| abstract
| - The black nothingness of space stretched on endlessly in all directions. Occasionally, tiny points of light marked the location of the burning gaseous spheres of the galaxy’s stars, but otherwise space was empty, clear, and free. The vast expanses were unshackled by the demands and concerns of the infinitesimally small beings that made their way through the void. Staring out of the viewport into the space outside the Niman-class cruiser-carrier, Hasla Almani wished her own mind was as clear and free, but it wasn’t. Instead, it was suffused and infested with doubts and worries, emotions that didn’t normally plague her to this extent, an unsettling feeling. She continued to gaze into oblivion, reflecting on distant memories and forgotten dreams. She was an Arkanian, about average height for a near-human, and her short silver hair and white eyes shone dimly in the gloom. Her uniform was that of a starfighter pilot and her sleeve bore the rank of commander, marking her as the leader of a fighter squadron in the Yanibar Guard. She was the most experienced and skilled pilot in the entire Yanibar Guard Fleet when it came to flying the B-wing starfighter, the vehicle of choice for her unit, Paladin Squadron. The heavy ship, while slower than others and difficult to pilot, packed an impressive amount of firepower for a starfighter and was fairly sturdy. Hasla had learned to pilot the cantankerous fighter years ago, during a stint with the Rebel Alliance. She’d flown along pilots with such famous names as Antilles, Celchu . . . and her old flame Janson. They’d all been dear to her, but Janson more so than others, even though he’d been in a different unit. Recollections of those desperate days still came back and haunted her; she often wondered how many of the Rebels she’d flown alongside had survived to see their dream of a New Republic come true. Not that it was her worry now; her days with the Rebels were long gone. As she glanced down at her chrono, she realized that she was supposed to be reporting to the briefing room to meet her pilots and prepare them for their mission. Schooling her features into something more pleasant than her previously disconsolate expression, she strode quickly through the corridors to her destination. The briefing room’s lighting was also subdued, marked primarily by a large hologram suspended a meter off the floor. The other eleven fighter pilots of Paladin Squadron sat in the seats arrayed around the holoprojector, all wearing the dull gray-green of the Yanibar Guard Fleet, watching attentively as Hasla walked to the center of room to make her presentation. The Paladins had all been handpicked specially for the squadron, as part of an effort by the Yanibar Guard to develop elite units that could handle difficult missions. Such as this one. They were being dispatched on a priority mission that would place them in a rare situation for the Yanibar Guard—direct conflict with the Empire. The Imperial government had stubbornly refused to die after the death of Emperor Palpatine. Instead, it had fractured. One faction, led by the ruthless former Director of Imperial Intelligence Ysanne Isard, had allowed the New Republic that had formed out of the Rebel Alliance to capture Coruscant after a lengthy struggle, only to leave behind a world infected by a hideous disease known as the Krytos virus. Isard had then taken her fleet over to the bacta-producing world of Thyferra and had herself installed as ruler, effectively allowing her to sit on the only world capable of producing the one medicine proven effective against Krytos: bacta. Strains of the virus had made it back from Coruscant to Yanibar before Yanibar Guard Intelligence had become aware of the threat and it was spreading across the planet. Several hundred non-humans—the virus had been engineered to only affect non-human species, it seemed—were infected and over two dozen fatalities had already been reported in less than a month. Even with quarantine procedures implemented, YGI was still tracing all possible hosts of the virus, and Yanibar’s supply of bacta was running short. With Isard exerting her tight-fisted control over the supply and inflating the price, the Yanibar Guard had opted to simply steal some. That decision had instigated numerous complications. For one, the Yanibar Guard was a defensive, secret force unknown to most of the galaxy designed to protect an isolated Force exile refuge on Yanibar intended to hide Jedi and other Force users from the Empire’s predations. It could not simply launch a major operation against Isard using its few larger warships without revealing its existence. Furthermore, other raids and attacks on Isard’s operation by partisans and fighters believed to be ex-New Republic agents had placed considerable scrutiny on the bacta trade, making a direct assault unfeasible. The Yanibar Guard was being forced to be a bit more subtle in its approach to hijacking a bacta convoy. As such, the Paladins had been tapped to handle it, based on their record of numerous successful missions in a rather short career. “Our target is a freighter convoy ferrying bacta,” Hasla told her pilots. “Intelligence says that there will be two freighters loaded with the stuff. We’re out to capture them, not destroy them, so go easy on the wild shots. We’ll intercept them at Polixi—it’s a small rocky world in the Polith system near Thyferra—before they jump to hyperspace.” A hand rose from the front row of pilots. “Yes?” Hasla asked. “Being that close to Thyferra, what kind of resistance should we expect, sir?” a veteran pilot, a grizzled Bothan named Jorfa Begraas asked. “Hopefully not Star Destroyers.” “Not this time,” Hasla replied. “Apparently the Empire’s been a little distracted, so the four warships of the Thyferran fleet won’t be participating. Instead, they’ve contracted out the security for this convoy to a group of mercenaries. Seems like a quiet little side trip designed to slip past security. Unscheduled, even, which is rare for the Thyferrans. We expect a few patrol ships, possibly some corvettes. Maybe a small cruiser. Nothing we can’t handle. We’ll neutralize the escorts, then disable the bacta freighters with ion cannon so our assault transports can take them.” She looked around for other questions, but none were forthcoming. “Wings up in two hours,” she said. “Force be with all of you. Dismissed.” She saluted them, and they stood and returned the gesture. Ten of the other pilots filed out of the room, leaving behind only her executive officer, Paladin Eight, a green-skinned male Rodian named Kerbo Zarsh. The normally solitary Hasla could always count on Kerbo to seek her out, to make sure everything was as it should be. “What is it, Kerbo?” Hasla asked him, dropping the military protocol as she always did whenever it was just the two of them. “There’s something wrong,” the Rodian’s flat, nasal-sounding voice replied. “You seem troubled. Are you okay?” Hasla ran a hand through her hair and sighed, sitting on the desk at the front of the room. “More or less,” she said. “The squadron’s been doing fine in the simulations and I trust them all. There’s just something about this that makes me uneasy.” “Do you know what it is?” Kerbo replied. “No,” Hasla said. “Could be the Force trying to tell me something, but the mission either seems too easy, or I’m overlooking something?” “Should we scrub the mission?” Kerbo asked bluntly. Hasla paused and considered the notion briefly, then shook her head. “No,” she said. “We can’t. Yanibar needs the bacta, and we have nothing other than my gut to go off of. I’m sure it’s nothing.” Kerbo laid a green hand on her shoulder. “All right,” he said, acquiescing. “Let me know if you have another hunch, though, chief. I’ve come to trust them.” Hasla smiled appreciatively at him. Then the Rodian ambled out of the briefing room, leaving her sitting there alone. Her mind began to wander, leading her to consider what might go wrong with the upcoming mission. Something still wasn’t sitting well with her. The morbid thought of whose families she might have to write after this mission entered her mind, leaving a sour taste in her mouth. YGI didn’t have an exact count of the mercenary force’s strength, after all. Their estimates had been based solely on the amount of funds that had flown through one of Isard’s supposedly hidden credit lines. YGI had determined that this little effort to slip a side convoy out unscheduled from Thyferra was their best shot at a bacta convoy—the regularly scheduled convoys were far too well-guarded. That said, Hasla couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a trap or that something was wrong. She stayed in the briefing room, brooding in solitude, keeping the Force wrapped tightly around her like a blanket. Her introspection kept her from realizing that she wasn’t alone. “Commander Almani,” a low, gravelly voice called. Startled, Hasla nearly jumped out of her skin, but with great effort, managed to keep her calm. She slowly turned to see a diminutive alien standing beside her, wearing the dark uniform of a Yanibar Guard Commando. “Yes?” she asked. The alien’s dark eyes glinted as he looked up at her. “I am Morgedh clan Kel’nerh,” he said. “I will be leading the assault transports.” “Ah,” she said, privately wondering where YG recruiting had dug this one up from. “Your unease is unmerited,” Morgedh assured her. “My team will not fail.” Hasla realized that the alien was either telepathic or a skilled Force-sensitive; he’d sensed her feelings easily, despite her insular emotional state. “Are you telepathic?” she asked. “No,” he replied, “but my people have always been skilled in the hunt, and to hunt, one must know how to look, how to scent one’s quarry.” And sneak up on them quietly once they’ve been spotted, Hasla added silently. The alien commando had crept up without her hearing him or detecting him in the Force. Hasla guessed he probably could have killed her several different ways without a weapon. She felt a lot better knowing he was on her side. “Did you need something, Morgedh?” she asked him. “No,” he replied. “I came to introduce myself and wish you and your pilots a safe flight.” “The same to you,” she said. “We’ll signal you once the transports are disabled.” He gave a fractional nod. “I look forward to fighting alongside you,” he intoned gravely. “And, some call me Hunter. You may do so if you wish.” “An apt name,” Hasla agreed. “I’ll keep that in mind.” The commando gave a slight bow, then left the room as silently as he’d come, leaving Hasla feeling vaguely rattled. She left the briefing room shortly thereafter, returning to her quarters to meditate. She would need to center herself, to have confidence and steadiness, if she was to fly and lead her pilots well. Solace did not come easy to her, though. Hasla’s own training in the use of the Force by the Matukai Adepts had been shaped to help her deal with her emotional insecurities, but it took longer than usual for her to find the soothing inner calm inside the shell of her meditation. Two hours later, Hasla met up with her pilots at the hangar of the cruiser-carrier Kit Fisto where Paladin Squadron’s B-wings were parked. The cruiser-carrier had reached its destination, just a few parsecs from the Polith system, and it was time for the Paladins to launch. Because of the construction of the Niman-class, the hangar was cut completely through the ship, with openings on both the dorsal and ventral hull, which provided much more space than one might expect in a six-hundred meter warship. The massive multi-level hangar bay was busy as always, and the sounds of machinery, droids, running engines, and a hundred talking people echoed through its expanses. The decks were strewn with fighters, maintenance carts, spare parts, and other clutter. Hasla welcomed the familiar sharp tang of engine fuel, coolant, and lubricant blended together; countless hours spent in hangars just like this one meant she was more or less used to it. The Paladins had assembled near their fighter craft, waiting for their commander, who strode in as swiftly as she normally did, a rush of disturbed air currents following her. Hasla wasted little time on formalities. “Mount up,” she said. “Get your checklists going and take off as soon as you’re cleared.” “Yes, ma’am!” the pilots shouted in unison, heading for their craft. Hasla put action to words, scrambling up a ladder into the spacious cockpit of her B-wing. The craft had always been dear to her—it was the one she’d flown during her brief service with the Rebellion, service that had come about after she’d been assigned to infiltrate the Rebels and steal the B-wing’s plans and manufacturing processes. That had been years ago, but in a way, Hasla had been responsible for the entire B-wing force fielded by the Yanibar Guard, and her fighter bore the scars of many missions and subsequent repairs. Not that she was particularly proud of being forcibly separated from the brave pilots she’d flown with in the Alliance. She’d never felt so right as when she was flying with them, but duty had literally forced her to return to the Yanibar Guard. Now, the most she could do was target their common enemy, the Empire and its remnants, and hope to avoid any Rebel—or New Republic, as they now called themselves—entanglements. Hasla automatically flew through the preflight checklist. Her fighter was in perfect shape; all systems were functioning just like they should. The little details that made hers were all there—there was a little airfresher panel tucked away at one point to hide the odor on long missions and the tiny Arkanian wrist-bracelet she’d worn as a girl was still suspended from the cockpit ceiling for good luck. The rows of kill markers on the fuselage were hers, earned through the hellish adrenaline-pumping frenzy of two dozen combat missions. The ship felt comfortable, as if she was just another part of it and not trying to control tons of complex machinery. Powering up the heavy starfighter, she waited until the engines were fully online before lifting it off the deck on repulsorlifts. In short order, she and her squad received clearance to launch from the Fisto’s flight controller. With practiced ease, she flew the fighter out from the hangar and hauled sharply back on her stick to send her B-wing surging out of the dorsal hangar exit on a trail of hot red ion exhaust. “Paladin Squad, this is Paladin Lead,” Hasla called through the comlink. “Comm check. Go ahead and sound off.” One by one, they called in, confirming their operational status. Once Paladin Twelve had checked in, Hasla activated her comm board once more. “Mission is a go,” she announced. “Prepare to jump on my mark.” Hasla glanced down at her navicomputer, watching as it finalized the course calculations. After a minute, the device whirred and beeped twice, indicating that the jump calculations were finished. This was it. “Punch it,” Hasla said, reaching for the hyperdrive lever. The stars elongated, twisting into the trans-dimensional tunnel of hyperspace as the twelve B-wings of Paladin Squadron achieved superluminal velocities, bound for Polixi. Only a handful of parsecs away, another unit of starfighters was assembling. However, this one was completely different from the Paladins in almost every way. Their base was no majestic cruiser—it was a boxy space station. They weren’t flying B-wings—their fighters were older X-wings, painted in a wide variety of colors with customized paint schemes. Nor did they belong to the Yanibar Guard, or even technically to the New Republic. No, these were the ships belonging to the ex-New Republic starfighter unit Rogue Squadron. The one thing they did have in common with the Paladins was that both units had the same objective. The unit leader, the famous Corellian pilot Wedge Antilles, was one of the most feared (and hated) men in the galaxy when it came to piloting starfighters. His Alderaanian wingman and executive officer, Tycho Celchu, wasn’t far behind on either of those lists. They’d survived the horrors of battles like Hoth, Endor, Bakura, and Coruscant and emerged victorious. The others in his unit-Darklighter, Horn, Sei’lar, Ven, Qyrgg, Ynr, Jace, Forge, and Nunb were all considered elites and had proved themselves in combat time and time again in the past months. They were stubborn, idealistic, and individualistic, but also deeply united by the bonds of comradeship and their inherent commitment to their cause and their leader. And right now, they were virtually on their own. The New Republic had been unwilling to act openly against Isard for political reasons, but the Rogues had decided to challenge Isard despite the lack of support. They had fought against her for too many months in the campaign to free Coruscant only to let her escape to her own little fiefdom from where she could manipulate the New Republic. One turn of events had led to another, until the Rogues were now spearheading the resistance against Isard, repeatedly pinpricking her and the Bacta Cartel she ran. They’d done well so far, stealing bacta, destroying handfuls of Isard’s fighters, and even leveling a bacta refinement plant. The bacta they’d seized had gone either to sick people on Coruscant, to help other worlds that couldn’t pay for it after Isard’s price-gouging, or to finance their private war against the former Director of Imperial Intelligence. Some of Rogues had had run-ins with Isard in previous years. All of them had gladly volunteered to fight her. All of them saw the fight as personal. There was a long list of scores to settle between Rogue Squadron and Isard, or Iceheart, as most of them called her. The most recent was her destruction of a colony on Halanit that the Rogues had ferried stolen bacta to, but Isard had also infected Coruscant, personally imprisoned and tortured two of the Rogues, and inserted a spy in their midst who’d only recently been ferreted out. At the moment, despite the damage the Rogues had done to Isard’s operation, there was still retribution to be had. This raid on the bacta convoy trying to slip out of the Polith system was only the next step in that process. “Form up, Rogues,” Antilles called. “Prepare to jump to Polixi.” “Copy that,” Rogue Nine, another Corellian named Corran Horn, called in. “Sooner we jump, the sooner we get there.” “That’s affirmative, Rogue Nine,” Antilles replied. “Jump on five.” The pilots of Rogue Squadron counted down silently with their leader as they too made ready to jump to hyperspace. At the indicated time, a dozen hands grasped a dozen levers, sending a dozen fighters flying into hyperspace, bound for their target. The hunt was on. Hasla kept a vigilant eye on the glowing letters of the countdown timer, one gloved hand resting lightly on the control that would bring her out of hyperspace. The numerals slowly ticked down, then hit zero. She inhaled lightly, wondering why she’d suddenly experienced a burst of anxiety, an inexplicable urge to call this mission off. She was a trained Force-user and a veteran pilot leading one of the finest units in the Yanibar Guard. They could handle this. Fighting down a fresh wave of unease, she gingerly pulled the lever. Outside her cockpit, the twisting metaphysical distortions of reality that composed hyperspace resolved themselves into the normal starfield of realspace. Hasla’s sensor board showed that the other eleven Paladins had reverted just as they were supposed to and the squadron quickly formed up around her. Up ahead, there was a cluster of red dots marking the bacta convoy. This was her last chance to abort. Hasla stared at the sensor board, contemplating for a brief second, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Then, she steeled herself and found the courage to suppress her still uneasy gut and give the attack order. “Paladins, set S-foils to strike position,” she ordered. “Shields to double front. Approach over Polixi in terrain-following mode.” Hitting a key, Hasla watched her systems readout show the two S-foils on her B-wing fold up from cruise position, giving her fighter the cruciform shape it adopted in strike mode. Another control set all her weapons to ‘armed.’ The other Paladins followed suit. Ahead of them, backlit by sunglow from the barren rock of Polixi, was the bacta convoy. As the Paladins closed in on their prey, the distant ships soon resolved into tiny black and tan specks. Hasla glanced at the sensor board, pulling up information as the complex avionics suite in the B-wing collected information and translated it into usable data. “Looks like a pair of IPV-1 patrol craft, backed up by a Marauder-class corvette,” Kerbo reported over the squadron channel. “The IPVs are modified; my guess is that they’ve had hyperdrives attached.” “Copy that,” Hasla acknowledged. Nothing they couldn’t handle. The ships ahead of them would have posed a challenge an ordinary starfighter unit, but they weren’t large enough to possess significant fighter complements of their own, nor were they specialized to combat fighters, especially elite ones. Seemed like a rather light force for Isard to be using, Hasla thought. The idea of a trap sprang into her mind again. “Stay sharp,” she warned her squadron over the comm. “Watch for surprises.” Pushing her control yoke down, she descended rapidly into the almost negligible atmosphere of Polixi. She dove until she was only a few hundred meters above the moon’s surface then leveled off. Soaring over fields of frozen caldera and cratered landscapes, skimming over desolate ridges and across dusty plains, the Paladins flew low over Polixi. Their ion engines left a vague trail of dust behind them, but the rock of the moon would help obstruct their sensor profiles. With any luck, their terrain-following flying would give them a few more precious seconds to encroach on the bacta convoy undetected. Hasla’s grip on the control yoke tightened ever so slightly as the B-wings hurtled towards the convoy. The rapidly diminishing numbers on her rangefinder relayed the decreasing distance to her. Soon they would be in weapons range. “Arm proton torps,” she said. “Lock on at my signal. Target the merc ships first; aim for their engines.” A bevy of comlink clicks crackled through her earpiece’s speakers as her pilots acknowledged. Hasla gently laid her firing reticule on the closest IPV-1, but didn’t arm her targeting computer yet. It was possible that the mercenaries hadn’t spotted them yet and she didn’t want to risk exposing their position by activating her targeting sensors. Hasla waited until the rangefinder scrolled down to a mere five kilometers. Then, she hauled back on the yoke, swooping up to aim directly at the convoy’s stern. A flick of a switch toggled her targeting computer on, and a hollow circle lit up on her cockpit HUD, superimposed over the IPV she was targeting. The circle rapidly began filling with an orange ring that indicated the strength of her target lock. The mercenaries reacted immediately, with Hasla’s target breaking into an evasive turn while their other two warships doubled back to meet the attackers. The bacta freighters continued on their original course, moving away so as to interpose the mercenaries in between themselves and Paladin Squadron. “The Marauder is launching fighters,” Kerbo sounded off. Hasla heard him, but remained focused on her target lock. It took little effort for her to keep her weapons locked onto the original IPV, and the fighters couldn’t possibly launch before she fired. A loud tone sounded through her earpiece from the targeting computer, signaling an 80% or better target lock. Hasla held her fire until it reached 90%, then punched the red button on the side of her control stick. Two proton torpedoes shot out from her B-wing on contrails of blue fire, streaking through space towards the hapless patrol boat. “Torps away!” she shouted through the comm as the weapons launched. Seven other B-wings fired simultaneously with her, sending a total of sixteen torpedoes towards the one-fifty-meter patrol craft. Hasla didn’t linger to watch them detonate in a cluster of spherical cerulean explosions that tore through the shields and ripped a sizable chunk out of the patrol craft’s side. Her sensors alone told her that the vessel was crippled, and a quick glance showed her the debris and rapidly extinguishing cloud of burning gases trailing the patrol craft, which meant that it was out of the fight, possibly out of control. Other matters soon occupied her attention. Other matters such as the dozen G1-M4-C Dunelizard fighters spewed from the hangar deck of the Marauder corvette. Shaped roughly like a cross between the Rebel X-wing and A-wing designs with the elongated nose similar to the former and the truncated wings akin to the latter Dunelizards featured shielding and sported laser cannons for armament. They were also agile dogfighters, despite their lack of heavy weaponry. If their pilots were any good, the Paladins would have a difficult fight on their hands, especially considering the other two warships were still out there. “Go after the fighters, but don’t let the bacta freighters get away,” she said, heading for one of the Dunelizards. “Hit them with ion cannon if you’re free. Two, you’re with me.” “Affirmative, Lead,” replied Paladin Two, a Human male named Jovez Sarkose. Hasla heard no other acknowledgements; no doubt her pilots were busy dueling with the mercenary fighters. Soon, she too was engrossed in the nuances of starfighter combat even while maintaining enough situational awareness to keep her apprised of the full holo of the battle. Her B-wing responded to deft handling of the controls and the lower part of it began spinning around the gyroscopically mounted cockpit, making the starfighter harder to hit. The Dunelizard she and Two were flying towards in a head-to-head pass had an experienced pilot, one who was adept at jinking his nimble fighter to avoid her barrages of purple laser cannon fire. His return fire, while mostly wild, scored a few hits, but they splattered off her shields in green starbursts. Hasla opened herself to the Force, allowing it to flow through her, let its invisible tendrils guide her fingers. The mercenary’s evasions that had been a relatively complex and random pattern a second earlier were now as easy to follow as if there were holographic arrows indicating which direction he would vector next. While Hasla was a skilled pilot without the Force, employing it gave her an edge few pilots in the galaxy could match. Her trigger finger tightened on the firing stud for the laser cannon and three purple laser bolts lanced out to pierce the shields of the Dunelizard and separate the nose from the rest of the fuselage right at the cockpit. The stricken fighter exploded, leaving Hasla temporarily in the clear. She checked her sensor board and found Paladin Two right where she’d been during the whole exchange, tucked in slightly behind her, ready to protect Hasla from any sudden ambushes like a good wingman. Jovez was a talented pilot in his own right, of course—it ran in his family; his cousin had been one of the first Yanibar Guard pilots ever, and Hasla knew that the Human would die before leaving Hasla vulnerable. Not that she expected that to happen. “Status, Lead?” Jovez asked. “I’m fine, Two,” she replied. “Shields are holding. How about yourself?” “All green back here,” he relayed. Hasla nodded and returned to the fray. In short order, the Dunelizards’ numbers were halved—a pleasant eventuality, to be sure. The B-wings could take far more laser cannon hits than their opponents and the mercenaries, while skilled, were not up to the challenge of defeating an elite unit like the Paladins. The formation flying and use of wingpairs by the Paladins further tilted the odds in favor of the Yanibar Guard pilots. A green flash illuminated space in front of Hasla’s cockpit, reminding her that there were two mercenary warships in play also. She threw her B-wing into an inverted hammer-eight that brought her craft away from the stream of turbolaser bolts spraying from the Marauder. As irritating as the larger weapons were, Hasla knew they were relatively ineffective against fighters-while a direct hit would instantly atomize her ship, only the most advanced turbolasers were equipped with the targeting and tracking systems necessary to actually hit fast-moving starfighters. So, she ignored the larger warships for the moment. With Paladin Two still flying right on her tail, Hasla diverted more power to her engines and shot in between the Marauder and remaining IPV, forcing them to cease firing for fear that they hit the other warship. There was only a single pair of Dunelizards in between her and the bacta convoy, and though their faster speed had allowed them to catch up to the B-wings, Hasla was not about to allow these nuisances to deny her the prize of the bacta freighters. “Two, take the fighters,” Hasla said. “I’ll cover you. Make it quick.” Jovez clicked his comlink in acknowledgment; he was known for being taciturn. However, in his time in Paladin Squadron, he’d embraced his role as her wingman with a protectiveness and devotion that had surprised her—he was fully willing to place his fighter in between her and incoming fire. He was also a cunning tactician. Even now, as the Dunelizards closed from the side, Jovez began jinking to avoid their hasty streams of laser fire. Then, he suddenly vectored his whirling craft up and around Hasla’s B-wing as the hostile fighters shot past. Only the Force gave her the time she needed to slew her own craft to the side to cover him. His sudden twist had placed him right on the tail of the two mercenaries. A flurry of laser fire issued from his B-wing and both disappeared into rapidly expanding clouds of gases and metal shards. The whole turnaround had taken less than a few seconds, a testimony to Jovez’ ability behind the controls of a B-wing. “Nice twist, Two,” Hasla remarked, looping back towards the bacta freighters. “Thanks, Lead,” Jovez replied, and Hasla knew from past experience that he was wearing a small grin even as he said it. Up ahead of them, the bacta freighters were powering engines and Hasla figured they were trying to get clear of Polixi’s mass shadow to jump to the safety of hyperspace. For now, though, they were stuck inside the gravity well generated by the planet, which kept them from doing so. The sluggish, insectoid-looking ships didn’t have a chance of outrunning the B-wings. Hasla flipped her weapons selector over to ion cannons. The three weapons located on her wingtips hummed to life and crackled with energy. While they were slower to fire and more inaccurate than lasers, ion cannons unleashed a torrent of energy that flooded the electrical systems of their targets, overloading and disabling them with only minimal physical damage. They also were effective at eating through deflector shields. B-wings were rare among starfighters for mounting three of them. Both she and Jovez opened fire on the bacta freighters, pelting them with crippling cyan ion bursts. Their weak deflectors soon overloaded and tangled webs of ion energy rippled across the hull, shutting down system after system. A few short seconds later, both freighters were rendered helpless, a testament to how poorly defended they were. Hasla checked her sensor board and saw that only two Dunelizards were left and the other Paladins were engaging the other IPV and Marauder. It wouldn’t be long before the mercenary ships succumbed to the Paladins’ assault, leaving the bacta freighters in the clear. Jovez headed back towards the thick of the skirmish to rejoin the squad, and Hasla followed him, letting him take the lead while she finished her analysis of the situation. Suddenly, an elongated gray hull knifed through space in between her and the convoy as it reverted from hyperspace, accompanied by another dozen fighters, all I-7 Howlrunners, a superior craft compared to the Dunelizards they had just defeated. Furthermore, the newly arrived warship was of a type that Hasla remembered all too well—ships identical to it had slain numerous comrades years ago over Yanibar. Somewhere, the mercenaries had dug up an old Mandal Hypernautics Crusader-class corvette, a vessel designed to combat starfighters. Furthermore, the Crusader packed a point-defense system that could shoot down proton torpedoes, the weapon of choice of the B-wing for dealing with larger warships. A dozen laser cannons opened up on her and Jovez, saturating space around her with blazing hot streams of energy. Hasla threw her fighter into a power turn, straining to get away from the deadly corvette. Her shield indicators began flashing as her craft sustained a few glancing hits, but Hasla realized, horrified, that Jovez was taking the brunt of the fire, placing himself in between the bulk of the laser streams and her B-wing. “Two!” Hasla called. “Break! Now!” There was no reply from Jovez. Hasla bit her lip even as her fighter bucked and shook around her from the impacts of the lasers on her shields. The sensor display showed her wingman’s shields failing rapidly. She had the Force—her chances of surviving the barrage were respectable. Better than Jovez’s. He had to listen to her. “Two, break away now! I can handle it!” she shouted desperately. “Don’t do this!” The other B-wing didn’t respond. Instead, it remained tucked alongside her, shielding her craft from the brunt of the fire. Jovez either couldn’t respond, or was refusing to do so. Hasla watched as laser bolts began tearing pieces of starfighter away. She tried to sideslip around him, but he matched her maneuver even as they streaked away from the mercenary ships. His ship was practically falling apart, and yet he doggedly continued to protect her. “Damn it, Two, get clear!” Hasla said, hoping that he would listen to reason and escape. He didn’t. Helpless due to her own need to maneuver and prevented by Jovez’s flying from intervening, she could do nothing as the lasers shredded his craft. She swore silently, hoping to see an ejection capsule even as the Force told her otherwise. “Come on, eject, dammit,” Hasla muttered to herself even as she gave the rapidly dissipating fireball one last look. However, there was nothing but metallic debris and rapidly cooling gases to mark the passing of Jovez Sarkose. His flying had allowed her to escape the Crusader’s field of fire, but it had cost him his life. Hasla was reminded that the man had family back on Yanibar—she didn’t think he was married, but he did still have kin, people that would miss him. Suddenly angry with herself, she bashed her helmet on the control yoke to clear her mind. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now. There would be time for mourning Jovez later, and she would. However, her squadron needed her at the moment, needed her to be the responsible leader. She was a professional and a Force-user, she could do this. A quick look at the sensor board and she was back in control again, burying her emotions somewhere deep, away from the battle. “Paladins, get clear,” Hasla ordered. “We can’t engage the Crusader.” “We only have one shot at this convoy, Lead,” Jorfa reminded her. “I know,” Hasla replied, “but we can’t take down that Crusader without more losses.” “Can we bring in the Fisto?” Jorfa asked. “That’s outside the mission parameters,” she replied regretfully, twisting her B-wing to avoid a burst of laser fire. “Believe me, I wish we could.” The Crusader and its attendant Howlrunners slid gracefully into position alongside the beleaguered Marauder and IPV. The harassing B-wings scattered to regroup farther away, their whirling craft evading the mercenary reinforcements. “The freighters are still down, but they won’t be for long,” Kerbo reported. “What now, Lead?” Hasla chewed her lip even as she barrel-rolled her fighter to drastically reduce its forward relative velocity. The tenacious Howlrunner that had been hard on her tail overshot and sailed past her, right into her targeting reticule. She drilled it with a pulse of laser cannon fire that detonated the craft in a messy fireball. “We have to take the convoy, or at least try,” she said grimly. “Form on me and prepare for a torpedo run on the Crusader. If it doesn’t work, punch out and head back to Yanibar.” Then, she rolled her B-wing over itself and swung back towards the mercenary flotilla, silently willing a miracle to happen, that somehow her pilots would survive this suicidal attack run. The twelve X-wings of Rogue Squadron reverted from hyperspace with a flicker of pseudomotion, emerging on the rimward side of Polixi. “Set S-foils to attack,” Wedge ordered, hitting an overhead switch to split the wings of his starfighter into the distinctive shape that gave them their name. The other Rogues mirrored his actions. “Funny,” Corran commented over the comm. “the bacta freighters are in front of the escorts, not behind them.” Wedge checked his sensors to confirm, but he already knew his wingman was right. That was indeed unusual—the mercenary ships should have been racing to interdict the oncoming fighters, but they stayed in position. “Look sharp,” Tycho called from his position. “There are two groups of contacts.” “How do you know that?” the youngest member of the Rogues, Gavin Darklighter, asked. “Those escorts are maneuvering like they’re already screening the convoy from somebody else,” Tycho replied. “We’ve got company, Lead.” “Doesn’t matter,” Corran interjected. “They’re vaped no matter who they are.” “Easy on the ego, Rogue Nine,” Wedge admonished him lightly. “Let’s see what we have here.” “Lead, my sensors are showing a group of B-wings on the far side of the convoy,” reported the Sullustan Aril Nunb. “They’re not broadcasting New Republic transponders, though.” “B-wings? Not too many people fly those,” Tycho commented. “Just the New Republic and maybe the Verpine.” “That we know of,” Corran added darkly. “What’s the status of the mercenary fleet?” Wedge asked as the Rogues slowed their approach on the convoy. “Three small warships, screened by eight or nine fighters,” Tycho replied. Wedge glanced at the sensor board, then back up at his canopy. Calculations and odds ran through his mind—though he was Corellian, he did care deeply about the situations he threw his people into. His mind quickly made itself up, running through the necessary thought processes in only a few milliseconds. “Rogues, we know the mercs are hostile. Light them up, and stay clear of the B-wings. If they fire on you, sing out and vape them.” A flurry of comlink clicks told him that his pilots had acknowledged the order. Wedge increased discretionary power to his engines and surged forward until the fighters were in range. “I have a torpedo lock on the mercenary IPV,” Corran reported. “Send it to us,” Wedge said, lining up on a pair of Howlrunners. Whistler, the green and white astromech droid tucked in behind Horn in a slot on the X-wing, sent out a stream of targeting information to the other eleven starfighters. Wedge’s own astromech, Gate, wailed with the sound of a positive target lock, and Wedge pulled the trigger. A dozen torpedoes flew through space to hit the patrol craft amidships. Explosions tore through the stricken vessel as it was perforated by torpedo detonations. “Scratch one,” said the Thyferran Bror Jace. In response, the Howlrunner fighters wheeled to attack the X-wings that had just destroyed one of their warships. Outnumbered and outgunned, Wedge thought. Poor tactics on their part. Had the two corvettes come along, they might have stood a chance, but now the Rogues could strip them of their fighters piecemeal. “Save your torps for the warships,” Wedge ordered. “Break by wingpairs. Use lasers on the fighters.” The Rogues swooped down on the fighters, pairing off to engage them. “Starting my attack run,” Wedge said. “I have your tail, Lead,” Tycho informed him tersely. A formation of three Howlrunners peeled off to intercept Wedge and Tycho. The X-wings and Howlrunners shot past each other, furiously firing salvoes of laser fire as they did so, and then they were looping around. The more agile Howlrunners were endeavoring to tack onto Wedge’s tail, but the Corellian was making their life difficult by dodging even as he got off a quick deflection shot on a Howlrunner as it soared by him. Wedge’s lasers, firing in fast-recycling pairs, chewed through the craft’s shield and hit the engines. A second later, the fighter blew up as its reactor core was pierced. In the mean time, another Howlrunner had managed to latch on behind Wedge, eliciting a warning shriek from Gate. The Corellian ace banked and rolled, sideslipping away from his opponent. As expected, the Howlrunner pilot was forced to put more attention to chasing his surprisingly elusive prey, leaving him wide open to a precise shot from Tycho, who’d finished off another Howlrunner on a second head-to-head pass. Tycho’s single quad-linked laser blast hit the Howlrunner on its dorsal surface, blowing out its shields. A second one hit the cockpit directly, atomizing the pilot. “Nice flying, Two,” Wedge told him. “Thanks, Lead,” Tycho replied. The trick had not been unexpected; both Wedge and Tycho had flown together for years, and splitting up the more maneuverable Howlrunners until they could be boxed in and eliminated was a move they’d learned from years of flying starfighters. The Howlrunners had made the mistake of not realizing where the X-wings were, so the ones pursuing Wedge had been left open to Tycho, while Wedge had been able to easily kill the fighter chasing his wingman. Around the rest of the battlespace, Wedge saw that the other Rogues had dealt with the remaining Howlrunners with similar efficiency. “Whoa! Watch out!” called Gavin. “That corvette is packing some serious firepower.” Wedge watched as Gavin flew an evasive pattern to escape a furious hail of green coherent light spitting from the corvette. “I recognize that ship,” Corran chimed in. “It’s a Crusader-class corvette. Mostly used by pirates to kill starfighters and screen larger ships.” “You’re right,” Wedge agreed. “That means we have to watch out for the point-defense system. Arm two torps and prepare to fire.” “Lead, I have an idea,” Corran said. “Go ahead,” Wedge replied. “The auto-targeters on the corvette track the torpedoes based on the number of missile locks on the ship,” Corran said. “What if the torps aren’t locked on to the corvette?” “Like over Vladet,” Wedge said, realizing where the other pilot was going with this. “Precisely,” Corran answered. “The Crusader will be even easier to defeat; it’s not nearly as tough as a Lancer.” That had been several months earlier, when a deadly antistarfighter Lancer-class frigate had ambushed the Rogues and a group of Y-wings over Vladet, Corran had come up with the idea of flying his X-wing into the teeth of the Lancer’s fire, while a full squadron of Y-wings stood off and fired their torpedoes at him. With the torps chasing him, Corran had been able to interpose the Lancer in between him and the missiles. The result had been a destroyed Lancer-class frigate and far fewer fatalities for the New Republic. “Are you volunteering for the run, Nine?” Jace asked him. “If not, I’ll do it.” “I’ve got it,” Corran replied confidently. His X-wing shot ahead, riding a trail of hot ion exhaust. The other Rogues lined up their torpedoes and locked on to his fighter. Then, at a signal from Whistler, each X-wing loosed a pair of proton torpedoes at Rogue Nine. Corran flew directly towards the Crusader, dancing around the firing cones of its laser cannons. Streams of laser cannon fire flashed around his craft, but though he took a few glancing hits, he emerged on the other side of the corvette unharmed. The same could not be said for the corvette, which suddenly found itself in the unfortunate position of being in between the proton torpedoes and their target. The anti-missile batteries belatedly switched to manual firing mode and swatted four of them away, while another five went off target, but the remaining fifteen hit the Crusader like a shotgun blast. The missiles, while scattered, were still sufficient to blow out the shields and rupture the hull in multiple places. However, their lack of concentration meant that the damage was significantly reduced. Small detonations lit up across the surface of the corvette behind Corran as the plucky X-wing pilot veered clear of the warship’s laser fire. The Rogues whose torps had missed remotely detonated them, removing the danger of friendly fire, but the Crusader remained intact. “Sturdy little ship,” Bror remarked as Corran made a wide loop around to rejoin the squadron. “Permission to make a second run?” “No,” Wedge said. “They’ll be wise to that trick a second time.” “We’ll have to go for a full-out assault,” Tycho said. “Those bacta freighters can jump to hyperspace in less than a minute, and we only have three torps left.” “I know,” Wedge said. “All right, Rogues. You know our slogan—time to do the impossible once again.” Hasla could hardly believe her eyes. First, the IPV had suddenly disintegrated, and second, the fighter escort had broken off from protecting the Crusader and Marauder. Her sensor board showed that the Howlrunners were headed to meet a new group of contacts, but after two dozen seconds of frantic dogfighting, they disappeared altogether. Whoever the new arrivals were, they’d dealt with the Howlrunners with remarkable ease. Hasla’s sensors didn’t show any large warships, but it seemed unlikely that fighters or gunships could be so effective. Whoever they were, she wasn’t about to let an opportunity like this go to waste. “Paladins, lock torps on the Crusader,” she said. “Double-fire and make them count. Hold fire until I release.” Spiraling around harassing fire from the corvette, Hasla led her squadron back on its second attack run. Green laser barrages from both warships lit up her view and near-misses rocked her fighter around as the energy blasts impacted on her shields. “Missile lock! Missile lock!” called Jorfa. Hasla’s targeting screen indicated she was receiving telemetry from Jorfa’s B-wing; he’d sent it out to all of the Paladins. The familiar and reassuring sound of a positive lock rang through her helmet and she tapped the red missile fire button twice in rapid succession. “Torps away!” she said. Four torpedoes shot out of her B-wing’s magazine, riding the invisible sensor beams to streak in towards the Crusader corvette. Little did Hasla know that its shielding power and anti-missile system were distracted by an incoming barrage on its other side—her sensors registered that the Crusader was firing at someone, but she couldn’t tell who, or exactly what they were doing. All she had was a hunch in the Force that it was the right time to punch off the torpedoes. The missiles released just as the Rogues’ missiles hit the Crusader from the other side. The resulting disruption in the defenses caused by battle damage was enough diversion for the Paladins’ forty torpedoes to reach the Crusader. The anti-missile lasers were efficient, blasting nineteen of them before they could hit. However, the remaining missiles were enough to eviscerate the weakened warship. Its death throes were marked by a few jettisoned escape pods amidst a hulk wreathed in crimson fire. “Nice work, Paladins,” Hasla said. “Watch out! Stray torps!” Paladin Three shouted, banking sharply. Several errant missiles, stragglers from the X-wings, streaked past the formation of B-wings before detonating a kilometer behind the Paladins’ formation. One of them hit a bacta freighter, punching a hole in the defenseless ship’s hull and leaving it stricken by internal explosions. “Dammit!” Jorfa said, noting the loss of the bacta freighter. “They weren’t ours,” Kerbo said, puzzled. “The trajectories are all wrong.” Then, Hasla caught sight of a familiar silhouette looping back to join its comrades and knew where the errant torpedoes had come from. “They came from the other contacts,” Hasla said. “They hit the corvette right before we did.” “Who are they?” Kerbo asked. “Not sure,” Hasla said, though she had a guess. “Whoever they are, they know how to use those X-wings of theirs. Stay sharp for a trap, but don’t engage them unless they start something.” “Copy that, Lead,” Jorfa acknowledged. “Close in on the Marauder.” “Belay that,” Hasla countered. “One and Two Flights on the Marauder. Three Flight will hit the bacta freighters with ion cannon again.” The remaining mercenary vessel attempted to put space in between itself and the oncoming B-wings, but the warship was too slow. Lacking the protection of the Crusader gunship, it was all too vulnerable to the fourteen proton torpedoes impacting on its stern. As the shields field, the warship continued to accelerate despite the trail of white-hot plasma and debris emanating from its aft. The eight B-wings attacking switched over to laser and ion cannons, hitting it with energy weapons to conserve ordnance. The Marauder’s weapons were targeted first, followed by repeated runs on the reactor core. Hasla’s B-wing soared in with lasers spraying, strafing the defenseless Marauder. Then she caught a trace of a familiar looking arc-wave running through the ship as she pulled away. “She’s going supercrit,” Hasla observed. “Paladins, fall back.” The seven B-wings of One and Two Flights peeled away just as the Marauder’s remains were engulfed in a sphere of white fire caused by the detonation of its central reactor core. Shooting away from the debris ring, they rejoined their four comrades by the once-more disabled bacta freighter in short order. They did so only to find a dozen X-wing starfighters holding position right in front of the bacta freighter. Their S-foils were locked in attack position, but they made no hostile move and her four pilots had stayed to the rear of the convoy, leaving the disabled freighter in between the B-wings and unknown X-wing formation. A prudent choice on the part of her pilots, one that had possibly prevented a conflict from starting between the Paladins and this other unit. Hasla gingerly switched her comm unit over to unencrypted mode to see if they were picking up any transmissions, but heard nothing. She momentarily switched back to her squadron frequency. “Are you guys getting anything from those X-wings?” she asked. “They seem as confused as we are,” Kerbo replied. “Got zomething,” Paladin Nine replied in his buzzing Verpine voice. “Reczeived tranzmizion from the X-wingz, looped three timez before we hit ze freighterz.” “Let’s hear it,” Hasla said. A second later, the message played through her cockpit speakers as it was routed to her fighter by Paladin Nine. A chill ran down her spine as a familiar-sounding voice began crackling through the speakers. “Unidentified B-wings, this is Commander Wedge Antilles of Rogue Squadron. We’re after that bacta convoy, so if you’re trying to steal it, I’m afraid we can’t allow that. State your business or be targeted.” Hasla took a deep breath. YGI had heard rumors that it was Rogue Squadron leading the nascent resistance against Isard, but they hadn’t confirmed anything. Hasla figured that the message she’d just heard was proof enough—it was definitely Antilles on the other end, and their piloting prowess also carried considerable weight. If her pilots were pitted against the Rogues, they wouldn’t emerge victorious, especially with being outnumbered and in less agile craft. She would have to handle this very carefully. “I’ll handle this,” she said. “Kerbo, bring in the assault shuttles and let them know our situation. Stay sharp.” “Acknowledged,” her XO replied. Hasla flipped back to unencrypted mode and hit the transmission key, schooling her voice to sound cool and professional. “Antilles, this is Commander Hasla Almani of Paladin Squadron. That bacta convoy is ours; we need it for a bunch of sick people back home, so if that’s a problem, then I guess we should start shooting.” Wedge Antilles heard the belated reply from the B-wing unit and was surprised to hear that the female voice was somewhat cultured, with only a trace of an accent. There were no threats or piratical posturing—and the voice did seem somewhat familiar. His comm board crackled with a private transmission from Rogue Nine. “Lead, we can’t believe these guys,” Corran said, his natural suspicion from his days in the Corellian Security Force coming to the forefront. “There’s no evidence they’re anything but pirates.” “I know, Nine,” Wedge replied. Gate whistled at him, and Wedge soon saw the reason for the droid’s signal. Two new contacts had emerged from hyperspace and were on an intercept course for the bacta freighter. At first, he thought that Isard might have caught wind of their ambush and scrambled her Star Destroyers, but the contacts were far too small. Then the female B-wing pilot came back over the comm. “Those are our assault shuttles,” she said. “We need that freighter, Antilles, and I know you won’t destroy it.” “That doesn’t mean we won’t take out the shuttles,” Wedge said. “I won’t sit by and let a bunch of pirates make off with that bacta. People on Coruscant are dying for lack of it.” “People everywhere are dying for lack of it,” the B-wing pilot shot back. “If you think Coruscant was the only planet hit by Isard’s virus, then you need to take a second look at the galaxy.” “She sounds pretty serious, Lead,” Tycho put in over the squadron frequency. “I know,” Wedge said. “We can take them—they have to be running low on torpedoes and they’re down a pilot. I’m just not sure I want to. And Tycho—?” “Yes, Lead?” “Her voice . . . does that sound familiar to you?” His wingman mused silently for a minute. “A little,” came the reply. “That’s what I thought,” Wedge said. He toggled back his comm modes to speak to the B-wing pilot. “How do you expect us to believe you?” he asked her. “You’re not broadcasting as New Republic ships.” “That’s because we’re not New Republic, Antilles,” the B-wing pilot said. “And the fact that we haven’t vaped half of your pilots and we have vaped half of the mercs means that we’re not with Isard.” “That doesn’t prove anything,” Wedge countered. “It just tells me who you’re not.” “Their shuttles are still approaching the freighter,” Tycho reported. “Antilles, I’d tell you who we are, but it wouldn’t mean anything to you. We need that bacta, and my orders are to get it at pretty much any cost. I have no reason to make an enemy of Rogue Squadron, but either we get that bacta, or nobody does.” “You’d destroy the freighter?” Wedge asked, surprised. No response came, but his sensor board soon showed that three of the B-wings had locked torpedoes on the bacta freighter. “You can’t get us all, Antilles,” the pilot said. “Not before we blow that bacta freighter to hell. If those assault shuttles go down, I will destroy that ship.” Wedge stared grimly at the approaching assault shuttles. If they successfully reached the bacta freighter, it would take little for them to seize it and fly the ship to a point where it could jump to hyperspace. That was unacceptable. He decided to raise the stakes and see how the B-wing pilot responded. “If you take over that freighter, we’ll destroy it,” he said coldly. “Your B-wings won’t be able to stop us.” “Then it appears we’re at an impasse,” she said. “I can’t leave without that bacta, and you won’t let me take it.” “So it seems,” Wedge said, wondering where she was going with this. “We either let the freighter get away, or we sit here until Isard shows up and kills us all,” the B-wing pilot remarked. “Or you let us have it.” “I’ve told you,” Wedge replied, “you won’t be getting a free bacta freighter on Rogue Squadron’s watch.” “It wasn’t exactly free,” came the dry answer. Wedge grimaced. This was going nowhere. The B-wings were stalling—this could be an elaborate trap set up by Isard to pin the Rogues down until her fleet arrived. She’d certainly gone to elaborate measures to destroy his squadron before. “Rogues, prepare to target the B-wings. Make sure you hit those assault shuttles too,” he said over the squadron frequency. He gripped his control stick, steeling himself for the renewed sensation of battle, for a fresh adrenaline rush as he wove his fighter through the intricate dance of starfighter combat. Little did he know that the slight wave of apprehension flowing through him and each of his pilots was enough to tip off the Force senses of Hasla Almani, giving her insight into his intentions. Hasla knew what Wedge was getting ready to do. She knew that he was too stubborn and committed to his ideals to back down, however misguided he might be. She also knew that there would be no going back once the shooting started. Then more people would be dead, good people on both sides. Hasla wouldn’t allow her Paladins to be cut down—they would defend themselves and pilots from both squadrons would wind up dead. That would accomplish nothing. She had to stop him from attacking. Frantic and losing her cool, she tried one last time to avert a dogfight. “Wedge! Stop!” she shouted over the unencrypted frequency. “You don’t want to do this.” There was no immediate reply, but the X-wings didn’t break into wingpairs for the attack. She’d bought them a little time, at least. Then, a puzzled-sounding reply came through the comm. “Who are you, Almani?” Wedge asked. “Have we met?” “Yes,” she admitted. “A long time ago, and on good terms. I don’t want to change that.” “Then let the freighter go,” Wedge told her. “You can make a profit elsewhere.” “It’s not about profit,” she said, biting back a sharper reply. “It’s about following orders.” “We’ve been through this already,” Wedge said. “Wait!” Hasla said. “Let’s talk this out. Is Janson still in the squadron?” “I can see you haven’t been keeping up with the news,” Wedge said. “No, Wes is still with the New Republic.” “Oh,” she replied, taken back a bit. “How about Hobbie? Tycho?” “Maybe,” Wedge said suspiciously. “If either of them is with you, I’m going to send you an encryption scheme so we and any other pilot you want to listen can do so,” she said tersely. “There’s something I need to tell you.” She switched back to her Yanibar Guard frequencies. “Kerbo, I want you in on this, too. You’ll need to for when you write up the report, assuming we get through this,” she told the Rodian. “Okay,” he said, obviously confused by her approach to the negotiations. None of her squadron had known the details of her involvement with the Rebellion all those years ago. That was about to change. Kerbo would hear first, then the others would discover it eventually. “Hunter,” she said, calling to the assault shuttles via Yanibar Guard frequencies. “I’m here,” the commando replied from aboard his craft. “Hold off your approach until I say so. I’m going to negotiate a settlement with those X-wings.” The alien hissed silently for a moment, then clicked his comlink in acknowledgement. At least that was settled for now, though it got her no closer to resolving the impasse. Hasla set her comm encryption to use an old Rebel code that had been employed around the time of the Battle of Endor. It had been stored in her datapad all these years after she’d submitted it to YGI, though she’d only kept it for sentimental purposes to listen to the old broadcasts and comm chatter from the battle. She’d never thought she’d use it again. “I’m sending you the encryption scheme now,” she told Antilles over the unencrypted channel, knowing how surprised he’d be when he saw what it was. Wedge’s eyes narrowed as he saw what she’d sent him. It was a familiar comm scrambler protocol, one he’d used years ago at the Battle of Endor. However, nostalgia wasn’t an apt word to describe the emotion that accompanied the recognition. Gut-wrenching worry was more like it, followed with a dash of confusion. Wedge didn’t like confusion. “Tycho, I’m sending you and Corran this transmission code,” Wedge told his wingman. “You need to hear this.” “Lead, this is Nine,” Wedge heard Corran say over the squadron frequency. “What’s the transmission setup for?” “Set your comm unit to use it,” Wedge told him. “I want you on a little private chat with Paladin Lead. Your detective skills might be useful here.” “Right,” Corran acknowledged. “I’ll keep an open ear. Anything I should be looking for?” “We might have a spy of some sort on our hands,” Wedge informed him grimly. “I see,” Corran said, and the edge in his voice was enough to remind Wedge of how much Rogue Squadron had suffered through infiltrators in its ranks. Over the years, people like Shira Brie, Erisi Dlarit, and several others had all earned the squadron’s trust only to betray them. There were few things that could earn a higher level of enmity from the unit. Wedge set his comm system over to the Endor scheme. “Go ahead, Paladin Lead, but make it fast,” he said sternly. “Rogue Squadron won’t be trapped here by your stalling. And if Isard’s warships show up, you will die.” “I understand,” she said calmly. “Wedge, my name is Hasla Almani, but you used to know me . . . as somebody else, years ago.” “Who?” Wedge asked, perplexed. “I was a B-wing pilot for the Rebellion once,” came the reply. “You knew me as Seirla Trasani.” Wedge’s eyes narrowed as the name elicited vague recollections. Then he remembered. “Ice Squadron, right?” Wedge said. “You were at Bespin . . . and Endor.” “That’s right,” she told him. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he said coldly. “You were killed en route to Bespin.” “No,” she said. “I faked my death.” Wedge didn’t know it, but that something of a lie. In truth, Yanibar Guard Intelligence had forcibly extracted her against her will, but Hasla had no desire to expose the operatives who had done so. He would blame her anyway, so there was no point in pinning the responsibility on anyone else. “Why?” Wedge asked. “Why leave the Rebellion?” “I had to,” she said. “My people were calling me back.” “You could have just left,” he said suspiciously. “Your death left a lot of people hurt. Including Wes.” Wedge remembered sitting in a cabin on a Mon Calamari frigate with Luke Skywalker, trying to console a disconsolate Janson. Wes Janson and “Seirla” had been close. His normally merry friend had been near despair, and only Hasla’s message had kept him from becoming fully depressed. “I had no choice in the matter,” she said simply, though her answer seemed evasive to Wedge. “There were bigger powers in play than you realize, Wedge. They still are in play, and they’re demanding that I bring this bacta back.” “Why don’t you explain it to me then?” Wedge asked, letting an iron edge creep into his voice; it was a tone he only used when demanding explanations for mistakes or unruly behavior from his pilots. She took a deep breath. He was going to hate her for this. Tycho would too. They all would. But, she had no other choice, so she told him. “I’m an agent of another organization called the Guard,” she said. “They allowed me to join the Rebellion, but eventually demanded that I return. I had no choice; I didn’t even have enough time to say goodbye.” “You were a spy,” Wedge realized aloud. Anger seeped through him as he mentally added another name to the list of traitors that Rogue Squadron had been infected with. Seirla Trasani hadn’t been in Rogue Squadron, but for a few short weeks, she’d spent a lot of time with him and his pilots. They’d flown on missions together and Janson had even personally saved her life. Little had they known she was actually working against them the whole time. The betrayal drove a deep dagger of pain through him, which his subconscious converted to cold fury. “Wedge,” Hasla said, “I was a Rebel. When the Guard took me back, they had to shoot me down to do it. I never worked against the Rebellion and I never will.” “So why didn’t you come back?” Wedge said. “They needed me,” Hasla said, again fudging the truth a little. “We were going to be wiped out, and not just the fighters of the Guard, Wedge. The women and the children, too. A hidden hope for the galaxy, obliterated. We—the Guard—tried to pay you back by funneling supplies to the Rebellion.” “That’s how you’re flying the B-wings,” Wedge said, persisting with his accusations. “You stole the plans and gave them to this Guard.” “I’m not trying to excuse what I’ve done,” Hasla said. “But I want you to know that I’m deeply sorry and that I don’t want to make an enemy out of Rogue Squadron.” “I think it’s a bit late for that,” Wedge said thickly, fighting back a wave of emotion. “Wedge, there are people on my world that are sick with Isard’s virus. They need this bacta. That’s why they sent my squadron here. Please, let me have it,” Hasla pleaded. “There is no reason for me to believe anything you say,” Wedge said. “You’re a traitor and a spy. I should vape you now.” Hasla heard the veiled anger in Wedge’s voice and felt the betrayal in his emotions ripple through space-time to her fighter. He was wounded and angry now; her revelation had only made things worse. What was worse, was that he and his pilots were good people. Hasla had previously and would gladly deceive people who deserved it—Imperials and criminals and pirates—but doing so to honorable pilots who stood for many of the same things as she did was much different. The fact that she’d once flown directly alongside Wedge and Tycho exacerbated the pain she was feeling, the self-loathing for her transgressions. Her eyes brimmed up with hot tears, but she pressed on after a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, you should, and if that’s what you want, go ahead and do it,” Hasla said. “I’m willing to pay the price for how I’ve wronged you. But don’t let sick people die for my sins.” “How we can trust you at all?” Wedge said. “You’re a liar and a traitor.” Hasla could already hear their openness to her words being blotted out by mental walls of distrust and anger. She was losing any shred of a chance she’d had at persuading them. Hasla became increasingly desperate, not for her sake, but for the sake of the mission. However, she had no other tricks to play, no other leverage to exert. All she could present was as much of the truth as she was allowed, and hope they accepted her candor. “I am,” Hasla admitted. “But I’m not lying now. I made a choice, Wedge, a choice to return with the Guard, to work for the greater good of the galaxy. It doesn’t seem that way to me, but you don’t see the full holo.” “I don’t buy it,” interjected Corran Horn. “There’s not a judge in the galaxy who’d believe that.” “I know it sounds wrong,” Hasla said, her eyes closed as she tried to form her words in a manner that would pierce the walls of skepticism. “I’m not at liberty to give you any more reason to believe me, but we need that bacta. Any and all of my pilots will vouch for that. I’ve been to the medcenters, Wedge. I’ve seen those who suffer from Krytos. Kill me if you want, but I’m begging you not to let innocents die.” Suddenly, Hasla noticed a targeting lock placed on her B-wing. Rogue Leader’s craft was designating her for a rendezvous with a proton torpedo. Steeling herself against the wailing alarm, Hasla spent conscious effort in not reflexively jerking her fighter out of the way. Instead, she deliberately set her shields to double-rear so that she would be absolutely defenseless against an incoming missile. She switched over to the Paladin frequency momentarily. “Paladins, do not engage the X-wings until Kerbo or myself gives the order,” she said. “No matter what.” Hasla hit a switch, killing that transmission and returning to her conversation with the Rogues. “Go ahead, Wedge,” she whispered fiercely. “Pull the trigger.” Through the Force, Hasla could feel the pain and rage emanating from the man; as good and honorable as he was, she knew that a large part of him wanted to kill her. She knew she deserved it for what she’d done to him and Janson and the other Rogues, and was willing to accept it for the sake of her mission. “Fire the torpedo,” she urged him. “I won’t resist. Just let us have the bacta.” Wedge stared as the targeting reticule as Gate’s keening sound told him he had a clean lock. His gloved hand tightened around the control stick, brushing the control that would unleash a proton torpedo at the helpless B-wing occupied by the traitor Hasla Almani. It should have been very easy for him to pull that trigger, but somehow, it wasn’t. He knew he should have wanted her dead enough to kill her. “Corran, Tycho,” Wedge said over his private channel with both of them, “is there any way she’s sincere?” “With comm interference, it’s hard to tell,” Corran commented analytically. “She all but admits to being a spy and a traitor. I’d say she’s guilty.” There was silence. “Tycho?” Wedge asked. “I’m thinking about it,” Wedge’s wingman said. “She’s a liar and a traitor, but she’s right about one thing—I’ve never heard or seen of this Guard she’s speaking of, which means they haven’t attacked us. Isn’t it possible to not be with the New Republic and yet be against the Empire? Can a traitor find redemption?” “Maybe,” Wedge said, thinking over it some more. His eyes bore into the targeting reticule, reminding him of how easy it would be to squeeze the trigger and watch Hasla’s doom ride a trail of ion exhaust and vaporize her forever, blotting out her treacherous existence. At the same time, he knew Tycho had a point—his Alderaanian wingmate had only recently been accused of similar crimes. His name had been publicly slandered and muddied before he was cleared. And then there were all the former Imperials who’d come over to the Rebel side—including, as Wedge recalled, the notorious Imperial ace Baron Soontir Fel. Wedge’s anger subsided somewhat as he remembered their current partners, Elscol Loro and Sixtus Quinn, who had never joined the New Republic but, after the Rogues had left to wage their independent war with Isard, had gladly aided them. Though Hasla clearly wasn’t telling him the whole truth, Wedge conceded that she hadn’t tried to sabotage the squadron, and she seemed regretful for what she’d done. That didn’t make it right, but he knew that even the most hardened criminals could still be redeemed. Hasla’s actions here, while not redeeming her from the stain of her treachery, showed a willingness to place others over himself. That was enough to merit her a brief reprieve from his wrath—this time. His trigger finger relaxed. “I’m going to let you live,” Wedge said tersely, nearly choked up with emotion to the point where he could barely speak. “This time.” He cleared his throat and managed to get better control over his voice. “You and your pilots can have the bacta,” he said. “This time. Can you pay for it?” “We can, at a reasonable price,” she said, relief evident in her voice, but obviously trying to keep her negotiations more professional now. “We won’t harm the crew or the ship, and I’ll see that we slip some funds to a dummy account belonging to an associate of yours, Mirax Terrik. I can’t promise more than one or two hundred thousand credits.” “That’ll do,” Wedge said. “And . . . Hasla?” “Yes?” “There won’t be a next time,” he told her coldly. “The next time we meet, you’d better be turning yourself in, because otherwise I will kill you.” “I understand,” she said quietly. “Thank you, Wedge.” “Don’t thank me,” he said. “Just get out of here before I change my mind.” Hasla switched back to the Yanibar Guard frequencies. “Hunter, grab the transport,” she said. “The X-wings won’t interfere.” “Hunter copies,” the gravelly alien voice replied, and her sensor board showed the assault shuttles closing in on the disabled bacta freighter. She closed her eyes silently, overwhelmed by gratitude and relief. Her pilots were going to take the bacta and leave without getting into a fight with Rogue Squadron, a fight she had no stomach for and one which she could not win. Wedge had made the right decision and had somehow found it within him to let her go as well. Hasla couldn’t readily admit that she would have been so forgiving were she in his cockpit. She switched over to the Endor channel one last time. “I owe you, Wedge,” she said. “Myself or the Guard will make it up to you.” “Might be a better idea for you just to stay away,” Wedge returned, his voice laden with suspicion, disgust, and menace. “After we deal with Isard, I’m going to do Janson the favor of never mentioning this incident. I’d hate to see you put him through more pain than you already have.” He spoke those words knowing they would hurt her, and though she didn’t react audibly, her silence spoke volumes. They were only a small fraction of how he felt, though, and given that he’d given her both her life and the bacta, Wedge didn’t feel too vindictive. “Acknowledged, Rogue Leader, and thank you,” Hasla said, her voice brittle with tension and pain. “Clear skies.” She wiped a tear from her face and blinked away the others that threatened to seep out of her eyes. Even if they kept their interaction a secret, Wedge and Tycho and whoever else was listening in would never see her in the same way again. She’d utterly ruined the image of a slain hero that she’d had in her minds, and that tarnish could not be removed. For that and for the pain she’d put them all through, Hasla was truly sorry. A few minutes later, the bacta freighter was secured by the Yanibar Guard commandos. Even as Morgedh clan Kel’nerh and his team overpowered the crew, the X-wings of Rogue Squadron were outbound on a vector that would take them well away from the Polith system. Not long thereafter, the freighter and its attendant B-wings cleared the gravity well of Polixi as well and jumped to hyperspace. The barren world was quiet once more—no more space battles or wars of words illuminated its airless sky. Only lifelessly floating debris and freshly reopened emotional wounds were left as reminders of the encounter between Rogues and Paladins. Neither would disappear any time soon.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)