X-wing_ Wraith Squadron Part 22

Tyria's pillow bounced off his face.

"Ah. Well, I'll just put it on hold, then."

"Tell me about these Rangers," Kell said.

She gave him a curious look. "Why?"

"Because I'd like to know."

"All right." She turned on her back and stared up at the featureless ceiling. "It's an old order, the Antarian Rangers. Founded centuries ago to aid Jedi Knights. A few of them, anyway; most of the Jedi tended to be pretty solitary. But some of them appreciated having loyal, reliable warriors to help them. Freedom's Sons were one such order, and the Rangers were another.

"To be a Ranger meant knowing how to move in any environment. To blend in with the forest or gra.s.sland, to sail, to swim, to dive, to pilot. To be masters of our surroundings. We were good spies, good warriors, very adept at intrusion and escape.

"In the old days, there were communities of the Rangers on several worlds, including Toprawa. There was some intermarrying between the Jedi and the Rangers, which may be where I inherited my own nearly useless talent with the Force. Gradually, there were fewer and fewer Rangers around. The Clone Wars killed off whole clans, and then most of the rest were purged with the Jedi. The rest went underground. My family stayed hidden for decades, and then before we could emerge, Toprawa was bombed into barbarism by the Empire. That's when the last of the Antarian Rangers on Toprawa died."

"Except you," Phanan said.

"I'm not sure it's a matter of 'except me.' I expect that I will die in this service, without continuing my line. The Sarkins are gone. I'm just a living reminder, hoping to make something of myself before I join them.

That's why I make few plans for the future." She turned toward Kell as he opened his mouth. "Don't say it. Don't tell me that I may doom myself by being fatalistic. I've heard it before."

"Then why haven't you listened?" he asked. Instead of being offended, she smiled. "Kell, I've failed at everything I wanted to do in life so far. I failed to keep my family alive. I failed to learn the ways of the Force and uphold my family tradition. I failed to enter the fighter corps on my own merits. But I got in anyway, by way of a cheat I shouldn't have accepted. Now all I want to do is find some sort of grace, something that will make up for my failures. Just once before I die. Can't you understand that?"

Kell thought back to his family's last days on Alderaan, the meticulous scrubbing of their true family name from every aspect of their lives, the way his mother cursed and mourned her husband at the same time. "Believe me, I can."

"Then you don't need to preach to me that what I'm doing is the wrong path." She motioned as though to shoo them away. "Go on, you two. Let me get some rest." As they rose, she added, "And, Ton?"

"Yes?"

"Take care of my snubfighter. I want it back."

15.

"Captain Darillian and the warlord will be very pleased," Face said.

This time, he was not wearing a disguise cobbled together in a matter of seconds.

His entire face was covered in a sheath of flesh tone polymer that allowed his skin to breathe yet concealed his true features and scars.

The polymer took makeup well and was decorated with a luxuriant mustache and the usual a.s.sembly of small scars, moles, and other defects a normal person acquires over a lifetime. He could not feel the nighttime wind in his face, but otherwise the mask was fairly comfortable. Face also wore an Imperial lieutenant's uniform, modified to bear the extravagant rank insignia unique to Night Caller.

The man before him, Governor Nojin Koolb of the Outer Rim world of Xartun, smiled in appreciation of Face's words. "I am delighted to hear it."

Face brought his voice down, made it a trifle ominous. "One thing disturbs the warlord, however. The fact that Xartun is a recent signatory to the New Republic. Do you not feel a certain conflict between the word you've given the Provisional Council and the one you've just given the warlord? "Governor Koolb did not lose his smile or aplomb. "Of course not, Lieutenant. It was my ill.u.s.trious and so widely mourned predecessor who signed the accord with the New Republic. I did not. My loyalty is with Zsinj... even if practical circ.u.mstances prevent me from declaring it publicly at this time."

Face smiled in return. "We'll see to it that you can make your true feelings known as soon as possible." He extended his hand.

The governor shook it. "I look forward to it. By your leave." He and his subordinates withdrew from Face and the shuttle, standing far enough away on the ferrocrete landing pad that an ill-considered pivot of the shuttle on takeoff would not carry the thruster wash across them.

Face trotted up the shuttle's boarding ramp, felt it rising to close even before he reached the top. He dropped into the copilot's seat beside Cubber, who wore the uniform of an Imperial ensign. "Are they on station?"

"They should be, by now. Let's find out." Cubber double-tapped a b.u.t.ton on the shuttle's comm.

Face looked out across the ferrocrete. Ahead of him, the first of Xartun's two suns was just beginning to rise over the innocuous bunker where he had just spent a couple of informative hours; the governor had given him the very detailed grand tour reserved for Captain Darillian.

Face had seen the underground levels, the manufacturing equipment that turned out transparisteel products such as blastproof windows and fighter canopies. All of it, the governor explained, now owned by Lord Houghten Ween... another alias of Warlord Zsinj.

Beyond the bunker was the parking area and arrival zone where the plant's day laborers left their personal vehicles, and beyond that was the land road leading to the nearest community. All around the complex was thick forest... forest where the commando team was now supposed to be waiting.

But Face saw no signal, heard nothing over the comm. "No sign of them,"

he said.

"Look at your chest."

Face glanced down. Dancing around on his chest was a bright red spot, the wrong end of the laser targeting sight from Donos's sniper rifle.

Face half crawled out of the chair before he could bring himself under control. "All right. They're ready." He took a couple of deep breaths to bring himself under control. The red light disappeared. "I'm going to get him for that."

"Sure you are."

Face took off his lieutenant's cap, pulled the concealed device from within, and plugged it into the shuttle's communications console. "Tour data compressing... compressing... Ready to go." He turned on the comm.

"Shuttle Adder's Bite ready to depart. Requesting communications signal integrity check."

"Adder's Bite, this is Tower Six, copy. Go ahead."

"Prepare for thirty seconds of nasty Verpine music, then report signal strength." He hit the transmit b.u.t.ton.

The file began broadcasting. Coming in over an audio link, it would sound like discordant, jarring shrieks only a very few alien species could love. Acquired as data and then translated by a program written by Grinder, though, it would expand out into a holographic record of Face's tour through the manufacturing bunker.

The file cut off. "Signal strength nine," Tower Six reported. "And that's nasty."

"Don't let your children listen to it. They might get a taste for it...

like mine did. Adder's Bite out, and away."

"Good luck, and good flying. Tower Six out."

Cubber cut in the repulsorlifts and the Narra smoothly rose off the ferrocrete pad. As she rose, her wings came down from their upfolded position and locked into cruising configuration. Cubber elevated the bow and cut in the thrusters, punching the Narra up toward s.p.a.ce at an abrupt angle.

Face, bounced around by the crude maneuvers in spite of the inertial compensators, hurriedly strapped himself into place. "Hey, where did you earn your pilot's license?"

"License?" Cubber broke into laughter. "Listen to the boy. I don't have anything as fancy as a license. Just a few hours instruction from a couple of pilots I did some favors for. You want a smoother ride? Give me some lessons."

"Oh, yeah? Will you trade a favor for them?"

"Sure. Something mechanical? "

"A modification to Vape, my R2."

"Sure. Just let me station this flying can at our waiting zone and you can tell me all about it."

A hundred meters from the landing pad, in a glade a few meters from the forest edge, Grinder looked over his datapad. "It uncompressed fine. I told you."

Kell squatted down beside him. "Don't be defensive. I just like to have things run through over and over again."

"You're obsessed with preparation."

"Yes, I am. Meaning I want you to study that recording until your eyes bleed. I'm going to do the same."

Grinder sighed.

They wore dark jumpsuits in dark green broken by irregular swaths of black-camouflage wear suited to deep forest or nighttime in most overgrown areas. All the Wraiths but Face were present... and despite the rank disparity between them, Wedge had a.s.signed command of the mission to Kell, due to his specific commando experience.

"All right," Kell said. "Everyone, settle in for some sleep. I'll take first watch; Janson, you take second. We go at nightfall."

As the day progressed, large personnel skimmers and private vehicles delivered workers and managers to the factory. From their vantage point, the commando party couldn't see much of what went on at the front, or business, end of the complex. But shortly before noon, four X-23 StarWorker s.p.a.ce barges landed and took on cargo through the bunker's rear cargo doors. Kell and Wedge took notes on their registry numbers while Jesmin recorded all transmissions. The barges took off an hour later and Kell went off-duty, settling into sleep.

He woke as dusk was settling. He was a little stiff and suffered from new aches, his sleeping roll not being adequate defense against the hard ground and tree roots beneath him or the local stinging insects. The other Wraiths looked as though they felt the same.

Runt, his fur spotted with twigs and crumbled pieces of leaves, handed him a hot and extra-stout cup of caf. Kell took a sip and winced. "More of Cubber's solvent?"

Runt looked at him in slight confusion, then something in his eyes and manners changed and he uttered a soft chortle. "I understand."

"Has everyone eaten?"

"Everyone but you." Runt picked up a small gray case a third of a meter long and pressed a recessed b.u.t.ton at one end. The whole package began to crackle as its contents, Kell's supper, began to cook within.

"Good." Kell raised his voice slightly to get everyone's attention.

"People, do your final equipment checks. We'll move out as soon as it's fully dark."

He ignored his own directive; he'd done his equipment check before falling asleep. Shaped charges. Grenades. Explosives. Adhesives.

Detonators. Detonation comlinks. Miniature datapads optimized to detect complex sets of circ.u.mstances and then trigger detonators. Sensors.

Tools. Hand lights. Headband lights. Lights with temporary adhesives to stick to all sorts of walls and other surfaces. A full-sized datapad with permanent memory stuffed full of data about explosives in use by the Empire, by the New Republic, by warlords and individual worlds. All of it arranged by straps or in pockets so he could find any item by touch. All of it was fine. He opened his meal case and began absently pulling nameless meatlike b.a.l.l.s from it and eating them.

Grinder waved a hand to get his attention. Kell moved over to him, still unsteady from sleepiness, and drank more of the poisonous caf.

"I have something for you," Grinder said. He was staring intently at the oversized screen on his datapad.

Kell moved to loom over him. "Show me."

On the screen was a panoramic camera view of the front of the bunker.

Kell knew it had been taken through the fisheye camera rig in Face's hat.

With the touch of a b.u.t.ton, Grinder set the view into motion; the heavily armored door into the bunker slid open, the planet's governor and some of his cronies moved ahead of the camera view into the small vehicle hangar beyond, and Face's point-of-view followed.

One of the governor's men pointed, drawing Face's attention toward a long, open vehicle, which Kell recognized as an Ubrikkian cargo skiff.

This one was different from the standard model; at the rear was a small pa.s.senger bay enclosed in a globular transparisteel canopy. Inside was a reclining couch large enough for two. The governor's man wore an expression Kell interpreted as amused, and the camera vibrated a little, possibly from Face laughing.

"Here," Grinder said, and paused the image. He tapped the lower-left corner of the display. It showed a man holding a comlink, but not orienting it toward his mouth. Grinder started the image in motion again.

The man pressed a b.u.t.ton on the comlink. Behind him, in the corner of the display, the bunker door began to close. "What does that suggest to you?"

"The door closed on a signal instead of a wall switch or a timer," Kell said. "And possibly the governor's man drew Face's attention away to keep him from seeing it; that whole scene in the corner would have been behind him as he looked at the skiff. That suggests a security measure. Maybe an alarm on timer; if they don't switch it off with the comlink within the appointed time, the alarm goes off."

"That's my guess, Demolition Boy."

"I'm leader here; call me Demolition Boy Sir. Uh, roll that sequence back to the point at which he hit the b.u.t.ton on the comlink."

Grinder did.

Kell consulted the numbers on the text screen of the datapad. "Jesmin, how long have you been recording?"

The Mon Calamari stood at attention. "Since we came on station, Demolition Boy Sir."

Kell gave her a look suggesting she had just betrayed him to the Imperials. "That's an awful lot of time to record, isn't it?"

"Not really. My gear records everything off the airwaves, but a.n.a.lyzes it as it goes, and only commits discrete strong signals or repeating patterns to its memory. So after hours of recording I have perhaps an hour recorded."

"Did you record a transmission at two hundred oh eight oh three?"

She picked up her heavy communications gear pack and opened the flap giving her access to the main control screen. After a few moments, she said, "Something within eight seconds of that time, sir. Acceptable within normal variations on individual chronos. The transmission was fairly complex but lasted less than half a second."

"Make sure that eight seconds is the interval between your gear and Grinder's datapad." Kell frowned at the Bothan. "Didn't I tell you to synchronize the chronos between everyone's datapads?"

Grinder looked abashed. "I have no excuse, sir."

"Oh, so when you're in trouble, I stop being Demolition Boy?"

Grinder grinned.

"That's the interval," Jesmin said.

"All right. Note that transmission and be prepared to broadcast it, in the frequency it came in on, at my command."

There was a faint rustle in the trees between them and the landing pad.