 Outside her habitation module, she turned right on the
Trench, heading deeper into the mine shaft that served the
Wraiths as home. Deeper tended to mean away from people.








 Face, again at his favorite "patio" table, making some final
notes on tomorrow's mission, saw Lara exit her bunk module
and walk away. He returned his attention to his work, then
looked at her again. There was something odd about her
movement...

 She was angry, no question of it. But that wasn't all. All
of a sudden, her carriage was appropriate for Coruscant-
shorter steps, hunched shoulders, the posture of a woman who
lived within the imposing and paranoia - inducing canyons of
the Imperial throneworld for many years.

 Or, perhaps, Admiral Trigit had taught her to walk this way
when she'd been his drugged captive. That made more sense; a
man like that might be offended at the long, rangy stride of
an Aldivian farm girl and have modifications to her physical
mannerisms on the list of things to change when he broke her
spirit.

 Face sighed. He suspected that the mind of Lara Notsil was a
deeper mess than anyone had realized before now. With luck,
she'd turn to her fellow Wraiths when she realized she was
in trouble. Until that happened, all he could do was watch
and be ready.

 A little troubled, he returned his attention to his planning.





  One "block" from her module-a block being one uninterrupted
series of cargo modules - Lara ran into Kell Tainer. The big
lieutenant was working out against a combat dummy, a human-
shaped object made of materials tough and malleable enough
to withstand the fist, foot, elbow, and knee blows Kell was
raining upon it. When he saw her watching, he stopped.

 "Is that how you get rid of tension?" she asked.

 "That's right."

 "What do you do when you just want to scream?"

  He pointed farther down the shaft. "Two blocks down,
there's a powered door to the left. It leads to a cross
tunnel. It has lights and gravity until you get to the
boundaries marked in yellow, about a hundred meters. Don't
go beyond those boundaries."

 "Thank you."

 He was right. Once the door to that cross tunnel shut
behind  her, she could feel that she was cut off from the
Wraiths, from all contact with people. She was surrounded by
the reassuring solidity of stone walls and metal doors.

 She screamed, an expulsion of anger and confusion that
stripped her throat raw. Her cry echoed down the half-lit
corridor and was lost in the distance. She did it again and
again, until she had almost no voice left. Almost no
bewilderment left.  Just tiredness. Then she put her back
against the rough stone wall and slid down to sit, her face
in her hands.

 Her little vacation was over. It was time to think 
analytically again.

 First, Zsinj was about to consume the future that she'd just
decided she wanted. What could she do about that?

 Second, she'd just had a crisis of identity she should never
have suffered. She never should have felt any confusion
about who she'd been. Where she'd come from. Much as she
wanted to be Lara Notsil, there should never have been any
doubt that she'd originally been Gara Petothel. What was
that all about?

 All right. First problem.

 Possible solution: Return to original plan and join Zsinj.

 She shook her head over that. At Lavisar, she'd decided,
once and forever, that Zsinj was unworthy. Not just unworthy
of her, unworthy of any aid, of any success. He was
dishonorable.  She would never join him.

 Possible solution: Confess all to her commanding officer.

 No, that would solve only some of her problems. Wedge 
Antilles might accept her aid in the continued campaign
against Zsinj, but he would never trust her again. No one would.
That trust, she'd found, was more addictive than spice was 
supposed to be. She could not live without experiencing it
again and wondered how she'd lived so long without it. And on a
more pragmanc note, Lieutenant Myn Donos was a member of
Wraith Squadron. Before he'd been a Wraith, he was the 
commander of Talon Squadron. And during the time when Gara
had been a deep-cover operative working for Admiral Trigit,
she'd blithely obeyed orders and spliced some false informa-
tion about the security designation of a specific world into
the New Republic database; Talon Squadron, later relying on that
information, had been annihilated. All but Donos. If he knew
what she'd done, he might kill her.

 Possible solution: Put Zsinj off, delay him, perhaps feed
him false information, and ride out this campaign against
him.  Once he was destroyed, he could no longer expose her.

 That was possible. With delicate handling, that might work.
She decided on that approach for the time being.

 Now, her emotional crisis of a few minutes ago.

 You must become your role.

  The voice was male, silky. Its tones caressed. A casual 
listener might think that the speaker cared about the person he
was talking to. Lara knew better; he was simulating
affection.

 But whose voice was it? She couldn't remember. She supposed
it was one of her teachers when she was training to become
an Imperial Intelligence agent. Context made that clear.

 Plant your triggers deep in your mind. When they are 
activated, come back to yourself. Achieve your objectives. 

 And then bury everything beneath your role again.

 She couldn't quite see the face; it was a man silhouetted by
lights behind him. Peering into those lights made her eyes
water.

  Let Gara go. All today, you'll be Kirney.

 That jolted her, brought her eyes open. She'd forgotten
about Kirney Slane. Her first role, her practice role. A
Coruscant student of economics, daughter of a hotelier who had
never existed. Within the mind of Kirney Slane, Lara had
walked among the middle society of Coruscant, fluent in the
small talk of officers' spouses. She'd flirted, promoted
herself like so many whose goal began and ended with
marrying a promising officer.

 Lara shook her head to clear the memories. Kirney was
distant, Kirney was dead. Once her usefulness as a training
tool had ended, she'd been forbidden to assume that name,
that manner, that mentality again.

 If it has practical application, retain it. If it has
only sentimental attraction for you, abandon it. He, her mystery
teacher;  was not just talking about details of false identities.
He meant emotional attachments. Even memories. She was supposed to
scrape away everything that did not pertain to her profession, 
to her current mission.

 She missed being Kirney. So carefree.

Before her service with Admiral Trigit under her true name, 
she'd spent some time as Chyan Mezzine, a communications 
officer for the New Republic frigate Mother Sea. Lara
remembered, almost word for word, the secret communiqations
she'd passed on from the frigate to her Imperial controller,
then to Admiral Trigit. Yet she couldn't remember her life
as Chyan Mezzine. What had she done? Who had she known? Had
she had friends?

 There was something very wrong in her head, something her
teachers had done to her starting when she was just a child.
She wanted that wrongness out. But she had no idea where to
begin to look for it.

 She belatedly realized she was looking at a pair of booted
feet. She looked up into the face of Myn Donos. The lieutenant 
was in a pilot's suit and had a rifle case slung over his back.

 "Are you all right?" Donos extended a folded handker-chief to her.

 She took it and looked at it stupidly.

 "For your eyes."

 "Oh. Thank you." She dabbed away tears she hadn't remembered crying.

 "I heard you had some happy news. But you don't look happy."

 He shrugged. "Not my business. But if you want to talk..."

 She did. It was wrong, she knew. Her trainers would never
approve. But she had to talk. "I heard from my brother. He
was supposed to have been killed when my town was destroyed
by Implacable. But he survived."

 Donos set his case down and sat against the wall opposite
from Lara. "And that's not good news?"

 "Not really. I... really don't care for my brother,"
she said. "He was a criminal. He should have been in jail when
New Oldtown was destroyed, but he'd managed to sneak off
under an assumed name. That's the sort of man he is. So, I
suppose I'm glad he's alive, but if you knew him the way I did,
you'd know that his letter to me... well, it dripped with
sarcasm and irony that no one but me could have seen. He wants to
drag me back into his habits of deceit, into his confidence
games. He has no other reason to get in contact with me. He
wants something."

 Donos rubbed his chin while he mulled over that. Finally he
said, "Could Zsinj have gotten hold of him?"

 "What?"

 "No, bear with me. We know that Zsinj has a considerable
level of interest in Commander Antilles and Wraith Squadron.
Let's say he finds your name on the unit roster and checks
into your background, then finds this scofflaw of a brother
of yours alive when the man should be dead. Would your
brother turn you over to a man like Zsinj for money?"

 Lara's mind whirled. Try as hard as she might to keep her
fictitious background separate from her current life, they
continued to threaten collision. 

 "In a Coruscant second," she said.

 "So maybe this is just him wanting to graft some credits
from you... and maybe he's angling to lead you into a Zsinj
trap. Possible?"

 "Possible," she admitted.

 "I think we need to find out. I mean, that's intruding into
your family business... but if Zsinj is taking a run at
you through your family, he might do the same with the rest
of us.  We need to know."

 "You're right. But I have to do this myself. He wouldn't
trust anyone but me."

 "Not all by yourself, no. What if it's a trap? As in, the 
instant you walk into his house, he hits you with a stun rifle
and a bunch of Zsinj's Raptors take you up to Iron Fist for
some of his delicate interrogation?"

 She answered with a shudder. She was surprised to find that
her dread was real. 

 "You're right."

 "If you like, I'll put together a mission proposal and run
it past Commander Antilles. Just you and a small team going
to Aidivy to clear this up."

 "Would you? I'd appreciate that." The way her head was
filling up with whirling emotions and irrelevant remnants of
roles and personalities she'd abandoned, she didn't think
she could think clearly enough to plan a shopping trip.

 "I'll do that." He rose and took up his rifle case.

 "What's that for?"

 "Down about two hundred meters, this tunnel takes a turn to
the right and opens up into a long, wide gallery, straight
as a laser beam, about a kilometer long. I have targets set
up at the far end for practice."

 "That's past the artificial gravity, isn't it?"

 He nodded. "Doing it in zero gravity adds a little to the
difficulty, but this is one of the skills Antilles brought
me in for.  l'm supposed to stay sharp. And it really does
focus and clear the mind."

 "Maybe I should take it up. I could stand some focusing and
clearing."

 He smiled. "Try getting some rest. We're going to need you
alert and ready."

 "I know. Mission tomorrow."

 He gave her a little wave good-bye and left her alone with
her thoughts.

 She should never have agreed for him to plan and propose
this Aidivy mission. She had to be in charge of it, every
part of it, or something would come up to ruin her, expose
her.

 But she was oddly unworried. It was because she, she...

 Trusted Myn Donos.

 Trusted him.

 Trusted someone.

 She shook her head. That was wrong, she couldn't trust. It
went against all mission parameters.

 But she did, and once again she found herself crying without 
entirely understanding why.







 Wedge ascended the ladder to the interceptor and peered down
into the cockpit to make sure Lieutenant Kettch, Ewok pilot,
was not waiting for him once more. But his cockpit was
clear.  He glanced up and saw Face, lowering himself into
the cockpit of his own interceptor, smirking at him,
obviously having figured out what he was looking for.

Wedge gave him a mock glower and clambered down.

A moment later, he heard Face's exclamation of "Son of
the Sith!" and Lieutenant Kettch came flying up out of the
open hatch of Face's interceptor. Phanan, walking toward his
TIE fighter, neatly fielded the stuffed toy and handed him
off too squeaky.

 Wedge shook his head. At least morale was high. He began
his power up and systems check.

 Kell, Runt, Donos, Tyria, Piggy, and Castin were already off
in the Narra. Their mission was to conclude at about the
same time as that of the other Hawk-bats, but required more
time in its initial stages. In some ways it was even more
dangerous, and Wedge wondered briefly about the advisability 
of putting Kell Tainer in charge. But the man had not 
demonstrated any recurrence of the problem that had
plagued him during his first few weeks with Wraith Squadron.
Wedge suspected, though he had never voiced his thought to
Janson or any other member of his command, that Kell's
problem had not been cowardice. Kell's father had died-at
Janson's hands, in fact-when fleeing from a fight in the
early days of the Rebel Alliance, but Kell's own problem
with freezing up in the face of adversity had always seemed
more like a very strong case of performance anxiety. But
he'd gotten past it during the final battle with the
Implacable. Wedge and Janson would keep a close, if
surreptitious eye on him, but for now all seemed well.





 All systems were go, and diagnostics showed the interceptor
performing at something like 98 percent overall efficiency.

 Not bad for a crew of mechanics whose training with Imperial
starfighters had begun so recently.

 "Hawk-bat Leader to squadron, give me your status."

 Face's voice was now low, growling. Wedge wondered whether
Face was performing already, or whether Castin's modifica-
tions to the individual starfighters' comm systems were
already in place.

 "Hawk-bat Seven, two in the green, all systems charged, and
I'll have a mint liqueur with a lomin-ale chaser." Phanan's
voice was a bass rumble, which he couldn't have managed in
person.

 "Hawk-bat Ten, all ready." And Shalla's voice was distinctly 
that of a male.

 Wedge cleared his throat. "Hawk-bat One, ready to launch."

 Laughter erupted from his comm set, several voices' worth.

 Frustratingly, he couldn't even recognize the voices now. He
said, "Is there a problem?"

 Face's growl answered, "No problem, sir. We're receiving you
at full power." But Wedge could hear poorly restrained
laughter in his voice.

 As the count continued, Wedge switched his comm unit over to
a private frequency, one he shared with his X-wing and his
astromech. "Gate, are you receiving?"

 His R5 unit responded with a cheerful mechanical tweet.

 "On my first mark, record my transmission. On my second
mark, cease recording and transmit what you've recorded back
to me. Mark. 'We, the Rebel Alliance, do therefore in the
name - and by the authority - of the free beings of the galaxy,
solemnly publish and declare our intentions.' Mark."

 His words came back to him a moment later. But they were not
in his voice. In fact, they were high-pitched and fuzzy, a
type of jabber Wedge well recognized. They were exactly what
an Ewok would sound like if trained to speak Basic.

 He sighed. "Thank you, Gate. Out." He switched back to
the Hawk-bat Squadron channel and banged his helmeted
head on his pilot's yoke.

 At least morale was high.





 Escort duty was tedious, but it drew extra pay. That's how
Lieutenant Milzin Veyn, native of the city of Hullis and
starfighter pilot, looked at it. And as a husband and
father of three, he could always use the extra credits.

 Today he and his wingman were guarding the tanker Bastion.

 Such a warlike name for an inelegant, rusting hulk of a
spaceship... Currently, it was in dock at Station 17, one of
Halmad's few remaining asteroid-belt mining colonies, while
Veyn's TIE fighter and his partner's watched protectively
from a distance of about a kilometer.

 Veyn's comm system hummed. "Hey, Lieutenant."

 "Veyn here."


 "Bad news. We have a fuel-pump failure. They're repairing
it, but it's going to be a couple of hours at least."

 "Maybe you should just disengage and go home."

 "We should... but the captain says we'd just have to
come out again tomorrow, and we can repair with parts on
hand, so that's what we're doing."  

 "Wonderful."

 "Listen, we can power sensors back up... and you and your
wingmate can come in for some caf. There's a fresh pot
brewing."

 "Ooh. Shouldn't." But the thought of spending some of those
extra hours in a heated mess with fresh caf instead of
drifting in zero gravity was an appealing one.

 "Well, what if I said, uhhh, that the captain wanted to
consult with you on matters pertaining to the future
protection of Bastion."

 "Sounds serious. We'll be right there."

 Two minutes later, in the colony's crowded main hangag
Veyn and his wingman clambered out of their cockpits,
climbed down the access ladders, and turned to face into the
muzzles of blasters.

 Two figures wearing TIE-pilot gear-but colored gray instead
of traditional Imperial black-held blaster sidearms on them.
One appeared to be a tall woman, the other a very corpulent
man. A third enemy, a man of slightly better-than-average
height, wearing a gray pilot's suit and a cold-weather mask
but lacking the extra equipment of a pilot, covered them
with a blaster rifle.

 Veyn and his partner raised their hands.

 The man with the rifle said, "There's bad news and good
news. The bad news is that we're the Hawk-bats, and we're 
going to take your starfighters and blow up some ground 
facilities with them. But the good, news is that we really 
do have fresh caf for you in the mess. He gestured with a 
flick of the rifle tip toward the main exit.

 "Let's go."

 When the rifleman and his captives had gone, Tyria activated 
her comlink. "Five, the pilots are on their way. We're
going to need Two to get through any security on the TIE
fighters?

 "He's on his way, too."

 "How's the wiring going?"

 "Bastion's ready to blow. She's going to make a big mess."









 The Hawk-bats, in tight formation, dropped toward Halmad
in the narrow corridor they knew to be unprotected by the
planer's sensor arrays. Their own sensors told them that
Bastion was making its own approach to the planet, via a
government-approved course, theoretically on the return leg
of its regular refueling mission. But they would not be 
communicating with Bastion, could not get updates on the 
other team's progress.

 Within minutes, they were cruising at just above sea level
and on a course for the port city of Fellon - or, more 
accurately, for a small, hidden Imperial base just south of the
city. It wasstill before dawn in Fellon and points west, and
several of Halmad's moons shone down upon the Hawk-bats.

 At the head of the Hawk-bats' formation were Face and
Phanan. Face, playing the role of Hawk-bat Independent Space
Force founder Kargin, had to be in charge of the mission;
their broadcasts were certain to be intercepted and
recorded, and it would not do for Hawk-bat One to be heard
issuing orders to Hawk-bat Leader. Wedge had few worries
about Face, but Face's wingman, Phanan, was not as skillful
a flier in either X-wings or TIE fighters.

 Behind Face and Phanan were Wedge with his temporary
assignment of two wingmen, Lara and Shalla. Lara, low pilot
on the rank ladder, had been assigned one of the squadron's
two TIE fighters, a less formidable starfighter than the
interceptors, but she seemed to be handling it with
uncommon grace and skill. Nor had Wedge any worries about
Shalla's skill with her interceptor. In fact, between her
flying skill, her ability to work with the other pilots, and
her ease with planning and analysis, he had placed her high
on his list of candidates for lieutenant's rank. She had yet
to demonstrate leadership qualities, but Wedge was certain
they lay within her.

 At the rear of the formation were Janson, the unit's
second-most-experienced pilot, and Dia, who had made two
kills during the escape from Lavisar, equaling Wedge's
total.  No, Wedge was accompanied by a skilled team. This
should be an easy run for the Hawk-bats.

 Not that he ever put his trust in the promise of an easy
run.



                            11



 "About to enter atmosphere, on final approach for Hullis,"
Runt said. He occupied Bastion's pilot's seat. He looked 
uncomfortable in a chair built for a much shorter human.

 "Five minutes until the break to the east."

 Kell, in the command chair, typed another diagnostics
command into the oversized comlink-equipped datapad in his
lap. It was the type of unit an infantry squadron used for
reliable long-distance communications. 

 "Have you got the new navigational program in place?"  

 "We do."

 Kell activated the comlink in his glove. "Nine, how's the
shuttle?"

 "Ready to lift."

 "Stand by to lift." Kell patted Runt on the back and
rose.

 "Run the nav program. Then we run." 

 "Initiating."

 Tyria and Piggy in the TIE-fighter escorts needed no
further orders. Their task was simple: Pace Bastion as the
ancient tanker dropped toward Hullis, then diverted east toward the
second fighter base the military forces of Halmad were building.
Protect the tanker from the starfighters that would inevitably 
rise against it, at least long enough for Bastion to get within
a couple of kilometers of the base. And then be far, far
away when Kell activated his comm unit and detonated Bastion
and all the fuel remaining within her. At two minutes before
detonation, safely away on the shuttle Narra, Kell would
communicate with the base, recommending an evacuation.
The base's destruction was their aim, not the needless
murder of base personnel.

 With the nav program activated, Runt rose and Kell folllowed 
suit.

 Then the sensor board lit up like a fireworks display. Kell
and Runt stared, disbelieving, at the flurry of activity it
showed in the west, the enormous signal from the east.

 Kell dropped into the communications officer's chair an,
activated Bastion's comm unit. 

 "Five to One, do you read?

 There was no answer, just the ominous hiss of sudden
overloaded airwaves.

 "Five to One, we have a problem. Do you read?"








 Forest, with occasional rivers and lakes, had replaced wave
beneath the Hawk-bats. Wedge was sure, in fact, that he'd
fe] a treetop scrape the underside of his cockpit a moment
ago. All around him, the squadron's fighters and interceptors
bobbed and weaved like fighters in an arena as they
adjusted to changes[ in the terrain below.

 The range meter put them at twenty seconds from their
target. Ten, five-and then Face and Phanan were firing
just as the Imperial base came into Wedge's view.

 It was a landing platform, one long, durable landing deck
suitable for shuttles or starfighters, supported by two
massive columns containing turbolifts and crew quarters.
Beneath the deck was an enclosed crossover walkway providing
easy pas.  sage from one column to the other, and there
should have been nothing other than the support columns to
the ground. But with this design, below the crossway, almost
out of sight below treetop level, was an enclosed hangar
deck as large as the landing deck.

  Wedge noted these details without taking out time for
analysis. He brought the interceptor's aiming brackets
around his target of preference, the standard landing platform's
tractor beam emitter up on the landing deck, and fired.
Then he was past, following Face's lead in 1ooping around
for another run.

 "Good shooting, Hawk-bats." That was the gravelly voice of
Face's persona.

 "Leader, this is Four. We hit shields."

 "Four, what did you say? There were no shields."

 "Not as we were approaching, sir. They came up as we opened
fire. The platform has sustained no, repeat no, damage."

 Their arc was nearly complete, and it was obvious that Dia's
report was correct: the landing platform was solidly in
place, and the Hawk-bats' sensors now showed shielding
protecting the facility.

 Then TIE fighters and interceptors came up out of the trees,
easily a score of them, from points all around the Hawk-bats
and the landing platform.

 More than a score. The second flight of TIEs emerged.

 Wedge checked the sensor board. Thirty-six unfriendlies,
three full squadrons.

 Shalla spoke next, her voice subdued even in its distorted
form: 

 "We are so dead."




  

  Bastion shuddered.

 Runt looked over the diagnostics board. "Are we hit?"

 "No, we're tractored. By that." Kell tapped the sensor
board and the huge shape on it. "Look at this. We're gaining
altitude."

 Donos's voice came over the intercom. "What's happening?"

 "They've got us. Our mission is scrubbed, and so are we, if
we can't figure out a way to get clear of them. Hold on a
second. Runt, fire up the comm system and put all the power
you can into our signal." 

 "Done."

 "Five to One, do you read? Over."

 His reply was a static hiss.

 "Five to Eleven, do you read? Over"

 "...leven, read-you. Sig-breaking up."
 
  "Abort mission. Repeat, abort mission. Over."

  "Neg...ve. Standing-your departure. Over."

  "Do not stand by. This is a direct order. Abort mission.
Acknowledge. Over."

  There was no reply.





 "We have incoming starfighters from the capital ship,"
Runt said.

 "Of course we do. Our day wouldn't be complete without them,
would it?"

 Tyria's voice came back, "Ack...ed. Aborting. Over." On the
sensor screen, the blips representing her TIE fighter and
Piggy's veered off on an escape vector.

 Kell took a deep breath. He wanted to make one final
transmission. I love you. But he couldn't give the enemy
forces any clue, any extra information to help them pry into
the Hawk-bats' identities. He shut down the comm system. As
he settled on his next course of action, he felt his body,
his spirit, grow heavy.

 Donos's voice came over the intercom again. "What's the
plan, Five ?"

 "Runt joins you in the shuttle. At a time of my choosing,
probably when we're as close as we're going to get to that
capital ship without being trapped inside, you launch and
get a few seconds of acceleration before another tractor
beam grabs you.  In that time, I set off our explosive
charges."

 Runt's eyes went wide. Kell saw them flicker, a sign that
Runt was flipping between personalities, looking for the one
with the most pertinent skills to add to the situation.

 Donos's voice came back. "Uh, you need to be aboard the
shuttle to do that."

 "Can't do it, Nine. The transmitter I have and the one in
the shuttle won't be able to cut through their jamming."

 "Then use a timer."

 "Then we can't count on it being precisely positioned to
do the most damage to the capital ship."   

 "Use Bastion's proximity sensors."

 "Bastion's proximity sensors, at anything under two klicks,
are called human eyes, Nine. We're lucky this crate had
refreshers."

 "Wait a second, I think Castin and I can work out 
something." Donos paused a moment. "Yes. I can set off the
explosives at a distance."

 "Without a comlink?"

 "Without a comlink."

 "How?"

 "Because I'm special and you're not. Now, I need you to set
Bastion's comm system to pick up tight-beam transmissions
across the electromagnetic spectrum."

 Kell felt the heaviness leave him as he grasped what Donos
was planning. 

 "I read you. We'll be right there."

 "Break by groups." Face's voice sounded strained even under
distortion. "Fire at will. And may..."

 There was the slightest pause. Wedge knew Face had been
about to say, May the Force be with you. A bad idea, a give-
away. But Face recovered so quickly Wedge doubted anyone not
familiar with him would have recognized the slight lapse.

 "...we drink from the skulls of our enemies tonight!"

 Wedge broke to port, where the ring of enemy TIEs was
thinnest. Shalla and Lara smartly followed suit.
Tactics. The enemy was relying on its superior numbers and
was confident. Confidence, then, was what the Hawk-bats
needed to strafe first.

 Of the handful of paired fighters winging in toward them,
Wedge picked out the most dangerous-looking duo, two interceptors 
that moved with more sureness than their fellows. As
they came on, visual sensors showed that their solar array
wings wore the horizontal red bars of Baron Fel's 181st Impe-
rial Fighter Group. Wedge resisted the temptation to swear.

 "Ten, Thirteen, take the target to port."

 He began juking his interceptor around at three kilometers
from his target. A small part of a second later, the closing 
distance crossed below two klicks and the enemy squints
opened fire. Green laser beams flickered between Wedge and
his wingmen.

 His return fire grazed one of the oncoming interceptors,
charring a portion of the hull near the upper viewport - and
then they were past, with more forest and a more distant set
of TIE fighters beyond.

 Now the challenge would be to come around, trying to
maneuver behind the enemies they'd just gone head-to-head
with. But Wedge ignored conventional tactics, rolled to 
starboard, and dove toward a pair of fighters that were 
maneuvering to get a shot in on Janson and Dia. His first
quad-linked shot was a brilliant one, hulling one fighter,
turning it into a glowing cloud of orange and black, and
that fighter's wingmate exploded a second later under
cycling paired laser fire from Wedge's wingman to port.

 Shalla? He spared a glance.  No, it was Lara's fighter, not
Shalla's interceptor there.

 He rolled to starboard again. The interceptors whom they'd
traded fire with initially were in pursuit, distant pursuit,
but quickly catching up. However, three TIE fighters were
ahead and above, beginning a dive toward Wedge's group.

 He brought his interceptor up in a climb so rapid that it
slammed him back into his seat. As the oncoming enemies
dropped within the field of coverage of his targeting
systems, one briefly jittered within his brackets. He fired
out of reflex, was rewarded with seeing a TIE's solar array
wing explode under his lasers; that starfighter half rolled
and began an uncontrolled descent.

 Wedge continued his loop upward, a tight maneuver that kept
him crushed to his chair even as he came upside down. In his
mind's eye, that put him and his group at the upper edge of
the engagement, with no attacks possible from above for the
moment.

 Ahead and below, Wedge saw a paired interceptor and fighter
the sensors flagged as friendlies; that had to be Face and
Phanan. They were turning his way.

 "Leader, Seven, this is One. I'm coming at you in a head-to-
head. Two on my tail."

 "One, Leader. We have them. You can have our tail as well."

 Behind Face and Phanan, two pairs of TIE fighters were
jockeying for position, firing shots that strayed for now
but must inevitably connect with the Hawk-bats' sterns.

 Wedge, Shalla, and Lara roared toward Face and Phanan.
All five Hawk-bats opened fire, a deadly barrage of green
lasers, but not at one another-at the fighters and
interceptors pursuing each wing. Wedge saw his concentrated
fire hit a solar wing pylon and shear it off at its base,
sending the fighter spinning down toward the thick forest
below. He directed his stream of fire against another TIE as
the two lines converged.  Then one of that fighter's mates
detonated and Wedge was momentarily blinded as he flew
through the cloud of debris and shrapnel. He heard metal
pinging from his fighter's hull and he repressed a wince; a
heavy enough piece of shrapnel could take out a shieldless
TIE interceptor.

 Wes's voice: "Six up, six down."

 "What?"

 "That little head-to-head you pulled. One hundred percent 
effective. Six up, six down."

 Wedge glanced at his sensor screen. A moment ago, the screen
had showed three dozen enemies, seven friendlies. Now it
showed twenty-five enemies, seven friendlies. Wedge
whistled.

 "Leader, Three. I just flipped my sensors over to long-
range. I show a capital ship clearing the horizon and
heading this way."

 "A cruiser?"

 "A Star Destroyer. At least."








 It was a Super Star Destroyer, by name Iron Fist. As Kell
and Runt clattered up the boarding ramp and came forward
into the cockpit, its image, enhanced by the shuttle's
visual sensors, dominated the forward viewscreen. It was
still well above them in orbit, but it seemed terrifyingly
close.  "We are so dead," Kell said.

 Castin and Donos sat in the second row of seats, bent over a
long weapon-Donos's laser sniper rifle. 

 "We did not know you had brought that," Runt said.

 Donos snorted. "I take it to parties, dining engagements,
and the refresher. It was in the smuggling compartment.
Kell, you have the detonation code ?"

Kell tapped the datapad in his chest pocket.

"Give it to Castin."

 Runt took the pilot's seat while Kell transmitted the code.
 
 The image of Iron Fist wavered, its blue and white running
lights blurring, as something passed much closer to the
shuttle.  Runt killed the visual enhancers.

 Their shuttle was docked with Bastion, its viewports
oriented so its occupants had a view mostly of sky, with
only a little of the tanker intruding on the view. And now
that sky was full of TIE fighters buzzing back and forth.
Kell forced back his rising surge of panic and counted blips
on the sensors. Only six. Moving so fast, they seemed more
numerous. This had to be nothing more than a show of
dominance, since the enemy vessel had already tractored the
tanker and was hauling it up to captivity. 

 "Keep calm," he said. "They're not here to shoot."

 "In your opinion," Donos said.

 "It's all I have to offer."






 Wedge plotted the engagement on the sensors and in his
mind's eye. The engagement zone had spread out through a
hemisphere about eight kilometers across. Now his group was
at a high altitude in the southern portion. Janson and Dia
were about a kilometer below them. None of them was actively
engaged with an enemy. The TIE force had contracted a
little, the nearest starfighters being about a kilometer to
the north and not yet spinning out to engage them. Face and
Phanan were in the northern quadrant, dogfighting with a
pair of TIE fighters as a pair of interceptors headed toward
them.

 He checked the position of the sun and then rolled around to
begin an approach out of the sun against Face's and Phanan's 
tails. But almost immediately he saw one of the
pursuing TIE fighters' shots strike home, hitting the
engines of one of the friendly TIEs. That starfighter rolled
in a random fashion, briefly regained controlled flight,
then dropped below the line of trees and was lost to sight.
On the sensor board, Hawk-bat Seven, Ton Phanan's signal,
faded to blackness.






 "This isn't going to work," Castin said. He was watching
Iron Fist's approach. "Our docking port is relative up.
We'll be taking off into their hangar bay."

 "I'll take care of it." Kell rose. "Runt, take the pilot's
seat, stand by to power up and launch without checklist." He
charged back down the boarding ramp.

 Once he was on the tanker's small flight deck, he brought up
the controls for the ship's artificial gravity and
repulsorlifts.  It was a simple matter to scrub the
identification of a large mass - Iron Fist - as that of a ship
and instead identify it as a planetoid. Then he configured
the gravity system to orient the ship so that its bottom
descended toward the surface of the planetoid. Now, unless
Iron Fist spent an unusual amount of tractor beam power and
used a lot of fine control to reorient Bastion, its upper
surface would rotate to face the planet below and not the
Super Star Destroyer above.

 The rotation had already begun by the time he reached Narra
again. And Iron Fist was much closer. Kell took the
copilot's seat and strapped himself in. "You ready ?" he
asked Donos.

 The sniper shrugged. "If Castin here is any good, yes.
Otherwise, we're doomed."

 "It'll work," Castin said. "My code and patches always
work."

 The others turned to give him an arch expression.

 Castin gave them the look of someone caught in a lie.

 "Well, usually."







 Wedge felt ice slash through his gut as the most likely
scenario went through his mind. The Hawk-bats would circle
around the fallen pilot, trying to determine whether Phanan
was dead or alive, and would protect him from the strafing
runs of the enemy TIEs until they, too, fell one by one.
He keyed his comlink. "Hawk-bats, this is One. Recommend
abort mission. Stormies." On some worlds, stormies was the
panicked cry of bar patrons who'd detected a raid by
stormtroopers, and it replaced Omega Signal as the
evacuation command when the Wraiths were in their Hawk-bat
identities.

 He steeled himself against a protest from Face. And Face's
voice came across immediately, but not with the words he 
expected: "Hawk-bats, Leader. Confirm stormies."

 But Face's interceptor dropped below the tree line, pursued
by two fast-moving TIE fighters.







 The half squadron of TIE fighters preceded Bastion into the
Super Star Destroyer's main landing bay. Kell waited until
Bastion was brought into line directly below the bay. In a
moment, the tanker would begin its ascent into the hands of
Zsinj. He brought his comlink up. "Remember," he said into
it, "we'll have a handful of seconds from the time we launch
to the time they get another tractor on us. Nine, that's all
the time you have."

 Donos was now back in the emergency airlock, his pilot's
suit on and sealed against space to give him a bare few 
moments of protection from the hard vacuum he would be 
experiencing. A last-minute change put him there instead of in the
main compartment, as he'd realized that the phototropic
shielding of the shuttle's viewport, designed to give the
vehicle some protection from incoming laser fire, would be
even more effective against the lighter beam of Donos's
rifle.

 Donos simply said, "Ready."

 "Do it."

 Runt hit the control to release the Narra from its dock
with Bastion. He cut in the shuttle's thrusters at full
power, blasting away from the tanker, the shuttle's
thrusters burning and scarring Bastion's hull in a manner
that would invite retaliation from any ship's master.
Runt immediately put Narra into a climb, toward the surface
of Halmad, then continued the loop so that the charred,
antiquated black surface of Bastion, and the surrounding
gleam of the Super Star Destroyer Iron Fist, came within
sight.

 There was a little flicker of light between Narra and
Bastion.

 Nothing happened.

 Kell felt his stomach sink. It was too difficult a shot.
Donos, as good as he was, was trying to fire a laser beam 
modified to carry data instead of a lethal intensity of power, 
and trying to hit Bastion's communications array from a moving
shuttle.

 Donos fired again. No effect.

Narra shuddered with the characteristic trembling of a
small craft in the grip of a tractor beam. Kell shook his
head.

 Donos fired again.

 A bright orange glow appeared in the viewports and hatch
seams of Bastion. Then the tanker vanished, replaced by a
globe of yellow and orange destructive force, an expanding
cloud that swelled up into the main landing bay, out across
the lower surface of Iron Fist, and toward Narra.






 Face dropped into the trees, one pursuer back about two 
hundred meters, the other - the one who'd shot down Phananm 
twice that distance away. Here, Face's superior speed would not
help him; it was pure pilot skill and maneuverability that
would allow survival in this obstacle-rich environment. The
forest's large trees were well spaced; it was possible to
maintain a high rate of speed here, jinking back and forth
to arc around obstructions in his path.

 His purser fired, a blast that incinerated a tree bole 
immediately to Face's starboard. He cursed. He'd hoped that
there wouldn't be any immediate firing opportunities, but
his pursuer was already gaining on him.

 Suddenly the trees were gone and there was water below
him - he'd emerged over a lake. No cover, but it gave him an
opportunity. He curved around to starboard, rotating up on
his starboard wing, the ferocity of his maneuver crushing
him back into his seat. Through his topside viewport, he
could see as his first pursuer screamed out of the forest
and immediately followed his loop.

 Face couldn't see the second pursuer, but his timing sense
said the pilot was mere fractions of a second from emerging
from the trees-if he were following his wingman. Face opened
up with his lasers.

 And the second pursuer emerged right into his stream of
laser fire. Face was rewarded with the brief vision of that
TIE fighter's starboard wing evaporating under the blast,
its cockpit punctured and detonating.

 Ahead was the tree line again. Face rolled level and shot
into the trees at a ninety-degree angle to his original
course. The other TIE fighter followed.

 Face instinctively ducked as a half squad of TIE fighters
roared by overhead, a kilometer up, obviously searching for
him. They didn't turn back to pursue him-they must have
missed him.

 He twitched his pilot's yoke, resisting the urge to become
frantic, as tree after tree appeared in his path. Then there
was a brief break as he was over another lake, this one much
smaller and covered in huge green leaf-shaded pads that
floated atop the water, and beyond he was in trees again.

 They were becoming denser. Harder to veer back and forth to
find the gaps that would accommodate his starfighter.  His
pursuer hadn't been able to fire on him in several seconds-
that was good, but sooner or later the increasingly
difficult terrain would stop protecting him and would kill
him.

 Unless-he remembered Shalla's tactic in her Coruscant
simulator runs. And the next time he had to vector to find a
safe gap, he chose one so narrow that his stomach tightened
up. It was too narrow, too narrow-but he rolled up on his
port wing array and shot through, the slightly thinner
profile of the TIE interceptor making the maneuver possible.
He heard his wings shred through leaves and twigs.

 His pursuer tried to stay on his tail, then realized too
late that such a tactic was fatal. Face heard the explosion
a mere second after he cleared the too-narrow gap.

 He slowed and came around. Off in the distance to his right,
a section of forest was burning, ignited by his pursuer's
detonation.

 All right. Sensors showed that the rest of the Hawk-bats
were spacebound, most of the TIE force pursuing them, while
the half squad he'd seen mere moments ago were now a couple
of kilometers to the west and breaking up to search for him.

 He had a window. He could make a break for space. No, he 
couldn't. Not with Phanan still out there. He might not be 
dead. There had been no explosion when his TIE fighter fell 
into the forest.

 By memory, by luck, Face found the small lake with the leaf
pads in it and dropped as swiftly as he dared into the water
near shore. Before the lake water was halfway up his forward
viewports, his descent was arrested by the lake's muddy
floor.

 He goosed the repulsorlifts, driving him forward, and the
lake water rose. He continued, shoving his interceptor for-
ward, until the water rose to the height of the top of his
front viewport.

 He used the emergency power switch to power down, then
manually cranked his access hatch open and clambered half-
way out.

 There was a lot of splashing going on in the lake, and he
got half viskins of large amphibious things entering the
water.  Not his problem now.

 One of the huge leaf pads was within reach. He leaned over
and grabbed its veined surface, then dragged it across the
top of his interceptor.

 Then he settled back into his cockpit to wait.

 Either their sensors would pick him up, or they'd be baffled
by the presence of other life-forms, by the shielding
effects of the water, by the fact that his interceptor was
completely powered down. Either way, he'd know soon.








 The expanding cloud of fiery gas enveloped Narra and shook
her harder than the tractor beam ever had.

 Runt let out an exultant whoop. 

 "We are free."

 "Punch it. Get us out of here," Kell said. He was jarred as
something heavy and metallic slammed into the shuttle's
rear.  "Nine, are you all right?"  

 No answer.

 Kell grabbed at the buckle on his harness and started to
pull it free, but thought better of it. As much as he wanted
to get back and see how Donos was doing, this explosive 
turbulence would take him off his feet and perhaps pound him
to death. He had to wait until they were clear of it. 

 "Nine, acknowledge."

 His comlink crackled.

 "Nine here. Dogging the hatch closed. I'm a little toasty."

 "Great shot, Nine. Stay where you are until the ride is
smooth."

 "Acknowledged."

 They shot out of the explosive cloud like a proton torpedo
leaving an X-wing. Behind them, visual sensors showed Iron
Fist's keel enveloped in black-and-orange-glowing debris.

  Kell kept his eye on that image even as it got smaller.

 "Come on, come on, give us a present-break up!"

 But the eight-kilometer-long capital ship stayed sturdily in
one piece.

 "No tractors, no pursuit," Runt said.

 "Let's hope it stays that way. Castin, plot us an escape vector 
and hyperspace jump, any direction."

  "Already working on it, Chief."



                           12


 Face could see the sky brighten through the leaf pad above.
As time passed, his cockpit grew warm and humid, and he
could hear the distant moan of TIE fighters overhead. He
sweated and waited.

 Then there was nothing but the sound of wildlife, musical
tweets he ascribed to some sort of birdlike creatures,
coughing grunts he couldn't associate with any animal he
knew, splashes that seemed consistent with the human-sized
amphibians he'd seen earlier.

 Blaster in hand, he emerged through his hatch and dogged it
closed, all the while keeping the leaf pad in place atop
him, and then slid off the dome of his interceptor and into
the water.  The shore was a few dozen meters away, a
challenging swim in his pilot's suit.

 He'd marked the sensor location of Phanan's crash and
compared it with his own landing position. He was certain he
could find Phanan's TIE fighter. He was certain he would cut
down anything that tried to keep him from reaching it.









 They were a gloomy group, gathered in the conference module
at Hawk-bat Base.

 No injuries among them, except for something like a sun-burn
on Donos's face. Yet they wore the expression of defeated
soldiers.

 Wedge said, "We're all concerned about Face and Phanan, and
we have to face the possibilities that they didn't make it.
But I want you all to understand this. It's very important.
Today, tactically, was a victory, a tremendous one. We cost
them far more than they cost us. We also led them into this
situation, and if the Hawk-bat identities remain uncompromised, 
we can continue with our plan. If we're going to have any 
perspective on what this has cost us, we have to remember that."

 Tyria said, "What are we going to do about finding them?"

 "We'll put a team on the ground as soon as it's feasible.
First we have to get as much information as possible. About
the movements of our enemies in the region where they went
down." He glanced at Castin Donn. "You were going to get us
information from your satellite account."

 Castin nodded. "I couldn't."

 "Explain."

 "The account had been shut down. When I accessed it, I
got nothing but a pointer to two files. One was a brief,
anonymous letter saying that the client, that's me, didn't
have authorization for such a high-level data stream. The
other was a big file, full holo, from Warlord Zsinj."

 There were startled noises from the other pilots, but Wedge
waved them down. "You've viewed the file?"

 Castin nodded. "I didn't know it was Zsinj until I did view
it. It's a letter from him to the Hawk-bats."   

 "Put it on."

 Castin leaned forward to tap a command into the controls of
the room's small holoviewer.

 Above the table appeared Warlord Zsinj in all his white
finery, about a meter high. Castin adjusted the image's
orientation so that it faced directly at Wedge.

 "I presume," said the warlord, "that I'm addressing the 
so-called General Kargin of the Hawk-bats." His expression
became merry. "As you can see, the rules around Halmad have
changed. The planet belongs to my alliance now, and you will
not be permitted to stay here and continue causing trouble.

 "Now, what you must understand is that a lesser man would be
most angry with you. I'm not. To be honest, I'm impressed.
The two pincers of your movement annihilated two elltire
squadrons of my fighters against minimal losses of your own.
That's quite admirable. Oh, certainly, you've lost, but my
victory was far more costly than it should have been,
testimony to your own skill and ferocity.

So, you now have a choice to make.

 You can stay here and continue to try to prey on Halmad.
In between all my other activities, I will eventually hunt
you down and kill all of you. My guess is that this will be
very costly to me, but it's what I've promised to do. The
problem with this choice is that everybody loses, though you
lose more.

 You can leave and set up operations in an area of space not
yet controlled by Zsinj. This isn't a costly choice, but 
nobody gains anything. And I'll have lost two squadrons with
nothing-well, other than alliance with this planet - to show
for it.

 Your third option, however, includes potential gain for
both of us.

 I'd like to meet you. Attached to this holo is a data
stream that includes a hyperspace navigational course. Send
a ship with a representative who can speak for you along
that course. You will meet a navigational beacon that will
direct you further. We will meet, and I will make it worth
your while to come to terms with me.

 I will not give you my word that you will not be harmed.
Not that I don't have a word to give; I simply don't think
you would believe it. But this you can trust: Zsinj is a
businessman, and it just makes good business sense for us to
join forces. Take it under consideration.  

 Zsinj out."

 The corpulent warlord's image faded away.

 Wedge leaned back, unaware until then that he'd leaned
forward during the warlord's recitation. "Wraiths," he said,
"it may have cost us dearly... but the Hawk-bat operation
has just begun to pay off. We're going to need a contact
team."

  He glanced among the Wraiths present. "I can't be on the
team, nor can Wes. We're just a little too well known to
Imperial forces. Not even a good disguise would necessarily 
prevent us from being recognized." He didn't add that this 
was especially true with their most proficient artist of
disguise, Face, being missing or dead.

 "Castin, before the liberation, you were considered a
criminal on Coruscant, an insurgent, so information on you
is probably in Zsinj's files."

 The code-slicer nodded. "I tried to wipe out my records
wherever I could find them, but they just propagated too
fast for me."

 "Kell is a possibility, but you're pretty distinctive."

 The big man smiled. "I like to think so."

 "Myn, not a chance for you. You're a casualty of being
well known as a decorated member of the Corellian armed
forces and then a New Republic squadron commander. Runt,
you're right out, at least until midget Thakwaash number
more than one in the ranks of starfighter pilots across 
the galaxy.

 Piggy, however..."

 The Gamorrean pilot nodded. "I can dress up as a barbarian
and simply be appropriate scenery."

 "Correct. Though Zsinj, as a product of the Imperial school
of thought, may be unhappy with the presence of a non-human
in the Hawk-bat party. We'll have to think that one over.

 Dia, Shalla, Tyria, Lara, all of you are distinct possibilities.
I'll need a little time to work out the best mix for the 
greeting party."

 Shalla said, "But it sounds as though it's a go."

 Wedge nodded. "It is. This is what we're here for. Such a
mission would have to be a volunteer operation, though, so
anyone who does not wish to be included, send me a note. 

Dismissed, everybody."

 Wedge noticed that they filed out with their backs a little
straighter, with more energy in their steps, than they'd had
when they arrived for the conference. Yes, they'd probably
lost friends down on Halmad... but they hadn't lost their
sense of purpose.

 Castin Donn was the last in line to leave, but he shut the
door before him and turned back to face Wedge. "Sir, I'd
like to be part of this operation."

 "Castin, you yourself agreed that you were probably too well
known in Imperial records."

 "That's right, sir. But I want to go in unknown, undetected. 
I have an idea."

 Wedge gestured for him to sit. 

 "Let's hear it."

 Castin took a chair again. "I'm familiar with a wide variety 
of Imperial computer systems."  

 "I know."

 "What if I put together a program that induced Iron Fist's
computer to broadcast an occasional signal saying, 'Here I
am, come and get me'?"

 "One that Zsinj wouldn't detect?"

"Correct, sir. This program would piggyback its message to
outgoing signals so there would be no extraneous broadcasts
for the ship's crew to detect. Now, given a capital ship's
protocols for scans of its programs, for frequent memory
flushes, and so forth, even with maximum stealth characteristics,
a program like this couldn't last too long. Maybe a
month, maybe a week or two less or more. But in that time,
we could build up a database of the ship's movements."

 "Like Admiral Trigit tried to do to us with his Morrt
Project."

 "Correct. We might even get a break. Find the Iron Fist
staying in one place long enough for elements of the fleet
to arrive and hit it."

 "What would you need?"

 "Well, I already have the programming simulators here.  I'd
just need a full set of stormtrooper armor for disguise, and
a datapad portable terminal with a standard ship's computer
interface. I'd go in Narra's smuggling compartment-if it
can hold Piggy in a pilot's suit, it can hold me in
stormtrooper armor."

 Wedge considered for a long moment. "Castin, I want you to
work up this program."

 "Thank you, sir!" Castin saluted and started to rise.

 "Wait, now. I'm not going to authorize your mission, not
this time."

 "What?" Castin sank back into place, looking as angry as
though he'd been slapped.

 "Zsinj is no fool. We're already flying in a crew of pirates
he doesn't know. They are going to be under constant
scrutiny.  This first encounter is not the time to try such
a stunt. Later, when meetings become more routine and
security gets lax, that's when we try your plan."

 "Sir..." Castin's jaw trembled as he visibly tried to bring
himself under control. "Sir, I'm better than any security
they can offer. I don't tell you how to fly-you're the best
at that. Please don't tell me what sort of security I can 
and can't breach."

 "Now you're being impertinent. Tell me the name of Zsinj's
chief security man."

 "I don't know that, sir."

  "Then how do you know that you're better than he is?
That he doesn't have measures in place against the sort of
program you're planning to introduce?"

 "Because I'm better than everybody, sir."

 Wedge sighed. "Flight Officer Donn, I'm giving you a direct 
order. Design your code. But take your time and do a very clean 
job on it. Because you will not be accompanying this mission 
to Iron Fist. We will use your program at some later time.  
Dismissed."

 Castin flushed red and looked as though he wanted to argue
the point, but stood, saluted with a military precision that
was, for him, obviously an exercise in sarcasm, and retreated.







 Phanan's TIE fighter had apparently hit the ground in a soft
glade, bounced like a rock skipping across the surface of a
pond, and crashed into a line of young trees. Now it rested,
its port solar wing array crumpled, its cockpit canted
forward, so its main viewport was half-buried in the dirt,
against a trio of trees bent almost to the ground, their
roots half up in the air.  The twin ion engines at the
vehicle's rear were now encrusted with a foamy substance-
probably a fire-extinguishing foam sprayed on by those who 
had come later.

 Now a stormtrooper stood guard on the damaged vehicle, and
was engrossed in conversation with two men in the distinctive 
uniform of Zsinj's Raptors. Two speeder bikes in
Raptor colors hovered beside the starfighter's intact wing.

 Face, a few dozen meters away, in the heavy underbrush
characteristic of the light forest of the area, insects
crawling across his back and sides, wiped more stinging
sweat from his eyes and crawled forward to hear what they
were saying.

 The stormtrooper's voice, amplified by the electronic
speaker of his helmet, was easiest to make out. "... see
here.  Spots of blood. He was crawling here, but we didn't
get any units... ground at this site for half an hour, so he
wasn't crawling for stealth; he was hurt. We have men on
speeder bikes...  now. They say his trail goes a little less
than a kilometer and just disappears on stony ground where
things get hilly."

 The two Raptors looked at one another. The first, the taller
of the two, said, "Is there any sign of repulsorlift dust-up
along the trail?"

 "Ehh, no. They would have mentioned it. They're assuming
he's out there hiding in the hills."

 "I don't think so. They would have found more blood.
Even if he'd bandaged himself, he'd be cutting his flesh to
pieces on that hard ground-unless he stopped crawling and
started walking. Which isn't likely. Scanning isn't doing
any good?"

 "There are a lot of people, humans, in the region. 
Professional hunters. And some large game they hunt. We're
ushering them out as fast as we come across them, but
they're playing havoc with our scanners."

 The Raptor sighed, testimony to the stormtroopers' 
incompetence, and turned back toward the speeder bikes.
The other one said, "We'll find him. Then we'll tell your
people how it was done." He followed his partner.

 Face crawled forward as fast as he could manage while 
remaining fairly quiet. The stormtrooper was watching the 
Raptors, his body language suggesting that perhaps he'd enjoy
beating the two men senseless with the stock of his blaster
rifle, and did not turn in Face's direction.

 The Raptors mounted their speeder bikes, talking to one
another, their low, amused tones and occasional chuckles 
making it likely that the stormtrooper and his fellows
continued to be an object of derision. They fired up the
bikes' thrusters and headed out.

 Face stood up from behind a bush in their path. His first
blaster shot took the right-hand Raptor in the chest,
sending him tumbling from the back of the vehicle. Face
traversed left and fired just as the second Raptor came
abreast of him. His shot took the man in the side of the
head and the dead or injured man passed so close that Face
could feel the wash from his repulsors and smell the char
from his helmet.

 Ahead, the stormtrooper was raising his blaster rifle's
stock to his shoulder. Face threw himself to the ground,
once again partially concealed by the bush, and squeezed off
three shots. The first two went wide, with the stormtrooper's 
return shot charring soil less than a meter in front of Face, 
but the third blast took his target in the gut, where sections 
of white armor were connected by flexible black material. The 
stormtrooper let out a moan and fell forward.

 There was an explosion from behind Face. He rolled over and
brought his blaster up, but there were no enemies to
confront - the second speeder bike had slammed into a broad-
based tree and exploded. Fiery fragments rained down upon
the tree and surrounding underbrush.

 No time to worry about that. Face hurried to Phanan's TIE
fighter, clambered up one broken wing pylon, and peered into
the cockpit. No sign of Phanan, as the conversation he'd
overheard had suggested, but it would be good to deny
Zsinj's forces any information they might glean from
analysis of the craft. He fired several blaster shots into
the cockpit, and when the pilot's seat and control board
were fully ablaze, he dropped again to the ground.
The first speeder bike had fetched up against a tree, but
had not detonated. Still, the forward outrigger looked bent,
even from this distance, and that wasn't good; it would 
seriously restrict the vehicle's speed and maneuvering
capabilities.

 Face took the stormtrooper's blaster rifle and hurried
toward the bike. Enroute, he passed the bodies of both Rap-
tors. Both men were dead. He took their blaster pistols, com-
links, and various cards and datacards.

 As he'd feared, the outrigger of the surviving speeder
bike was twisted out of alignment. A repair job was out of the
question with the tools he had on hand. He swore to himself,
mounted the vehicle, and set it into motion.

 The thing's thruster engine rattled and coughed, and the
bike showed an immediate tendency to pull down and to the
right-the new bend to the forward directional vanes made
that inevitable. Still, it would be faster than walking. By
brute force, he kept in line with the still-distinct trail
Phanan had made and set out along that route.

 Distantly, he could hear the roar of other speeder bikes.
He snapped on his vehicle's comlink, and that of one of the
Raptors. The airwaves were active with communications:

 "May have some sign of passage here, looks something like
crawling. But there's no blood." "Ay Dee Seven Four Two,
have Ajaf and Matham reported in to you yet?.... Grid Two-Four 
secure. No large life-forms here except us."

 "Too bad we can't scan for intelligent life-forms, Dofey, 
that would let you out right away. .... No personal remarks, 
Private."

 The damaged speeder bike carried Face along Phanan's trail
of crushed underbrush and scored mud. Phanan had man-aged to
crawl a fair distance, Face decided. He traveled a quarter
kilometer through this forest, then a half kilometer, and
finally reached a narrow, shallow river that must have been
the one mentioned by the stormtrooper.

 On the other side of the river, Face could see that the
forest thinned, and not much farther it graduated to rocky
hills that were thick with underbrush but not much for
trees. Face shook his head. It didn't make sense for Phanan
to head for terrain like that, where it would be easier to
spot him from above... and as he watched, a TIE fighter
swooped by over the nearest ridge of hills, flying slowly
enough that it had to be on reconnaissance detail. Still,
Phanan's crawling trail emerged on the other side of the
bank, more obvious than ever, and headed toward those hills.
Face paused, sensing some of Phanan's innate perversity at
work. The stormtrooper had said the trail disappeared on
stony ground, and the searchers hadn't had any luck finding
Phanan. No luck finding an injured pilot who was limited to
crawling.

 Phanan knew as well as Face did that a downed pilot who
found a river would, under most circumstances, be much better 
off following it downriver. Human settlements tended to
be built along rivers. Rivers tended to join other rivers.
Rivers usually meant fresh water.

 What if... More obvious than ever. What if Phanan had crawled
as far as the first batch of terrain that would no longer
carry sign of his passage, then had crawled back to the
river? It was a sensible strategy. It might throw off his
pursuers. It had thrown off his pursuers.

 Face turned rightward, the direction the river flowed, and
began cruising slowly above its surface.

 This was a much better route. Trees along the riverbanks
shielded long stretches of the water from view from above.
Long grasses beside the water draped the banks, sending
leaves into the river itself-did they drink as roots did?
Face shook his head; now was not the time to worry about
botanical studies of the planet Halmad.

 Then there were the river's larger inhabitants. Far ahead
and sometimes far behind, Face saw large splashes and
roilings in the water that suggested the human-sized
amphibians he had glimpsed before. Perhaps they were keeping
their distance because they were easily frightened. That was
much more soothing than the possibility that they might be
stalking him.

 A kilometer downriver, Face felt a blinding flash of pain to
the side of his head. He almost fell off the speeder bike.
He came upright fast, blaster in hand, aiming at the elegant
drapery of grasses to his left.

 Grasses - and one pale hand sticking out beyond them, waving.
He brought the speeder bike around, hopped off into the
thigh-high water, and shoved his way through.

 It was Phanan, sweating, paler than usual, leaning against
the bank in the shade of the leaves. His gray TIE-fighter
pilot's suit lacked its breathing gear, helmet, and gloves,
and was torn in the front-a tear Face suspected Phanan had
inflicted to help cool himself.

 "I'm glad to see you," Phanan said. His voice was weak, very
hoarse.

 "So glad you decided to brain me with a rock."

 "I can't shout."

 "Are you hurt?"

 Phanan nodded.

 "Badly?"

 Another nod. "I'm pretty sure I'm bleeding internally. 
I don't think I'm going to get much farther."

 "You're going to get to Hawk-bat Base. Can you ride on the
back of the bike?"

 Phanan was long in answering. "I think so."

 "Let's get you up on it. You've thrown off pursuit pretty
well. I'm going to get us out of their search area before
they decide to range out this far."

 Face helped Phanan up on the back of the bike. It wasn't
easy. Halfway up, Phanan let out a bark of pain and curled
up into a knot and stayed that way, shuddering, several long
moments while Face held him up. Then, finally, Phanan could
uncurl enough to take a normal rider's position on the back
of the bike.  Face noted that Phanan began sweating heavily
as soon as he left the cooling water of the river, and the
sweating did not stop.

 Face climbed up in the driver's seat and goosed the thrusters.

 The thruster engine let out a more vigorous cough than ever,
shuddered once, and died.






 "It take it you bought this used," Phanan said.

 Phanan lay on his back on the bike. In his hand he held the
bike's sensor unit, which Face had pulled from its post,
leaving it attached only by wires.

 The bike's repulsorlift was fine. So Face, finding a rope in
the vehicle's small cargo compartment, had tied the rope off
to the outrigger and was now a couple of meters ahead, dragging 
the bike by the rope while Phanan rode.

 "This is pretty sweet," Phanan said. "Why don't you peel me
some sunfruit while you're at it?" There was still a rasp of
pain in his voice.

 "Sure. You kill it, I'll peel it. What does pursuit look
like?" 

 "Sensors don't show any vehicles within our scanning
range. I disabled the transmitter on this one's comlink so
they can't bounce a signal and find us."

 "Good."

 "Face ?"

 "Yes?"

 "Thanks for coming back for me."

 "If you got captured, I'd have to fill out forms."

 "Reasonable. By the way, do you have a plan, or is 
walking in the river pretty much the extent of it?"

 "That's the biggest part of it, sure," Face said. "Walking
downriver for exercise and to broaden my awareness of the 
incredible diversity of human culture. But sooner or later we
have to reach a community. At that point, I'll sneak in and
kidnap you a doctor."

 "Right," Phanan said. His eyes were closed. "As though l
trusted you to find your own backside without help from a
spotter satellite."

 "From there, we can also rig a signal to base. We'll probably 
be off this rock by dawn." 

 "Right."

 "Maybe I'll find a congenial female doctor in town and
she'll be taken with you and your little ways."

 "It won't happen. You know what her first words will be?"

 "What?"

 "She'll say, 'Garik Loran? The Face? Ooh, I'm feeling
faint .... '"

 Face turned around. 

 "Look again."

 Phanan craned his neck to look. "Oh, that's right, you're
still in your Horrible Burn Victim facial makeup. Maybe I
have a chance after all." He winced and half curled up as
another wave of pain hit him.

 "Oh, forget this. We've got to get you medical help 
immediately. And that means calling in Zsinj's forces and
surrendering."

 Phanan uncurled again, but rocked back and forth a little,
obviously unable to hold still.

 "Come here."

 Face splashed back to him.

 When he was alongside, Phanan grabbed him by the neck of his
pilot's suit. His organic eye blazed almost as much as his
mechanical one. "Listen to me, Face. We do not surrender.
Your face under the makeup and my prosthetic modifications
are going to be too easy to identify. If we surrender, the
whole Hawk-bat plan just evaporates, and we have to start
all over where Zsinj is concerned. I'm not going to have
that."

 "Even at the cost of your own life."

 "That's right." Exhausted by his exertions, Phanan lay
back on the seat. "Starting over means more time. More time
for Zsinj to bombard more colonies, to destroy more ships.
Another day may mean some bright young doctor gets it the
way I did and ends up what I am."

 "What you are is pretty good."

 Phanan shook his head. "Not as good as some kid with a
superior intellect whose only aim is to make people better.
I'd rather he be out there than me." He took a long breath. "If
I die..."

 "You're not going to die."

 "Shut up and listen, Face. If I die, you can't let them find
my body. They'd identify me. Do whatever it takes you to get
back to the unit, but don't let them find me."

 "You're not going to die."

 "Promise me you'll dispose of me."

 Face shuddered. "I promise. But you're not going to die."

 "Well, I'll try to hold you to that promise, too." His
organic eye closed. "There's no traffic, yet we're 
stopped. Why is that?"

 Face grinned and splashed back to his towing rope. "Your
fault for hiring an incompetent driver."

 The sun went down and Halmad's myriad moons were brightly
illuminated. Behind them was a rich carpet of stars - for all
its industry, Halmad had clear skies.

 At a bend in the river where the trees were thin, Phanan
said, "What's that?"

 Face looked back to see where Phanan was staring, then
looked straight up.

 Just crossing before one of the moons was a brightly illu-
minated triangle, tiny in the distance.   "That'll be Iron
Fist, I expect."

 "Ah. Nice to have been able to see her before she was all
blown up."

 Two hundred meters farther on, Face heard Phanan gasping
for breath. He splashed back to him. He couldn't go as fast
as he wanted. It was getting hard to move; his legs were
cold and felt like lead.

 Phanan was not knotted in pain, as Face had expected. He was
stretched out in the pose he'd found most comfortable, but
there was distress in his face. "Sorry," Phanan said. "A bit
of panic." His voice was fainter than before.  

 "Panic."

 "I was just imagining what a sad galaxy this would be without 
my superior intellect and general state of wonderfulness." 
Phanan gave a minimal shrug.

 "That's not something you have to worry about."

 "Either way, you're right." Phanan held out a hand; there
was something in it.

 Face took the datapad from him.

  "What's this?"

 "It's called a da-ta-pad. New Republic and Imperial children 
learn about them from the time they're very young."

 "Funny."

 "Take it back with you. It has some last thoughts on it."

 The coldness in Face's legs crept up to inhabit the rest of
him and he shuddered again. "Not last thoughts, Ton. Don't
be so fatalistic. You're just punishing yourself."

 Phanan managed a hoarse chuckle. "You would know.
That's your specialty, isn't it?"   

 "What do you mean?"

 "I do what I do because I very badly want to hurt the people 
who hurt me. You do what you do so you can punish a little boy 
who once made some holodramas for the Empire."

 "That's ridiculous."

 "Is it? Face, just how much do you think you owe the New
Republic?"

 "Well... some."

 "For your acting. For the fact that it furthered Imperial
causes."

 "That's right."

 "It's not right. You're putting a tremendous burden on the
little boy you used to be."

 "Well, a debt. It's as though I incurred this tremendous
debt account. Now I'm paying it off bit by bit."

 "The account doesn't need balancing." There was scorn in
Ton's voice. "You can't reduce sapient lives to numbers and
exchange them like credits. You can't measure what a boy
did in innocence against what a man has to do for the rest
of his life."

 "Now you're raving."

 "Ah. That's good to know. Hey, we're stopped again."

 A bit farther, and Phanan said, in a hoarse whisper Face
could barely hear over the whine of the repulsorlift, "It's
up there again."

 "Iron Fist?" Face looked up. The Super Star Destroyer was
making another orbit.

 It was distant, pristine, like the giant spearhead of some
supernatural being from the long-forgotten mythologies of a
hundred worlds. It drifted by, not caring about the lives
and deaths and victories and tragedies of the humans below.
And when it descended, it would bring death. That, Face
decided, was Iron Fist. And such a thing had no right to
exist.  If it took him forever, he would see it destroyed.

 He made sure his sudden revulsion did not make it to his
voice. "Not too intimidating from this far away, is it?" he
asked.

 Phanan didn't answer.

 "I said, not too intimidating from here, is it?"

 Phanan still did not respond.

 Face stood where he was, unwilling to turn and look, to walk
back on his cold-numbed legs to confirm what he feared.
But the speeder bike slowly drifted forward until it was beside 
him.

 Phanan's chest did not rise or fall. But his organic eye was
still open, directed upward, and his expression-for once
lacking pain, lacking the shields of sarcasm or manufactured
self-appreciation - was that of a child wondering at the 
glittering beauty of the stars.

 Face's vision blurred as his own eyes filled with the first
tears he'd shed since he was a boy.



                            13



At dawn, Face rose from his makeshift camp. He took one last
look at the bundle he was leaving behind-ruined speeder
bike, ruined pilot, and the combination of his own datapad
and a Raptor comlink he'd laboriously programmed by moonlight, 
all beneath the thin thermal blanket he'd retrieved from the 
bike's cargo-and then headed into the trees.

 In spite of the pulsing aches that seemed to have replaced
his muscles and bones while he slept, he would be able to
travel swiftly. He had good directional sense. He did not
have an injured comrade to tow through difficult, slow
terrain.

 Within an hour, he passed by the gutted hulk of Phanan's TIE
fighter. There were no bodies here. Zsinj's investigators
had come and gone, and had posted no one to guard a valueless,
burned-out hull. There were no distant sounds of speeder bikes 
or TIE fighters. The search had moved or been called off.

 When morning was still young, he swam out to where his
interceptor lay partially submerged, and took a long and
lonely time going through the routine power-up checklist.
But when that was done, he had to act fast. His window of
opportunity would be a narrow one.

 The murky water behind his interceptor boiled as he cut
in his engines; he could see bubbles and foam drift around to
his front viewport as his interceptor strained. Then the
repulsors overcame the muck that trapped his vehicle. He
rose to the water's surface and then shot into the air.
Up, southwest across a narrow band of forest, a mere few
moments until he found the river. Downriver just a few more
moments as terrain blurred beneath him.

  When he recognized the approximate area of his camp, he
sent a signal across his comlink. The distant Raptor comlink
responded with the signal he'd programmed into its companion 
datapad and a moment later he hovered over the glade
where he'd spent the night.

 There it was, the black thermal blanket atop his friend.
He could not wait. Revulsion for the deed he was about to
perform had been his companion last night; he did not have
time for it now. He rotated so that his interceptor was
pointed straight down, as though it were about to fly into
the ground.

 Repulsor and thrust emissions kicked leaves and plants into
motion, and a moment later whipped the blanket from atop the
speeder bike and Ton Phanan.

 Phanan's organic eye was closed-Face had closed it last
night. But his mechanical eye was still powered, still
staring redly, and Face wondered what it saw.  Then Face
fired.

 His lasers turned the center of the glade into a burning 
inferno, charring speeder bike, organic body, and prosthetic
parts into a melted crater of ash and bubbling metal. He
fired until there was nothing recognizable there, nothing
for the investigators of Zsinj or Halmad to identify as Ton
Phanan.

 Then he turned his bow skyward and fled to space.








 At the end of Face's debriefing, Wedge asked, "You've eaten?"

 Face nodded. He rubbed his chin where the General Kargin
scar makeup had been removed, and seemed surprised to find
stubble there. "A little."

 "Good. Listen, Face, I know this isn't going to help
very much, but as far as I can tell from your report and
your interceptor's recordings, you did everything right. 
You did everything possible to preserve the integrity of this
mission and the lives of your fellow pilots. I think highly 
of what you accomplished down there."

 "But I was unable to bring Phanan back alive."

 Wedge nodded. "I've been unable to bring a lot of friends
back alive. And I'm not going to pretend that it's not going
to eat at you. It will. It still eats at me. I just want you
to understand that it's not something you alone have gone
through. If you need to talk, come to me, or to Wes or to
Myn. I don't think we can make you feel any better... but we
can remind you that it's possible to survive the experience."

 "Yes, sir." Face looked reflective. "I'd like to try to
return that favor, if you'd like me to."

 "How's that?"

 "I knew Ton better than anyone in the unit. I think I should
at least help write the letter of notification to his
family."

 "Ah. Well, that's not going to be necessary, Face. We're
both off that particular hook. While you were cleaning up, I
went through his records and the datapad you brought back to
me. The person we're supposed to notify in the case of his
death is you."

 Face's eyes went wide. "Me. Why not his family?"

 "No living family. He was the only child of a couple who had
him comparatively late in life. They both died before he
completed his education. No siblings. No family member
closer than distant cousins who've never met him. You're
also the beneficiary of his will."

 Face didn't even manage a reply to that statement. He just
gaped.

 "I have to process some of these documents. Then I'll get
them into your hands. It won't be for a while. In the
meantime, I want you to get some sleep. At least, get some
rest."

 "Yes, sir."

 Wedge returned the pilot's salute and watched him go. He
waited a few moments before calling, 

 "Wes."

 Janson stuck his head in the doorway. His normally merry
features were now schooled into somber lines. "Yes, Commander."

"Assign Lara Notsil to Face as his wingman. Also, she's
had the military first-aid course more recently than any of
the rest of us, so assign her as squadron medic. Get her
whatever instructional holos and equipment she'll need for
the task.

"And ask her to keep an eye on him, to watch out for signs
of undue distress or any sort of overreaction to Phanan's
death.  But she needs to keep it very surreptitious. We
can't have him feeling that we're all spying on him."

 "Even though we are."

 "Correct."

 Moments after Janson had gone, there was a rap at the
door.

 "Come."

 Donos entered and saluted.

 Wedge returned the salute and tried to keep from frowning. 
There was something different about the pilot. The
somber expression was the same, the thick mop of black hair
over brooding dark eyes was the same-though lacking the air
of defeat Donos had worn when he joined Wraith Squadron.
Then Wedge caught it. Donos was in casual dress, mostly
black, his jacket still bearing a patch for Talon Squadron,
and Corellian Bloodstripes on his pants.

 Donos had earned the decorations while serving with 
distinction as a sniper with the Corellian armed forces. He
hadn't worn them in the first several weeks of his service
with Wraith Squadron, demonstrating the lack of selfesteem
that followed the destruction of his former squadron.
That injury to his spirit seemed to have healed. A good
sign. But Donos still wasn't the ostentatious sort and
wouldn't have worn a decoration like this, even though it
was his right, with his ordinary dress. Wedge gave him a
suspicious look and gestured for him to sit. 

 "This obviously isn't about Face."

 "That's right, sir. It's about Lara."

 Donos told him about Lara's brother, who shouldn't have
survived but did, who shouldn't have found her again but
did.  And he described a possible mission to Lara's
homeworld of Aldivy.




 Face rose after a long time. Most of it had not been spent
sleeping. Nor had he been truly awake; he'd been in a restless
state where conscious thought could not take hold, but neither
could sleep, for his mind was fully occupied by images of
the last two days.

 The light on his terminal was blinking, a sign of messages
or files received. He brought the terminal up.

 A dispatch from the commander. Lara, Wraith Thirteen, was
now his wing, and the replacement medic. No surprise there.

 A copy of Ton Phanan's will. Face skipped it.

 A message from Phanan. It was dated and timed less than an
hour before his death. Face took a deep breath and brought
it up.

 It was simple text, the only means Phanan had to take
notes at the time. It read,

 Face:

 I'm not going to go into the pathology of this. Suffice 
to say we're talking about internal injuries, internal
bleeding. Maybe a ruptured kidney; I'm having trouble
sorting that one out. Either way, I don't think I'm going
to last too long.

 I flatter myself in thinking that you're going to take
it kind of hard. (If I'm wrong, don't let me know.) While
part of me wishes you wouldn't, another part appreciates it.

 I also know that you're going to punish yourself for
this. I wish you wouldn't. There are two people responsible 
for me getting injured. I'm one of them, for being not
quite the superior flier I needed to be. Some unnamed
Zsinj pilot is the other one, and you killed him. (Which I
also appreciate, by the way, in case I didn't tell you.)

 There's no room for a third party to blame, so butt out.

 I've left you some money. A fair amount, actually; I
was the only son of wealthy parents, and I didn't manage
to spend it all on good times and prosthetics. By the
terms of my will, some of what you receive has to be used
for a specific project. If you don't use it for that, the
whole amount goes to an already wealthy actor you've
mentioned with a certain amount of contempt, and
you'll get to watch him become even richer despite his
lack of talent or personal worth. So there.

 I really don't have much time here, and I'm struggling to
find some way to sum up what I need to say. I guess it boils
down to this:

 Thanks for being my friend. I needed one, and you were it.

 Ton Phanan

 Pilot, Wit, and Superior Intellect

 Oh, yes-don't let roy glass prowlers starve. They're cute
little insects. Cuteness should be preserved.

 Face waited for some sort of blow to hit him, but he was
left only with the dull ache that had been his companion all
through the night.

 He brought up Phanan's will and read it as well.





 "Some of us will, as you know, be away on missions with 
varying levels of consequence," Wedge said. "A couple will
remain here at Hawk-bat Base for maintenance and security
purposes.  The rest-now, contain yourselves-will receive
leave."

 He waited through the resulting cheers. They were in the
conference-room module, packed in around its table, and the
Wraiths' expressions were a study in contrasts, ranging from
glum to suddenly cheerful. Well, partially cheerful.

 Phanan's death was still fresh on their minds.

 "Mission One is the meeting with Zsinj," Wedge said.
"Face commands, and he has chosen Dia and Kell to accompany
him. This is all intelligence gathering, very delicate,
which is why the crew is full of deadly killers." That got a
chuckle. Wedge saw Tyria give Kell a little irritable punch
in the shoulder-doubtless she was unhappy that he'd be on a
very dangerous mission, and doubly unhappy that she wouldn't
be along to get him out of trouble. "This mission will
utilize the shuttle Narra.

 "Mission Two is Lara's meeting with her brother. We hope
that will turn out to be nothing more than a joyful family
reunion, but there's a chance that this is a probe by Zsinj.
Lieutenant Donos will accompany her, and they'll be in their
X-wings.

 "Mission Three consists of me traveling by X-wing back to
Coruscant to make a routine report and pick up orders.
With our complement of X-wings, up to five more of you can
accompany me back and get in a little rest and recreation.
Lieutenant Janson will remain here in command of the
facility - because he got to go back last time and now it's
his turn."

 Janson's expression turned glum. "Nobody is allowed to have
any fun on Coruscant. If I find out that anyone has had any
fun, he gets kitchen duty for a month."

 "We all promise to be miserable, Wes." Wedge noticed one of
the pilots' hand raised. 

 "Yes, Castin."

 "Sir, you remember the special mission I talked to you
about? Sneaking a program into Iron Fist's communications
system so that it will broadcast its location occasionally?"

 "I remember. I remember saying it was a good plan... but not
for the initial contact mission."

 Castin waved as if to brush away the last part of Wedge's
statement. "Sir, I finished the program."

 "You did?" Wedge nodded. "Excellent."

 "I finished it in time for this mission, sir. It still needs
an experienced code-slicer to cut it into the system in
question- otherwise it'd never get through the system's
defenses-but it operates flawlessly on my Imperial-computer-
system simulators."

 "It won't be for this mission, Castin. But we'll try to
bring back an upgraded simulator from Coruscant to give you
that much more of an edge."

 "Dammir, sir, this is the only opportunity we're certain
we're going to have. We need to take it. You're being too
cautious, and that's going to cost us."

 The other pilots looked between Castin and Wedge, all cheer
draining from their faces.

 Wedge took a deep breath, giving himself a brief moment to
calm himself. 

 "Flight Officer Donn." 

 "Yes, sir."

 "Flight Officer Donn."

 Suddenly uneasy, Castin looked around, then rose and stood
at attention. 

 "Sir."

 "Your tactical sense and gut feeling tell you that now is
the time to implement your plan. Mine tell me that later
will be better. All else being equal, whose do you think I
am going to rank higher?"

 "Well, yours, sir." Castin looked very unhappy under this
sudden scrutiny.

 "Now, think about this. If we do it my way and I'm right,
we've saved lives. If we do it my way and I'm wrong, we'll
have missed an opportunity-an opportunity we'll regain if
the rest of the mission goes according to plan and the 
Hawk-bats begin doing work for Zsinj-and I'll have both learned
something and suffered a slight blow to my reputation, both
of which l can survive.

 "On the other hand, if we do it your way and you're right,
we conceivably speed up the destruction of Zsinj. But if we
do it your way and you're wrong, you get yourself and the
whole team captured or killed, which you can't survive. Do
you see the difference?"

 "Yes, sir, but..."

 "Save that thought. Now, imagine that you're a New Republic
pilot and you feel a need to criticize a superior officer's
performance or thinking. All else being equal, should you do
so in private or in a public forum?"

  Castin seemed visibly to sag. 

 "In private, sir."

 "I'll give you some time to think about that. You'll be 
remaining on Hawk-bat Station while your fellows return to
Coruscant. Now, sit."

 Castin did, flushing red, looking miserable.

 Wedge looked among the other pilots. "Anything else?
No? Prep for your missions, then. 
Dismissed."

 Face caught up with Castin out in the Trench. He asked,

 "What was that all about?"

 Castin shook his head, angry, and didn't slow his pace...
though he was just walking up the middle of the stony shaft
with no destination evident. "He's wrong, Face. He's just
wrong."

 "Why?"

"Because, I don't know, he's so concerned about preserving
our lives that he'll flinch from a tactic that could end
this whole campaign in one stroke."

 "No. Castin, he hasn't hesitated to risk our lives, or
his own, not in the time I've been with the Wraiths. But in
spite of all the jokes about Corellians not caring about the
odds, he does. And he knows more about resources and strategy 
than we do. So if he says your mission isn't worth the risk..."

 "He's right and I'm wrong."

 "Probably."

 "All right."

 "I want your promise that you won't try anything on your
own."

 "I promise." Castin stopped suddenly and looked around.  He
and Face were now beside the kitchen and mess. "I'm hungry." 
He headed in that direction.

 "A good, brisk walk will do that to you," Face said. He did
not follow the code-slicer - better not to put him on the
defensive.






 There were two gray blurs, the X-wings of Lara and Donos,
shooting up past the magcon field holding in the atmosphere
of the Hawk-bats' hangar. Face, seated in the cockpit of the
shuttle Narra, watched them flash by. They were followed a
moment later by a stream of five more snubfighters - Wedge,
Runt, Shalla, Tyria, and Piggy, off on their routine mission
to Coruscant.

 He envied them. It wasn't just that they'd be getting a
little rest and recreation, even just a few hours of it; the
prospect of facing Warlord Zsinj was making him more than a
little tense.  He had no abnormal fear of the man-but ever
since this mission had been described to him, he'd harbored
the fear that somewhere in the middle of a conversation with
the warlord, a vision of Phanan would cross before his eyes
and he'd be unable to restrain himself from making an
assault on Zsinj. Such an attack might hurt or kill Zsinj,
but it was certain to be fatal to Face and his comrades.

 "Power," he said.

 "Ninety-seven percent, reserves one hundred percent."

 That was Dia, seated beside him, in the copilot's seat. But
it wasn't the Dia he was used to. She was now in the guise
of Seku, her Hawk-bats identity, and as dramatically
different from her usual appearance as Face was when, as
now, he wore his General Kargin scar makeup.

 Her normally bare brain tails-or Iekku, as they were known
to the natives of Ryloth - were now decorated with an
intricate pattern of black cuneiform marks, temporary
tattoos that, in the Twi'lek language, told stories of the
character and misdeeds of her fictitious identity. Instead
of the gray TIE-style pilot's uniforms Face and Kell wore,
she was dressed in a vest, trousers, and boots of black
hide-lined, she had assured him, for comfort-all decorated
with shiny metal replicas of animal teeth and claws,
accoutrements she'd persuaded Cubber to lathe out during
some of his infrequent off-duty hours. Face found her
attractive under normal circumstances; this barbaric
persona was even more visually appealing.

 "Ninety-seven? Why are we not at full?"

 She shrugged. "Cubber said something about the manhandling 
Narra sustained in Iron Fist's tractor beams causing
some system problems. Nothing he can repair until the
commander returns from Coruscant with some replacement
parts."

 "Wonderful. What else did he say we can expect to go wrong?"

 Kell stuck his head up between the two seats. There was more
to his head now; he wore a false mustache, beard, and
absurdly long wig of fiery red hair.

 "Hull seals are a little more questionable. We had to repair 
some slow leaks when we got back. But she's in good shape. 
Assuming we don't have to take on another Star Destroyer, 
she'll do just fine."

 "Good. Remember your signature action."

 Kell's eyes slitted. With a slow and deliberate motion, he
drew the hair hanging down his right shoulder to fall behind
his back. As he turned to look at Face, he added an insolent
little shake of the head that set his hair to swaying. It
was an elaboration Face hadn't taught him, but it was
perfect, making his persona even more obviously a victim of
arrogance and self-love.

 Dia gave the two of them a hard smile. "He's loathsome."

 Face said, "That's the idea. All right, strap in and prep
for space. We have an appointment to keep. No, wait a
minute:

 Kell, drag Castin out of the smuggling compartment and send
him packing. We can't have any stowaways."

 Grinning, Kell moved aft, behind the seats, and tapped a
complicated rhythm against the starboard bulkhead. A portion
of what had looked like seamless wall swung down on hinges
and he reached inside. An expression of surprise crossed his
face and he ducked down to look. 

 "Hey, no Castin." 

 "It's empty?"

 "I didn't say that." Kell retrieved something fairly large
and furry from the compartment's interior and waved it at
the others. It was the Ewok toy. 

 "Say hello to Lieutenant Kettch."

 Face snorted. "You ever wonder how he gets around? I'm not
sure he isn't alive."

 Kell peered inside the compartment again. "And some generous
spirit has loaded this thing up with goodies. A couple of
blasters, some preserved food, a couple of bottles of Halmad
Prime..." 

 "Hey, bring that up here."

 Kell replaced Kettch within the compartment and sealed it.

 "I don't think so."

 "It's every general's right to be uproariously drunk on
diplomatic missions."

 Kell dropped into the seat behind Dia and began practicing
his signature move. With every repetition it became more
obnoxious. 

 "I'm going to keep this up until you shut up about the Prime."

 "Ooh. You win, mutineer. Prepare for space."


                            14

 Narra emerged from hyperspace at the appointed coordinates.
This was deep space, nothing to see within a half-dozen
light-years, but there was something awaiting them-a barrage
of core messages. They flooded the communications waves,
repeating variations on the same message, overlapping one
another.

 "Greetings Hawk-bats this is greetings Hawk-bats Warlord
Zsinj not rebroadcast I welcome this is you prepare to
receive them simply Warlord Zsinj a new set of I welcome 
follow them coordinates do not rebroadcast you prepare them
simply soon we follow them to receive soon we will be will
be a new dining in comfort and set of dining in coming to
terms of coordinates do great mutual comfort and profit..."

 The words continued in that way, a ceaseless stream.

 Face shook his head. "That's a mess. Let's see if we can
lock them down to a single transmission." His hands moved
over the communications console. 

 "All right. We have a small satellite dead ahead. One 
signal's stronger than the others. And that gives us..." 

 He punched a button to isolate the signal.

 "Greetings, Hawk-bats. This is Warlord Zsinj. I welcome
you. Prepare to receive a new set of coordinates. Do not 
rebroadcast them. Simply follow them. Soon we will be dining
in comfort and coming to terms of great mutual profit."
The message began to repeat.

 "We're getting a file on the same band," Dia said.

 "Don't bring it up," Kell said. "It might be the kind of
program Castin likes to work up. Something that will give
them more information about us than we'd like."

 Face nodded. "Good point. It's not a big file. I'll transmit
it to my datapad and we can reenter the nav data by hand.
What do you figure would happen if we did want to retransmit
the file?"

 Dia said, "One of two things. That satellite will have an
extra system. Either it's a weapons system, designed to
destroy us, or it's a hypercomm system that will warn Zsinj
before we get to him."

 Kell dragged his hair back over his shoulder again. "It'll
be whichever system is cheaper."

 "Well, in either case, we won't be doing that." Face compared 
the navigational data on his datapad with that which
he'd just typed into Narra's computer. It matched. He
punched the execute button and nodded for Dia to bring the
shuttle around to its new course.

 "All right, stage two."









 The two X-wings dropped out of hyperspace at the outer 
periphery of the Aldivy system, well beyond the solar-gravity
well that would prevent their reentering hyperspace.
Lara immediately brought up her visual sensors and trained
them on the planet of Aidivy. The picture that emerged,
jittery and blurry, was of a blue-and-white globe with no
features she could identify.

 She restrained herself from making a sour face. What she
knew of Aidivy all came from Imperial surveys and publicly
available data. She knew the map of the planet's surface,
but from space, of course, cloud cover kept those easily
recognized continental borders from sight.

 Her comlink crackled. "I can't detect any traffic on
Imperial channels," Donos said. "Just some routine stuff on
standard planetary and commercial channels. Pretty light,
actually."

 "Aldivy isn't heavily settled," she said. "A couple of
hundred communities. Not enough value there for the 
Imperials to protect it when they occupied it. At the 
height of Imperial occupation, we had two TIE fighters 
and a shuttle protecting us."

 "In addition to your own planetary defense forces, I assume."

 "Um, yes." She wished he'd quit asking questions. Too much
of this and he'd catch her out in a wrong answer. "Our
police. Not much defense against assault forces, I'm
afraid."

 "Is your home on the day side or night side right now?"

 "I'm trying to figure that out." Shut up. Just shut up. "I
can't tell. I'll know when we're closer."












 The main doors to Iron Fist's false bridge rose with their
customary startling speed and General Melvar entered. He
stopped short at the sight of the dinner table now occupying
the center of the command walkway. Zsinj was seated at the
head chair of the bare table, his booted feet up on it.
Behind him, at the bow end of the chamber, the holoscreens
had been activated and were now a perfect match for the view
from the real bridge's forward viewports; they framed Zsinj,
making him the central feature of the galaxy they showed.

 Zsinj smiled at him. "What do you think?"

 "Perhaps your most ostentatious demonstration yet," Melvar
said as he approached. "Shouldn't you surround yourself with
a nimbus of light to complete the effect?"

 "Not a bad idea. Maybe next time. What do you want?"

 "Sensors have reported a shuttle's appearance from the
hyperspace course you provided to the Hawk-bats. They'll be
here within minutes."

 Zsinj's feet hit the walkway surface and he stood. 

 "Assemble the cast. Notify the galley. And get into makeup. 
This should be entertaining."

 As he watched Iron Fist growing in the forward viewport,
Face willed his stomach to quit crawling around. "All right.
Here's your last bit of advice. Remember, we're just as 
arrogant as they are but nowhere near as strong. So respond
appropriately to bad manners-but not so appropriately that 
you get us killed."

 Kell mimed entering data on an imaginary datapad. 

 "No get killed," he said. "I'll try to remember."

 "I'd like to say leave all the talking to me, but that's not
going to work - we're here to impress them with our individual 
skill and readiness. Just keep all your responses in
character, and refer any question about our unit strength,
tactical readiness, that sort of thing, to me."

 "Understood, General," Dia said. Her voice was an insinuating 
purr, far different from the flat, sometimes emotionless tones
he was used to from her. He glanced at her, and it was a stranger's 
face that looked back at him:

 Dia's features with another woman behind them. Her eyes
evaluated him with the steady regard of a half-tamed animal
watching its owner for some sign of weakness. He looked away
quickly, uneasily aware that he didn't know whether she was
simply a natural actress or this was a layer to her that he
hadn't seen before.

 To his disappointment, the Iron Fist bridge crew instructed
the Hawk-bats to land in a secondary hangar well forward of
the main hangar. He would have liked to have seen the damage
done to the main hangar by Kell's tanker bomb, to have seen
its state of repair.
Dia brought the shuttle into the designated hangar. Within
already were a pair of interceptors, another Lambda-class
shuttle, and a larger Raptor transport shuttle-an ugly, boxy
troop carrier known to be favored by Zsinj's forces.
And a reception committee-an officer and a half-dozen
stormtroopers. One of the troopers hand-guided Narra to a
landing pad marked off by red paint. Dia set the shuttle
down expertly.

 "Show time," Face said.

 They descended the boarding ramp in proper form, Face first,
Dia and Kell to either side of and behind him. Face stopped
directly before the officer. Neither that man nor any of the
stormtroopers reacted visibly to Face's scar makeup, the
first time he could remember such a lack of response.

 The officer before him was not what Face had expected.
The man was tall and lean, with features that might have
been bland had they not been twisted into such a predatory 
smile. He seemed to glow with an inner light, and Face suspected
that it was a dangerous light. The man liked to win, or to
kill, or to inflict pain - Face wasn't sure which, but he did
know that this was a man to watch. The officer also,
incongruously, had long and perfectly reflective
fingernails; Face suspected they were metal and would not
have been surprised to discover that they were very, very
sharp.

 Face cleared his throat. "I am General Kargin, founder and
leader of the Hawk-bat Independent Space Force." He put on
an urbane smile and lowered his voice. "I believe I have an
invitation."

 "Indeed you do. General Melvar. I am in charge of the
warlord's assault forces, and I welcome you to Iron Fist."

 The general shook Face's hand. Firm grip, fast shake-he made
no effort to conduct a contest of grip strength to
demonstrate dominance. 

 "Your associates ?"

 Face gestured first to Dia, then to Kell. "Captain Seku, my
second-in-command. Lieutenant Dissek, my bodyguard."

 "Delighted. Before we continue, though, there is a bit of
bureaucratic unpleasantness to accomplish."  

 "Oh?"

 The general looked regretful. "Zsinj is a man with many
enemies. For this reason, many policies surround him,
policies that I do not let him overrule, for his own safety.
One of them leads me to insist that you turn over all
weapons to my men for the duration of your stay."

 Face shrugged. Then he drew his blaster pistol with such
speed that the stormtroopers present were caught off guard,
their weapons out of line; he could have shot Melvar and one
or two others before they would have been able to react. But
just as quickly he flipped the blaster in the air and caught
it, then handed it, butt first, to the nearest stormtrooper.

 "I have no fear of treachery here," Face said. "Alive, I
promise additional strength to Zsinj. Killed, I would cost
him very dearly."

 Melvar gave him a polite nod and shrug, neither agreeing to
nor denying Face's assertion. Dia and Kell handed over their
own blasters in a less dramatic fashion.

 "The second part of this unfortunate protocol," Melvar said,
"is that you must tie scanned for additional weapons you
might have forgotten to hand over, because of your habitual
wearing of them almost as clothing rather than weapons.
Please."

 Obligingly, Face and the others raised their arms and let a
stormtrooper specialist run a handheld scanner around them.

 Face came up clean, then Dia.

 Then it was Kell's turn. His accoutrements also failed to
trigger the weapons scanner, but the stormtrooper behind him
obviously thought his arms needed to be a little higher;
with the barrel of his blaster rifle, he tapped the
underside of one of Kell's arms to raise it.

 Kell stepped back so that the stormtrooper's barrel protruded 
beneath his right arm. He clamped his right arm upon
it, then twisted, simultaneously yanking the blaster out of
the man's hand and bringing his elbow up under the stormtrooper's 
helmet. A slight change to the angle of his attack
and the blow would crush the man's windpipe, but Kell
instead brought his elbow up into the man's chin. Everyone
heard the crack of the man's jaw snapping shut.

 The stormtrooper dropped to the floor, his armor clattering.
The other stormtroopers aimed at Kell. With admirable
aplomb, Kell slowly reached over to switch off the blaster
rifle's power, then lowered the weapon onto its fallen
owner. 

 "Is there a problem?"

 General Melvar's mouth twitched into what looked like an
amused smirk. "You appear to be punishing one of my men."

 "Punishing?" Kell looked down at the stormtrooper as if
seeing him for the first time. "Oh, I assure you, no
punishment was intended. That was simply reflex. If I'd
intended to punish him, he'd be begging you to kill him
now."

 Face turned back to Melvar. "My apologies."

 The general shook his head. "No need to apologize. The
trooper was not instructed to behave this way toward honored
guests. I think a little experience with electricity will do
him some good." He gestured for another stormtrooper to attend
to the unconscious man, then for Face to fall in step beside
him. "How much do you pay for this man Dissek's services?"

 "I'll never tell," Face said. "If you want to try to hire
him away, you'll have to offer him a bribe without knowing
my own economies."

 Melvar offered a little sigh of vexation.







 They landed in a grove of fruit trees less than a kilometer
from the charred oval of dirt that now lay where the
community of New Oldtown had once stood. It was night, and
only the crescent of a single moon afforded Lara and Donos
any light.

 Together, they approached the area of char from the east,
where a rise overlooked the destroyed town. Lara assured
Donos that a farmhouse had once stood there; she didn't tell
him that she knew this only from publicly available information 
taken from the community's main computer shortly before Admiral 
Trigit bombarded the town out of existence. At the summit of 
the rise, they got down on hands and knees to crawl until 
the ruined area was beneath them.

 What had been New Oldtown was as black as cloudy night.

 What she could see of the terrain suggested that the onetime
community and outlying farms were now a series of charred
furrows and craters-certainly, the nearest terrain was like
that.

 In the midst of it all, though, was a house - a prefabricated
brick-shaped dwelling of an incongruous blue, cheery lights
in the windows. It looked like a cheap dollhouse.

 Donos sighted in on it with his sniper rifle, adjusting the
range on his sight. He did not speak, but worked with confidence 
and precision. Lara could tell he'd done this many
times in similar circumstances.

 "They'll probably scan for large life-forms when I arrive,"
she said. 

 "In case I brought allies. Which I have."

 "We're nearly a kilometer out," Donos said. "They might have
a scanner that could find me, but probably not. Have you got
your comlink to broadcast continuously?"

 "No. They're sure to check for that. I'm going in with it
off, and I'm leaving it off."

 He looked at her, one eye visible in the shadow of his face.

 "That's not a good idea. If you get in trouble...-"

 "If I hold up a fist, it means I'm in trouble. Come to the
rescue. If I don't, i have the situation under control."

 He sighed, obviously unhappy. "All right. But call for help
the instant you feel the situation spin out of control."

 "If it does." She hesitated, at a loss for what to say next.
His tone suggested that he wasn't just being professionally
methodical - he actually cared about what happened to her.
She wasn't used to that and didn't know how to respond. No
words suggested themselves, so she simply rose and headed
down the hill toward the ludicrous blue house.







 Castin Donn watched Zsinj's scanner team go over the
interior of Narra. The picture on his handheld screen wasn't
good - a flickery blue and white, limitations imposed by the
micro-miniaturized holocam lens he had set up to observe the
shuttle's cabin-but it did allow him to see which of the
cockpit's control panels they popped open so as to install
the machinery they'd brought with them. A tracking device,
probably. They brought up the shuttle's master control
program, too, but didn't spend much time with it - probably
just erasing the record of their entry and exit. Not that
such a tactic would work; Castin had done considerable work
on Narra's systems, so that now what appeared to be the
standard interfaces to all shuttle programs were actually a
false layer. Code-slicers could adjust those layers all they
wished, but their modifications would be trapped and later
presented to the shuttle's authorized operators for
confirmation or deletion.

 The scanning team departed and the boarding ramp rose into
place. It was time to get moving.

 Castin switched off the holocam and gingerly set the
screen down beside him. Every move had to be precise and
careful. He lay on his back in full stormtrooper armor, the
helmet tucked in beside his head, and could still occupy only
half of the smuggling compartment. He'd arranged to extend a
holocam lead and a breathing tube out through the scanner
shielding-turning them off while scanning was actually taking 
place - but the compartment had no other comfort conditioning, 
and he'd been sweating in here for hours. He stank like a bantha 
in mating season.

 Tape held the mirror in place beside him. The mirror was a
long strip of reflective material set up to adhere to the
bottom and top surfaces of the smuggling compartment at a
forty-five-degree angle so that anyone looking in would see
the compartment's top surface instead of the back. It was
carefully situated so that it covered him but led anyone
looking in the compartment to believe that it was empty at
the rear.

 Now he went through the actions that had gotten him here,
but in reverse order. He detached the tape that held the
mirrored material to the compartment's ceiling and lowered
it in place beside him. He carefully moved aside the
supplies he'd loaded into the compartment, giving him a
narrow channel for escape. He flipped the switch that popped
the compartment door open, and then wriggled out into
Narra's main compart-ment-and into comparatively fresh air.
He lay there on the floor for a few moments, gulping in air,
then retrieved his helmet and other gear from the compartment 
and sealed it back up.

 His plan was under way. He had to get out of the shuttle and
hangar without the hangar guards noticing, find his way to a
full-function computer coupler, slice his way in through
ship security, and upload his program-then get back and
wait. It would be tough, but he was a Wraith. He could do
it.

 And days from now, when Iron Fist was a glowing ball of
superheated gas or a prize vessel in the hands of the New 
Republic, Commander Antilles would be forced to acknowledge
that Castin had been right all along.








 General Melvar and the Hawk-bats swept into a bridge that
was a riot of activity. A narrow but full-length dinner 
table, large enough to accommodate twenty people, was set 
up on the command walk-way and more than half-filled with 
diners. Seated at the head of the table, his back to the 
viewports now showing the swirl of hyperspace travel, a 
vast area of brightness in his spotless white grand admiral's 
uniform, was Zsinj. His hands were clasped over his expansive 
belly, his mustachios drooped rakishly, and his expression 
was one of great contentment.

 The officers assembled at his table were engaged in vigorous 
conversation, but as the Hawk-bats entered the chamber
they could hear none of it - it was drowned out by the din
from the crew pit below.

 There, uniformed bridge officers stood their watches with a
startling unconcern for military decorum. Some monitored
their screens while leaning back with their feet up on their
con-soles. Others stood in groups of three or four, eyes on
their screens but their attention on their fellows. Several
crewmen were huddled close to their screens, absorbed in 
low-grade TIE-fighter simulators. At one point toward the bow,
two stormtroopers were engaged in a vibroblade duel,
apparently a friendly one, but their blows still caused 
deep scores in their white armor.

 They were all talking, a jumble of noise that made the
chamber sound like a conference hall rather than a ship's
bridge.

 General Melvar led the Hawk-bats toward the head of the
table and had them sit before offering introduction.

 "Warlord, allow me to present you General Kargin, Captain
Seku, and Lieutenant Dissek, honored representatives of the
Hawk-bats.  General Kargin, your host, the warlord Zsinj."
Face offered a seated half bow.

 Zsinj finally turned his attention to the new guests and
smiled. "Good to meet you at last. Welcome aboard Iron
Fist."

 Face said, "A formidable vessel. I trust we did not do her
too much damage."

 "Certainly not. Oh, several such explosions would have been
most inconvenient, but our capacity for repair is unparalleled."

 Face drew a hand across his brow, an exaggerated demonstration
of relief. "Well, that's cause for us to celebrate.
I have no quahns about preying on ground-pounders like the
people of Halmad, but-and it costs me no honor to say it - I
would avoid earning the prolonged enmity of Zsinj."

 The warlord's smile became broader. "It was already obvious 
that you were an intelligent pirate-else you would not
have enjoyed the success you did. But before we get to our
main subject of conversation for the evening, let us dine."

"Please." Face knew he'd kept all tension from his voice and
manner, but it was still there, and the meal was one more
opportunity for Zsinj to visit some new difficulty upon
them- such as poison. If they'd read the man correctly,
there would be no such subterfuge here. But they could
always have made a mistake in their evaluation.








 Lara drew to a stop a dozen steps from the house. She
surreptitiously touched the butt of her blaster, reassurance 
that it was still at hand. "Hail the camp," she called out, 
a standard Aldivian greeting from arriving visitors - even 
when arriving at a vast government building or a rich villa, 
tradition insisted it be called a camp.

 "Tavin, are you there?"

 The front door slid open and he was there, the human 
complication from her mail message, dark and good-looking, the
sort of man who knew his handsomeness was a tool and used it
at every opportunity. He beamed. "Lara." He approached her,
arms up for an embrace.

 She put her palm against his chest and kept him at bay.

 "Nothing like that. I don't feel that close to you right
now."

 His face fell. "I'm sorry. Maybe you will later. Come
inside?"

 "No. I spend too much time cooped up as it is. I like the
breeze out here."

 He shrugged. "Well, let's have some light." He returned to
his door and switched something just inside it. A floodlight
mounted above the door illuminated the charred blackness be-
fore his house. "I have someone to introduce you to."  

 "I imagine so."

 He beckoned, and a moment later was joined in the door-way
by another man. This one was rail lean, dressed in a brown
Aldivian farmer's garments... but the fineness of his blond
hair, the fact that there were no calluses on his hands, the
autocratic expression on his face, and-not least of all-the
blaster on his belt made it clear to Lara that this was no
Aldivian farmer.

 "Lara, let me introduce you to Captain Rossik. He has been
most anxious to speak to you."

 The blond man smiled, an expression that was both beautiful
and manifestly insincere, and advanced to shake Lara's hand.

 "I have indeed. Lieutenant Petothel, allow me to congratulate 
you on all you've accomplished."

 She took the compliment with a frosty little smile and nod.
That was why she had declined to have her comlink broadcast
back to Donos; she couldn't have her fellow Wraith hear her
being addressed by a different name. 

 "I'm so happy you were at last able to reach me," she said.

 "Tavin, go fetch us some chairs and drinks." Rossik returned 
his attention to Lara. "How long can you stay without eliciting 
suspicion?"

 "A couple of days. I received special leave because of
Tavin's sudden reappearance, but it's only for a few days."

 "Well, your record demonstrates that you're a smart one.  It
shouldn't take you too long to learn to use the equipment
we're going to give you."  

 "Equipment?"

 "A special transmitter. It sends very small information
packets via the old Imperial HoloNet. Yet it's only about
thirty kilos. Costs more than a TIE interceptor. We can 
use it to track Mon Remonda and put an end to her." 

 "With me aboard."

 "No, certainly not. You'll plant it, then on your next mission 
just vanish and come to us. Then, and only then, do we wipe out 
that ship."

 Lara appeared to think about it, long enough for a surly-
looking Tavin to reemerge from the house with chairs for
them all. He plopped them down in a semicircle and went back
in.

 At Rossik's gesture of invitation, Lara sat. 

 "I'm sorry, that won't work."  

 "Why?"

 "Security is very high on Mon Remonda. When we return from
any leave, anywhere, we get a thorough search of belongings. 
And they never let us know where we are. All mission
briefings use code names. We are kept completely in the
dark."

 Rossik's eyebrows rose. "I wasn't aware that the Rebels
had adopted such sensible security precautions. All their
talk of individual freedoms..."

 Lara waved his words away. 

 "A lie. I was never under such close scrutiny on Implacable 
as I have been on the Rebel ship."

 "Well, is there any way to transmit using Mon Remonda's
communications systems ?"

 "Yes, that could be done."

 I could lead you right to the assembled fleet and watch as 
Iron Fist is blown out of space.

"That's probably our best approach."

 Rossik's pocket beeped at him. From it he drew out a datapad. 
He glanced at its display and his shoulders tightened
up.  

 "Nobody react. I'm getting a signal from the life scanner 
- inside the house. There is someone a little less
than a kilometer to our east. That would put him on the
first hill that way."

 Lara tried to remain nonchalant. "That's my wingman.
He accompanied me here for security's sake."

 Rossik gave her a cool look. "Funny you didn't mention it
before now."

 "It wasn't relevant, was it? He stayed behind to service the
X-wings while I came to visit my dear brother."

 "Well, the problem is, he's now close enough that he might
have seen me. We can't have that. The Rebels have holos of
me in their records. You two keep talking. I'll go back into
the house, exit the rear way, and circle around to get
behind him.  I'll need ten or fifteen minutes if I'm to do
it quietly."

 "No," Lara said.

 "What did you say?"

 "I said, no. I can't show up on Aidivy with my wingman
and then go back to the Wraiths without him. They'd be curious." 

 She did little to sacrifice the sarcasm in her voice.

 Rossik considered. "Very well. New plan. I go and kill your
wingman, and then we take you and your two X-wings back to
Iron Fist. Right now."



                               15


 Face was actually enjoying his main course, some sort of
fowl in a sunfruit marinade, and idly hoping it wasn't
poisoned, when Zsinj asked a question he wasn't prepared
for. 

 "Am I mad, General Kargin, or do you have an Ewok pilot
in your unit?"

 Face froze. He swallowed and hastily cleared his throat.

 "What leads you to that conclusion, sir?"

 "Intercepted transmissions. Analysis of the vocal 
characteristics of your pilot, Hawk-bat One, suggests that 
he was probably, though not definitely, an Ewok. But I don't 
understand how that could be possible."

 Face shrugged and ran through a mental list of a dozen
different possible responses. "Well, he is an Ewok. Mostly
an Ewok. Lieutenant Kettch. My most ferocious pilot,
actually.  He can't really reach the controls, but a
somewhat crooked prosthetics expert on Tatooine built him a
set of hand-and-leg extensions he can wear, so his height
has not limited him in the least."

 "Obviously. But I thought Ewoks were far too primitive to
handle complex machinery or astronautics theory and prac-
tice. Too primitive even to learn an adequate vocabulary in
Basic."

 "They are. But Kettch was... modified. We don't know where
or why it happened. He was taken from the sanctuary moon of
Endor as a cub, reared in a laboratory somewhere, and fed
chemicals that apparently increased his ability to learn.
He's a genius, especially with mathematics." That was, in
fact, the true background of Piggy, and Face was suddenly
very glad to have it on hand as a resource.

 Zsinj and Melvar exchanged a glance and Face suddenly felt
his heart race. There was something in their expressions, as
brief as that glance was, that told Face this subject was of
vital interest to them. What did it mean?

 "Anyway," Face contiuued, "he has a very nasty disposition.
I wouldn't care to bring him to you even if you'd asked
about him in your earlier colnmunication. He bites
strangers.  I'd hate to have him tear away a mouthful of
Zsinj and for the rest of us to be spaced for his bad
manners."

 Once again jovial, Zsinj turned his smile on Face. "Very
amusing. Still, I hope to see him fly sometime. Perhaps even
a practice run against our best pilot."

 Face looked around. 

 "Is he here?"

 "Baron Fel? No, he's on duty." The warlord shrugged.

 "Not the most congenial of dinner guests in any case."

 "So he bites, too?"

  Zsinj laughed.








 Castin waited until the hallway was momentarily clear. He
moved up to the closed turbolift and quickly popped open its
control panel. Beneath was the usual collection of wiring
and computer boards. Deftly, he stripped the insulation from
two wires and twisted them together.

 The turbolift doors slid open, revealing an echoing shaft
beyond. Castin untwisted the wires, slapped the control
panel shut, and stepped out to grab the maintenance access
rungs in-side. He swung his feet clear of the opening just
in time; the doors slid shut again just as rapidly.
Now he had to find a level where he could have some
privacy-and access to a computer interlock.

 Down or up? He could see the terminus of the shaft above
him, some considerable distance, but not below him. That
meant there was more to explore below. He climbed down.
Moments later, he gripped the rungs as though his life de-
pended on it while a fast-moving turbolift sailed past. The
wind of its passage shook him and knocked his feet from the
rail they rested on. Swearing to himself, he pulled himself
back up and continued downward.

 If only these Imperial twits had seen fit to label the
interiors of the turbolift doors. Level 15: HANGARS, ARMORY,
CAFETERIA- that would have been nice.

 Still, there were clues he could interpret. The pattern of
wear on the turbolift's machinery against the walls of the
lift shaft, for example. There were telltale marks where the
lifts came to rest, marks where the metal of the shaft had
been worn away, showing which levels were the most heavily
accessed.  He'd have to avoid them.

 Six levels down, he found a turbolift door where the shaft
showed almost no wear. A good sign. He opened the maintenance 
panel leading to the control box... and nearly dropped off his 
rung in surprise.

 This control box was not standard. In it was a sealed security 
module, an indication that whatever was beyond the door
was very important to somebody.

 He leaned away and held tight as another turbolift shot
past, this time rising from below, then returned to the
problem at hand. This was probably too dangerous a level to
enter for his task. On the other hand, he was curious. He
broke out his pouchful of tools.

 The sealed security module was sophisticated, but he'd
grown up slicing Imperial hardware and software, so after a
few minutes it yielded to his experience and opened. Within
were the standard turbolift door controls, plus a variety of
security measures-sensors to register whenever the doors were
opened or closed, to note whenever a turbolift was called
from this level or directed here, and to send all that data to
the ship's main computer. He disconnected the sensors. He 
couldn't disconnect the computer relay; it also handled the 
permissions for people to enter and leave the level, and if 
he disconnected it and someone with proper authorization 
tried to enter or leave, his modifications would be detected immediately.
He could open the door from here without effort, but once
the door was closed, he wouldn't be able to leave again 
without that authorization. It was time for some improvisation.

 He patched a small corem-enabled datapad into the circuit,
programming it to do two things: monitor his comlink
frequency and issue the command to open this door when he
broadcast a specific signal. That should do the trick.

 He put away his tools and brought out his blaster rifle.

 Then he tripped the switch to open the door.

 It slid open silently, unlike most turbolift doors,
revealing a darkened passageway beyond. There was no one in
sight. He hopped from his rung perch to the passageway floor
and swept it around in a covering arc, but there was still
no one to see.

 It wasn't a passageway, precisely. It was a gallery, a long
hall in which one wall was made up of large viewports. The
chambers beyond the viewports were well lit. He liked that;
it would be next to impossible for people within them to see
him.  He reached back, tripped the switch again, and then
yanked his arm out of the way so the door wouldn't close on
it.

 There was a computer interlock here, just beside the turbolift 
door, but that would not be safe. He advanced along the
gallery with the precise pace of an Imperial stormtrooper,
looking for another.

 The chambers beyond the large viewports came into view as he
passed them. The first was large. Against the far wall were
large cages or small cells, stacked three high, made of
glass or transparisteel, each occupied by a single creature.
Castin saw a number of Gamorreans, a large dark arthropod
whose cell was festooned with some sort of organic webbing,
and an Ewok. In one oversized cell mostly filled with water
was a dianoga, a tentacular scavenger with a single eye-
stalk; it watched him as he passed. There was one human male
outside the cages, seated at a desk with a large, elaborate
computer terminal on it, his feet up on the desk as he idly
tapped away at a personal datapad; he looked as though he
were playing a game. He took no note of Castin.

 Up ahead, despite the dimness of the passageway, Castin
could make out a darkened desk and computer terminal in the
left corner. He couldn't tell whether this passageway ended
there or turned to the right. That terminal was what he
needed, assuming he could power it up without alerting
anyone.

 He passed by the next section of viewports. These displayed
a smaller chamber, an operating theater. There was an
operation in progress, a team of four human males, gloved
and masked, working on a large, white-furred creature with
two large eyes and two small. Castin recognized it as a
Talz, then took a closer look.

 The Talz had some sort of drip tubes implanted in its head;
fluids moved slowly from the bottles set up beside the
operating table. The creature was strapped in place... and
it was awake. As Castin watched, it opened its mouth and
roared, the noise not penetrating the viewports. Its clawed
hands opened and closed as it strained against its bonds and
its four eyes glared redly at the doctors.

 These were not roars of pain, Castin decided, but of rage.
An unsettling image. The Talz were supposed to be peaceful
creatures.

 A few steps more, and the operating theater was behind him.
He seated himself at the darkened terminal and brought out
his tool kit again.






 "Return to Iron Fist? I don't think so." Lara shook her
head.

 "I'll be far more valuable to Zsinj on Mort Remonda."

 "Not necessarily," Rossik said. "We'd be getting a couple of
X-wings-which you'd be able to fly for us in covert
missions - and your analyses of the missions you've flown so
far and of the thought processes of the Wraiths and Rogues.
These could be as valuable as getting an accurate fix on Mon
Remonda's position."

 "I'd still prefer to return to the Wraiths."

 "Well, it's not going to happen that way. Now, assuming
that he's looking at us, keep your wingman distracted with
some animated conversation with the most unanimated Tavin
while I get into position."
 
 Gloom settled over Lara as she realized what she had to
do... as she realized that she was about to take prisoners
who knew her secret, that she had to reveal that secret to
Wedge Antilles. "I don't think so. Put your hands in the
air. You're now in the custody of the New Republic."

 From underneath his tunic, Tavin brought out a small blaster
and aimed it at her. Rossik glanced at Tavin, his expression 
openly derisive, and merely placed his own hand on the
butt of his own blaster. "You don't appear to be in a
position to make such demands, Petothel. Your partner is a
kilometer away and may not even be watching. I know you
haven't been broadcasting; my scanner would have told me."

 Lara looked at the blaster in Tavin's hand and raised her
arms, a gesture that was half surrender, half insolent
stretch. "I'll give you two just one chance. Throw down your
weapons now."

 Rossik said, "Keep her covered and take her blaster. I'm
doing what I told you-leaving through the rear of the house
and circling around behind her partner. Just keep her here
and quiet until then."

 "Easily done," Tavin said.

 "You should have surrendered," Lara said. 

 She closed her hands into fists.

 A brilliant lance of light from the hill took Tavin right in
the stomach. The sudden explosion of superheated tissues
threw the man down and back; his blaster dropped to the
charred ground.

 Rossik turned toward the source of the laser fire and took a
step forward. Lara drew her blaster. Rossik was in the air,
throwing himself to the ground, when Lara's blast took him
in the side. He hit the ground and lay there unmoving.

 Lara rose and kept the two men covered as Donos ran down
from his sniper position. She didn't need to; it was clear
to her that both men were dead. She tried to simulate
rattled nerves and was surprised to discover that she had
them for real. Part of her reaction, she knew, was the
sudden relief that her secret was once again safe for the
time being. 

 "Are you all right?" Donos asked.

 Lara nodded. "They wanted..."

 Her voice broke and once again it was a genuine reaction. "They 
wanted me to go back to Iron Fist with them. They weren't going 
to leave me an option where I could feed them false information. 
I was just going to disappear." She shuddered. "I couldn't do that."

 Donos prodded Rossik with a foot. The body rolled halfway
over, displaying staring, vacant eyes. He reached down to
take the man's blaster away. "Why did your brother draw on
you?"

 "I said no. I said I wouldn't go back with this man, Rossik.
Apparently my brother wasn't going to get paid unless I went
back with Rossik. If he wasn't going to be paid, he was
going to kill me."

 "Not exactly a loving brother." Donos looked over Tavin's
body and took his weapon, too. Then he looked back over his
shoulder at Lara. "I'm sorry. That was a callous thing to
say."

 "That's all right. The Tavin I loved just stopped existing
when I was a little girl; he turned into this. I miss him...
but you didn't kill him."

 "We can't be sure there's not more to Rossik's team. Let's
grab their papers, give the house a quick look, and then
head back for the X-wings. I want to get off this world as
soon as possible."







  Castin had to keep a certain amount of attention on the
hall-way behind him as he continued to hammer away at Iron 
Fist's computer security from the terminal. So far, none of the
scientists or technicians from the rooms beyond the
viewports had stepped out into the hall, but he couldn't
count on his luck lasting forever.

 And the computer security here was good. Someone nearly as
skilled as he had set up the multilayered defense that so
far kept him from sliding his program into place in the
communications system. And while Castin was certain that he
was superior to this unknown code-slicer, that individual
had had weeks, months, or years to perfect his code; Castin
was trying to bypass it in a matter of minutes. Even with
his superior skills and the tools he'd brought, it wasn't
going well.

 So he was upset. Barely able to concentrate on what he was
doing. No, that didn't make sense. Tough systems were a 
challenge to him, not an aggravation, and sharpened his 
concentration rather than diminishing it. So why was he upset? 
He leaned back, away from the screen with its unhelpful 
rejections of all his most reasonable requests, to think about it.
Even his stomach was upset, and that, finally, pointed him
to the source of his emotion. It was what he'd seen moments
ago. The creatures in the cages. The Talz on the operating
table, a peaceful being maddened by chemicals until it was
full of rage.

 It was ridiculous. He didn't care about such things. They
weren't human, they weren't particularly important, and if
the scientists decided to work on them, that was fine.  But
the sick feeling persisted.

 That Talz's life was over. Even if it miraculously escaped
its captivity, it would be forever changed by what had 
happened to it. Could it return home to its world, its family,
knowing how it had been violated, knowing what it had been
made to feel and do, and still go back to the way of life it
had known before? Castin didn't think so.

 He swore to himself. He didn't have time for this. And he
didn't need to concern himself with the fate of a grab bag
of nonhumans Zsinj decided to perform tests on.

 But the images persisted, crowding out the techniques and
procedures he needed to use for his current mission, filling
him with an unwanted emotion.

 Sympathy.

 Sympathy for those hairy, smelly, and most unhuman beings
crowding those cells he'd seen. They were a concentration of
tragedy.

 Caught up as he was in these thoughts, Castin still heard
the hiss of the turbolift door far behind him. He powered
down the terminal, grabbed up his datapad and helmet, and
scuttled around the corner to the right before peering back
the way he'd come.

 A half squadron of stormtroopers, dimly visible in the
passageway's gloom, advanced toward him. Their steps were
unhurried. Halfway toward him along the passageway, the
leader rapped smartly against the nearest transparisteel.
Having apparently gained the attention of someone beyond it,
he tapped the side of his head, an obvious signal for someone
inside to get to a comlink to receive his transmission.

 Damn it. They had to be looking for him. What had he done
wrong? He was certain he'd covered his tracks when powering
up the corner terminal.

 No, wait. When he'd first popped the cover on the control
box inside the turbolift shaft and discovered the heavy-duty
security there-he hadn't known about that level of security
until he'd opened the box in the first place. If there was a
sensor on the box itself, a sensible precaution for a set of
controls leading into a very secure area, he would have set
it off without ever realizing it.

 He drew away from the corner. Behind him was another
viewport, this one into an office area, currently unoccupied.  
Beside it was an armored door with a standard set of controls 
beside it. tie tapped the "open" button and the little screen 
on the control pad read ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE.

 At the stormtroopers' rate of approach, they'd be oil him 
before he could break through that security and get into the
office.

 What was it to be-bluff or fight? There was no way a bluff
would work; it would only serve to keep him in one place
while the rest of the stormtroopers approached. He readied
his blaster rifle.

 The lead stormtrooper came around the corner and froze
momentarily. 

 "What's your..."

 Castin fired. His shot took the stormtrooper in the gut and
threw him back against the far wall.

 Castin didn't wait for the next trooper to appear. He fired
again, this time into the viewport, shattering it inward,
and leaped, following the broken transparisteel into the
office beyond.

 He landed and spun, aiming back through the broken viewport.
Two more stormtroopers rounded the corner, bringing their
long arms to bear on the spot where he'd stood a moment
before. He fired again twice, his first shot taking the
nearer stormtrooper in the chest. The other trooper dove for
the deck, out of sight below the rim of the viewport, and
Castin's second shot missed him.

 A shrill Klaxon alarm sounded and the lights in the office
began flickering in time to it.

 There was another door out of the office, leading in the
general direction of the turbolift, and its control panel
was responsive. It opened into what appeared to be a scrub
room, all sinks and lockers and decontam chambers, with no
viewport out into the passageway.

 The next door opened just as readily-into the operating
theater. The medical technicians there had ceased their
ministrations to the Talz and were watching the activity on
the other side of the picture viewport-the last of the
stormtroopers passed by, heading toward the scene of the
action Castin had just left.

 A blaster bolt went over Castin's shoulder and hit one of
the technicians in the back of the head. Castin saw the man,
his head now a black mass of char, topple forward as slowly
as if sinking into heavy oil, saw the other technicians as
they turned toward him in similar slow motion.

 He spun, firing before he could even see his target. A
stormtrooper stood in the open doorway between office and
scrub room, a perfect target, and Castin's unaimed blast
took him in the knee. The man toppled with a shriek.

 Castin slapped the near control panel and the door slid
shut. He turned back to the technicians; they already had
their hands up. One couldn't take his eyes from the smoking
mass that had once been the head of his colleague.

 It would take just one blast to blow out the near viewport.
He could leap through and get back to the turbolift before
the three stormtroopers still mobile were likely to catch up
to him.  That was it, then. But as he traversed to aim at
the viewport, he saw the Talz looking at him. Its four eyes
seemed to be holes leading to a world of pure pain.

 He hesitated, then pulled his vibroblade from a belt pouch.

 He cut through the Talz's ankle restraints, then went to
work on its wrist straps.

 "Don't!" That was one of the technicians, his eyes wide.

 "That's not a Talz anymore, it's a killer-"

 "Right." Castin finished with the last strap, then backed
away.

 The technician who'd spoken bolted, got to the doorway,
slapped the control. The door opened... and the technician 
caught a blaster bolt just beneath his gut. He folded over, 
still alive, and began screaming.

 The Talz rolled tlp off the table, tubes still gruesomely
inserted into its skull. It glared with malevolence at
Castin, then turned toward the remaining technicians and
advanced on them. The rolling carrier holding the bottle of
drip chemicals tipped over and was dragged along. The Talz
spotted something through the door, probably the stormtrooper 
who'd last fired, and paused, obviously trying to decide what 
foe to attack first.

 Castin fired at the viewport, blowing it out, and leaped
through the hole he'd made. There was nothing between him
and the turbolift door. He dropped his vibroblade and
dragged out his datapad as he ran.

 Then there was pain, an agony so intense he couldn't even
tell where it began, and he was falling, slamming down onto
the passageway floor.

 Pain bent him as though he were a puppet in the hands of a
malevolent child. He could see, and even barely understand,
the spot on the back of his left thigh where a blaster bolt
had cut through the stormtrooper armor and the flesh
beneath. He could see the stormtrooper who'd shot him; the
man was advancing at a walk, his rifle ready for another
shot.

 And then there was the turbolift door, too far away for a
man reduced to crawling.

 They had him. They had him, and they had his datapad, which
contained everything Zsinj would need to know about him and
his mission here.

 Hands twitching from the pain, he held his datapad out
before the barrel of his blaster rifle and squeezed the
trigger.








 "Now," Zsinj said over the iced pastry that was their
dessert course, "to the matter which has led to our
meeting."

 Face sat back, assuming a false expression of contentment.

 "Please."

 "I am about to embark on a mission. It will be a large-scale
military engagement."

 "You're going to attack your Rebel enemies?"

 "That's correct. I anticipate starfighter and capital ship
response and need all the starfighter support I can
get-especially considering my recent squadron losses." He
made a growl of that last statement. "But if you're as
effective against my enemies as you have been against me, I
will have lost effectively no strength." An aide appeared
over his shoulder and whispered to him. His expression did
not change, but he rose. "I must attend to business for a
few moments. Melvar, please continue this briefing." He took
a few steps away with the aide.

 Melvar smiled, an expression that suggested he'd be 
happiest if pulling the wings off insects.

 "It's an orbital refueling and trade station. In its warehouses 
is a considerable quantity of material we need-critical supplies.
We also need some time to load that material into our cargo
vessels - not a lot of time, but enough time for the planetary
defenses below to begin sending up squads of starfighters
from the surface... and to bring in more squadrons from
capital ships arrayed around the planet."

 Face whistled. "You're after valuable cargo. What is it?"

 Melvar shook his head. "That's a secret... until you're at
the mission site."

 "What we need to know," Zsinj said, returning to his seat,
"is how many starfighters you can bring to bear in support
of this mission."

 "Six," Face said. He noted that Zsinj's merry demeanor now
seemed forced.   "Only six?"

 "We fight like twenty."

 "You fight like thirty. And we'll pay you like thirty."

  "Meaning..."

 "Your commission is four hundred thousand Imperial credits,
deliverable immediately upon completion of the mission."

 Face tried to keep from displaying the surprise he felt.

 That was a fortune, enough to purchase two X-wings plus 
replacement supplies. "And if your mission fails, no payment
at all?"

 "No, you get the entire amount regardless-assuming you don't
let me die in the engagement."

 "I'm still impressed. If I didn't know my unit's skills, I
would suspect you were overpaying us."

 Zsinj dropped his false smile. "I am overpaying. I predict
that some of yours, and some of mine, will die in this
engagement. I intend to pay enough that all our pilots go
into battle eager to succeed, happy to risk their lives - and
comforted that if they die, their widows and children will
be amply compensated."

 Face considered it. "I'd be happy to earn still more. I have
more Hawk-bats than I do starfighters. Many with technical
proficiency. Many with other skills."  

 "Intrusion skills ?"

 Face smiled. "I was right. You're going to position a team
before your fleet arrives."

 Zsinj shrugged. "We obviously think alike. Yes, of course."

 "I have intrusion experts. Some with experience with both
Imperial and New Republic systems."

 "And also," Melvar interrupted, "you have him." He extended
one silvery nail toward Kell.   

 "And his teacher," Face said. 

 Melvar looked surprised. 

"His... teacher?"

 Kell brushed his hair back, his signature gesture, and
looked miffed.

 "His teachen Deadliest unarmed combatant I ever met. A
woman, deceptively sweet of appearance, which makes it 
easy to insert her in most environments. Not his equal as a
pilot...  but I once saw her kill a Wookiee. Unarmed."

 Zsinj and Melvar exchanged glances. Zsinj said, "Surely
you're exaggerating."

 "He's not," Kell said, his first words since they sat.

 "A Wookiee's incredibly strong by human standards, but no
faster... and has just as many vulnerabilities. Pressure
points.  Joints. You can't wrestle with one-that's automatic
death. And its longer reach means you constantly have to 
drop in and out of its range. But it can be done.

 "Qatya, that's my teacher, started with a shot to the spine
that compressed its spinal cord and apparently damaged a cou-
ple of its vertebrae, all of which partially paralyzed it...
especially its legs. The next time it swung at her, she trapped
its hand at a position to give her advantageous leverage, then
twisted it to break its wrist. She broke two of its fingers
then, too, just for fun. You know how women are. Then..."

 "Dissek, please." Face made his voice admonishing, but
inwardly was pleased by Kell's improvisation - it was just the
sort of gruesome detail he would not have felt knowledgeable
enough to provide. "Do forgive him. Combat is his only
love."

 "Quite all right," Zsini said. "You will provide me with
dossiers on the Hawk-bats who have technical skills so I can
evaluate possible roles for them?"

 "I will. Just give me a way to send them to you."

 "Melvar will give you a set of HoloNet times and frequencies 
before you leave."

 "And as much data as you can give us on this mission so we
can run our own simulations?"

 Melvar produced a datapad from a pocket and slid it over to
him.

"Would you be averse to a small commission now?" the warlord
asked.

  "Not at all."

 Zsinj stared back toward the security foyer, the route by
which the Hawk-bats had entered the command center. Two
stormtroopers there were advancing, dragging a third
stormtrooper backward between them. The third man was
limp in their arms and had no helmet on; his hair was golden
blond.

 "I must be sure of your ruthlessness," Zsini said. "I know
you are capable of killing in fair combat, but I want
men - oh, yes, and women who can kill under less adverse
circumstances. So, if you'd please shoot this man for me?"

 The stormtroopers dumped their human cargo by the foot of
the table.

 The man they had carried was Castin Donn. His eyes were
closed. There was a blaster burn mark on his right leg. His
chest rose and fell in regular rhythm.

 Face swallowed the bile that tried to crawl up his throat
and hoped that he had not gone as pale as he felt. Castin,
you idiot. You've killed us all.
 Kell glanced down at Castin and then at Face, admirably
keeping his features emotionless. His look was a question-
lump Zsinj now? Or wait? Dia kept her gaze on Castin's face,
her own expression oddly enrapt.

 "Not much of a target," Face said, stalling. There had to be
something he could do without revealing their hand, some way
to preserve all their lives without managing to iettison
their entire mission.

 Nothing came to mind.

 "True," Zsinj said. "Would you shoot him, please?"

 "Oh, I should imagine," Face said, but did not move. "It
seems rather a costly test for you, though-having us shoot
one of your own stormtroopers."

 "Not one of mine," said Zsinj. "An intruder."

 "You're not going to question him?"

 Zsini shook his head. "I'm not interested in what he has to
say. Would you shoot him, please?"

 Face clamped down on the panic rising within him. The ship's
officers at the table were watching him with increasing
interest. And no plan was coming to mind.

 "Of course," Face said. "How much ?"

  Zsini looked surprised. "What?"

 "How much to shoot him? How much are you paying?"

 "General Kargin, you surprise me. You're already here, and
the cost of a single pistol blast is negligible-especially
as we are providing the blaster." He nodded toward one of
the officers, who produced a blaster pistol. "You can't do
this as a demonstration of goodwill?"

 "Intelligent life is the most precious commodity in the
galaxy," Face said, making his voice pompous. "Consequently,
I never take it without adequate financial reward."

 Dia stood, her sudden motion startling everyone at the 
table. She smiled at the warlord, a heart-melting expression,
and said in her husky Seku voice, "The general is just
looking out for the well-being of his officers and troops,
Warlord. He can't abandon his policies; they're written up
in the Articles of the Hawk-bats. But I can do this for you
as a private commission.  The blaster, please?" She held out
her hand.

 Face felt a sudden surge of elation. She had a plan. He saw
Kell bring his legs up under him. The big man would probably
go after Zsinj. That left General Melvar for Face, with Dia
to hold the others at bay with the blaster. Assuming they
gave her a functional one.

 Metvar nodded; his officer handed Dia the blaster pistol.

 She checked the charge, moved over beside Castin to...

 And shot him in the throat.







 A chatty junior officer, apparently cheered by the murder of
the intruder, led the Hawk-bats back to their shuttle.

 Once the security foyer doors closed behind them, Zsinj
rose. He clapped his hands, and all the talk in the room
ceased.  "You've done very well," the warlord said. "Thank
you for a fine performance."

 The men saluted and began filing out of the ersatz crew pit.

 Zsinj sat. "How is... what's his name? Yorlin?"

 Melvar's features relaxed and became bland and non-threatening 
once more. "That man Dissek hit him hard enough to give him a 
concussion and damage some teeth."

 ~Well, he's to be commended for following orders even at
the cost of considerable pain. Give him a commendation, and
when he gets out of the medical ward, give him a three-day
leave." He nodded at the body of the intruder; smoke still
rose from what was left of its neck. "Hand that over to our
technicians. I want to know who he was, where he came from,
where he's been living, and how he got aboard Iron Fist. Since
he appears not to have been one of the Hawk-bats after
all."

  "Done. What did the intruder cost us?"

 "Initial reports indicate that he shot two stormtroopers
and two technicians, then our best Talz specimen killed an-
other two technicians and another stormtrooper, and finally
the remaining troopers shot the Talz. Costly." Zsinj fixed
Melvar with a serious stare. "Have we lost an Ewok test
subject?"

 "Not from Iron Fist. But it could be that one of the planet-
bound laboratories has lost one-and covered up the loss."

 "I'm going to have to execute someone for that, Melvar.
Find out who lost him, then kill that idiot."

 "Yes, sir."








 Face made it clear, by gesture and private code, that he
wanted the others to remain silent even as they accelerated
away from Iron Fist. Only when they had entered hyperspace,
on their first leg out did he speak. 

 "Report."

 "He was already dead." The words burst from her like water
finally breaching an old dam. "He was gone, Face." 

Pain tugged at her words, made them waver. There was 
bleakhess in what he could see of her face.   

"He was breathing."

"No, he wasn't. It was some sort of trick. Some sort of me-
chanical pump, I don't know." She took a deep, shuddering
breath. "He was completely limp when they brought him in.
Not unconscious limp. Dead limp. There was blaster charring
on his armor's pelvic plate that should have continued up
into his chestplate but didn't, so they had to have put a
new chestplate on him - to replace the one that was burned
through when he was killed. And the guards carrying him,
their posture said they were hauling cargo, not a prisoner
who might wake up someday." She closed her eyes and bowed
her head. "Body language is something I know a lot about,
Face. He was dead."

 "Accepted." Face sighed and leaned back. "Dammit. If only
he'd followed orders. Will you be all right?"

 "I'll be-I'll be..." Her voice choked off. She gulped a couple
of times and then just stared.

 "Dia?"

 She shrieked as if stabbed and was suddenly a whirlwind of
motion, lashing out in all directions. Her random blows
landed on Kell, on the command console, on the windscreen,
on the shuttle wall beside her.

 Kell leaned between her and the controls, fending off her
blows.

 "Face, get her off me before she bumps the wrong things and 
sends us down a blind hyperspace path."

 Face leaned forward, grabbing at Dia, received a blow to his
chin from a brain tail for his trouble. 

 "Dia! Power down!"

 But her shrieks and blows redoubled, joined now by what
looked like painful spasms. Face reached around the copilot's
seat and got both hands on her, then bodily hauled her over
the chair and into his lap. He took another pair of random blows
before getting his arms around her waist, pinning her to
him.

 She let out one last, keening moan and collapsed. Tears ran
unchecked down her cheeks and Face found himself frozen,
staring at them, evidence of emotions he had never believed
she possessed. 

 "Dia?"

 Her voice was a moan. "She's dead."

 "She? She who?"

 "Dia. Diap'assik. She is dead."

 He put heat and anger into his words. "No, you are not."

 "Yes! She would not have done that. She would not have
shot him. She would have died first. She is dead, Face."

 He heard a snap, heard metal slide on leather, and was
prepared when her hand came up with her blaster and its bar-
rel came in line with her chin. He released Dia with his
left hand and got his thumb under the trigger, preventing
her from squeezing it.

 She shrieked again, a haunted noise compounded of agony and
bottomless guilt.

 "Face, let me!"

 He wrenched the blaster from her hand, held it over Kell's
shoulder until he took it, and pinned her again.

 "No."

 "Then kill me."

 "No."

 "Yes. I will not live this way."

 "You have to. We need you."

 She surrendered then to silent tears and racking sobs. He
held her to him and finally had a moment to think.

 Dia, who in simulator combats cut down the enemy with a cold-
bloodedness that sometimes shook the other squadron
members-where had she gone? Who was this doppelganger, torn
by grief, in his arms? She had to be a Dia who lived under
her shield of ruthlessness, some remnant of the Dia who had
been stolen as a child slave off Ryloth a dozen years
before. A Dia who could know terrible guilt-self-destructive
guilt.

 As gently as he could, he said, 

 "Dia, thank you."

 She didn't respond.

 He repeated his words, and finally she drew back and
looked up at him, incomprehension and pain on her face.

 "What?"

 "Thank you."

 She shook her head. "For shooting... for shooting..."

 "No. For my life. If you hadn't done what you did, I would 
be dead. I would have failed to convince Zsinj, and he
would have killed us. I prefer to be alive, Dia. Thank you."

 He finally could see comprehension flickering around in her
eyes.

  Kell turned and caught her attention. 

 "Dia. Me, too. Thank you. Without you, I'd be dead. Or 
in Zsinj's tender care, worse than dead. Face and I owe 
our lives to you." 

 She stared at him in confusion for a long moment, then
collapsed again into Face's arms. 

 "No," she said, and repeated it again and again as her
tears flowed unchecked.

 Finally she slept.

 Face let Kell handle the routine tasks of getting them back
to the Halmad system. They'd have to rendezvous with Cubber
and - and whoever was assigned in Castin's place - in the 
asteroid belt, in order to do a complete sweep of the shuttle
for tracking equipment, then head on in to Hawk-bat Base.

 He had just that much time to compose his report, a report
in which he had to explain just why it was that two 
subordinates had died in his immediate vicinity in just 
a few days.




                        16




Wedge listened to Face's report, asking for clarifications
here and there, letting the man - who, despite his skill as an
actor, could not quite conceal the fact that he was stricken
with guilt over Castin's death-pour out the entire story of
the meeting with Zsinj. It was a report Face had practiced;
he'd given it to Janson on the day he'd returned to Hawk-bat
Base, and had to repeat it to Wedge now that the rest-and-
recreation unit had returned from Coruscant. Yet in spite of
the extra practice, Face's emotions were still raw and on
the surface, concealed not at all by his proficiency with
acting.

 When it was done, Face said, "1 take full responsibility for
Castin's death, sir."

Wedge gave him a look of surprise.

 "You take full responsibility." 

 "Yes, sir."

 "So Castin Donn played no part in his own death. None of
the blame falls on him."  

 "Well..."
"I knew even better than you of his history of insubordination, 
of rebellion. And I'm the commanding officer of this unit.
Yet I bear no responsibility? It somehow is all yours?"

 "Well..."

 "Face, what do you think you could have done to prevent his
death?"

 "I could have ordered the smuggling compartment searched,
rather than just looked into."

 "Why would you have, when looking into it showed that he
wasn't there?"

 "I could have accounted for his whereabouts before we took
off."

 "But you did. You accounted for his whereabouts as they
pertained to your mission. He wasn't with you, so far as you
could tell, so the rest of the information about his
whereabouts was irrelevant. He was just one step ahead of
you, ahead of all of us. Did you know he'd rigged the duty
roster so he wouldn't be on duty until after your return,
that he'd set up a dummy and mechanism on his bunk to make
it look and sound as though he were there sleeping?"

 "Not at the time, sir. Lieutenant Janson told me about
that."

 "Castin Donn wasn't your responsibility. And though his
death was very unfortunate, and took place in association
with your mission, it's not your fault. Now, you tell me who
is your responsibility."

 "Well, me, sir. And Kell and Dia."

 "What have you done about them?"

 "I've asked the other Wraiths and support crews, and 
especially her roommate, Shalla, to keep an eye on Dia. 
She doesn't seem suicidal anymore, but she seems... different. 
Like a shelled animal that's suddenly had the shell ripped away. 
Injured and frightened and a lot more vulnerable."

 Wedge nodded. 

 "Your measures seem appropriate. And Kell?"

 "I don't understand. What do I need to watch out for with
Kell?"

 "He was the one who searched the smuggling compartment. He
didn't detect Castin. How do you suppose he feels?"

 Face winced. 

 "About like I do, I suppose."

 "And what are you going to do about it?"

 "Talk to him, I suppose. Make him understand that it's
not his fault."

 Wedge waited, not speaking, just watching the young lieutenant, 
until Face finally looked startled. 

 "Yes, sir," Face said.  "The same way it's not my fault."  

 "Correct. Anything else ?"

 "Yes, sir. I can't stress enough that I felt there was 
something very significant about the look Zsinj and Melvar 
exchanged when I was discussing Piggy's background. In the
guise of Lieutenant Kettch's background, I mean. That really
spooked them. Either they're involved with a project like
that, or they know of one and are very interested in it."

 "I'll assume that this is very significant, then, and see
what I can make of it."

 "Thank you, sir."

 "That'll be all for now." As Face was leaving, Wedge
added, "Oh, by the way..."  

 "Sir?"

 "You're a good officer, Face, but you have to know that
means you'll be doing this again. This was a successful 
mission. It may be the key to Zsinj's undoing. If I'd known, 
if I'd been absolutely sure, that to accomplish it would mean
the life of one of my pilots, I'd have to have set it in
motion anyway.  You would, too."

 Face looked as though he was considering that possibility,
then gave Wedge a brief nod. 

 "Yes, sir. I suppose I would."

 He closed the door behind him.

 Wedge sat, motionless, long enough for Face to get thirty 
or forty paces away from the cargo module that served as the
command office. Then he slammed both hands on his desktop
and swept every pointless datapad, document, and knickknack
from the desk surface.

 Another pilot dead, this one for no good reason. Another
letter to write. Another report in which he had to explain
just why it was that two subordinates had died under his
command in just a few days.

 He came out of his office at a fast walk and headed for the
hangar area. On the other side of the Trench, Janson,
sitting alone on the mess patio, rose and trotted to catch
up. 

 "How did it go?"

 "As well as it could."

 "So, what's with this sudden brisk exercise?"

 "I'm not ready yet to begin analyzing the data Zsinj
gave us."

 "Ah."

 "I don't want to write Castin's folks."

 "Ah."

 Both men returned a salute from Runt, who was headed the
other way. "Unit morale is bound to take a serious hit from
this."

 "Ah."

 "I'm leading children, and I'm getting them killed."

 "That's true."

 Almost at the door into the hangar, Wedge skidded to a stop.

 "What did you say?"

 "It's true." Janson shrugged. "Wedge, you asked for misfits. 
You had to have known that even with the ones who made
the grade, they were going to take losses that were heavier
than in a normal unit. So many of them are dragging around
these weights of emotional problems. It makes it tougher for
them to hop in the right direction at the right time."

 "Well... maybe."

 "Even with that, as a group they're doing better than they
ever had a right to. Some of them are fit to eat with real
people.  Even to fly with other units. That wasn't the case
when you founded the Wraiths."

 "I suppose you're right." Wedge suddenly felt weary, all the
manic energy of a minute ago having left him. He turned back
toward his office. 

 "What's the situation with Lara ?"

 "She's doing pretty well for someone whose brother just
tried to kill her. Donos is keeping an eye on her."

 "Those of us who still have family..." Wedge waited as
memories of his surviving relative, his sister Syal, 
missing for so long-as her husband, Soonfir Fel, had also 
been missing - rose and abated. 

 "We need to notify them. Just in case Zsinj tries to get 
at another of us through family connections. That would be 
just like him."

 "It would. I'll inform the Wraiths, let them know what they
need to tell their people."

 "Yes, but not yet. I want you to work with me on the Zsinj
data."










 "Ah, thank you. The adventures of Wes Janson, Ace Statistician..."

 Wedge and Janson spent most of the rest of the day working
on the data Zsinj had provided to Face.

 The planet that was their target was of average size and
mass, according to the planetary radius and gravity information 
provided. And it was heavily guarded. Ten Imperial Star
Destroyers and seven Mon Calamari cruisers were shown on-station, 
supported by impressive numbers of planet-based
starfighter squadrons-including an unusually high number of
A-wing fighters.

 Janson gave him a bleak look. "This is Coruscant. He's going
to hit Coruscant."

 Wedge shook his head. "That's what the data tells us if
you dig down from the top layer. But I don't understand some
things. Zsinj's mission will take place soon-otherwise he
wouldn't give us this much information about it. Yet this
complement of ships isn't an exact representation of Coruscant's 
defenses-I was just there, and he's got the strengths wrong. 
So is he wrong because his intelligence is incomplete, inadequate?"

 "That doesn't sound like him, does it?"

 Wedge sighed. "Then there's the question of what sort of
cargo Zsinj is going after. Our task is to protect Zsinj's
forces while they load a cargo ship - why not wait until the
goods are already loaded? What does the government of the
New Republic store on Coruscant's space stations that can't
be acquired on the surface, or in transit?"

 Janson thought about it. "The Inner Council?"

 "What? No. It would be a real coup to capture or kill them,
of course. But they hold all their meetings on-planet."

 "Do you know that for sure?"

 "No, but I have no reason to suspect otherwise. And holding 
meetings on a space station would be more problematic,
less secret, and less secure than doing so on the surface. 
I think you're speculating wildly."

 "All right, then, your turn. What's on space stations that
isn't better found on-planet or between worlds?"

 "Well, the stations themselves. Maybe they plan to tow one
out to space."

 Janson snorted.

 "Big cargo carriers." Wedge frowned. "You know, scuttle-butt
has it that Princess Leia's big, secret mission involves
bringing back additional resources for the fight against
Zsinj. If he's aware of that, if he knows what those
resources are, if he knows when they're coming back to
Coruscant..." 

 "Now you're speculating wildly."

 "True. Then there are cargo ships." Wedge frowned as a
shadow of a new idea crossed his mind. He stared down at the
statistics on the datapad before him. "Wait a second. I have
an idea of what he's after." He found a scrap of flimsi and
a writing instrument and scribbled a very brief note, then
folded it several times and handed it to Janson. "Tuck that
away. Take it out when we have our answer and it will make
my reputation as a military wizard."

 Janson pocketed the note. "You already have that reputation."

 "Well, then, I'll have two. Now tell Castin to come in here."

 "Uhh, Castin's, uhh..."

 Wedge put his face in his hand. "Right. I'm tired, too.
With Castin gone, who's our best code-slicer and computer
handler?"

 "Probably Lara Notsil."

 "Get her."

 She was slightly out of breath when she arrived, probably
having run the distance froin her quarters to Wedge's
office.

 "Flight Officer Lara Notsil reporting, sir."

 Wedge waved her a casual salute. "No need for all the
formality now, Notsil. Tell me something. With what you know
of our computers on hand, how good is our ability to translate 
statistical data of large military forces-their strengths,
capabilities, that sort of thing - into the equivalent forces
of other cultures? Say I had the statistics for a New
Republic strike force and wanted to come up with a 
Corellian force with exactly the same characteristics ?"

 Janson looked at him, confused.

 Lara considered. "I don't think our translation efforts
would be very good, sir. That calls for specialized
programs, and we don't..." Then she looked startled.
 "Depending on the forces involved, sir, I think we can do a
pretty good job."

 "That's quite a switch of opinion."

 She smiled. "I forgot. We have X-wing and TIE simulators
on base, sir, and they're already linked. And already set up
to analyze ship statistical data and translate into precise
strength values of enemies. I can adapt that programming to
do what you want. It wouldn't be too hard."

 Wedge copied the Zsinj information to a fresh datapad and
handed it over. "I want all this information translated into
the nearest equivalent force of vessels and vehicles that
are purely Imperial in origin. Then come back here and we'll
compare that with some planetary defense data. How long will
that take you?"

 "I'm not sure. Half an hour, twelve hours-I'll know more
when I've had time to look over the simulators and this
data."

 "Let me know as soon as you can."






 Wedge stretched his legs again while waiting for her initial
estimate.

 Outside, something odd was going on at the mess and patio.
The thermal blanket normally used as an awning over the mess
picture viewport had been lowered, indicating that it was
closed, and all the patio's chairs and tables had been drawn
aside. A hand-painted sign decorated the main door into the
module: MESS CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE PIRATE RUNT.

 Runt now stood in the middle of the newly open space,
goggles over his eyes as he used one of the maintenance
crew's backpack paint sprayers to put a layer of matte-green
paint down on the stone floor.

 Wedge wandered over and watched for a while as Runt
finished transforming a large oval of gray stone into a
green surface. Then Runt removed his goggles and switched
off the sprayer.

 Wedge asked, "Runt, what are you doing?"

 Runt looked at him levelly. "Painting, sir."

 "Ah. Why?"

 "For the ritual, sir."

 "You're going to have a ritual."

 "Yes, sir."

 "Something your people do?"

 Runt had to consider that one, blinking a few times before
he answered.

 "Something some of our people do, sir."

 "And you thought you had to close the mess to conduct this
ritual?"

 "Yes, sir. The food is still being prepared. That is a necessary 
part of the ritual."

 "And who is going to be part of this ritual?"

 "Well, we wanted to talk to you about that, sir. It would be
a help to us if you would issue an order for all pilots to
be here at eight hundred hours in full dress uniform."

 Wedge resisted the urge to laugh. Runt seemed so earnest, so
sincere. 

 "It would, would it?"

 "Yes. Also, all civilian crewmen not on duty should be here
in formal dress."

 "Why should I do this?"

 "Because I ask little and will deliver much."

 "Ah. Can you tell me what this is about?"

 "Well, no, sir."

 "I see. Carry on."

 It took Lara only two hours to translate the data, and took
her and Wedge less than five minutes to get a close match in
their comparison of the new data with sites in Imperial
space.

 "You're joking," Janson said. "Kuat?"

 Wedge pointed to the other man's pocket. Janson retrieved
the note and unfolded it. There was a single word scrawled
on it: Kuat. He whistled.
 
 "It's Kuat, all right," Wedge said. "Zsinj is making a raid
on a space platform at Kuat."

 "How did you know?"

 "Zsinj is so devious it's sometimes predictable. He gave us
information intended for very limited circulation, and yet
he still concealed his real purpose a level or two down. I'm
sure others he's working with are very pleased with
themselves that they've identified the target as Coruscant.
They're going to be very surprised when they come out of
hyperspace in the Core Worlds."

 "So his objective isn't cargo," said Lara. "He's after a
Star Destroyer."

 Wedge nodded. "A Super Star Destroyer. Just as Face predicted,
weeks ago."

 With deliberate slowness, Janson leaned back, put his hands
behind his head, and put his feet up on Wedge's desk. He
smiled. 

 "Zsinj has delivered himself into our hands."

 "Not yet, he hasn't," Wedge said. "In what sense do we have
him? He shows up with his fleet at Kuat and-what? We drop in
out of hyperspace and attack him? It would take a large
portion of the fleet of the New Republic to menace him and
defend itself against Kuat's defenses... and the defenses
they could bring in on short notice. We'd lose far too
much." "Maybe we just alert the government of Kuat," Lara
said.

 "No... Zsinj has spies in place already. Our intelligence
says that the shipyards, especially the orbital ones, are
rigged to explode in case of invasion. Zsinj has to have
provided for that, and his spies will notice any sudden
preparations for invasion." Wedge sighed. "I think we have
to let Zsinj get away with his new toy... and then jump them
later."

 "How can we be sure where they'll be?" said Janson.

 "Lara, you know about Castin's plan. About the program he
was going to slice into the communications system aboard
Iron Fist."

 She nodded.

 "Can you adapt that for this new Super Star Destroyer?"

 "Unless Castin's slicing style is so idiosyncratic that no
one can make sense of it, yes, sir."

 "See to it, then." Wedge turned his attention to Wes. "I'm
going to draw up a preliminary plan of operation for this
mission and see if I can get Admiral Ackbar to sign off on
it."

  "For my part," Janson said, "I'll get some sleep."

 "You'll calculate which routes Zsinj is likely to take in
his escape from Kuat and suggest some fleet deployments that
give us the best likelihood of being able to encounter him."

 "Which is something like sleep, but much less interesting."
Wedge smiled. "As for you, Lara, good work, and thanks."






 Runt's preparations of the galley area became more and more
elaborate.

 He pressed several of the astromechs into service as
painters.  The little R2s and RSs, with paintbrushes held in
their clamps, meticulously added black crisscrosses and
hatchwork to the green floor paint, making it look like a
child's impression of grass.

 He rigged an overhead spotlight that would bathe his green
oval in light but extend not much beyond that. To the same
pole he attached speakers whose cables snaked all the way 
to the base communications center, farther down the Trench.

 He occasionally entered the closed galley, and Wraiths
passing by could see him, through the partially opened door,
exchanging words with Squeaky. The 3PO unit, who was a more
than adequate chef when he could be persuaded to cook,
looked more agitated than usual.

 Wedge did remember to issue his command, and shortly before
eight hundred hours the Wraiths did begin to assemble.

 "I can't believe you got me out here in full dress," said
Janson, his tone a deliberate whine. "Just because Runt
asked you to. You've known me longer. You should like me
better than him."

 Wedge snorted. "Let's just say I was intrigued by the
mystery."

 "Mystery? I'll give you a mystery. I'll spend tomorrow
with my feet and forehead painted red and never tell anyone
why. Is that mysterious enough?"

 "Anything to stay out of dress uniform, is that it?"

 "Anything."

 By ones and twos the Wraiths assembled. Several obviously 
felt as Janson did about dressing up, or at least took
the summons with less than total seriousness. Piggy
scratched unhappily. Shalla asked each person present-separately-
what it was all about, then stood off by herself and fidgeted. 
Face had added to his dress uniform a sand-colored Tatooine 
scarf, giving him the look of an officer who'd been stationed 
too long on the desert world and had partially "gone native." 

Some of the mechanics were still working on their hands with 
cleanser-cloths, trying to remove the last stubborn patches 
of oil stains. By the time Donos arrived, a handful of seconds 
after the appointed hour, Runt was still not in evidence. The main
lights of the Trench cut out, leaving only the new spotlight
and the false stars overhead blazing, and Runt, quite
dashing in his dress uniform, emerged from the galley.

 "My friends," he said, waving his hands with unusual
theatricality, "how glad we are that you have chosen to
accept our invitation."

 That elicited some chuckles, and Runt plowed on. "We are
obliged to admit that we may have accidentally misled
Commander Antilles when describing this event. We think he
believes this to be a Thakwaash ritual."

 Wedge crossed his arms and gave Runt a stern look.

 "'Accidentally misled' ?"

 "Well, you will have to ask the Runt you were talking to
this afternoon. We are not he at this moment."

"We are now the Runt who ducks and retreats when confronted
with the errors of his ways?"

 Runt grinned, his huge teeth flashing white in the gloom in
front of the galley. "Kell must have given you lessons in
knowing who we are at any moment. So. This is a ritual we
have seen among the military officers of the New Republic.
It is called a formal dance. I have painted a lawn. Come
forward and dance under the stars."

 The Wraiths and maintenance personnel looked at one another 
as though to inquire silently as to which of them would
summon the military police in charge of pilot sanity. 

Piggy huffed and asked, "And if we decline?"

 Runt's expression became serious, even menacing. "We will
have hurt feelings. And this is a compulsory dance, so we
will shoot you."

 Kell crossed to him, grabbed him by his fur-backed ears, and
shook Runt's head.

 "Runt! That was a joke. A human-style joke. I'm so proud of you."

 Runt smiled again. "We are pleased you are pleased."

 Kell moved to the center of the absurd dance floor and extended 
a hand. Tyria came to him, smiling, and took it. Kell
glanced significantly at Runt, who in turn nodded to Chunky,
Tyria's R5 unit, who stood watch at the bottom of the pole
on which the spotlight rested, and suddenly music blasted
out at the squadron-a formal dance of Alderaan, Wedge noted.
Runt gestured at Chunky, a lowering of his hand, and the 
volume decreased to appropriate levels.

 And Kell and Tyria danced, smiling at one another, the rest
of the universe suddenly lost to them.

 Janson sighed. "I'm going to have Runt shot."

 Wedge gave him a tolerant smile. "Wait for results before
you assign punishment."

 "Now you're talking like a general again."

 "Oh, that stung."

 Then Shalla was out on the dance floor, beckoning Donos
to join her, and Wedge saw one of the female mechanics 
hauling Cubber out to dance, her fingers firmly clamped on his
septurn as the mechanic protested inarticulately.

 Janson turned to Dia. "Shall we, wingmate?"

 She looked startled. "I don't know how."

 "I thought you were a dancer."

 "Not that kind. I have never danced with anyone. Only for
them."

 "Time to learn." He led her out onto the floor.

 Leaving Wedge alone.

 He watched others drift onto the floor, some smiling, some
tentative, some resigned. He watched Runt reenter the galley
and emerge, carrying one end of a long table, Squeaky carrying
the other, and then the two of them began bringing out trays
and bowls and glasses and cutlery-the night's dinner, 
transformed by some extra work and attention into a wider variety
of dishes, a buffet appropriate for a dance.

 When they were done and Squeaky had returned to the galley,
Wedge approached. Runt was now slicing a ripe ball cheese
and setting slivers of the stuff on a plate. 

 "Good job, Runt."

 Runt straightened and almost saluted. "Sorry, sir.
You surprised us." He returned to cutting.

 "No need to apologize. Nor is there any need for formality.
This is a social event. What gave you the idea?"

 "For the dance? You did, sir... uh, Command... uh, W-Wedge." The
name sounded as though it was almost too strange for Runt to
utter. "You and the lieutenant walked by talking of the hurt
that Wraith morale had suffered. When you have a hurt, you
do not wait for it to heal. You set out to heal it."

 "Why, precisely, a dance?"

 Runt was slow to answer. "It has been our observation
that dance among the people of the New Republic, when it
means anything - and it does not always mean anything-is an
activity of mates. Making mates. Tending to mates. Reacquainting 
with mates. The Wraiths have been doing little but
staring at death. But mates are life, what one lives for.
What better way to turn away from death than to think of
mates, present and distant?"

 Wedge thought that over. "Runt, I'm afraid you've just made
yourself morale officer."

 Runt made a noise somewhere between a snort and a deep chest
cough. 

 "We have been told that under your command one cannot do a 
good thing without it becoming a duty."

 "Was that another joke?"

 "We hope so."

 Wedge smiled. "Keep it up, Runt. And good work." He
turned away.

 "Will you be dancing?"

 Wedge paused. Over his shoulder, he said, "I'll put in one
dance for courtesy's sake and then go. The Wraiths will
probably loosen up more once I'm gone."

 "What of your morale ?"

 "You've already lifted it, Runt."








 Face watched the couples gather on the floor and join in the
sweep of the Alderaanian waltz. Then he felt hands against
his back and was propelled into their midst.

 He turned to face his attacker. It was Lara, advancing 
purposefully. He put up his hands in mock fear; she seized them
and pulled him into the pattern of the dance. 

 "That's mutiny," he said.

 "Put me up on charges. Then I won't have to be part of this
mission against Iron Fist."

 "Good point. Maybe I'll mutiny, too."

 "Besides, I have a special right to push you around. It was
you who brought me into this unit."

 "True," he said. Then what little cheer he still enjoyed
evaporated. "Well, it was me and Ton."

 "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad. I know you were
very close to him. You almost haven't smiled or made a joke
since he died."

 "I only met him a few weeks ago. But by the end of the 
second day, we were finishing one another's sentences and being
obnoxious enough to drive everyone around us crazy."

 "Well, you'll have to be obnoxious enough for both of you
now. Phanan would want that."

 "He would." Face smiled down at her. "You dance very well."

 "So do you."

 "Well, I was trained to. For the holos. Where did you learn?"

 "A long time ago, on Coruscant."

 "A long time ago?"

 She tensed, then relaxed and smiled. "Well, it seems like
such a long time ago. Pilot training seems to last for
years."

 "I know what you mean."

 "This dance learned on Coruscant. But on Aldivy we
danced all the time. It was an important part of social
life. Dances were where youngsters met and families dickered."

 Oddly, in spite of these thoughts about the life she could
never return to, she did not seem sad.

 "So, why did you launch me out onto the floor? Just looking
after your wingman ?"

 "Partly that. And, partly, I'm maneuvering you."

 "I hate to disappoint you, but you're far from the first
woman to do that to me."

 Her smile broadened. "Ah, but how many women maneuver you
to abandon you?"

 It was the point in the dance where conservative couples
would form a circle, where more proficient ones would raise
their hands together and spin in relation to one another,
males to their left, females to their right, coming around
to face one another on the same beat of the music. Lara
signaled the more elaborate move by raising her hands.

 But while they were in midspin, he felt too many fingers on
his for just one moment, and when he finished the maneuver
he came face-to-face with a startled-looking Dia Passik.

 Lara and Janson, now partners, looking very pleased with
themselves, pulled away and waved.

 Dia's posture and the tension in her arms suggested that she
was not too comfortable with the dance, but she gave him a
game smile. 

 "I think we have been fooled."

 Face adjusted his pace and the flamboyance of his maneuvers
to her more tentative motions. 

 "When did they arrange that?"

 "Lara was signaling something to Lieutenant Janson before
she started dancing with you. I thought she was flirting."

 "Well, we both appear to have been enticed and abandoned."

 "I don't think so. I think it was because of something I said."

 "Which was what?"

 "That I..." She paused, apparently to consider her words.

 "That I wanted to talk to you, but that I was afraid to."

 "I didn't think I was that fearsome. Especially to someone
who's never seen my holodramas."

 That elicited a smile, a little one.

 "No. I mean I didn't know how to phrase the words. When 
to speak to you. I didn't know who to be when I spoke to you."

 "Who to be? Who were your choices?"

 "Dia Passik and Diap'assik."

 "The pilot you've become and the little Twi'lek girl 
kidnapped off Ryloth."

She nodded, her expression somber. "The day after we returned 
from Iron Fist I woke up and I wasn't either one of
them anymore. Somewhere in between a girl I thought was long
dead and a woman who was too bloodthirsty for me to 
particularly like. But I thought about all that had happened
the day before and decided that I liked being alive. So I
wanted to thank you for not letting me die." The words came
out all in a rush. She tensed, staring at Face, poised as if
she were waiting for him to strike her.

 "You're very welcome."

 Why had that been so hard for her? Face tried to put himself 
in her place-stolen child, then slave of an Imperial master, 
then pilot fighting for a place for herself among people she
did not know, few of whom even belonged to her species. Nor 
had she ever spoken a favorable word about the Twi'leks; 
perhaps she blamed her own kind for the way she had been 
stolen from their midst. Understanding where she had come 
from, with his limited knowledge, was too great a task for
Face, but an idea emerged from his effort. "Dia, when was 
the last time you relaxed?"

  "I relax many days."

  "When you're alone."

  "Yes."

 "I meant, when was the last time you were really at ease
among others? The last time you felt safe in someone else's
company?"

 Her gaze drifted off into the distance of time. "At ease? 
I don't know. When I was a child, I suppose. And safe?" She
looked startled and came back to herself, to the present
time.  She tried to remove her hands from his. "Thank you
for the dance. It's time for me to go."

 He did not release her. "I know I'm prying, Dia. But if you
won't open up to me, will you open up to someone?"
 
 "I don't think I can."

 "You could talk to Squeaky. He could use a friend."

 She looked up at him, unbelieving, then smiled and stopped
trying to break away. "You're joking again. It is sometimes
so hard to tell when you are serious."  

 "For me, too."

 They danced in silence for a few moments, long enough for
the music to give way to a slower, more intimate dance from
Chandrila. Then she said, her voice so low that he had to
strain to hear her, 

 "The last time I felt safe was not so long ago."

 "When was that?"

 "It was when I was at my worst. When I had shot Castin,
when I'd desecrated the corpse of a brave man and pretended
to do it with glee. When I tried to kill myself and you
would not let me. Just before I fell asleep, I knew that you
would not let anyone hurt me. You would not even let me hurt
myself.  And in that moment I knew myself safe, for the
first time since I was a child."

 He looked down into her eyes-eyes that were too large and
luminous to be Dia's, eyes that were familiar to him yet
opened up into a woman he didn't know. A woman who had come
into being only since the mission to Iron Fist.

 "That's what I wanted to say to you, what I didn't know how
to say before," she said. "That I know that you feel you
failed Ton Phanan. But you did not fail me."

 He took her head in his hands and kissed her, and was swept
away by the sweetness of her kiss, by the spicy taste of
her, so different from human women. He felt her arms
encircle his neck. And they stood motionless beneath the
twinkling stars as the dancers swirled around them.



                             17



 "Our target," Wedge said, "is almost certainly a Kuat Drive
Yards facility in the Kuat system." He nodded at the
holographic display, showing a central sun orbited by numerous
planets and space stations, which floated above the table in
the crowded conference module. Again he wished for a full-sized 
briefing room.

 He took a pointing stick and drew a circle through a ring of
space stations, an astonishing number of them, surrounding
the system outside the orbit of its most distant planet.

 "This, collectively, is Kuat's main shipyard facility, the
famous Kuat Drive Yards. It is not, however, the only place
the yards build their vessels."

 He gestured at one of the planets. "This is Kuat itself.
There are also secondary facilities in orbit above it. Now,
the data Zsinj provided the Hawk-bats, including a gravity-well
delay for hyperspace jumps more lengthy than we'd experience
out in the chain of satellites, and showing speed of
response of a fleet arriving at the site being attacked, makes 
planetary orbit the most likely prospect. However, since New 
Republic Intelligence hasn't been able to confirm that there 
even is a new Super Star Destroyer under construction there, 
we can't be sure of this. Another planet in the system, a 
station not orbiting a planet, any such thing could be our 
objective."

 The Wraiths were following his presentation with rapt 
attention. They seemed different this morning-more possessed
of themselves, more cocksure, some of them nearly smug.
Alive and eager. Once again Wedge offered thanks to whatever
turn of fortune had brought Runt Ekwesh into this unit.

 "Piggy," Wedge continued, "has had some thoughts on this
mission I thought he should share with you. Piggy?"

 The Gamorrean pilot started to rise but thought better of it
and stayed seated. The proper manner to make a presentation
in a standard military briefing was on one's feet, but the
crowded nature of this conference module didn't allow for
it.

 "Once again I must turn to the subject of Zsinj and
pirates," he said, his mechanical voice vibrating the
tabletop and the caf cups resting on it. "This time I 
can do so with some evidence instead of relying merely on
speculation.

 "We assume Zsinj is going after a new Super Star Destroyer.
We know that he has requested the Hawk-bats to be part of
this mission. My belief is that the Hawk-bats will merely be
part of a large unit of mercenaries and pirates that will
act as part of the defensive screen around the new Super
Star Destroyer once it begins moving."

 Kell waved to get his attention. "You're getting ahead of
me, here. Why part of a mercenary unit, and why once the
vessel gets moving?"

 "From Zsinj's perspective, optimum efficiency demands a
certain set of steps," Piggy said. "He can't, for example,
drop out of hyperspace in the midst of the Kuat system and do a
boarding action against the new Destroyer. Every minute it
takes to accomplish the takeover is a minute the forces of
Kuat can be using to approach and attack. So..."

"So," Face said, interrupting, "the takeover of the new
Destroyer has to be accomplished before Iron Fist drops into
the Kuat system."

 Piggy nodded. "Correct. And as soon as the new Destroyer
begins moving, if not before, Kuat's forces will be alerted
and will move against her, to retake her... or destroy her."

  "So that," Wedge said, "is when we predict Zsinj will
drop in with Iron Fist and as large a fleet as he can
manage...  and it's that fleet that will serve as a screen
for the new Destroyer. It has to be escorted until it can
get far enough from the nearest gravity well to launch into
hyperspace."

 "If the pirates," Piggy said, "including us Hawk-bats, are
the first line of engagement the Kuat defenders encounter,
Zsinj profits. Fewer of his TIE forces will be destroyed. Of
the pirates who survive, some will belong to destroyed bands
and will want employment... and they're most likely to be
the best pilots of the bunch."

 Dia frowned. "Your pardon, Piggy... but isn't this all just
guesswork?"

 The Gamorrean nodded. "Educated guesswork."

 "What if you're all wrong?"

 Piggy looked between Wedge and Janson. "Between the
three of us, we'd have a hard time being that wrong."

 Dia managed a smile. "Piggy, what if you're wrong?"

 "We improvise," Wedge said. "We've come up with this model
for Zsinj's plan because we think it's most likely. But 
regardless of what Zsinj's plan is, our objectives stay the
same.  And our objectives are pretty simple in explanation
even if they turn out not to be simple in execution.

 "Before we get to that, we need to remember that this is our
best shot so far at taking out Iron Fist and Zsinj. This
means that other concerns... such as our personal safety and
even survival... come second." He looked around at the suddenly 
somber faces of the Wraiths. "I'm not asking anyone to
go on a suicide mission. But I am asking you to keep in mind
the same measures and balances I'll be considering. If what
I do can take out this enemy, who has caused so much pain
and destruction, and who will continue to do so if allowed
to, is my survival more important than his defeat?

 ~So... our goals. Number one, most important, is to get
a transmitter on Iron Fist or the new destroyer or both. We
have several ways to do this. One is Castin's program, which any
one of us invited to join Zsinj's advance party might have
an opportunity to plant. Another is a standard transmitter,
which we might be able to plant on one of the ships' surfaces.
It's less subtle than Castin's code, but will only broadcast when 
the ship's main communicators are being used, which might 
conceal its use. A third is to get someone aboard the two
ships, as a stowaway or in supposedly permanent employ with
Zsinj.

 "Goal number two is to stay alive and to take out as many of
the enemy as possible. And don't forget - the people of Kuat,
in spite of the fact that they're Zsinj's enemy, are also
our enemy. They're loyal to the remnants of the Empire. Any
damage we do them is good for the New Republic. Any questions?"

 Donos raised his hand. "What are our individual roles for
this mission?"

 Janson tapped on his datapad and the Wraith unit roster
replaced the Kuat system as the holographic projection.

 "We'll be broken down into two or, we hope, three units.

 "Unit One, Hawk-bats. That's Commander Antilles, Dia, Kell,
Face, Tyria, and Piggy. We fly, we shoot, we kill.

 "Unit Two, Infiltrators. Lara has faked up dossiers on 
alternate identities for herself, Shalla, and Dia and
forwarded them to Zsinj-you've done that, haven't you, Lara?
Good-in the hope that he'll select one or two to accompany
his advance team, the one we believe will be taking over the
new Destroyer.

 "Unit Three, Wraith Squadron. The rest of us will be taking
our X-wings to join Mon Remonda as part of the ambush phase
of the operation. We predict that Zsinj won't want to do
more than a short jump away from Kuat on untested hyperdrive
engines. That means we'll be stationing elements of the New
Republic fleet - all of General Solo's command and anyone
else we can drag in -and staging them at points as close as
we can manage to Zsinj's likely escape courses. They'll be
well off the major trade and military routes - an important
consideration, since we'll be in the middle of Imperial-
controlled space-and standing by for any signal from any of
the transmitters.

 "With any luck, if there's enough time between the
accomplishment of the Kuat raid and the come-get-me signal 
from Iron Fist, the Hawk-bats from the first part of the plan
will be able to join the Wraiths for the third."

 "And when we hear that signal," Donos said, "we jump in and
drop the heavy end of the hammer on Iron Fist and his new
Destroyer."

 "That's it," Wedge said. "Make your preparations. We
suspect the word will come from Zsinj pretty soon, but we
don't know when-so get as much done as you can. Face, we'll
need disguises for anyone Zsinj might choose to join the 
advance unit. Kell, I'd like for the same folk to have some
backup weapons, demolitions - we want to give them every
opportunity to get back to us if things go sour. Questions,
anyone? No?  Then get to it."

The word from Zsinj arrived later that day. It included a
rendezvous course the Wraiths suspected led to another 
redirection satellite, and a request that Qatya Nassin-Shalla's
Hawk-bat identity-join Zsinj's advance unit in the assault
to come.

 Hours later, the Wraiths assembled in their hangar.
Shalla was someone new. Under Face's care her hair had been
transformed into a shocking white, and her left eye was
surrounded by a circle of white makeup. That, and the pads
she held in her cheeks, changed the lines of her face. She
was dressed in flowing street clothes; doubtless Zsinj's
infiltration crew would have more appropriate garments for
her.

 Dia, Kell, Face, Tyria, and Piggy were in the makeup and
gray TIE-fighter-pilot uniforms of the Hawk-bats, and
Janson, Runt, Donos, and Lara were in the standard orange,
white, and black uniform of New Republic pilots.

 "The commander's late," Face said. "Is anything wrong?"

 "Oh, no," Janson said. "Since he doesn't have any additional 
responsibilities, no last-minute details to track, no
need to do one last check of the plan, he's just late so
you'll be that much crankJer."

 "That's what I thought."

 While they waited, the command crew aboard Sungrass
completed its check and did a test firing of her
repulsorlifts; the aging cargo hauler lifted a few meters
into the air and set down again. The ship couldn't depart
until Shalla was released to join them, and then it would
wait above this asteroid for the Hawk-bats to fly their TIE
interceptors and fighters into her hold.

 "Attention," Janson called.

 The Wraiths snapped to attention in a reasonable line as
Wedge approached them. Unlike the other Hawk-bat pilots, he
was dressed in a traditional black TIE fighter's uniform,
with a difference it took Face a moment to recognize: All
the usually glossy black surfaces, such as the helmet and
breathing gear, had been painted matte black. Also, there
seemed to be additional snap hooks on his chest and arms. He
carried a large cylindrical cloth bag in black over his
shoulder; this he set down at his feet.

 "I'm not going to give you some sort of stirring, half-
witted speech about why we're here," Wedge said without
preamble. "They're for crowds, not for fighter pilots. But I
did want to say something.

 "The Wraiths have had to learn lessons fast, faster than any
unit I've ever belonged to or commanded. I regret the speed
of your education-because, inevitably, it's intrusive and
painful - as much as I'm glad you've been able to absorb it.

 "Recent events, especially Runt's dance and the behavior of
several of you at that celebration, have convinced me that
you've learned another lesson, as individuals and as a unit.
The lesson involves watching out for one another. You're now
doing it as second nature.

 "You need to keep that up today, perhaps more than any other
day in our recent history. Do it and more of us will come
back."

 He looked among them, catching each stare in turn.
The Wraiths weren't wearing a collection of steely, confident
expressions. Kell, just as before most missions, looked
a little jittery, and more of Tyria's attention was on him
than on Wedge. Dia was more wide-eyed than usual, the mask
of who she'd been before now gone, a little uncertainty in
its place.  Face stared back with the eyes of a stranger,
already deep under his General Kargin makeup and
personality. But with each of them there was a commitment to
the mission, to its successful completion, regardless of the
cost.

 Wedge finished up: "For those of you who believe in the
Force, may it be with you, and guide you. For those who
don't, trust in your intent, your weapons, and your
wingman." He clapped his hands. "Let's go, people."

 The pilots broke rank, exchanged handshakes and 
embraces, headed off to their individual missions. The
gray-clad Hawk-bats would wait until Sungrass was on-station 
and take their TIEs out to the cargo ship. The orange-clad
Wraiths would then begin the process of shuttling all the
unit's X-wings out to the Mon Remonda, now waiting outside
the Halmad system's outermost planetary orbit, with the
shuttle Narra bringing them back in for each flight except
the last.

 Wedge caught the eye of his second-in-command. "Wes, a
moment of your time?" He picked up his bag and headed
briskly off toward his interceptor; Janson followed at a
trot.

 Wedge drew to a stop beside the ladder at his interceptor.
He pulled at the drawstring holding the lip of his bag
closed, and from the bag's interior withdrew Lieutenant
Kettch. The Ewok toy was now dressed in Hawk-bat grays, and
long spars of what looked like steel but swung with the mass
of plastic hung from his paws.

 "You have got to be kidding," Janson said.

 "No. Think about it. What if one of our erstwhile allies
swings in close and sees a human inside Lieutenant Kettch's
in-terceptor?" Wedge snapped a loop sewn to the back of
Kettch's cloth helmet to the corresponding metal hook on his
chest.

 "Help me with the arms."

 Janson did so, snapping the loop on Kettch's left glove onto
a hook on Wedge's left biceps. 

 "So that's why you're in black," he said, and repeated the 
process with Kettch's right arm. 
 
 "An invisible background."  

 "That's it."

 "So, when you joined Starfighter Command, did you have any
presentiment that someday you'd be impersonating an Ewok?"

 Wedge glared. 

 "Now the waist."

 "Sure. You know, pretending to be an Ewok is a felony on
some worlds."  

 "Wes."

 "And I think it's probably against regulations to fly
starfighters while performing a puppet show."  

 "Wes."

 Janson straightened up from making the last attachment and
threw a salute. 

 "Yub, yub, Commander."

 Wedge returned it. 

 "The things I put up with for this outfit."









 Sungrass dropped out of hyperspace at the leading edge of
Zsinj's armada.

 In the midst of the swarm of ships was Iron Fist, the deadly
blue arrowhead. Around it were numerous other capital and
support ships: one Imperial Star Destroyer, an Interdictor-
class cruiser, four Carrack-class light cruisers, and a
number of cargo vessels and corvettes. Some of the cargo
vessels were decorated with piratical designs; others were
innocuous-looking. Few TIE fighters were in evidence, but
that was no surprise; the TIEs would not be launched until
they were within easy flight range of their objective.

 "That's the IU Wind," said Captain Valton, Sungrass's
commander. He was pointing to the smaller Star Destroyer.

 "And that one's the Emperor's Net." He gestured at the 
Interdictor. "Haven't seen either of them in a while. Not 
since before the Emperor's death."

 Face, in the communications officer's seat, nodded. "Either
of them assigned to Zsinj at that time?"

 "IU Wind. Ernperor's Net must have joined him later."

 Valton glanced down at his control board.

 "Signal from Iron Fist. You might want to pick that up."

 Sungrass was directed to land in Iron Fist's main bay. As
they rose into the bay opening and were directed to a large
open area of flooring, Face could see that repairs were well
along.  The only signs remaining of the explosion the Hawk-bats 
had caused was one area, toward the bow end of the bay,
of crumpled flooring still not replaced, and black charring
at places along the wall. But a full complement of TIE
fighters, interceptors, and bombers was arrayed for
takeoff.

 Face and Shalla emerged from their ship's exit port and
shook General Melvar's hand.

 "This is your transport?" Melvar asked, looking the Sungrass over.

 "She's not elegant, I admit," Face said. "But we get an awful lot 
of work out of her."

 "You'll be able to afford better soon, General."

 "General Melvar, allow me to introduce Qatya Nassin, my hand-to-hand 
combat specialist."

 Melvar shook Shalla's hand cordially. 

 "Delighted." He looked her up and down with a somewhat aloof, 
evaluating expression. "This is Coruscant civilian dress. Middle 
to low class. Not too far from bedrock level."

 Shalla smiled at him, her dimples showing. "That's correct."

 "Perfect. Why do you need a datapad ?" The general frowned
as he looked at the commonplace device in her left hand.

 "It's a weapon, General." Shalla traced her finger across
the hinged edge of the datapad. "A standard scan won't show
that this edge is heavily reinforced. If I decide that
someone needs some additional information in his head, I can
insert it manually."

 Melvar chuckled.

 Face did, too, but wasn't feeling too merry. They couldn't
afford for Melvar to pay too much attention to the datapad.
The technically proficient Wraiths had spent hours refitting
smaller, more modern datapad gear into a larger, older case,
and had reinforced the hinge end as she'd mentioned, but
they'd also fitted in a secret slot and a number of small
explosive devices that Kell had put together. A basic scan
wouldn't reveal them-they'd be masked by the technology
within the case - but a more thorough one would.

 "Well," Melvar said, "I am delighted to meet you. Less delighted 
to have to put you to the test this way." He snapped his fingers.

 From the semicircle of stormtroopers and officers who'd met
the Sungrass stepped a man in a bridge officer's uniform.

 He was larger than Kell and looked as though his face had
been used by several graduating classes for hammer practice.

 "This is Captain Netbers," Melvar said. "One of our hand-to-
hand instructors. I fear he must evaluate your skills."

 Netbers approached, smiling, his hand extended to shake
Shalla's. She stepped forward as if to take it, then swung
her datapad straight into his face, smashing his nose,
staggering him back. She followed through by bringing her
booted foot up into his crotch, but Face heard a decidedly 
unfleshlike thump and decided the man must have been armored 
there.

 Shalla turned and handed her datapad back to Face with a
nonchalance that belied its contents, then turned back to
her foe. Netbers, despite the blood streaming from his face
and the pain he had to be feeling in his groin despite the
armor, had taken her momentary distraction to assume a
fighting posture-left side forward, most of his weight on
his back leg, hands up and ready to strike. His expression
was serious, his eyes intent, but unlike many fighters he
didn't offer a stream of taunts and invective.

 Shalla circled around him, her pose more upright, a mocking
smile on her face.

 Melvar moved beside Face. "He has reach on her," he said.

 "She has too close if she's to affect him."

 As if on cue, Shalla moved a half pace forward, her advance
coming with jolting speed. Netbers refexively retreated the
same distance. But she stopped her advance, keeping that
distance between them. Netbers smiled and gestured for her
to come on again.

 She brought her hands up, a high guard, and circled, then
suddenly advanced.

 Netbers brought his left foot up in a high kick. But his
right foot slipped, and Face saw that it was square in the
middle of a puddle of blood, his own blood. Shalla caught
his left foot and calf with her hands, wrenched them upward,
sending him off balance, so that instead of striking at her
he could only flail, and then she lashed out with her own
left foot and connected with the inside of his knee.

 He let out a grunt as he hit the hangar floor. She stepped
forward for a follow-through kick, but Netbers continued
rolling and had his hands up to intercept or trap her leg if
she followed through. She didn't; still smiling, she
continued circling, forcing him to do the same. Netbers
tried to stand, but his right leg wouldn't sustain his
weight and he remained in a kneeling position.

 "Enough," Melvar said. "This exercise wasn't intended to
result in injury. Just to give Netbers an opportunity to
evaluate the lady's performance. Netbers, I assume you 
consider her proficient?"

 Netbers grimaced. "I would say so, sir." He fingered his
nose. "My node is brogen again."

 "Do you think she could kill a Wookiee? Or was that mere
hyperbole?"

 "I don't think anyobe gould gill a Wookiee habd to habd,
sir. But she gomes gloser than anyobe I'be seen."

 Melvar turned a cool expression on Shalla. "You were a bit
treacherous, though. You were supposed to shake hands before
opening hostilities."

 Shalla lost her smile. "Nonsense. He came at me with the
intent of taking my hand and then applying leverage to it. 
I could see that in his stance as he approached."  

 "Netbers?"

 "She's right, sir. Anb if she's going on this mission, it's
good that she can recognize the difference."

 "Well, then." Melvar returned his attention to Face. "Will
you be deploying your TIEs for launch from our bay?"

 "No. Kettch is agitated enough as it is, and being exposed
to too many strange humans would unsettle him. I think we'd
prefer to launch from Sungrass."

 "Understood. Please switch your comm systems to our
frequency and cancel your starfighters' usual encryption; we
do want to be able to talk to one another. Launch and stand
by at your convenience, and I will deliver this formidable
young woman to the unit she will be working with."

 There were eight of them. Three men and a woman, all large,
with movements like natural fighters, were dressed in the
non-descript uniforms of maintenance workers, the words KUAT
DRIVE YARDS emblazoned above the left breast of the
uniforms.  Four others were in stormtrooper armor. Melvar
introduced them and Shalla filed their names away. He also
succinctly explained the difference between the mission as
described earlier and the way it was now. Shalla let her
eyes open in simulated surprise when she "discovered" that
the target was no cargo satellite but a Super Star
Destroyer.

 "At this hour," Melvar continued, "on this shift, Razor's
Kiss - that's the name of the new Super Star Destroyer, unless
Zsinj chooses to rename it - is almost deserted. What's left
is mostly security details and workers finalizing critical
assemblies.

 "We've spent two years helping a colonel in charge of the
ship's landing parties build himself up a lucrative little
smuggling operation. He doesn't know 'we' means Zsinj,
though he'll find out when they court-martial him, if not
before. Anyway, to facilitate his trading and dealing, he
had to arrange for ways by which his people could bypass
several layers of Kuat Drive Yards defense, and by monitoring 
him very closely we found out what those means were.

 "This crew of specialists will be taking a standard shuttle
in to the officers' landing bay under access codes he uses
for his little side operation. That will get you onto Razor's
Kiss... but no farther, I'm afraid.

 "The crew will advance from the landing bay to the bridge
and seize it, then enter programming that will allow you to
operate the ship in limited capacity solely from the
bridge. A false leak alert should clear everyone out of the
engineering section and auxiliary bridge, at which point
you'll lock them out to prevent sabotage. Finally, a
hypercomm signal to us will alert the fleet that it's time
to jump in and Razor's Kiss can move out on its escape
vector. Any questions?"

 The faces of the other members of the team showed clearly
they were all fully briefed on the situation. Shalla said,

 "I take it that I'm to be some sort of lure?"

 Melvar nodded. "You'll take point through much of the team's
advance through the ship. It's inevitable that the team will
run across crewmen we haven't accounted for. Your job is
very specific: Distract them, delay them for the others to
get in position, but most importantly, don't let them get
off any sort of signal. Any comlink notification of the
bridge can ruin the whole plan."

 Shalla nodded. "Except for stormtroopers, with their
comlinks built into their helmets, it shouldn't be too hard.
And even with them, just striking fast and hard enough
should solve the problem."

 In looking over the other team members, she'd noticed
that the only other female member of the team, though rather
plain in her current guise, could, with a little makeup and
attention to detail, have been quite attractive. Shalla
said to her, "You were originally supposed to have my job."

 The woman, whose name, if Shalla remembered correctly, was
Bradan, nodded. "The general thought that a smaller woman
would be less suspicious, less intimidating to the security
forces aboard Razors Kiss."

 "He's probably right." Shalla shrugged. "I'm sorry."

 Bradan gave her a searching look. "You bring this mission
off and we'll all be covered in glory. Do it and I'll
forgive you."

 "Done."






 "The sign of a perfect mission," said Captain Raslan, "is
that it's boring."

 Shalla nodded. The mission had been boring so far. They'd
taken a dirty, creaky wreck of a first-generation Lambda
shuttle from Iron Fist, made the hyperspace jump into the
Kuat system, made an approach vector on the planet,
transmitted passcodes that were apparently accepted, and now
the shuttle was finishing its first orbit so that it could
continue on to the shipbuilding station from a proper
approach vector.

 "When it's not boring," the captain continued, "you know
that you've failed."

 "You're obviously unused to failure," Shalla said.

 "You have that right." Raslan turned his attention back to
the shuttle's controls. "We're getting the automated turn-back 
message. I'm transmitting our passcode." 

 Bradan leaned forward to speak in Shalla's ear. "If this
works, we won't even get a voice acknowledgment. Just 
several minutes of silence as we approach."

 "Thus," Shalla said, "more boring, thus even better."

 "That's right." Bradan leaned back.

 Shalla had to consider that. It was so contrary to Face's
analysis of Iron Fist's officer corps, with their rough,
piratical behavior on the bridge during the dinner with
Zsinj. It was, in fact, more logical, more in line with the
kind of success Zsinj enjoyed. But, of course, not all the
officers would necessarily share Zsinj's flamboyance.

 And despite their words, the approach to Razor's Kiss, made
in near silence, wasn't boring. As they approached the
enormous arrowhead-shaped vessel, now wrapped up in the
spars and projections of the shipbuilding satellite, which
looked like a monstrous insect stinging the destroyer into
submission, she felt her pulse and breathing increase, her
temperature rise.

 One mistake and she'd die aboard that ship. Even, perhaps,
if she didn't make a mistake. The innocuous-looking datapad
in her pocket could mean the difference between life and
death for thousands in the New Republic.  Her father would
be proud.

 And that thought, recollections of the irascible man, 
already old when he'd falsified records of his death,
resettied on the world of Ingo, and begun fathering
children, the man who'd taught his daughters to look out for
evil and watch out for good, calmed her. If he were here
now, he'd be whispering in her ear: Now you're Qatya. Keep
your mercenary face on.  Be nice to these people because
they might hire you again in the future. Watch out for the
backstab in case they decide to save themselves your fee. It
won't happen before you take the bridge; right now they're
anxious for you to succeed. It might not happen at all;
Melvar was impressed with you, and they noticed. With the
sound of his soothing voice in her ear, she finally
relaxed. She gave Raslan a confident smile. 

 "Don't get too bored," she said. "You'll be asleep by the 
time we land."

 Razor's Kiss grew before them until it blotted out the entire
universe. Raslan guided them toward a tiny white dot
that gradually grew into a standard rectangular bay opening.

 He brought the shuttle into a bay that was half-filled with
other shuttles and with a pair of interceptors.

 There were no people in the bay. Shalla frowned over that.
Was it unguarded, with no mechanics on duty? But if the
duplicitous colonel had automated instructions set up, he
might require bay personnel to absent themselves when 
vehicles using specific passcodes arrived.

 In silence, they exited the shuttle. Shalla was the first
out of the bay, entering a long corridor that was eerily dim
and quiet.

 As she moved along the deserted corridor toward the bridge
- a hike of over three kilometers-she decided that this was a
ghost ship. Every other ship she'd been on had pulsed with
life, a steady vibration that one could feel in the soles of
her shoes and every rigid surface, a sensation so
commonplace that spacegoers no longer noticed it after their
first few days.  This ship had no such vibration, and she
imagined that if she saw someone materializing out of the
gloom ahead of her, it would be a ghost.

 But the first contact she had with the inhabitants of 
Razor's Kiss was not so ethereal. Barely a kilometer into her
walk, a doorway to a set of private quarters hissed open
beside her and a stormtrooper emerged.

 He tried to bring his blaster rifle in line. 

 "Say..."

 She leaned into him, pinning the rifle to his chest, and
brought her hand up, an open-palm blow that caught the
trooper's helmet just at the chin. The force of the blow
popped the helmet free of his head, sent it clattering into
the quarters from which he'd emerged.

 He backed away, trying to free his weapon, and she followed
him. She crossed her arms and got both hands on the weapon,
then stopped and yanked. The sudden torque ripped the blaster 
from his grip.

 He lunged forward, grabbing, and she swung the butt up into
his jaw. He fell like an anesthetized bantha.

 Shalla looked around. This was a small office, perhaps a
junior officer's. No one else was present. She took a look
in its interior door, but it led only to an empty refresher.

 Raslan was in the office when she emerged. "You could hear
his helmet bouncing for fifty meters," he said, complaint in
his voice, and held out his hand.

 She handed him the rifle and slid past him. "You would have
heard a blaster shot from three hundred."

 For the next kilometer, she encountered nothing except some
floor-scrubbing droids, machines so primitive that they
recorded nothing but locations they had cleaned. Had she
been invading Iron Fist, she would have been worried about
their presence; a man like Zsinj would probably have adapted
them to be an innocuous part of his ship security. Here, she
had no such concerns.

 She checked the map Bradan had transmitted to her datapad,
turned left into a cross corridor... and bumped straight
into a lean Imperial naval lieutenant standing there. The
man rocked back, reached for his sidearm - and then got a good
look at Shalla and relaxed. "Identify yourself," he said,
his voice more curious than angry.

 Shalla put her hands on her hips, a pose of naive irritation.

 "I'm Qatya, of course."

 "Let me see your authorization."

 She put a finger to her lips. "Shhh. No need to be so loud.
I'm just looking for Stoghi."

 "Stoghi?" He frowned. "Stoghin Learz? Major Learz?"

 "That's him."

 "Your business with Major Learz?"

 She shrugged. "I missed him. It's been days since he
visited."

 "I see." It was clear the lieutenant didn't. "I'11 check
with the bridge to find out where the major is."

 "I'd really appreciate that. I've been walking for kilometers
and haven't found him."

 "Uh-huh." The lieutenant brought up his comlink.

 Shalla grabbed his hand with both of hers, twisting it and
forcing his palm forward and down at a painful angle. He
dropped the comlink before he understood what was happening, 
and as he stiflened and tried to draw away, she twisted
his arm up and behind him, then shoved him forward into the
bulkhead. The metal rang with the impact of his head against
it. She hammered the back of his head with her forearm and
the metal rang again.

 The unfortunate lieutenant went limp.

 Moving fast, she took his sidearm and tucked it under the
waistband of her pants, beneath the hanging folds of her
tunic. She bound him with his belt and stuffed his holster
under his tunic. By the time her team arrived, she was merely 
in charge of an unconscious prisoner and there was no sign that
he'd been armed.

 She rose.

 "Was that more quiet?"

 Raslan gave her an abashed look. "Yes. You're doing your
job. That's what you're here for. You have my apologies."

 They arrayed themselves outside the door to the security
foyer leading to the bridge. Bradan took the security panel
next to the door, checked it for alarm switches, and began
the methodical process of opening it. The four false
stormtroopers stood at the ready beside the door, as if
waiting for it to open so they could relieve the previous
shift on duty, and the others kept to the shadowy sides of
the corridor as much as they could.

 After long minutes, Bradan spoke in a whisper: "I've got it.
I'm putting it on a delay. Three seconds after it opens, it
closes. Don't start shooting until it closes, if you can
avoid it; we don't want the sound to carry."

 They formed up, stormtroopers to the fore, Shalla at the
rear, and the door shot up with the customary speed of 
Imperial barriers.

 The security foyer was beyond. Unlike the hallway, it was
brightly lit, and Shalla had to blink at the sudden
brilliance.  But their stormtroopers, protected by the
lenses of their helmets, advanced without hesitation, and
Shalla heard one of them say, "Don't move and you don't
die."

 Shalla moved in with the others, heard the door whoosh shut
behind her, heard the clattering of feet as the stormtroop-
ers spread through the security foyer and into the bridge 
beyond, and her eyes cleared.

 Still in the foyer was a naval officer wearing the insignia
of an Imperial captain. His hands were up, his round florid
face wearing an expression of extreme displeasure.

 Raslan stepped up to give him a shove toward the command
walkway. 

 "Get moving." He glanced back at the sole stormtrooper 
remaining in the security foyer.

 "Guard the door. Bradan, secure the turbolift; we don't want 
some ambitious fool trying to get at us through the shaft. 
Then secure the doors out of the crew pit."

 Bradall nodded and summoned the turbolift. The stormtrooper 
stationed himself before the doors to the main corridor. 
The other members of the team raced to their specific
assignments, two of them heading to the weapons and defense
consoles, others dropping into the crew pit to take up
station at the control consoles, the other stormtroopers 
keeping their blaster rifles trained on the crew of four 
that had been occupying the bridge.

 And suddenly Shalla was alone. True, she was mere meters
from the stormtrooper and Bradan, but she was forgotten, her
task done, her role vanished. And the ship's main communications 
consoles were right here. 

 Available to her.

 But the stormtrooper and Bradan had only to turn around to
see her.

 Delay kills more operations than treachery, bad planning, or
bad luck, her father used to say.

 Moving quietly and quickly, Shalla drew a cable from her
pocket. She plugged one end into her datapad. The other she
fitted into the standard terminal interface on the communications 
console nearest her. Then she brought up Castin's program and 
selected the "automatic" mode that would do its best to bypass 
the Razor's Kiss security on its own, without input from Shalla, 
then set the datapad on the console chair and slid the chair in 
close, making the datapad almost impossible to see.

 All the while, she overheard conversation floating up from
the crew pit and out of the weapons and defense alcoves: 

 "We have the engineering section and auxiliary bridge. Ready 
to send the alarm." 

 "Wait for communications to be locked off."

 "That's locked off, sir."

 "Why didn't you say anything? .... I just finished." 

 "All right, send the alarm. How are the gun emplacements?
....Up and ready. I've fed in the locations for the station 
attachments; as soon as I issue the command, they'll be metal 
vapor."

 As a last detail, she switched off the terminal's screen so
the actions of Castin's program would not be visible, then
quickly moved to the opposite console. She sat in one seat
and put up her feet in another.

 Bradan emerged from the turbolift and caught sight of  her.

 "What are you doing?"

 "Nothing." Shalla put her hands behind her head. "My job is
done. I was going to let you professionals do the rest of
the work."

 Bradan's expression turned sour. "True. Well, you stay right
there. Don't move."

 "You can count on me. As long as you're paying, I'm inert."

 Bradan turned away and headed up to the bridge and the
command walkway. Shalla relaxed, but made sure her stolen
blaster was close at hand. If anyone noticed the datapad in
the chair, she had to make sure that he noticed nothing ever
again.






  General Melvar's voice was loud over the Sungrass's bridge
comm unit: "We have signal from the target zone. Prepare to
enter hyperspace in two minutes."

 Face keyed the comm. "Sungrass, requesting permission to
launch."

 "Permission granted. Have your fighters ready for instant
dispersal."

 "We'll be ready." 

 He glanced at Captain Valton, but the man was already raising 
Sungrass's repulsorlifts, drifting the cargo ship laterally to 
drop her from Iron Fist's main hangar bay. 

 "Good luck," Face said.

 Valton nodded, and Face hurried back to Sungrass's own 
tight-packed hangar bay.






 The bridge of Razor~ Kiss was a riot of noise.

 The ship's batteries had obliterated the connections between 
Razor's Kiss and the shipbuilding station, and the Super Star 
Destroyer was in motion. Communications from the dying station, 
from Kuat, and from the main offices of the Kuat Drive Yards 
were demanding a response from the bridge crew.

 Sensors showed launches of squadrons of starfighters from
Kuat and from capital ships not far away in the system, and
showed those capital ships maneuvering to intercept Razor's
Kiss on her outbound flight. From the control console, the
team's communications specialist was ordering the skeleton
crew on Razor's Kiss to go to their stations and prepare for
an Imperial assault.

 Through all of it, Shalla sat comfortably in her chair,
watching and listening to the others hurry about their
duties.

 The datapad at the communications console pinged, the
audible cue that its current program had completed
successfully.

 Successfully. The program was in place.

 The stormtrooper at the door turned toward her. "Did you 
hear that?"

 "I did." She rose, staring intently beyond him, and came a
few steps forward.

 "What are you looking at?"

 "The door, stupid. That's where the noise came from. The
other side of the door."

 "No, it was behind me. Toward you."

 "Idiot, your helmet is fouling you up." She nodded 
significantly toward the door. "Something's on the other side."

 He moved to the nearest security console, just three seats
down from the seat where her datapad lay, and brought up its
main screen. It was a holocam view of the hall just outside
the main door. 

 "There's nothing going on out there." He turned back to the 
door.

 Shalla quickly picked up her datapad, yanked the cable free
and pocketed it, and joined him beside the door. She took a
good look at the main and secondary screens, gauging which
portions of the hall outside were under direct holocam 
observation. 

 "You're right. It looks clear." 

 "I told you."

 She shook her head. ~I don't trust it. They're trying 
something. Let me through. I'll give it a look."

 The stormtrooper thought that over, then apparently activated 
his comlink. "Captain, we're hearing some things at the main 
door, but holocams show nothing. Qatya has volunteered to act 
as forward reconnaissance in case there actually is some 
activity out there."

 A moment later he said, "Captain says it's a good idea."

 "Can I have a sidearm?"

 "You won't need one just to report activity. Do you have a
comlink?"

 "Yes, but I don't have your frequency."

 The stormtrooper handed her a comlink. 

 "Good luck."

 He keyed the main door open for her. Then she was through,
the door shutting behind her. And though the air was the
same here, suddenly she could breathe it more easily.

 She was still under holocam observation, though. She moved
forward with slow, steady confidence, as though she actually 
were moving in on a possible enemy emplacement, until she was
beyond the range of the holocams they were monitoring.

 She waited there a couple of minutes, then keyed her comlink 
and whispered, "Qatya here."  

 Bradan's voice:

 "Report."

 "There's a security detail a few meters up the corridor.
They have munitions. Looks like they're rigging a shaped
charge to blow the door."

 "Good work. Fall back and we'll set up to repel."

 "No, wait. Their demolitions team is closest to me, and
not guarded. They're not expecting an assault from this
direction. I can eliminate one or two and then set off the
charges they've brought. The next group they send is going
to be a little put off by the mess I leave."

 Moments of silence. Then: "That's authorized. The captain
will put you in for a bonus if you pull this off."

 "Qatya out." From the datapad she shook the four explosives
Kell had rigged for her. She set two of them down on the
floor against one wall. She drew the blaster she'd taken,
fired three shots into the ceiling, depressed the buttons
that would begin the explosives' ten-second countdowns, and
began running.

 Now it was time to find an escape pod and safely wait out
the conclusion of this battle... and the one to come.







 Zsinj's fleet dropped out of hyperspace well within the Kuat
system, where the gravity well of Kuat herself made hyperspace
progress impossible, and the sensor displays transmitted
from Sungrass's bridge showed an oncoming Super Star Destroyer
and alarming numbers of starfighters from all directions.

 "Launch," Face said, and roared out of the cargo bay as soon
as the opening door gave minimal clearance. His tempo-rary
wingman, Kell, followed in his own interceptor and the
others emerged rapidly.

 Emerged into a star system very different from the one they
were supposed to have expected, of course. The sun was not
quite the shade of Coruscant's, and the oncoming Imperial
Star Destroyers were not complemented by Mon Calamari
cruisers. The comm waves suddenly became crowded with shouts
and infuriated questions. In character, Face keyed his
comlink. "Hawk-bat Leader to Iron Fist. What is this?
Where's Coruscant?"

 The chuckle he received in response was a familiar one; he
recognized it as Melvar's. "We never said you were going to
Coruscant, Hawk-bats. Welcome to Kuat. Please keep to your
assigned roles. Everything will work out very profitably."

 There was a moment's delay, and the pitch of the general's
voice lowered. "Hawk-bat Leader, I regret to inform you that
the insertion team reports that they have lost Qatya."

 Face's gut went cold and hard. "How?"

 "She single-handedly eliminated a demolitions team and was
lost in the explosion. Her action has apparently prevented
any further assaults on the bridge. You have our condolences."

 "Thank you." The tightening of Face's stomach eased but did
not go away entirely. Melvar's story sounded like the kind
of ploy Shalla might have used to get clear of the insertion
team; on the other hand, the story might be entirely true.

 And he couldn't ask, Did anyone witness her death? It would
create suspicion. He could only pray. He said, "Someone is
going to die for this."

 All around them, cargo ships and old cruisers were dis-
gorging squadrons of starfighters. Some, like the Hawk-bats, 
were modern fighter craft in good shape. Others were
older craft, kept in barely fnnctional form by their owners.
Still others were fleets of Uglies, starfighters patched
together from different fighter designs when there weren't
enough parts available to reconstruct a normal starfighter
design.

 In their groups - five here, a dozen there, a score - they
turned to their assigned vectors and headed out toward the
incoming strike forces.

 "Hawk-bats, follow my lead." Face turned toward a distant
Imperial Star Destroyer. He could not see its complement of
TIE fighters, but his sensors showed them plainly, three
full squadrons of them. That was only half a fully equipped
Star Destroyer's complement; he wondered whether this vessel
was underequipped, or whether it was holding squadrons in 
reserve. 

 "Anyone recognize that?"

 "Leader, Five. It's Mauler. Nothing special."

 Nothing special. Only an average Imperial Star Destroyer.

 "That's comforting. Thanks, Five." He opened a wide transmission 
band. "This is Hawk-bat Leader. Who else is heading toward Mauler?"

 The voice he got in return bore the clipped accents of an
upper-class man of Coruscant. "Hawk-bat Leader, this is 
Vibroaxe Prime. You're the spearhead; we're the shaft."

 Face's sensors did show an irregular force of between thirty
and forty friendlies trailing the Hawk-bats. They were much
slower and sensors couldn't lock down a consistent vehicle
profile for them - probably Uglies, then. 

 "Want to trade places, Prime?"

 "Thank you, no, Hawk-bat. I'm content for you to take first
blood."

 "Join us when you get bored, Vibroaxes Out."




 Wedge heard the exchange between Face and Vibroaxe Prime,
but kept it in the background of his conscious mind. He was
still struggling with the Ewok stuffed toy that was the most
visible part of his disguise.

 When he sat down with the Ewok in his lap, it rode up, 
interfering with his vision. Now he'd managed to release the
main lap strap of his pilot's harness, bring it up over the
Ewok's legs, and tighten it back down again, and that seemed
to have done the trick... but if it came loose during
maneuvers, he could have more trouble with it.

 A dozen seconds after the end of Face's exchange with 
Vibroaxe, the Hawk-bats were moments from maximum firing range
of the leading edge of the Mauler forces. Wedge heard Face
cut in again: "Break by pairs, set up for Kettch's Drill,
and fire at will." Sensors showed Face swooping to port,
Kell staying on his wing. Tyria and Piggy drifted to
starboard. Wedge eased his yoke forward; he and Dia kept the
center, losing a little altitude relative to the others.

 As the range-to-target indicator dropped into numbers where
a hit was an outside possibility, Wedge nudged his stick
back and forth, up and down, making himself as difficult a
target as possible, and opened on one of the pair of TIE
fighters nearest him. Sensors showed a graze off the enemy's
hull, no significant damage. The enemy TIE's green laser
fire flashed over Wedge's top viewport, a near miss.

 An explosion ahead and to port - Face or Kell had a kill.

 Wedge kept up his fire on his target, saw his own green 
quad-linked beams tattoo the hull again and then penetrate 
the forward viewport. The TIE's internal lights faded to
blackness and the starfighter, now a ghost ship, began
straight-line flight - still powered. Doubtless the pilot's
dying convulsions had jammed the controls into full thrust.
Then they were beyond the first wave of enemies, the first
half squad.

 Their enemies expected them to break and dogfight with that
first wave. But Wedge's tactic - Kettch's Drill - took them
straight forward, at full speed, toward the second wave, a
full squadron of TIEs. He saw on the sensor board the four
survivors of the first wave curve around to get into
position behind them, but their maneuver was a little slow,
a little tentative, as they adjusted to the Hawk-bats doing
something unexpected.

 The second wave was in range. Wedge continued juking
around, opened fire, saw lasers spraying from the solar wing
arrays of Dia's interceptor to his starboard. Return fire
streaked the starfield green all around him and he felt a
shudder as one laser blast creased his hull. An unfamiliar
sensation, and once again he wished devoutly for a return to
his X-wing and its shields.

 His fire and Dia's converged on a luckless TIE fighter. The
craft exploded into a ball of incandescent gas and
superheated shrapnel. Their two flight paths curved around
it as they plunged into the second wave and beyond.

 Sensors showed the four TIEs of the first wave closing in
and several starfighters of the second wave curving around
to join them. He smiled. The plan was operating perfectly so
far.  Yes, they had a squad and a half of fighters on their
tails, but the forward momentum of Mauler's squadrons was
slowing.

 The Hawk-bats were doing their job. They were serving Zsinj
well. Amused, he shook that thought away and returned his
concentration to the third wave of enemies.

 These they dove straight toward, each picking a target and
maneuvering straight into that TIE's path, juking around
enough to be a difficult target yet always homing in on the
oncoming starfighter as if meaning to ram it. Wedge's
continued fire hulled his target and he flew through the
debris cloud, hearing clattering and banging against his
hull as he did. On the sensor board, he saw Dia's target
veer away from her at the last second, arcing away straight
into the path of a vengeful TIE from the first wave. The
sensors showed the two blips merge into one, then disappear
altogether.

 Ahead, the fourth wave, a half squadron. Wedge saw Face lead
the abandonment of Kettch's Drill, 1ooping up and back the
way the Hawk-bats had come, the other Hawk-bats joining him
in formation, three not-quite-full squadrons of TIEs following 
in vengeful pursuit.









 In full TIE-fighter-pilot regalia, which she had found in a
pilot's ready room adjacent to the secondary hangar bay,
and carrying extra life-support units, Sha!la lurked on the
walkway above the bay's pair of TIE interceptors.

 She should have been safely tucked away in an escape pod by
now. But with her mission accomplished, another idea had
occurred to her... thus the dangerous three-kilometer trek
back to the bay by which she'd arrived, thus the trail of
unconscious foes along the hallways and passages she'd
chosen for her return trip.

 Thus this skulking on the walkway. Beyond the magnetic-
containment field she could see signs of distant battle:
tiny flashes and slivers of light, their sources too far
away to make out.







 Stormtroopers, Kuat loyalists probably wondering what to do
about the ship's extraordinary activities, had entered the
bay mere seconds after she had and were hard at work 
rummaging through the intrusion team's shuttle. Others guarded
the door into the bay. No matter; that wasn't the way she
intended to exit. She climbed down into the left-hand
intercep-tor, the one closest to the bulkhead and farthest
from the stormtroopers. Without belting in, she began her
prelaunch checklist. It was longer than usual-this
interceptor, obviously a commanding officer's personal
escape vehicle, had its own hyperdrive and a more elaborate
navigation computer than the standard interceptor.

 All systems seemed go, though she didn't power up the 
engines to make sure; the resulting repulsorlift rumble would
be certain to alert the stormtroopers to her presence.
She stood and climbed partway out of the access hatch,
hanging in place by one arm. She brought up the last of
Kell's explosives, activated them, and threw them as far
across the bay as she could. They clattered against the
bulkhead behind the intrusion - team shuttle.

 Stormtroopers perked up, swung their weapons in that 
direction. 

 "What was that? You and you, take the far side..."

 Shalla dropped back into the cockpit and dogged the hatch
shut.

 She was almost done strapping herself in when the explosions 
went off. She saw a ball of yellow-and-orange flame on
the far side of the shuttle, saw the shuttle rock, saw 
stormtroopers thrown through the air like dolls. Her interceptor
and the one next to it rocked as well, and a great bubble of
atmosphere, shoved through the magcon field by the sudden
pressure within the bay, dissipated in the vacuum beyond.
As the stormtroopers raced toward their fallen allies and
shook their heads against the sudden deafening explosion,
she brought her engines up and goosed them. On repulsorlifts,
she squirted out through the magcon field and then took an 
abrupt vector toward the stern. She immediately brought her 
speed down to something just higher than a good running pace.

 As she'd expected, the hull of the Razor's Kiss was littered
with debris from the shipbuilding station. Long armatures
hung swinging from attachment points, and other metal trash
clung to or rolled about on the hull, trapped there by the
ship's artificial gravity. The Super Star Destroyer was in
motion, heading out-system as fast as its untried engines
would take it, and distant Imperial Star Destroyers were
drawing ever nearer.

 She took a deep breath and tried to quiet her stomach.
This improvised plan of hers was more likely to get her
killed than anything else. But when she'd recognized the
opportunity in front of her, she knew she had to try it.

 She skimmed as close to the ship's hull as her flying skills
would allow her, and occasionally rolled the interceptor to
simulate the motion of debris.

 She wouldn't look too odd on sensors. A direct observation
or holocam view would reveal that she was a live TIE and not
just debris. Then a single shot from a laser battery would
turn her into debris. So, white-knuckled, she continued her
absurdly slow flight and prayed that nothing noticed her.


                             19



 The Hawk-bats roared down toward the pursuing Vibroaxes with
the Mauler's TIE fighters in close pursuit. The Vibroaxes,
with their awkward collection of jury-rigged weaponry,
opened fire at just beyond their maximum effective weapons
range, and the Hawk-bats and enemy TIEs plunged into that
hail of destructive energy as if bent on suicide.

 Wedge's stomach felt like a refrigeration unit stuck on
high. They'd been in less danger of death when flying into
the teeth of their enemies than into the mass fire of these
pirates, who theoretically could distinguish the Hawk-bats' 
sensor blips from those of the others... but who obviously
didn't have the skills or accurate enough equipment to make the
best of that distinction. Laser beams, red and green, the
flashes of ion cannons, and the blue trails of proton
torpedoes flashed between them, among them.

 The Hawk-bats passed the leading edge of the Vibroaxe force
and veered, three wing pairs turning to three different
vectors. Some pursuing TIEs broke off to avoid the cloud of
Uglies, others plunged into the cloud, others skirted along
the leading edge of the cloud. Wedge's TIE was rocked by the
detonation of a torpedo nearby; he checked his sensor and
found that Dia was still on his wing, still intact.

 The comm waves were suddenly full, impossible to track:

 "Squad Two, continue on to primary target." 

 "Hawk-bat Five, this is Twelve, recommend you climb now." 

 "I'm hit I'm hit I'm...." 

 "Can't shake him." 

 "I've got him, Bantha."

 "Archer, this is Vee Prime. Spray a pattern of torps back 
toward the baby, we have a whole squad cutting out to go 
after him."

"That Emperor's nose, that's an Ewok! They've got an Ewok pilot!"

 Wedge thumbed his comlink, still set up with Castin's 
Ewok-voice modifications, and said, "Bleed and die, yub, yub,"
then rolled to starboard and relative down as he caught
sight of the squadron continuing on to the new Super Star
Destroyer. It had skirted the engagement zone and its ten 
survivors were forming up. Even before clearing the screen of
friendly and enemy fighters, he opened fire, hitting one TIE
fighter in the engine pod with all four beams, a beautiful
shot.  The fighter went off like a fireworks display, its
explosive cloud enveloping its wingman, but that TIE emerged
from the cloud intact.

 Dia's complementary shot hit another TIE's port solar array
wing, but merely punched a clean hole through it without
significantly damaging the vehicle. Together, he and Dia
tore out of the engagement zone and continued after the nine
remaining TIEs.




  Shalla saw something ahead, movement just above the hull,
and brought her interceptor down against a piece of
space-station wreckage. She killed power instantly.

 That dropped the new blips off her sensor screen, but she
could see the source of the blips through the viewscreen. A
half squadron of interceptors heading more or less in her
direction, and as they came closer she could see that their
solar wing arrays were decorated with the horizontal red
stripes of the 181 st Fighter Group-the deadly unit of Baron
Soonfir Fel. She stopped breathing.

 The interceptors roared past her at a distance of less than a
hundred meters. None varied its course to swoop closer to
her; none hesitated. She relaxed. Doubtless they were doing a
visual reconnaissance of the skin of Razor's Kiss, making sure there
was no substantial damage from the Destroyer's violent departure 
from its berth.

 She powered up again, ran through an abbreviated checklist,
and brought her interceptor back into motion.

 From here, she had to climb the hull to the Super Star
Destroyer's command tower. It was a more difficult approach,
as the ship's hull, which seemed comparatively smooth from a
distance, was in the area of the command tower, a tricky ter-
rain of graduated terraces.

 Yet her terrain-following flying was fast and skilled, and
within moments she settled neatly-and very delicately-into
place between the deflector-shield domes atop the command
tower.

 She powered down all systems except her suit's life support
and the starfighter's communications board. Then she changed
the interceptor's corem unit to broadcast across a range of
frequencies, took a deep breath, and said three words:

 "Parasite Two, go."

 Of course, they'd probably detect that transmission. To
account for it, she put as much of a masculine growl as she
could manage into her voice and continued transmitting.

 "Kuat Central Authority, please acknowledge. This is Engineer's 
Mate Vula aboard Razor's Kiss. This vessel has been seized by 
Rebels or pirates. I think we're under way. I'm re-
questing instructions."

 A hiss, then a static-blurred voice: "Vula, this is Mauler
Control. We're aware of the situation. Where are you?"

 "I can't say. This is an open transmission. They're probably 
listening."

 "Then get to an escape pod and launch. You've done your
duty."

 "Acknowledged. Out." She sighed. Get to an escape pod.  Odd
to have an enemy repeat to her an order she'd already disobeyed. 
She hoped that the comm exchange had fooled Ras!an's crew, and 
tried to relax.






 Dia had just vaped one of the fighters, battering the top of
its hull with a barrage that popped open the access hatch,
filled the interior with light, and cast the remains of its 
pilot a drift, when Wedge heard the transmission. "Parasite Two,
go."

 Startled, he checked over his sensor board. That code meant
that one of the Hawk-bats had successfully pretended to
crash upon the hull of the second Super Star Destroyer and
was in position to destroy its deflector-shield domes. But
all the Hawk-bats still appeared on his screen.

 The voice had been female. It had to be Shalla. Some of the
chill in his stomach began to fade.

 Good, that was good, and not just because it meant she'd
survived her mission. Now they'd only have to try to stage
the Parasite portion of their operation once. Twice, even if
they could pull it off, would probably look suspicious.

 Ahead, two of the TIE fghters looped around to come back at
Wedge and Dia. A delaying tactic - the commander of that
squadron knew his fighters couldn't outfly interceptors, so
he was sacrificing two pilots to allow the others to reach
their objective, the Super Star Destroyer. The sacrificial
TIEs looped out at a considerable distance before coming
back in, so that if the Hawk-bats continued on their course,
the fighters would be able to settle in neatly behind them.

 Wedge said, "Four, stay with me, then break when we're past
them," and vectored toward the incoming craft. Dia tucked in
neatly to his aft and port.

 The incoming TIEs sprayed fire as indiscriminately as if
they were watering a garden. Wedge concentrated on evasive
maneuvers, returning fire when his targeting brackets 
suggested they were about to manage a lock, but his beams still
went wide. Then the two pairs of TIEs passed one another's
position and looped to come around again.

 Wedge gritted his teeth and pulled the tightest, hardest
loop he could manage. His gravitational compensator couldn't
quite compensate, and the maneuver slammed him back in his
pilot's couch, forcing blood into his head; he felt himself
graying out and eased off. But his prey hadn't tried a maneuver
so ambitious, and Wedge found himself, half on instinct, tucked
in behind the fighter. His prey wavered and veered off to
shake him, but Wedge adhered to the fighter's tail, sized up his
shot, waited for the image of the target to jiggle in the
targeting bracket, and fired. The fighter exploded in a rain of
glowing gas and debris. Wedge twitched his yoke, a lateral
drift, so he did not have to fly through the debris cloud.
He spotted Dia's sensor signal on his screen and maneuvered
around to get a look. She, too, was tucked in behind her
foe, firing twin-linked lasers upon it, and her fire chewed
away at the enemy's twin ion engines and wing pylons. Wedge
saw one pylon give way, reduced to molten slag, and one
engine flame out.

 That pilot shut the engine down and continued veering,
trying to escape Dia.

 She let him. She allowed the crippled TIE to vector off
toward safety. She looped around and formed up with Wedge.
He brought them around toward their original objective and
thought about that. The old Dia would have vaped that target
without a second's hesitation. The new one seemed satisfied
with having the objective accomplished rather than scoring
the kill. He hoped the change wouldn't prove fatal to her.
But all he said was, "Good flying, Four." 

 "Yub, yub, One."

 Up ahead, toward the new Super Star Destroyer, Wedge caught
flashes of light.

 His sensor board showed that the six TIEs had become
twelve-but the newcomers were blue dots, their transponders
indicating they were friendlies from Iron Fist. The six red
dots became five, then four, then two, then none. Wedge
slowed his approach and Dia followed suit.

 The newcomers continued in their direction. Wedge opened his
comlink.

 "Leader, what to do?"

 "It's still hairy here, One. Come back in."

 A new voice, clipped and martial accents: "Am I speaking to
the Ewok pilot?" It was Fel's voice, and Wedge's gut chilled
down to cryogenic levels again.

 The sensor board showed the transmission coming from the
oncoming TIE interceptors. Wedge said, "Yub, yub. Kettch
here. Who talk?"

 "My name Fel. Fel want to fly with Kettch." The sophisticated 
voice and the simplified syntax just didn't go together.

 Wedge shook his head over that and brought his interceptor
back toward the engagement zone. Dia followed suit, mercifully 
not intruding on this conversation.

 "Yes," Wedge said. "Fly with. You see Kettch best pilot."

 "Well, best Ewok, certainly."

 "Kettch not really Ewok."

 "No?" There was surprise in Fel's voice.

 "Must not be. Ewoks dumb. Not understand astro-navi-gation. 
Not understand power-up checklist. Dumb."

 "Sad." The six red-striped interceptors moved up alongside
Wedge and Dia.

 "Sad. Kettch not have mate. Ewok females too dumb."

 "Even sadder."

"Fel have mate?" There it was, the question Wedge wanted to ask, 
had to ask. What was the fate of Fel's wife, Wedge's sister Syal?

 "Oh, Fel have mate."

 "Smart mate?"

 "Smart mate. Actress. You understand actress?"

 "Like storyteller. She good mate?"

 "Good mate."

 "Fly with you on big island ship?"

 "No, she has her own projects. You understand projects?"

 "Under-stand. Make bombs, fix star-fighters, stab
humans."

 "Something like that."

 This brought them to the leading edge of the engagement
zone. Wedge could see that the battle had not gone well for
the Vibroaxes, who were down to six active combatants; they
and the four Hawk-bats there were still facing fifteen TIEs.
Wedge said, "Stick with Kettch. Kettch teach good."

 He rolled out and dove toward the thickest patch of the fight,
where three pairs of TIEs were battling Face, Kell, and the
Vibroaxe command vessel, a heavily reinforced combat
shuttle.  "Fel doesn't need Kettch to teach. Fel is best
human pilot."

 "No. Other humans say other name is best."

 Provoke bim; maybe be'll get angry and say sometbing in an
unguarded moment. Wedge held off from firing. The enemy TIEs
hadn't yet reacted to the new arrivals, and every second of
approach improved his shot.

 "Luke Skywalker, then. Rebel scum, but a good flier."

 Dia finally broke in, speaking in her silky Seku voice: 
"Actually, we've been telling him about Wedge Antilles and
Rogue Squadron."

 An explosion of laughter from Fel. "Antilles? Oh, he's luck
incarnate, to be certain, but he really can't fly worth a
damn."

 Despite himself, Wedge felt a wash of anger. At optimum
range, he opened fire on the nearest TIEs, the ones pursuing
Kell.

 Fel opened fire at the same instant. Their sudden strape hit
both TIEs, detonating them within milliseconds of one
another.

 Wedge veered off to approach the rear of Face's opponent.
Fel paced him. The two of them swooped in difficult circular
patterns, like tiny planets orbiting an invisible sun, and
fired upon Face's enemies, annihilating them with similar
merciless efficiency.

 Antilles and Fel, brothers-in-law, flying together again for
the first time in years, since Fel's disappearance. But it
wasn't a cause for joy. Fel seemed at ease in his role as
Zsinj's ally, and had obviously lost all respect for Wedge
in those intervening years.

 They turned toward the Vibroaxe shuttle, but there were gas-
and-shrapnel clouds near it, with Dia and Fel's wingman on a
course to rejoin them.

 The sensor board showed the remaining enemy TIEs turning
back toward another Imperial Star Destroyer. Not Mauler;
that vessel had passed the engagement zone at a considerable
distance, come within range of Iron Fist, and traded 
long-range blows with the larger vessel. Mauler was now in a
slow, uncorrected spin along her long axis, flame venting
from half a dozen spots along her hull. There were no escape
pods launching; the ship's commander doubtless thought he
could bring the damage under control.

 Mauler's absence was cause for celebration... but a dozen
or more Imperial Star Destroyers were still coming on toward
them.

 "Hawk-bats, Vibroaxe, One Eighty-first." It was Melvar's
voice. "Fall back, fall back. We are nearing the launch
zone."

 "Good flying with you, Kettch." Fel abruptly veered away
toward the rest of his unit. "We'll do this again."

 "Yub, yub." Wedge managed to convey more enthusiasm than he
felt.

 It sounded as though Fel was happy in Zsinj's service.
Perhaps irredeemable. That meant the next time they flew 
together Wedge might have to kill him.

 Iron Fist, now trailing Razor's Kiss by a considerable
distance and acting as the center of her defensive screen,
was under attack as the Hawk-bats approached Sungrass. The
mighty Super Star Destroyer had taken some blast damage to
its port side. The crippled Mauler and the presence, a few
thousand kilometers behind Iron Fist's escape vector, of the
burning remains of the Imperial Star Destroyer Gilded Claw,
gave mute testimony about the source of that damage. Iron
Fist was still suffering the strafing runs from Gilded
Claw's TIE squadrons.

 "Leader, Twelve. I don't have enough kills." Piggy, in his
fighter, vectored toward Iron Fist.

 Face took a deep breath. That was code, and Piggy was doing
what the mission called for; this was the first opportunity
any of them had had to get in close to Iron Fist without
raising suspicion. Still, form dictated that he key his
comlink.

 "Twelve, Leader. That's a negative. Return to Sungrass."

 "Don't hear you, Leader."

 "Twelve, blast it... Eleven, go with him."

 "Affirmative, Leader." Tyria's fighter zoomed off in Piggy's wake.

 Tense, Face divided his time between docking with Sungrass
and monitoring his sensors and comm system. The sensors
showed Piggy and Tyria pursuing a lone TIE fighter up the
ever-higher decks of Iron Fist's command tower. Their 
communications showed them in hot pursuit, then veering in
different directions around the tower... and suddenly Piggy
was in the lead, the fighter pursuing him, Tyria pursuing
him...

 Face's stomach became a wall of knotted muscle. That was as
gutsy and insane a maneuver as he'd ever seen, Piggy 
deliberately exposing himself to fire to account for what they
needed Iron Fists sensor crew to conclude. Piggy had to
depend on Tyria's firing skill in those brief seconds.
Shrieks over the comlink, Tyria modulating her voice
between victorious cheer and horror in a single syllable,
Piggy's and the pursuing TIE's signals winking out from the
sensor screen.

 Finally, Tyria's voice, subdued and pained. "Leader, I have
to report that Twelve is no more. Our friend Morrt is One
with the universe."

 Morrt. A Gamorrean parasite. That had to mean that Piggy was
alive and on-station, but officially dead, and Tyria was
calling him by that name to inform the others without 
repeating the word "parasite." Face let out a long sigh and
suddenly felt ten years older and more tired. 

 "I'm sorry, Eleven.  You did the best you could. But you 
have less than a minute to dock before we launch. We'll 
raise a cup to Morrt at this evening's meal."





 Piggy lay on his side, restrained from dropping to the 
starboard side of the cockpit only by the harness on his 
pilot's couch.

 His crash against Iron Fist's hull had only been 
half-simulated. His pursuer's final laser blast had hit his
cockpit somewhere between and above the twin ion engines,
doing damage to the fighter's electronics, and his damage
diagnostics display had been lit up like a city's festival-
of-lights display be-fore he'd powered down.

 Ahead, just over the artifcial hill of Iron Fist's command
tower, he could see the top of one of the ship's shield
projector domes.

 But that would have to wait. For now, he began solving
intricate astronautic formulae, beautiful numeric structures
describing the relationship between real space and
hyperspace.

 The stars he could see in his disadvantaged position 
suddenly elongated as Zsinj's fleet entered hyperspace.







 In Iron Fist's main hangar bay, Face emerged from Sungrass's
airlock.

 Quite a reception awaited him and the representatives of
the various pirate bands. Melvar was at the center of the
largest open area, a phalanx of stormtroopers around him. He
was shaking hands with motley-looking pilots and officers,
occasionally handing out shiny new datapads to them.

 As Face approached, one pirate in particular was haranguing
Melvar, shaking a fist in his face, gesturing with an angry
theatricality Face decided was not simulated. The man was a
Devaronian, and one given much to decoration; the horns on
his forehead were gilded, and his sharp teeth gleamed so
brightly they had to have been augmented by some surface
bonded to them. His clothes were similar to an Imperial 
admiral's in cut, but made of red cloth and leather, with 
an eye-catching red-and-gold overcloak.

 As Face drew near, he could hear the Devaronian's voice; it
was that of Vibroaxe Prime. "... malicious lies. This is not
the way allies collaborate, Melvar."

 Zsinj's general shrugged. "The lie was a matter of security.
I did not underrepresent the forces we would be facing."

 "Yes, you did! My fleet would have fared better against Y-
wings and X-wings. We did simulator training against them
that we could have spent against simulated TIEs. That was
lost time. I've suffered eighty percent vehicle losses,
nearly fifty percent pilot losses!"

 Melvar's voice became soothing. "And you'll receive the
bonuses we promised for those losses, in the second round of
payments."

 "There will be no second round! I want it all now. And not
accounts-materials, precious gems, cargo. None of your 
datapad treachery."

 Face shouldered his way to the front of the crowd and
frowned. 

 "What treachery, Melvar ?"

 "Ah, General Kargin." Melvar extended a hand back and one of
his aides handed him a datapad. "Twenty-eight percent losses
and an impressive kill rate. You're in for a bonus on that
alone with the second round. For now, your initial payment,
as promised." He offered the datapad.

 "What's this ? This isn't Imperial credits."

 "It's all the information you need to access a numbered 
account where your payment resides. On Halmad. We thought 
that would be convenient for you."

 "lt would." He looked dubiously at the datapad.

 "And if, like Vibroaxe here, I want material goods?"

 "You'll have them. Half the value of the payment we negotiated. 
If we're inconvenienced enough to have to carry hard currency 
and goods, we take a substantial cut. No negotiation."

 Face shrugged and took the datapad. "I trust Zsinj," he
announced. "Simply because it's not cost-effective for him
to betray us. Word would spread to every pirate band in
Imperial and Rebel space. He'd never get anything but
blasters in the teeth from them afterward."

 Melvar smiled. "As ever, the Hawk-bats make the intelligent
choice. You have my sympathies for your losses. The woman
Qatya was of special help."

 "Her efforts will, I hope, be long remembered. Until the
second payment, Melvar." Face brought the datapad up to his
brow in a mock salute and turned back toward Sungrass.
Behind him, Vibroaxe Prime and others of the pirate leaders,
more subdued, began accepting the datapads or negotiating 
for the reduced fees in material goods.








 Sungrass's first hyperspace jump was straight toward Halmad,
but only a light-year in length. Its second carried the
cargo hauler straight to the deep-space rendezvous point
where Mon Rernonda waited.

 Not just Mon Remonda. Other elements of General Solo's fleet
were in evidence, including a Nebulon-B-class frigate, a
Quasar Fire-class cruiser refitted as a light starfighter
carrier, and a somewhat decrepit-looking Marauder-class
corvette, a class of fighting ship normally found in the
Corporate Sector.  Wedge decided that Han Solo had to have
cobbled together his force from disparate and overtaxed
sources.

 When Wedge reached the bridge of the Mon Calamari cruiser,
General Solo was waiting with a smile and a handshake.

 "Any word from the Super Star Destroyer?" Wedge asked.


 "Fine, thank you," Solo said. "You?"

 Wedge grinned. "Sorry. How are you?"

 "No, no word." Han gestured at the holoprojected
starfield that dominated the center of the bridge. Around
it, ship's officers, chiefly Mon Calamari, ignored the
humans and went about their business. "Don't be so anxious.
Your pilots could use a little time to rest."

 "Piggy's fighter only carries so much air, even with the
extra life-support units he's carried aboard," Wedge said.

 "When it runs down, he has a choice to make. Try to run to
freedom-which does him no good if he's in the middle of 
unoccupied space, since that TIE fighter won't carry him 
very far, assuming he can even elude Iron Fist's tractors and
guns.  Turn himself in-which is very bad, for the usual
reasons and some other ones, too. Or maybe try to sneak
aboard the destroyer, very tricky. And we have no idea what
Shalla Nelprin's status is. So even if our comm control
program is planted correctly, the Parasite part of our plan
is on a limited schedule."

 "Well... still. Stand down for a while. Iron Fist and  the
other Destroyer may be jumping around for a while, and it
could be some time before they reenter normal space and fire
up their hypercomm system. Assuming, of course, that your
program is planted and operational..."

 The Mon Calamari captain, Onoma, swung around in his command
chair and sent it gliding toward Solo and Wedge on its
armature. There was excitement in his gravelly voice.

 "Communications reports a signal from the Donn program," he
said. "We have a location on the target ship, only minutes
old."

 "You know, I almost never get to be right," Solo said 
quietly. He raised his voice: "Put that location up on the
board."

 A blinking yellow glow appeared in the midst of the
starfield projection.

 Han, Wedge, and Onoma moved next to it. Solo said, "Looks
like they took a course perpendicular to a straight run back
into the areas of space he controls. And that's good for us.
Mon Remonda is the closest force to him."

 Wedge asked, "Are you planning on a jump straight to the
broadcast position?"

 Han shook his head. "No, I want a little dispersal. See if
we can have ships on all his escape vectors. He's out in
deep space, away from any known gravity wells-he can jump
back to hyperspace pretty quickly if we don't finish him.
You have any ideas on how he'll behave in real space, before
his next jump?"

 "He's going to spend some time where he is, having his
technicians go over the new Destroyer's hyperdrive engines."
Wedge considered. "Which means stopping dead or cruising.
He kept moving after he made his first jump out of Kuat 
system, and he was moving in the same direction as the
hyperspace jump.... Can you indicate his course from Kuat 
to his current position ?"

 A thin white line appeared, tracing from the blinking yellow 
dot to a star a couple of hand spans away.

 "That's my guess," Wedge said. "He'll be at cruising speed
along the same course until it's time to jump again."

 "Magnify it," Han said, and the holoprojected image ex-
panded until the white line representing Iron Fist's
hyperspace jump dominated most of the image; only a few
dozen stars remained within the magnified area.

 Han pointed just ahead of the Destroyers' projected course.

 "All right. Calculate time to jump to this point. Compare
it with Iron Fist's normal cruising speed. Project its
probable location based on that. That will be fid on Remonda's
arrival zone. Now, assuming he wants to run to his own
space, we'll figure out the two most likely courses for him
to take and put Tedevium in front of one of them and the
rest of this group in front of the other one."

 "Tedevium?" Appalled, Wedge glanced out the forward viewports 
to catch sight of the frigate. "That's a training vessel, not 
a combat-ready frigate."

 Han shrugged-apparently not out of unconcern, but out of
helplessness. "My fleet's in three pieces, with strength 
balanced as closely as I could make it between them. We use
what we have. Tedevium has a graduating class of Y-wing
pilots and a commander who's always good in a scrap."

 "True. Still-trainees." Wedge suppressed a shudder.

 Han put out a hand. "Good luck, Commander. Sorry you
didn't get that rest I was offering."

 Wedge took it.

 "Either way, I'm going to get it pretty soon."

                                20

 "Accuracy was nearly ideal, sir," said Captain Raslanor,
rather, his holographic image now wavering in the security
foyer of Iron Fist's bridge. "Efficiency, however, is
another matter. The jump here used nearly three times as
much energy as it optimally should."

 Zsinj kept any annoyance out of his face. This was not bad
news. He'd gambled almost everything on the assumption that
Razor's Kiss actually was as complete as its builders
claimed and had made it to safety with his new prize. All
other considerations were minor ones. 

 "What about damage?"

 "It appears that, contrary to safety regulations, some of
the Kuat workers had jammed an airlock open where the access 
armature attached from the station to Razor's Kiss. When
the ship blasted free, that section vented its atmosphere
rather precipitously. We've corrected the problem. The Kuat
Drive Yards workers who were on duty at that portion of the
ship perished, of course. Instant corrective measures for
those who disobeyed the rules."

  Zsinj grinned, then suppressed it. "Very well, Captain.
Carry on. Keep me updated."

 "Yes, sir." The image faded.

 Zsinj turned and jumped. General Meivar stood right
behind him, his makeup removed and his features returned to
their usual cheerful blandness. 

 "You did it again," Zsinj said, CROSS.

 "Yes, sir."

 "All the pirate captains happy?"

 "Not one of them was happy, but none of them shot me,
which I took to be a good sign. I think most of them will
work with us again. Especially once those who took the
credit vouchers take them to their systems of origin and
determine that they're real." He gave Zsinj a curious look.

 "I'm surprised you're not over there now. On Razor's Kiss,
looking at every rivet and dab of paint."

 "Oh, I will be soon. Best to wait until Security has
removed the last Kuat forces and possible saboteurs."

 There was a sudden surge of noise from the crew pit, voices
raised in fast exchanges. Iron Fist's captain, Vellar, a
stern-faced man just now going to fat, leaned over the 
command walkway to peer down into the midst of the noise, 
then looked back at Zsinj, unhappiness in his expression.

 "Several ships have just dropped from hyperspace in our
vicinity. One dead ahead as we bear, the rest situated to
our starboard and trailing. The one ahead is tentatively
identified as a Mon Calamari cruiser."

 Zsinj felt as though he'd been dropped into a polar breeze.

 He suppressed a shudder. "Mon Remonda, here?" 

 "That's not determined yet, sir, but..."

"Shut up. Signal Razor's Kiss. Coordinate a five-light-year
hyperspace jump on this course and execute it."

 "Sir, the cruiser is maneuvering directly into our path.
We'll be on her before it's time to jump. Shall we change
course to avoid ?"

 "No, you idiot. One Mon Calamari cruiser in the path of two
Super Star Destroyers? Bring all guns of both ships to bear.
Before we make the transition to lightspeed, we're going to
rid the galaxy of the Rebels' most annoying cruiser... and
of the legacy of Han Solo."

 Her comlink suddenly crackled with activity on New Republic
bandwidths, and Shalla jumped in surprise. Guiltily, she
checked her life-support unit. She'd fallen asleep and the
thing had run down almost to empty. A really stupid way to
die, she told herself. She removed another unit from the
storage compartment beneath her seat and put it on.

 The comm transmissions were all encoded, but by straining
her eyes she could see, in the incredible immensity of the
starfield ahead of her, a distant needle of light that could
not be a star. Her sensors might tell her what it was... then
again, if activated, they might alert the Razor's Kiss crew to her
presence.

 But the domes to the right and left of her suddenly pulsed
with power, bringing their mighty shields up over the Super
Star Destroyer, and she decided the ship's crew had other
things to worry about. She began her power-on sequence.






 Wedge roared out of Mon Remonda's port hangar, came around to
a course matching the cruiser's, and waited as the others
formed up on him.

 Kell flew Piggy's X-wing, but that left the unit shy one
snubfighter. Dia was in one of the TIE interceptors, hastily
painted in Wraith Squadron grays to disguise its recent
activities with the Hawk-bats. Wedge tried to force a
nagging voice of worry from his mind. He didn't need to tell
Wes to look after his underdefended wingman. He just wanted
to.

 The last members of his unit to launch, Face and Lara,
formed up. Moments later, Rogue Squadron began emerging by
twos, Tycho Celchu and Corran Horn first, and forming up by
wingmates. On the opposite side of Mort Remonda, the A-wings
of Polearm Squadron and B-wings of Nova Squadron would also
be assembling.

 Han's voice crackled in his ear. "They're aware of us.
They're not deploying their fighter screen. That suggests
they plan to blow their way through and launch back into
hyperspace."

 "The rest of our group?" Wedge asked.

 "Coming up fast in their wake."
 
 "Please inform them that if they're very nice, maybe  we'll
leave them something to shoot at."

 Han Solo watched the universe tilt through the viewports as
Mon Remonda turned on its intercept course.

 He could feel Captain Onoma's eyes on him. He turned to the
captain and shook his head.

 "Not yet," he said. "Save your fire. This is going to be a 
slugging match."  

 "You sound regretful."

 "I hate slugging matches."









 Piggy activated his power-on sequence.

 Nothing happened. The fighter's interior remained dark and
silent.







 Shalla's sensors showed four squadrons of starfighters
approaching.

 When should she act? The later she made her assault on the
shield projectors, the better it would be for her unit. But
she knew her fellow pilots had to be suffering, approaching
without any knowledge of whether she'd be able to accomplish
her task.

 She calculated their rate of approach based on sensor data.
When they were thirty seconds short of firing range, she
activated her repulsorlifts, bringing her interceptor up a
mere meter above the deck of Razor's Kiss and well back from
the domes. She swung toward the starboard shield projector
dome and fired.

 The dome blew apart in an impressive display of flaming gas
and metal shards; she heard shrapnel bounce off her hull.

 She rotated and fired again, obliterating the second
projector with similar finality.

 Then she settled down again atop the rubbish-strewn tower.
She'd wait a moment to launch wait until space was crowded
and confused, when she wouldn't be such an easy target.









 "Razor's Kiss reports catastrophic failure of topside shield
generators !"

Zsinj stared at the captain as though the man had suddenly
grown a Devaronian's horns and teeth. 

 "Tell me you're lying."

 The captain shook his head helplessly.

 Zsinj slammed his hands on the nearest bulkhead. "Change
course to eight-five. Tell Razor's Kiss to follow closely and
use us for protection from Mon Remonda. Calculate a new jump
on that course and initiate it as soon as possible." He
looked at Melvar. "Launch all fighters."





 Wedge's sensor board showed the second Super Star Destroyer's 
topside shields evaporating. It displayed the information without
emotion, without understanding of how that fact made the pilots'
hearts jump.

 "All squadrons, this is Wraith Leader. Prepare for strafing
run on the second Destroyer. Ignore Iron Fist for now. 
X-wings, B-wings, commence with proton torpedoes. Save some
for the engines." Wedge heeled over, changing course toward
the second destroyer, and sent up a silent cheer for Shalla.

 Iron Fist surged forward, her bow guns opening up on the
oncoming starfighters, and began a slow maneuver to 
starboard as the second destroyer dropped back behind her. 
Wedge adjusted course, bringing his squadrons up over 
Iron Fist's bow at a considerable altitude.

 And then they were in the midst of it, ion cannons sending
energy washes between them, laser batteries making space
brilliant all around them. Wedge felt hair stand up all
over his body as an ion blast came too close; his cockpit
lights dimmed, but the computer and his R5 astromech did not
suffer power loss. He heard one cry over the comlink - the cry
of a survivor who'd just seen a wingman evaporate; Polearm
Five disappeared off the sensor board.

 Then they were past Iron Fist, the ship's horrendous field
of damage tracking and following them, and the second Destroyer's 
guns opened up.

 But now they could reply. "Fire at will," Wedge commanded,
and some of the starfighters were launching proton torpedoes
before he had the second word out. Faint blue trails leaped
out from the starfighters, homing in on the Destroyer's bow,
detonating split seconds later in huge balls of incendiary
destruction.

 Ahead, a tiny spark-ion-engine emissions-leaped off the
command tower, then curved around in front of that projection 
and opened fire. Minuscule needles of green flashed between 
it and the destroyer's bridge... and Wedge watched as the 
bridge viewports blew in, then vented out just as suddenly 
in a hail of debris and atmosphere.

 "New Republic forces, this is Wraith Ten. Sending transponder 
data. Please flag me a friendly."

 "Confirm that friendly," Wedge said. "People, this is the
lady who just opened the front door for us."

 Cheers sounded over the comlink. Then the starfighters
flashed past the command tower and its ruined summit, past
the friendly interceptor that looped around and struggled to
catch up. They rained their torpedoes down on the Super Star
Destroyer's stern, then looped around to add the ship's
engines to their list of victims.

 A grating voice, Mon Calamari: "Assault force, this is Mon
Remonda. Sensors show starfighters launching from Iron Fist
in considerable strength."

 "Understood," Wedge said. "All squadrons, stay in formation. 
Turn to course nine-oh but keep firing on the target destroyer 
until you no longer bear. Prepare for individual action."






 "The Razor's Kiss bridge is no longer responding to 
communications," the captain said. His voice was dull with 
this recitation of what was only one new set of bad news.

 "Sensors show serious damage to the bridge. I think we've
lost them."

 Zsinj stared at the holoprojection of a live image of Razor's
Kiss. The Super Star Destroyer, so powerful, so beautiful just 
minutes ago, was now awash in flame from bow to stern. Hundreds 
of gouts of fire had erupted from her top deck.

 "What about our man on the auxiliary bridge?"

 "Also not reporting. Possibly killed during the barrage."

 On a fully staffed destroyer, crews would be putting out
those fires. More officers would be occupying the auxiliary
bridge and getting back in contact with Iron Fist. But this
was not a fully completed Destroyer.

 When Zsinj spoke, his voice was quiet, calm. "What's her
course?"

 "She came to eight-five as ordered. But she has not come
back up to flank speed. Unless we reduce speed, we're going
to leave her behind."  

 "Reduce..."

 A voice rose from the crew pit. "Communication from Razor's
Kiss!"

  Zsinj shouted, "Well, bring it up!"

 The dismal image of the crippled Destroyer was replaced
by a faded holoprojection of a stormtrooper. His helmet was
off, revealing a big face on a big neck, black hair just a
little too shaggy to be regulation, a determined expression.

 "This is Trooper Second Class Gatterweld."

 Zsinj frowned. He knew the names of all his agents aboard
Razor's Kiss. This man wasn't one of them. "You're part of
the ship's security detail?"  

 "Yes, sir."

 The warlord smiled. A social call from an enemy who wasn't
even an officer. The ridiculousness of it pleased him. 

 "And what can I do for you this fine day, Trooper Gatterweld?"

 "Sir, I'd just taken the auxiliary bridge to gain control of
this ship when the attack came. But I'd prefer to see this
fine lady intact in your hands rather than destroyed at the
hands of the Rebels."

 Zsinj's knees went weak. "I'm going to put a communications
officer on. He's going to talk you through the process of
slaving Razor's Edge to our bridge. Then we'll save her."

 "Yes, sir."

 "Gatterweld, I'm going to make you a very rich man."

 "I don't care about that, sir. I'm just doing my duty."

 Zsinj tottered away to let Melvar take over. Suddenly 
exhausted, he sank into a chair at the communications 
console.

 Events like this reminded him, from time to time, that there
was good in the universe, that with enough faith and
determination he could win. He could win everything.

 




 Piggy was up to his armpits in wiring when he found the problem. 
His port-side ion engine was completely out of commission, its
connections severed, with trailing cables from the power generator 
having fallen into other wiring, destroying he knew not how much 
additional equipment.

 He'd have to cut the destroyed engine out of the loop, patch
everything else back together as best he could, and then see
if the thing would start. He devoutly wished Kell, with his
mechanic's skills, were here.

 On the other hand, he wouldn't wish "here" on anyone he
actually liked.

 He got to work.






 They boiled out of Iron Fist's sides like angry stinging
insects emerging from a shaken hive, squadron after squadron
of TIEs-fighters, interceptors, even bombers. They curved in
their streams back toward the New Alliance squadrons.

 Face heard Wedge issue orders, perhaps the last set of group
orders they'd receive before this fight was done: "Break by
pairs. Take shots at Iron Fist when you can, but your main
objective is to protect yourselves and hold the starfighters.
Polearm, you're our spearhead-break up their formation, deny 
them their united inertia before they get to us. Rogues next.
Wraiths, hang back, every pair protect a pair of B-wings.  
That's all."

 "Polearm Leader acknowledging."

 "This is Rogue Leader, we're on it."

 "This is Nova Leader, thanks."

 From the Wraiths there were only a few scattered groans.

 Face felt like complaining himself. To be relegated to 
babysitting duty while the Polearms and Rogues were up front - 
but Face knew, deep down, the reason for it. More than half the
Wraiths were just back from an earlier action. They were
tired, even if they didn't realize it yet.

 Ahead, the A-wings of Polearm Squadron roared toward the
massed TIEs with speed no X-wing could match. Face could see
the deadly formation of starfighters stream straight into
the squadrons of TIEs, their laser fire reaping heavy 
casualties in the target-heavy environment. The enemy forces
seemed even more to be a swarm of stinging insects as their
formation lost coherence, groups of two and four and six
TIEs go-ing after each A-wing.

 Then the Rogues were among them. Face watched the unit
expertly break up into pairs, each pair moving as one, each
pilot firing with the skill of years of experience. Face
felt something like a shudder of dread, a feeling nearly of
sympathy for the TIE fighters facing those formidable
pilots, and suddenly he felt inadequate. He knew he wasn't
up to their standard of performance.

 "Orders?" That was Lara's voice in his ear, calling him back
to the present situation.

 "Right. Follow me." He dove relative to the formation and
brought himself and his wingman up before a pair of B-wings.
He dropped transmission power. "This is Wraith Eight and
Wraith Thirteen. We're your escorts for this evening.
What's your pleasure ?"

 "You have Nova Three and Nova Four. We can play with the
TIEs, but we're much better suited to unloading on that ugly
hunk of metal the warlord is driving."

 "Tuck in tight, we'll get you close." Face goosed his
thrusters and the foursome of starfighters veered off, away
from the center of the dogfight, toward Iron Fist.

 Ahead, a group of fighters-nine, nearly an entire squadron -
broke from the main engagement zone and moved out to
intercept them. Face switched to dual fire and opened up
with his lasers at maximum range.

 The backstop for his fire was Iron Fist. No expended fire
would be wasted.

 The TIEs came on, twisting, bobbing, weaving, difficult
targets. Face wished he hadn't expended all his proton
torpedoes on the other Destroyer. On the other hand, it 
burned nicely, and he had no time for regrets.

 One of the oncoming TIEs exploded under Lara's sustained
fire and he heard a hissed "Yesss" from her. Why? Oh, yes,
she entered this fight with four silhouettes on her canopy.
She'd just made ace.

 Another TIE drifted right through the ion-cannon wash from
one of the B-wings and went ballistic, helplessly rolling in
uncontrolled straight-line flight. Face saw one of the
oncoming TIEs was making unpredictable moves at predictable
intervals; he waited for the next interval, guessed at the 
pilot's next move, fired in that direction, and was rewarded 
when the fighter drifted right into his fire. It detonated and its
wingman flew right through the debris, emerging intact.

 Face felt a blow as his forward shields were hit and some of
the laser energy penetrated to score his hull. Then they
were past, nothing between them and Iron Fist.

 "Thirteen, drop back, shore up your rear shields," he said.

 "Let's give the Novas all the protection we can." In other
words, let's be targets for a while. The way the raiders on
the first Death Star trenches were before they died.

 "Understood."

 Wedge, unencumbered by a wingman, switched his encryption
code so only the Rogues would hear him. "This is Wraith
Leader. Any sign of the One Eighty-first?"

 Tycho Celchu's voice, strained: "We're in the thick of them.
You offering help?"

 Wedge sighed. He'd like nothing better than to demonstrate
to Baron Fel the error of his evaluation of Wedge's flying
skills. Then he glanced back at the pair of B-wings
following in his wake. "I'd love to. But can't. They'll 
be here soon enough."

 "Understood."

 Then they were before him, a half squad of TIEs, four
fighters and two bombers. He saw one veer to starboard,
picked out that one's wingman, fired ahead of its course if
it turned the same way, and it did, erupting into a glowing
shrapnel cloud - one kill, one second into the dogfight.

 "Now reaching Iron Fist's escape vector."

 "All stop." Han felt fluttering in his stomach as though it
were occupied by alien invaders, but he tried to keep his
discomfort from his face. 

 "All starboard batteries to begin fire on my command. Prepare
for axial roll. Captain, maintain our position directly ahead of 
Iron Fist. Continue correcting as it's recalculated. And when any 
bank of batteries falls below eighty percent, perform enough roll 
to bring new guns to bear, and increase shield strength on the
firing side as you do so."

 "Yes, sir."

 Iron Fist opened up, her laser batteries streaking by in
such profusion that they looked like the star elongation
that was the first visual manifestation of a hyperspace
jump. Han tensed against the blows he knew were to come.

 "Open fire."







 Piggy flipped the power-up switch and was rewarded with an
erratic whine from the engines and the sudden lighting of
his weapons and flight boards.

 His diagnostics board said that all systems were down.
He grunted. No use listening to people - or systems-who are
inclined to tell you that you can't do something. Not yet
daring to commence powered flight, he brought his targeting
system up and tried to bracket the distant shield projector
dome.

 One small piece of the dome fell within his targeting
bracket, and jittered there, showing a clean lock, only
moments at a time.








 Wedge blinked away at the stinging of his eyes. The third
TIE fighter had nailed him with a good fuselage shot just
before Wedge had vaped him, and his cockpit was now filling
with smoke.

 Sensors showed that of the flight of nine that had moved
against him, four were down - one having fallen prey to one of
the B-wings. One of his B-wings remained, battered, char
marks on its hull from insistent laser fire; the other was a
rapidly dissipating cloud a dozen kilometers back.

 He brought his targeting brackets over another TIE. They
overshot as the starfighter sideslipped. Then the vehicle 
exploded, hit by lateral fire.

 Incoming vehicles on the sensors, from the direction of the
second destroyer - an A-wing leading a flying wedge of unscathed 
Y-wings. They continued firing and the TIEs bedeviling Wedge 
evaporated under their massed lasers.

 "Wraith Leader to newcomers. Who am I talking to?"

 The voice that came back was hard and military, but he heard
an amused tone within it. 

 "Why, Commander. You forget old friends so soon."

 "General Crespin!" This was the frigate's starfighter force,
then, finally catching up from the rear.
 
 "And the Screaming Wookiee Training Squadron."

 "Can you escort Nova Three?"

 "Hand over all the B-wings, sonny, and I'll show you some
old-fashioned mass-fire tactics."

 "Nova Squadron, this is Wraith Leader. Form up with the
Screaming Wookiee." Wedge coughed against the smoke. "I'm
outbound, General, have to visit some old friends."  

 "Good luck."

 "Wraiths, see your charges back to the general, then join
the Rogues." Wedge heeled over and headed into the thickest
part of the engagement zone.






 Far ahead, past Iron Fist's bow, the tiny needle that was
Mon Remonda opened up with laser barrages. They flared and
were expended uselessly against Iron Fist's shields.

 "Do you think he plans to sacrifice Mon Remonda to stop us?"

 Zsinj, chin in hand, steadily regarded the tiny but growing
cruiser ahead.

 "He continues correcting his position to be more and more 
precisely in our path," said Melvar. "We can't be sure
of his intent until we're past the point of no return. Then,
either he moves out of our path and we can get through and 
go to hyperspace... or we hit Mon Remonda and both vessels
probably perish."

 "He actually has more firepower to unload than we do at the
moment. He can bring almost half his guns to bear at any
time.  We're limited to the forward guns that can depress
far enough to target him." Zsinj shook his head. "All right.
Bring all our guns to bear on her engines. Stop her dead in
space. The sooner you do it, the greater margin we'll have
to squeak past him."

 Zsinj's stomach began churning. This was still winnable.
But the New Republic assault, the way they'd accurately
calculated his position, the way they relied on his
protectiveness of Razor's Kiss to slow him, was upsetting.






 It was a TIE interceptor, but it moved more sluggishly than
the standard interceptor. A few kilometers from Iron Fist's
bridge, it had one TIE fighter under its guns and was
stitching it with dual-linked fire while another fighter
maneuvered behind it.

 Wedge targeted the second fighter, bracketed it with his
targeting computer before it was aware of his proximity, and
shredded it with quad-linked lasers even as the interceptor
vaped the first fighter. 

 "Ten, is that you?"

 "Good to hear from you, Leader. I hate this thing. It's as
fragile as an interceptor and as slow as an X-wing."

 "Well, stop playing by yourself, then. You're my wing."

 "Yes, sir."

 In spite of the smoke blurring his vision, Wedge saw the
tiny green needle on Iron Fist's hull below him-a long,
tentative streak that hit the port-side shield projector
dome, hit it twice, hit it a third time-and then the dome
exploded.

 The source of the laser fire, a TIE fighter, leaped up from
Iron Fist's hull. It shot up through her defensive shields
as if the maneuver were an accident, then looped around as
if flown by a drunken skimmer pilot, apparently setting up
for a descent and run on the second dome projector, but an
ion-cannon beam swept across it. The fighter continued off
on a straight-line course toward the stars.





 The captain's shout was jubilant: "Mon Remonda no longer
maneuvering. We have their engines, Warlord!"   "Excel..."

 The bridge rocked, its lights dimming, fragments of ceiling
descending into the crew pit. Zsinj tottered and fell. He
looked up; Melvar was looking away, not extending a hand.
That was correct, that was proper. No one was supposed to
see the warlord discommoded.

 Zsinj clambered to his feet. "What happened?"

 The captain had gone from cheer to despair in just a second.

 "We've lost the port-side shield projector. We're down
to half shield strength above the midline."

 Zsinj felt as though he, too, were suddenly at half strength.
He calculated the numbers. "Is that frigate still on our tail?"

 "Still catching up. It will be within firing range in two
minutes at this rate."

 Zsinj closed his eyes. "Recall the fighters. Bring Iron Fist
up to flank speed. Communicate with Razor's Kiss, issue the
command 'abandon ship.' He didn't have to add, We've lost
this battle."









 Face caught sight of the interceptors emerging from the
flurry of fighters, headed their way. "Thirteen, incoming!"

 He turned into the path of the incoming TIEs, threw all
discretionary power onto forward shields...

 Too late. Laser fire from the lead interceptor punched
through his unboosted shield and then through his cockpit.

 He felt a sudden blast of agonizing heat to his left side,
then cold just as intense. He watched in idle curiosity as
his vision changed-first as the atmosphere of his cockpit
was vented, then as the emergency magcon field on his suit
came up and tried to cope with the sudden vacuum. He caught
a glimpse of the red stripe on his attacker's solar wing
arrays as it sped past.

 "Eight, can you hear me?"

 There was no response, and Face felt a distant sadness.
Eight, whoever he was, must have been yaped.

 "Eight, this is Thirteen, can you hear me?"

 There was an additional squeal from Vape, Face's R2 unit,
and Face wished the whole universe would just shut up for a
while.

 "Squad, this is Thirteen. We need help here. I can't handle
these two..."

 "Wraith Three here. Four and I are coming in. Hold on."

 "Five here, I'm almost there."

 It took Face another long moment to understand. He was
hit, he was done. He couldn't move for the pain. Iron Fist
loomed in the near distance ahead. He was going to crash and
his debt would be paid.

 He should have felt at peace with that. Peace was what he'd
expected all this time. But it eluded him. Was something
left undone?

 Well, there was that second shield projector dome. If he
could make his hand move, he might be able to steer straight
into it. If the Destroyer's guns didn't get him, if its
shields didn't destroy him, he might, just might be able to
angle into that dome and destroy it, too.

 The odds one in a million. Less, really. But it seemed like
a good way to go out. He brought his cold, cold hand up to
the pilot's yoke and gripped it. He couldn't feel his
fingers close on it, but could see them.

 "Got him, got him-dammit, he's slipped by."

 "This is Five, I'm on the second one."

 "Hold him, hold him..."

 "He's not shaking me, Three. You see after Eight."

 Oh, yes, he was Eight. Why were they worried about him?
Didn't they realize he was already dead?

 No, they didn't. Bless their optimistic little hearts, they
actually thought he was going to make it. Now he knew how
Phanan had felt with Face fussing over him. The Wraiths
didn't realize it was his time, time to balance the account.
The account doesn't need balancing. Ton Phanan's voice
from some forgotten conversation. You can't reduce sapient
lives to numbers and exchange them like credits.

 The snubfighter shuddered again as more laser fire hit him.
It must have hit the X-wing's rear; at least he wasn't
feeling any more pain. Iron Fist was getting bigger.

 And Ton was right. Ton, who had suffered from the Empire's
success as much as anyone he'd ever met, should know.  He
didn't have to close out his account now.

  An X-wing blasted past him to port, juking and jinking.
He thought he recognized it as Wraith Eleven. Tyria.

 If she was doing that, she was being pursued. With his
numbed fingers, he brought up his targeting system and swung
it just to port of his flight path.

 An interceptor flashed into his brackets and he fired. With
detached interest, he watched the laser blast shear through
its starboard wing and pylon, straight through the canopy.
The interceptor exploded and bits of it glowed as they
bounced off his forward shields.

 Donos's voice: "Nice shot, Eight! Are you back with us?"

 "I'm here."

 "Eight, this is Thirteen. I'm coming up beside you." Lara
slid in place to his starboard, then ahead. "I'm going to
lead you back to Tedevium. Will you follow me?"  

 "Sure."

 "Can you make it?"

 "Sure. Wake me up if I fall asleep."

 "Will do."





 Another TIE fighter went to pieces under Wedge's lasers and
he had a clear path to the center of the engagement, where
members of the 181st - where Baron Fel - awaited him.  But
those fighters veered off toward Iron Fist.

 All the TIEs began veering off toward Iron Fist, even if it
meant exposing their backs to New Republic guns.  And Iron
Fist was picking up speed.

 "Oh, no, you don't." Wedge kicked his thrusters as high
as they'd go and added some discretionary power to them. But
the faster TIEs leaped out ahead, arcing down beneath the 
Super Star Destroyer and toward her landing bay. Wraiths,
Rogues, Polearms, and Novas took parting shots, achieving
more kills in those few seconds than in the entire dogfight,
but still the TIEs ran.

 Iron Fist cruised past Mon Remonda, lying at a dead stop,
her engines flaming, mere kilometers away. The two capital
ships exchanged barrage after barrage. Wedge, looping well
around the corridor of fire between them, saw laser batteries 
take out chunks from the hulls of both vessels.

 Nova Squadron's B-wings continued pouring heavy fire into
Iron Fist's stern from as close a distance as they could
afford, but the Destroyer's shields held.

 Then the Destroyer leaped forward and was gone, lost into
hyperspace.

 Far behind, the other Destroyer began firing off escape pods
like mold spores as more and more flames gouted up from
beneath her surface. Then the brightest flame of all rose
out of her midsection, a globe-shaped inferno, and began
eating away at the vessel in all directions. The few
starfighters remaining in its vicinity raced away at full
speed.

 One last flash, bright as a nova, and the Destroyer hurled
asteroid-sized pieces of itself in all directions.


                              21


 Hours later, Wedge-freshly scrubbed and uniformed, a little
bacta treatment having rid his lungs of the smoky crud that
had coated them but also having left a nasty taste in his
mouth-marched into Mon Remonda's bridge.

 It wasn't quite the same bridge. The armature of the captain's
chair had broken and Onoma was standing over his control board.
Portions of the deck were crumpled and an entire control board 
was still black from burn. A new shift of officers was at work. 
Han Solo had his back to the bridge; he was lost in thought, 
staring into the depths of hyperspace.

 Wedge approached to stand beside him. "Commander Antilles
reporting."

 Solo didn't answer for long moments. He looked tired, the
lines in his craggy face deeper than Wedge had ever seen
them.  He took a deep breath. 

 "We lost him."

 "We hurt him. We eliminated the other Destroyer. Razorg Kiss."

 "But Zsinj is still at large."

 "We'll get him next time."

 "I am so sick of next time." Finally, Han grinned, looking
briefly like his old self. "I'll bet you're just as sick of
the gloomy Han Solo."

 "We'll vape Zsinj together and you can go back to a life of
irresponsible good cheer."

 "I'11 drink to that. How are your people?"

 "Good. Lieutenant Loran will make it. We almost lost
Piggy saBinring - he was floating off to oblivion with no
thrusters, no lasers, no comlink-but Shalla Nelprin calculated 
his last known course and Sungrass retrieved him.

 We even picked up a hyperdrive-equipped interceptor out of
the deal."

 "If they ever make you a general, demand to be head of the
quartermasters. You're really learning to turn a profit."

 Wedge watched him return to his distracted, distant staring. 

 "Han, what's it like? Actually being someone's personal enemy?"

 "I hate it. But I can't just hand the job off. Not until
someone feels about him the way I do." 

 "Still up for that drink?" 

 Han snorted. 

"What do you think ?"




  Melvar appeared with his customary stealthiness beside
Zsinj's desk in his private office. He put a datacard before
the warlord. 

 "The final tally of losses."

 Zsinj barely stirred. He seemed drained of energy, so
drained that even his fat sagged. "I'll look at it later."

 "How do you think they did it?"

 "One of the pirates," Zsinj said. "He must have planted a
transmitter on Iron Fist while collecting his pay, in spite
of our sweeps, in spite of our sensors. I don't know how.
We'll find out. "

 "Your orders?"

 Zsinj nodded listlessly. "Get all available cargo ships 
and tugs back to the last engagement zone. I want them to
collect every piece they can find, no matter how large or
small, of Razor's Kiss for transportation back to Rancor
Base."

 "Yes, sir." Melvar waited a polite few seconds. "May I ask
why?"

 "Ask tomorrow. No more talk today."

 Melvar saluted - one of his few genuine salutes - and took his
leave.





 Face jumped as Kell came barging through the door, potted
flowers in his hands. The big man took a look around,
ignoring Face, and set the wavy mass of violet-colored
vegetation down on a meal table. Then Kell caught sight of
Dia, seated next to Face's bed; she had an arm around his
neck, her other hand stroking his brow, in what had been a
most comfortable pose until Kell's sudden arrival. 

 "Oh, I see," Kell said. "Celebration's already started."

 Face glared. "What celebration?"

 "Ask the commander."

 Behind Kell came Piggy, Janson, all the other Wraiths.
Tyria was holding some sort of figurine, a gray human figure
half the length of a forearm; it gripped something in its
upraised hand. Wedge came in last.

 "All present?" Wedge asked.

 "And no accounting for," Janson said.

 Wedge turned toward Face, his expression stern. "Lieutenant 
Loran. You returned your X-wing to the training frigate Tedevium 
in the worst shape her mechanics had ever seen a flying snubfighter. 
You arrived in similar shape for an organism. As I understand it, 
parts of you and your X-wing were intermingled."

 "He had to be cut out of the cockpit," Lara confirmed.

 "Kept wanting to talk to the medics about surgery."

 "Well, I've been meaning to tell you about that..." Face said.

 "For this," Wedge continued, "we present to you the Award of
the Mechanic's Nightmare."

 Tyria held out the statuette, which was of a New Republic
mechanic with wrench upraised as a weapon. The mechanic's
expression was of pure, if silly, rage.

 Face took the thing. "Looks like one of Cubber's children."
He looked around the room. "I want to thank everyone who
retrieved pieces of me, everyone who retrieved pieces of my
X-wing, and especially those who sorted them out correctly."

 "On a more serious note," Wedge said. "Attention."

 The Wraiths snapped to attention, all but Face, who tried
to sit up, and Dia, who held him in place.

 "With all our recent excitement," Wedge said, "I've neglected
to finalize a little business I should have seen to days ago.
But I'm happier to do it now, since Face can join us for it. 
Shalla Nelprin, step forward."

 She did so, struggling, Face thought, to keep uncertainty
from her expression.

 "Since being posted to Wraith Squadron," Wedge said, "you
have demonstrated fine piloting and intrusion skills, in
addition to improvisational instincts that have benefited
this unit and the New Republic. It is my pleasure to convey
to you your promotion to the rank of lieutenant in the New
Republic's Starfighter Command." He handed her her new
officer's insignia, then shook her hand. "Congratulations,
Shalla."

 She opened her mouth to answer, but it was a moment before
sound emerged. 

 "Thank you, sir."

 "Don't thank me; you did all the work. It's well deserved.
Just as significant for your reputation, I think, is the
fact that Starfighter Command has calculated your role in
the battle with Razor's Kiss... and has determined that you
are authorized to paint half a Super Star Destroyer
silhouette on your canopy from now on. Half that kill is
yours."

 Shalla put her hands to her mouth as the other Wraiths
cheered, patted her back.

 Dia, still stroking Face's forehead, suddenly frowned.

 "Say, what's this?" The surprise in her voice caused the
others to quiet down. Dia pinched at Face's skin, and the
others could see that a tiny flap of skin at the corner of
Face's scar was loose.  She tugged at it.

 Face squirmed. "Uhh, well, this is something new, I haven't
had an opportunity to tell you.... "

 She continued tugging and the scar began to come up at that
edge, as though it were some sort of applique, with pink, 
healthy skin beneath it. 

 "Face?"

 Face sighed. "Get involved with a woman and she thinks she
can tear your face off."

 Dia pulled and half his scar was in her hand, leaving the
right side of his face unmarred. She gave a final tug and
the rest of the applique came free, dangling in her fingers.
Her expression was incredulous as she looked down at him. 
Where he had once worn a scar, his flesh looked pink and new, 
but definitely undamaged.

 Face looked around at all the Wraiths peering at him. He
shrugged. "Ton Phanan's fault. He left me some money. Enough
for some elective surgery. Or it would go to someone I hated. 
I pretty much had to do what he wanted."

 "Well, it suits you," Dia said. "You look almost as young as
you did in The Black Bantha."

 He stared up at her accusingly. "You said you'd never seen
any of my holodramas."

 She smiled. "I lied."

 Runt reached out the door and tugged in a rolling cart. It
was laden with bottles in cooler buckets and glasses. "Face
cannot drink yet," he said. "But we can drink to him." He
handed the bottle off to Janson.

 Janson began prying at the seal. "And to Ton Phanan and
Castin Donn."

 Dia said, "And to scars you can peel off whenever you no
longer need them."

Face said, "And to..."

 Dia dropped the rubbery false scar into his mouth. "And,"
she said, "to friends who don't try to fool you all the
time."

 Face pulled the false scar out and gave her a rueful look.

 "Dia, this is Wraith Squadron. You're never going to have
that."