Enemy Lines II_ Rebel Stand - Aaron Allston [10]
Then the tall man sent another thought, a question: How?
The smaller man trembled in his grip, and thoughts, hundreds of them, tiny and scurrying like rodents, flashed through his mind.
Then there was an image. A machine, something a man could hold in two hands. From its nozzle came a blinding blaze, a cutting fire. The small man thought of that fire piercing the wall, cutting a door, allowing the tall man through.
The tall man formed another thought. In it, the small man would go forth, find that machine, and bring it here. Immediately. With ruthless strength, he hammered that thought into the small man’s mind, heard his new shriek. Then he dropped the small man.
His new slave, weeping, sobbing, ran off into the darkness.
Borleias
Colonel Tycho Celchu, Wedge Antilles’s second-in-command, entered the general’s office. He was grinning and could not seem to stop, unusual for the reserved officer, who seldom betrayed emotions for more than a moment in any official situation. “General,” he said, “I present you with the officer in charge of the Taanab Yellow Aces.” He gestured like a master of ceremonies toward the door, which he’d left open behind him.
Into the office stepped a broad-shouldered man, handsome and dark-haired, the sort on whom middle age settled like a set of rakish clothes. He wore a jumpsuit of poisonous yellow accentuated by jagged lines of black, like a mad decorator’s interpretation of a brain wave, and, instead of saluting, struck a heroic pose. “Captain Wes Janson reporting. Uh, sir.”
Wedge rose to clasp Janson’s hand, then dragged the man to him in an embrace. “Wes! They didn’t tell me you were part of the incoming group.”
“I laid down some bribes. Couldn’t have them spoil my big moment. Say, what’s to drink?”
“Home-brewed poison, for the most part, except on rare occasions. Here, sit.” Wedge took his own seat, and, once Tycho had shut the door for privacy, the other two followed suit.
Janson pulled a data card out of one of his jumpsuit’s many pockets and flipped it onto Wedge’s desk. “I’m sure you’ve gotten the inventory from Reckless Abandon already, but here’s my copy, just to make sure they’re the same. Foodstuffs, ammunition, munitions, spare starfighter parts, several barrels of inadequately aged Taanab fruit brandies …”
“Wonderful.” Wedge slipped the card into his datapad, reviewing the words that scrolled up on his screen. “How long will you be insystem?”
“Oh, until I get killed, I guess.”
Startled, Wedge glanced up at him. “How’s that again?”
“The Taanab Yellow Aces is an all-volunteer unit. Financed by the same fund-raising effort that went into purchasing and delivering all those inventory goods. Organized by me. When I resigned my commission, I told my superiors I’d be back with a piece of Tsavong Lah in my pocket. I can’t disappoint them.”
Wedge smiled. “Care to transfer into Rogue Squadron?”
“I’d love to. But I can’t. I brought a squad and a half of Taanab and refugee pilots who sort of have the right to follow my lead.”
Tycho made a tsk-tsk noise. “How very responsible of you, Wes.”
Janson shrugged, rueful. “Sad side effects of age, I’m afraid.” His expression became livelier. “Which you can help me forget. Tell me about a female pilot, Twin Suns Leader. She has a nice voice. Does she have looks to match?”
Wedge, struggling to keep from laughing, exchanged a glance with Tycho. “Well, yes. She’s nice looking.”
“Married? Attached?”
“Attached, I think. Recently attached.” To my nephew, Wedge added to himself, no matter how hard they try to keep others from noticing.
“So, who is she?”
Wedge frowned as if remembering. “Jay something. Isn’t that right?” He turned to Tycho.
“I think so.”
“Jay, Jay …” Wedge let his expression clear. “That’s it. Jaina Solo.”
Janson’s face paled. “Jaina Solo.”
“I’m sure that’s the name.”
“Sith spawn, I was flirting with a nine-year-old.”
“Nineteen,