Even at night, the skies over Coronet glowed well enough for Wedge to clearly see the traffic lanes by naked eye. He checked the T-47’s half-familiar instruments, allowed himself a frustrated sigh, then slid his gaze back up.
“When I heard the plan was armed airspeeders flying in the civilian traffic lanes, I thought, This is a Luke Skywalker plan for sure,” Wes Janson said cheerfully from the gunner seat. “Skyhoppers, sport airspeeders, I just didn’t think the guy actually likes starfighters. Then I find out it’s Rieekan’s plan and I start questioning the sanity of High Command.”
“No, you don’t,” Wedge said absently. “If you were really questioning the sanity of High Command, you’d have to shut up and think about it.”
“I think out loud.”
“You’re loud, anyway. I’m still waiting for evidence on the thinking part.”
Janson tutted at him. “This is why I’m glad Skywalker is the unit commander, not you. His planning leaves a lot to be desired, but he’s not mean.”
“That’s not what you said when he made you polish his boots the second time. And definitely not the third time.”
“His standards are too high. They were definitely good enough after the second round of polish.”
Wedge glanced down again, this time at the datapad on his lap. You shouldn’t do it, he told himself. It’s a security risk.
Yes, it’s a security risk. That’s why you’re not doing it, right? Because you really think the Empire is monitoring an obscure, anonymous Corellian message account that’s been dormant for three years? Four years? Not since the fight with Booster.
He looked ahead at the traffic pattern; the nearest airspeeder was over a hundred meters ahead of him; behind him, another trailed him by nearly a hundred and fifty. Samoc and Cesi were almost two kilometers farther behind, giving no indication they were part of a trained Rebel starfighter squadron on patrol.
Wedge pursed his lips and tapped the connection button on the datapad, allowing it to synchronize with the local comm network to pull messages. This would be easier if I could lie to myself more convincingly.
“Everyone check in,” Luke’s voice crackled on the Rogues’ private encrypted channel. “Lead on Tyrena patrol, all quiet here. Traffic pattern is as expected.”
“Two, three kilometers behind Lead,” Mara reported next. “I think a CorSec speeder was eyeing me a bit ago, but he’s off my scopes again.”
Hobbie was next. “Three in the Bela Vistal pattern. Traffic’s normal, but we caught a bit of chatter on an Imperial channel. It was scrambled, so no idea what they were saying.”
“Four,” Puck said next, “and that traffic looked to me like Viper droid broadcasts. Our comm equipment’s not anything special, but I’d call it north of here, between here and Coronet.”
Wedge cleared his throat. “Five maintaining position in the Coronet pattern,” he said, giving his datapad a covert glance. There were a couple of messages. They’ll wait until later. I don’t need Wes listening to them. “Traffic is light but as expected for the middle of the night.”
“Six maintaining pattern,” Samoc said professionally, “nothing unexpected to report.”
“Lead,” Mara cut in, “do you have sensors on the Imperial garrison north of the city?”
“I will in two minutes,” Luke replied. “Unless I break out of the traffic pattern.”
And the moment we break out of the traffic pattern we’re no longer a covert air patrol, Wedge thought, knowing Luke was running the same calculations.
“Negative,” Mara said. “I think there’s activity on the landing pad, but I’m too far away to get a clean reading. The sensors in these airspeeders are terrible.”
“Bela Vistal group, move through the pattern and hit the lane back to Coronet,” Luke ordered. “Stay with the civilian traffic but make your way back to Five and Six, and see if you can spot those Vipers. Two, stay in the Tyrena traffic while I see if I can get a better look at the garrison.”
Wedge ached to look down at the datapad. Self-control, he told himself. Ice in the veins. It can wait. Especially if this is about to break open.
Carlist Rieekan drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. The second-floor conference room in the Coronet Technical Center was empty aside from the Rebel general and one of his aides. “Madine?”
“Just entered the turbolift,” the Twi’lek lieutenant said after a moment. “He’ll be here in twenty seconds.”
“Assuming he doesn’t keep going,” Rieekan muttered. “Corellia was a completely unnecessary risk. After Orinackra, he should have come straight to one of the task forces, not come back here to an Imperial-controlled planet. Even if Corellia isn’t as firmly in the Empire’s pocket as Palpatine thinks.”
The door rotated open smoothly, near-silently, and Crix Madine, formerly of the Empire’s elite Storm Commandos, walked into the conference room like he owned the building, trailed by two men in nondescript local clothing, carrying themselves with the confidence of trained killers.
Rieekan rose from his chair as Madine approached. When they were two meters apart, he extended his hand. “General Madine,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Madine shook his hand firmly. “General Rieekan. Good to finally meet you in the flesh. Much better than the wanted holos.”
“I would think so,” Carlist said. “Though the war is taking its toll.”
“I imagine so.” Madine slid a chair out and seated himself. “So, let’s talk.”
Rieekan lowered himself back into his chair. “Certainly. And let’s start with why we’re meeting here on Corellia. We both know the Empire’s hunting you. Why risk coming here?”
“Because of Orinackra,” Crix said, settling in, his posture more relaxed than Rieekan expected. “Let’s not pretend we didn’t anticipate a civil war and a rebellion against the Empire. I’ve been making preparations for years, even before I started feeding the Rebel Alliance information. I have contacts and loyalists spread throughout the Imperial Army. But my network is too big for all of it to stay in my head.”
“So you came back here for information,” Rieekan said.
Madine nodded. “I destroyed most of my records when I was arrested, but I had backups here. Without those, I can only provide what I remember.” He held up a datacard. “But this? With this we can inflict real damage on the Empire.”
“Good. Excellent, even,” Rieekan said. “Then let’s get out of here.”
“But here’s where we have a problem,” Madine continued. “As you yourself pointed out, the Empire is actively hunting me. How do I know you can even get me off Corellia and back to your base of operations?” His icy eyes met Rieekan’s. “The Empire planned to execute me once already, and I don’t intend to let them get their hands on me again.”
“Coming with me is your ticket off Corellia. I have a U-wing sitting on the roof ready to extract us and get us off-planet. We can be in the air in three…” His voice trailed off as he caught the flicker of movement out in the dark beyond the transparisteel windows. “Imperial scout walk…”
He didn’t get the observation out before fire rained down from above, hammering the AT-ST until it erupted into a teeth-rattling explosion.
Samoc allowed herself a small smile as she glanced back at the burning walker. The heavy repeating blaster chattered, and Cesi made a noise somewhere between angry and delighted. “Second walker down,” the Twi’lek gunner announced.
“That’s a kill for each of us,” Samoc said, failing to keep the pride out of her voice. First time I’ve flown a T-47, but we’ve already got two ground kills.
“Vipers are down.” Puck’s voice was as cheerful as Samoc felt. “We’re back in the traffic pattern, but I doubt our cover will hold much longer.”
“Four, the back window on your canopy looks cloudy,” Hobbie’s voice cut in, concern evident.
“Eight threw up when I pulled out of the attack dive.”
Kit’s voice was hoarse. “I’m usually not facing backwards through these maneuvers.”
“Heads up, Six,” Wedge warned. “We’ve been made. I see CorSec patrol craft on approach.”
“Are we shooting at the locals?” Samoc asked tightly.
“Not if we can help it. CorSec’s not our enemy.” Wedge was silent for a second. “Oh. We’ve got TIE fighters inbound. They’ll be here before CorSec.”
“Lead here,” Luke cut in. “Two and I hit most of the Imps lifting from the Tyrena garrison, but two transports got away. They were loading stormtroopers on our first pass and then disappeared into the civilian traffic.”
Concealment goes both ways, Samoc thought. Great. “Where did the AT-STs come from?” she asked.
“Not sure,” Wedge said. “I didn’t see them in the ground clutter until they started crossing that park toward the tech center. Form up on my wing; we take the TIEs together.”
Rieekan risked a glance over the overturned table. E-11 blaster rifles screamed and blaster bolts flashed by so close he could feel the heat as he ducked back down. “Stormtroopers,” he grunted as he raised his blaster pistol.
“The real question is whether they followed me or you,” Madine said conversationally as he leaned out from cover to fire a pair of shots before ducking back to relative safety.
“More likely you,” Rieekan said. “If they were following me, they’d have hit the forces I brought with me first.”
Madine frowned. “You mean your U-wing?”
“No, I mean my starfighter squadron.”
“Starfighter…” Madine’s jaw dropped open. “Wait. Skywalker’s unit? Rogue Squadron?”
Rieekan arched an eyebrow, then winced as a lucky blaster bolt caught the top edge of the table and sent a shower of splinters over him. “You already know about them,” he stated.
“After that stunt Skywalker pulled on Ralltiir, yes, we got briefed. And then there was absolutely no news. Is this the first time you’ve used them since then? That was, what, two months ago?”
“They were off-grid training, and then they raided Barkhesh a week ago.”
“Ah. I was already in Orinackra by then.”
Rieekan leaned out and fired again, this time catching a stormtrooper square in the faceplate and sending the white-armored enemy tumbling to the floor. “They’re holding the door open. Are you coming with me or not?”
Wedge coughed on the smoke in the T-47’s cockpit; the last TIE’s final shot had pierced the lightly armored fuselage of his airspeeder, and half a dozen displays were flashing red lights, with warning text scrolling faster than he could read. “Janson?”
“Still with you, boss,” Wes said. The gunner’s usual cheer was now replaced with reptilian coldness. “Last TIE down, but we’ve got six more on approach.”
“Lead? Three?” Wedge asked on the comm. “How far out are you?”
“Too far.” Luke’s voice was tight. “They’ll be on you and Six before we can get there. You’ve got maybe twenty seconds. CorSec pulled back. I don’t think they want to get between us and the Imps. Status?”
Wedge banked the airspeeder and spared a glance off his wing. Samoc’s speeder was in position a hundred and fifty meters away, though it, too, was trailing smoke. He looked the other direction, back at the tech center, and grimaced at the burning U-wing on the landing pad. “Not good. We’re still up but we’ve taken hits. The U-wing’s gone; one of the TIEs got it.”
“TIEs diving on you now,” Luke said. “Hang on, Wedge.”
Wedge reversed his bank, leading Samoc around into a head-to-head pass with the TIEs. Not great with no shields, he concluded grimly, but better than letting them get an angle on us unopposed. “Twelve, Eleven, hold your fire unless you’re certain of your shot,” he warned. “Good chance they don’t know we’ve got gunners in the back. As soon as you start shooting, all bets are off.”
Then a new voice cut in. “Antilles, cut forty degrees north and hold your course,” a Corellian-accented voice ordered.
“Who…?”
“Now,” the man emphasized.
Wedge banked away, Samoc holding formation, presenting their tails to the TIEs. “They’re coming fast,” he said.
“Not for long.”
Dropping like a meteor, far larger than the airspeeders in the now-scattered traffic lanes or the TIEs, a Corellian Engineering Corporation light freighter came rocketing through the blackened sky. Heavy quad guns started pouring out fire on the six TIEs angling on the Rogue airspeeders. Two caught direct hits and exploded; the rest scattered, dropping out of formation. Wedge reversed his turn, bringing his nose around on the TIEs again.
A Wookiee’s roar filled the comm channel.
“Han? Chewie?” Luke sounded baffled. “What are you doing here?”
Wedge finally caught a clear look at the interloper: a battered YT-1300 freighter, disc-shaped with two forward mandibles, an offset cockpit, and unmistakable rust pattern he’d practically memorized the week after the Death Star battle.
“Thought we’d give you a hand, kid,” Han Solo said, calm and cocky as Wedge remembered. “This is my homeworld, after all.”
Rieekan must have had him in reserve, Wedge thought. An extra dejarik piece on the board if everything went sideways. Which it did. Aloud, he said, “Rieekan and Madine are down in the Coronet Technical Center. Rieekan’s U-wing is slag; they’re going to need a ride out.”
“Maybe Rieekan will actually pay his fare,” Solo grumbled. “You Rebels are idealists about everything except the bill.”
The Millennium Falcon dropped like a stone toward the Technical Center, repulsorlifts only kicking in at the last second. The battered smuggler vessel touched down with the force of a falling leaf.
Luke glanced over his shoulder. “What’s our tail look like, Zev?”
“CorSec broke off,” the older man said tightly. “Probably ordered out by the local Imperial garrison commander. We’ve got a lone TIE working his way up, maybe two hundred meters over the traffic lane. I think he’s looking for us.”
“Traffic’s too light for us to hide,” Luke said ruefully. “Get ready to take the shot. Don’t wait for him to make us. Two, status?”
“At least the repulsorlifts are still working,” Mara grumbled. “No luck getting either the forward guns or the repeater working. This is why I work on my own fighter, Lead.”
“If you want to lodge a complaint with whoever did these combat refits, I’ll be right behind you.” For the first two minutes of combat, Mara and Karie’s airspeeder had flown well, but during a high-G turn with a TIE fighter, the guns had abruptly failed. Now they were a kilometer ahead of Luke and Zev in the traffic pattern, heading toward Coronet.
Rieekan’s voice crackled on the channel. “Excellent work, Rogue Group. I have the package secured on the Falcon. We’re ready to lift. Rogue Leader, get your people out of there.”
“Working on it, General,” Luke said. “Zev?”
“Ten seconds.”
Use the Force, Luke. Obi-Wan’s words echoed in his ears, and Luke wasn’t sure whether it was a memory or truly audible. He focused and pushed. He could feel the faint tingle of energy, but he was too distracted by the danger, too concerned about his damaged wingman, to sense anything more concrete. If not the Force, then trust my gunner, he told himself.
The heavy repeater thundered. “Got him,” Zev drawled, as calm as if he was reporting on the daily meal in the Independence mess.
Luke blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good shot, Nine.”
“Rogue Group, this is the Hydruga,” a female voice spoke on the encrypted channel. “We’re lifting out of the Coronet spaceport. CorSec and the Imps are going to start looking at us sideways when we open the ramps mid-air, so load up quick.”
“Three’s element first,” Luke ordered. “Then Five’s element. Then mine.”
Y-4 transports were built with six cargo ramps; when the bulk hauler landed, almost the entire the cargo hold could be exposed, allowing a prepared crew to unload it in a fraction of the time a normal cargo ship took. The Hydruga, however, had been refit as a stealth hauler for the T-47s. An airspeeder would mag-clamp to the cargo ramp, which would then raise and secure the T-47 inside the Y-4, out of sight and ready for off-world transport.
By the time Luke could see the lumbering Y-4, three of the cargo ramps had already been closed. Wedge nailed his final approach, compensating for the Hydruga‘s slow but steady climb across his vector, sliding neatly into position before the clamps secured the speeder. The ramp rotated up into position, taking Wedge out of view.
“Lead,” Mara abruptly called, voice tight. “Three TIEs on approach. Aborting my landing pattern.”
“Get on the Hydruga,” Luke ordered. “You have no guns.”
“Lead…”
“That’s an order, Two.”
Ahead, he could see Mara’s airspeeder wobble, but she committed to the docking pattern instead of breaking off. One less thing to worry about.
“Rogue Leader,” the Hydruga‘s comm officer said, “we need you on board now. We’re near max altitude for your repulsorlifts, and the longer we stay down here, the more attention we’re going to attract.”
Luke grimaced as he calculated. “That leaves three TIEs at your back, Hydruga. They’re going to chase us all the way up the climb.”
“Like hell they will,” Han’s voice called. “Just get that crate on the transport, kid, and get out of here.”
Ahead, barely visible, the TIE formation continued on an arrow-straight course for the escaping Rebel transport until a streak of smoke and light angled up from the city below; the lead TIE fighter exploded. Concussion missile, Luke realized.
“We’re waiting on you, Lead,” Wedge said.
Luke committed to the landing approach. Don’t chase the kills. Finish the mission and get out, he told himself.
The Hydruga‘s hold was cramped with six T-47 airspeeders and a dozen Rogues. The atmospheric buffeting had fallen away to the steady vibration of a transport in hyperspace. The T-47s were still clamped to the loading ramps, nose-down and nearly vertical. Wedge managed to find a moment of quiet by climbing up his T-47 and seating himself on the rear radiator, his head brushing the top of the cargo hold.
Once he felt confident he wasn’t in imminent danger of falling, he pulled his datapad out of his pocket and powered up the screen. There’s no guarantee Booster reached out, he told himself. Don’t be disappointed.
The dormant account only had a handful of messages, most of them advertisements. None of the remaining messages had Booster’s code, but one of them bore Mirax’s.
Wedge punched it up. It was text-only, no holo.
Wedge,
I don’t know when or if you’ll see this, but I wanted you to know that my father was arrested by CorSec. Inspector Horn caught him dead to rights with a cargo hold full of blaster rifles. I know the two of you didn’t part ways on the best of terms, but you should still know what happened to him. He’s looking at five years on Kessel.
I still have the Skate – Father was working with a partner on the job and wasn’t using his ship.
Send me a message when you can, if you still want to after joining the Empire.
–Myra
The message was dated three years ago, just weeks after Wedge had left for the Academy.