Part 1 (1/2)
Star Wars.
X-Wing.
Wraith Squadron.
by Aaron Allston.
TEST OF WILLS.
Myn Donos, the X-wing squadron commander, looked around in confusion.
This wasn't right. He'd been through this already. This mission could only lead to...
Death.
The ambush. They were all about to die.
”Talon Leader to squad, break off! Omega Signal!” He rolled up on his port wing and curved in a tight arc. Away from death.
The other Talons did not follow. They sped down their destined path toward annihilation.
”Leader to group! Break off! Follow me!”
A woman's voice: ”Can't do it, sir.”
”Follow me. That's an order!”
”No sir. What does it matter whether I die down there or on the way out?”
Donos continued his arc until he completed a full circle. He now sped on in the wake of his pilots, heedlessly rus.h.i.+ng toward their doom. He felt an unfamiliar weight crus.h.i.+ng his chest. It wasn't acceleration; it was the inevitability of those pilots' needless deaths. ”Please.”
”Don't 'please' me, Lieutenant. You don't care enough about yourself to live. So you don't give a d.a.m.n about us.”
”You're wrong. Turn back.”
”Swear it.”
”I swear it! Turn back!”
The canopy of his X-wing went black and the roar of his engines died....
1.
Twelve X-wing snubfighters roared down into the atmosphere.
The world below, Coruscant, former throne world of the Empire, was an unbroken landscape of urban construction, a vast city reaching from pole to pole, blanketed by gray clouds shot through with white and yellow flashes of lightning.
The squadron commander, piloting a black fighter with an incongruously cheerful green and gold checkerboard pattern on the bow, shook his head over the grim vista of the world below. Even after all the time he'd spent here-even after the crucial role he'd played in conquering this world for the New Republic-he still could not get used to the arrogance of Coruscant. It was a world that could only rule or perish, for it produced nothing but soldiers, officers, and bureaucrats, and could not feed its population without importing ma.s.sive quant.i.ties of food from around the galaxy.
He took a visual scan of his immediate surroundings. ”Rogue Three, tighten up. We're putting on a show here.”
A green X-wing closed in tighter to the formation. ”Yes, sir.” Though distorted by the comm system, the voice sounded indulgent rather than military.
”That's 'Yes, Wedge' until we're formally returned to duty.” The commander smiled. ”Or perhaps, 'Yes, Exalted One.' Or 'Yes, O envy of all Corellia.' Or-”
A chorus of groans interrupted him. The voice of Nawara Ven, the squadron's Twi'lek executive officer, cut through it: ”Stop complaining.
He's earned his little vacation from reality.”
Then the voice of Tycho Celchu, Wedge's second-in-command, sharp and military: ”Sensors register a squadron of fighters rising toward us.
Speed is X-wing or better; sensor profiles suggest X-wings.”
”Maintain formation,” Wedge said, then switched his comm unit over from squadron frequency to New Republic military frequency. ”Rogue Squadron to approaching X-wing formation, please identify yourselves.”
The voice responding was brisk, amused, and familiar. ”Wrong designations, sir. We're Rogue Squadron. You're simply a rogue squadron.
But for the next few minutes we'll do you the courtesy of designating ourselves Red Squadron to avoid confusion. We're your escort.”
”Hobbie? Is that you, Lieutenant Klivan?”
”That's Captain Klivan... again, just for the next few minutes.”
The other X-wing unit rose into view, gradually attaining the alt.i.tude of Wedge's squadron. Wedge was startled to see that the dozen snubfighters were painted in Rogue Squadron's traditional red stripes and twelve-pointed insignia. ”Hobbie, explain this.”
”No time, sir. We have a course change for you. High Command has decided to broadcast this entire event across the HoloNet...”
”Oh, no.”
”...so set your new course to ninety-three, follow my rate of descent, and we'll get you there in one piece. After that, you're on your own.”
Within moments their destination was clear: Imperial Plaza, a ground-level ferrocrete circle so broad that in spite of the surrounding skysc.r.a.pers, it could be seen from high in the air at angles other than directly overhead. The plaza was packed with spectators; even at this alt.i.tude Wedge could see banners and fluttering haze that looked like chaff but had to be some sort of celebratory confetti.
A speakers platform had been erected on the plaza's west side, with barricaded open areas north and south of it-obvious landing zones for the two squadrons.
As they descended toward the plaza, Wedge flipped his comm system back to the squadron channel. ”Once around the park, outbound port, return starboard, at five hundred, Rogues. They're here for a show; let's give them one.”
Immediately he heard Hobbie's answer on the same channel: ”Same, Reds, but starboard to port return at six hundred meters. Sloppiest flight group buys drinks.”
The two squadrons parted, circling the plaza at its perimeter, the wingtips of the X-wings sometimes only meters from the faces of admirers piled up against the skysc.r.a.per windows. The squadrons crossed one another's positions on the far side of the plaza and rejoined at their first position, then spiraled down toward the landing zones.
Rogue Squadron angled toward the northern area, Red Squadron toward the southern. At three hundred meters, Wedge said, ”Landing gear and repulsorlifts, people,” and both squadrons began the safe, vertical descents allowed by the snubfighters' antigravity engines.
Wedge smiled. ”Your Red Squadron looks pretty good, Hobbie. A pity you haven't had time to teach them anything about precision flying.”