Wraith Squadron (32 page)

“I don’t think so. I wasn’t concentrating on using the Force.”

“What’s it like when you do concentrate?”

She gave him a bitter little smile. “It’s like putting my toe into a nice warm river back on Toprawa, and starting to slide in, and then looking over my shoulder and seeing that my ancestors for twenty generations back have all lined up behind me with stern expressions to make sure I’m doing it right, and I suddenly realize that I can’t swim well enough to make them proud of me. If I go into the water I’ll drown. That’s what the Force is like to me.”

“No wonder you want so badly to learn to use it.”

She looked at him as if trying to figure out whether to be offended.

“All right. It was a limp joke. But it was a joke. It fulfills my obligation.”

“Good night, Kell.”

“Good night.”

Wedge reviewed the words on the datapad.

Sir:

It is my sad duty to report to you the death of Jesmin Ackbar.

On the largest moon of the third world of System M2398, Wraith Squadron encountered and defeated a numerically superior foe, a pirate nest that had been in communication with Warlord Zsinj. Jesmin shot down three opponents in that engagement and earned her status as an ace of the New Republic, an event that pleased her. Shortly afterward, a laser cannon attack from ground units damaged her X-wing and sent her into an uncontrollable descent into the lunar surface. As far as we have been able to determine, she was, at the time of impact, unconscious from uncompensated acceleration and did not suffer.

In the time Jesmin served with Wraith Squadron, I found her to be an excellent flyer and a superior officer. Her skills with communications equipment saved Folor Base from a disastrous assault; every person stationed at that base at the time of its evacuation owes her his life. Even in the elite units of the New Republic’s armed forces, there are too few pilots who share the courage and dependability she exhibited as a matter of routine.

I cannot begin to appreciate your loss, but in reflecting on her death, I have come to a conclusion that is important to me. I no longer believe that the momentum of a life headed in a worthwhile direction ends when that life does.

Jesmin Ackbar shot down five enemies, all of whom served evil men. Had she not done so, their actions would have led to further evil, but her actions take their place instead, broadening like a firebreak into the future theirs would have occupied.

Jesmin Ackbar saved hundred of lives at Folor. Had she not done so, a bow wave of suffering would have rippled out from Folor, scarring survivors, leaving behind nothing but loss.

In the future, staring at each new class of graduating pilots, relaxing in the company of friends on some world that has been on the verge of commitment to the Empire but has become an ally of the New Republic, I will never know how much good surrounding me is a legacy of
Jesmin’s life. Her future will be invisible to me. But invisible is not the same as nonexistent. I will know that her deeds and accomplishments still move among us, phantoms that represent everything good the New Republic stands for, and I am grateful for it.

With respect,

Cmdr. Wedge Antilles

That, at last, was what he meant to say.

The corner of the datapad showed the time. It was an hour before he was due to rise. He’d lost the whole night trying to express his regrets to Admiral Ackbar. But he never would have been able to sleep until he was done; the short hour he had would, at least, be a peaceful one.

He switched off the light and stretched out on the captain’s bed, finally able to surrender himself to temporary oblivion.

Two days later, a New Republic cruiser came to deal with the fate of the Blood Nest pirates.

They’d been talkative during those days, offering all they knew of Captain Darillian, Warlord Zsinj, and their own piratical raids. But ultimately, they were nothing but a bunch of freebooters, conscienceless men who were too stubbornly independent to join Zsinj’s operation and too stupid to find a tactic other than attacking Zsinj’s emissary.

Still, the fact that Zsinj was interested in dealing with men of this caliber was interesting. It suggesed that his standards were lower than the New Republic had realized. What role would they have played in his organization: disposable shock troops? Wedge didn’t know.

“We jump out of system this morning,” he told Janson.

“We’re resuming
Night Caller’
s original schedule?”

Wedge nodded. “What’s our squadron status?”

“About like it was yesterday. We’re down two X-wings, two pilots—though in Myn’s case it’s a temporary thing. With the TIE fighters, we have a full squadron’s worth of fighters.”

“Find out if any of
Night Caller’
s crew has any aptitude for TIE fighters. Lure them to the simulator with brandy or sweets if you have to.”

Janson grinned. “Fuel and food supplies at full. We’re doing pretty well.”

“Very well. I’ll issue the orders within the hour.”

They stood on
Night Caller’
s bridge, all the surviving Wraiths but Donos and Wedge. In his X-wing, Wedge hovered fifty meters off the bow, oriented, as
Night Caller
was, toward the sun of this forsaken system.

Face concluded, “Lacking even her mortal remains to say farewell to, in the manner of her people or ours, let us make this show of respect. Let us send out a physical beacon to mark her passing in the hope that there will be a spiritual one to guide her to her destination.”

Kell decided that Face made a pretty good speaker for the dead. He wished he knew how much of this speech, of the emotion Face projected, was genuine, from Face’s heart … how much was merely the artifice of an actor. But he didn’t need to know right now.

Wedge, acting not as Wraith Leader but as Jesmin’s wingman one last time, fired. His proton torpedo shot toward the distant sun and detonated a few moments later, ten kilometers away, creating for a brief moment a brilliant beacon in the sky. But like the mortal life it symbolized, the proton burst quickly faded from sight.

Wedge’s X-wing slowly maneuvered downward, toward the open bow hatch and out of sight. The mourners, all but the bridge crew, began to leave.

“Tainer.”

Kell stiffened. “Yes, Lieutenant Janson.”

“
Night Caller
did take a couple of shots during the battle. No significant damage, but it appears to have knocked some couplings and fittings loose around the ship. I’d appreciate it if you would join the mechanics in fixing them.”

Kell saluted the man who’d killed his father and watched him leave.

It was punishment detail. He was sure of it. He’d fouled up the rescue of Jesmin Ackbar and would be receiving pointless tasks like this for the duration of his stay with Wraith Squadron.

In the hallway leading to the officers’ quarters, he caught up with Tyria. “Any change?”

She shook her head. “He’s still the same. Another day or two and we’re going to have to convince them that he’s returned to duty. We might be able to take some of his work shifts and just sign his name to them …”

“It gets more and more dangerous.”

She shrugged, obviously aware of the truth of his statement. “Should we only risk ourselves for the safety of civilians?”

“No.” He sighed. “I can’t help you with him today. I have tug-and-plug duty. Maybe it won’t take too long.”

“Good luck.” She rose on tiptoes and absently gave his cheek a quick kiss, then headed off toward Donos’s quarters.

Kell rubbed his cheek. Now, what did that mean? Just when he was at his most wretched, she showed some faint sign of affection …

Ah. He understood. That conversation with the others about wounded males and females who tried to nurse them back to health. He’d finally reached such a low point that she cared about him.

Well, to hell with that. He might have thought differently a few months ago, but now, given the option of feeling as he did and winning her affection, or finding some worth in himself and no longer being miserable enough to attract her, he’d have to go for the second choice.

He headed off to find his tool kit.

“Shall we trade?” asked Warlord Zsinj.

Admiral Trigit expansively gestured. “You go first. You
are
the warlord.”

“True. You remember
Night Caller.
”

Trigit snorted. “One of your TIE fighter corvettes. Thank you for forwarding their reports to me. I’m grateful to
Night
Caller
, my lord. It’s good to know there is a ship undergoing an even less eventful mission than my own.”

Zsinj twisted his face into something like an indulgent smile. “What if I told you that
Night Caller’
s last several stops have all been visited—or, to be more accurate, smashed—by Rebel forces? Sometimes commandos, sometimes X-wing squadrons?”

Trigit took a half step back. “The ship is being shadowed.”

“Correct. I would appreciate it if you would take care of the matter.”

“At once. Well … perhaps not. The matter I called you about may be of more importance.”

“Go on.”

“You’ve heard of Talasea, in the Morobe system?”

Zsinj frowned. “Some sort of agricultural colony world, wasn’t it? An economic failure?”

“That’s correct. It was abandoned. Not long ago, it was temporarily used as a secret base by Rogue Squadron.”

“Ah, that’s it. One of Ysanne Isard’s other pets assaulted them there. And failed to exterminate them, obviously.”

Trigit kept his smile frozen to his face, but the comment about Iceheart’s pets rankled him. Zsinj obviously considered him one of those pets. “Yes, yes. Well, the Morrt Project is recording an unusual number of hits from Morobe. The visual data we’re receiving suggests a wide variety of ships. X-wings, A-wings. Rebel transports. One of them was the
Borleias
, the last transport to lift from Folor Base.”

Zsinj took a deep breath. “Anxious to avenge yourself on the Folor survivors, Apwar?”

“I’m not too proud to admit it.”

“Then, by all means, deal with it. I’ll send you, oh,
Provocateur
as support.
Night Caller
and
Constrictor
likewise. That should be a sufficiently lethal fleet for a new base, even if elements of the Rebel fleet are lingering there.”

“Thank you.”

“Then you can run off and deal with these forces shadowing
Night Caller
. I think I can trust you to eliminate an X-wing squadron and a commando unit by yourself.”

“Your faith in me makes my heart drip with goodwill.”

Zsinj gave him an irritatingly superior smile and waved farewell. His holoimage faded.

Trigit gritted his teeth. Owing to Trigit’s failure at Folor, Zsinj had been able to fling out far more barbs in their recent conversations than Trigit could defend himself against. That had to end soon. Perhaps at Morobe Trigit would do well enough to quiet the warlord.

He could only hope.

In a service conduit above the corridor accessing the officers’ quarters, Kell Tainer hung upside down.

It wasn’t a pose he preferred. But the relay box he was servicing was in the vertical conduit halfway between the corridor and the horizontal service shaft above. At this late hour, he could go wake up Cubber or one of the other mechanics and find out where they’d stowed the ladders, or he could hook his legs over the lip where the two shafts met, hang upside down for a couple of minutes, and fix a conductor relay that had been shaken loose by battle damage.

So he played a game with himself, seeing if he could get the relay reseated before the blood rushing to his head made him dizzy.

He had the cover off the relay box and was wrestling with the relay itself when he heard them, footsteps and voices beneath him. He heard the name “Donos” and went very still.

The first voice was Wedge’s. “The first time we have to scramble for action, the secret’s out.”

The second was Janson’s. “Is there anything we can do? We could arrange things so that only a half squadron of Wraiths was standing by at the next target zone. We could arrange it so that Donos was part of the off-duty pilot group—”

“And risk the lives of the others if it’s another ambush like the last one? No, Wes. But keep thinking about it. If you can find anything I can reasonably do—reasonably—I want to hear about it.”

“Yessir.”

Footsteps moved away. Kell looked down. By arching his back, he could see just the back of Janson’s head. The lieutenant didn’t move; he had his head down. He had to be thinking the situation over.

Thinking about Donos. Kell suppressed a whistle. Wedge and Janson both knew about Donos—knew, at least, that he had been incapacitated. They knew the Wraiths were covering it up. But none of the Wraiths had realized that those two were doing the same, giving them time. Time to give Donos a chance to pull out of it.

The thought hit Kell like an electrical jolt.
But that meant—

He grabbed the far edge of the perpendicular shaft, levered his legs free, and dropped to the corridor below.

Janson spun at the sound of something hitting the metal floor behind him.

It was a big man in a crouch—Janson threw himself backward, slamming into the bulkhead wall, and grabbed at his blaster. But his hand came up empty; the weapon wasn’t on his belt.

Then the big man straightened and Janson recognized him. “Sithspit! Tainer, you almost gave me a heart attack! Where did you come from?”

“I’m a Wraith, aren’t I? We strike from nowhere.” Kell’s face wore a weird expression, a combination of intensity and bafflement that made the flesh crawl on Janson’s neck.

“What do you want?”

“Why didn’t you turn him in?”

“Who?”

“Myn Donos.”

“For what?”

“Don’t. Just don’t. I know you know.”

Janson let his face settle into determined lines. “Then you know why.”