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“Here you are, sir.” Wedge’s words came in a buzzing croak, half because of the pressure on his larynx and half because of the voice modulator built into the mask.

The Customs official gave the ID card only a cursory glance before he swiped it through a slot on his datapad. “Colonel Antar Roat …”

“Ro-at.”

“What?”

“My name is pronounced Ro-at.” The buzz made the words all but unintelligible, though the emphasis he placed on them appeared to get through to the Customs official.

“Pardon, sir. Colonel Ro-at. You are bound for Imperial Center for reconstr … yes, of course.” The man’s voice trailed off. “Everything seems in order here, Colonel.”

Wedge raised his hand to take the card back, but did not let his claw close on it yet. “Are you certain? My baggage is in my sleeping berth.”

“Yes, I am certain.” The man impatiently tapped the card against Wedge’s thumb.

“I understand the need for security, sir.”

“I’m certain, sir.”

“If you have trouble, I will help.” Wedge let his voice fall to a whisper, as if suddenly overcome with fatigue. His head dipped slightly at the same time, then he brought it back up. “I will help.”

The Customs man nodded. “I will remember that, Colonel.”

Wedge took the card and fumbled a couple of times before he slid it home again. “I live to serve.”

The Customs man moved on, mumbling under his breath. “You’re dead and still serving. The Emdee-fours should have let you die.”

Wedge would have missed the remark, but the hearing enhancement built into the mask and fed into his right ear allowed him to catch it. He killed the smile the comment threatened to produce because he knew Colonel Antar Roat would find little in life that was funny. And getting caught by Customs as I try to land on Coruscant would not be funny at all.

It had not occurred to Wedge to wonder how he would be inserted into Coruscant until he was on his way for his briefing about his cover. He’d known, of course, that he couldn’t fly an X-wing in there, and he sincerely doubted much in the way of contraband or illegal immigrants made it onto Coruscant without someone knowing and approving of it. He’d assumed he would be disguised somehow, but it never crossed his mind that he would head into Coruscant in an Imperial Naval Officer’s uniform.

The briefing about his new identity had been fascinating. General Cracken’s people had fashioned several identities for him. One, Colonel Roat, was designed for insertion and possible reuse later to get back out again. He had another one for the time he would be scouting around on Coruscant and a third as his exit identity. He had been informed about the latter two identities, but all datacards and other things for them would be supplied on Coruscant after he had been met and had a chance to settle in.

The Intelligence division had chosen Colonel Antar Roat as his insertion cover for a couple of reasons. The first was that the prosthetics hid Wedge’s identity almost completely. Moreover, they were a forbidden attractant—they made him unusual enough that people would pay attention to him, but they would see the parts, not the man wearing them. And people caught staring at him would look away in shame. They would remember a man with war injuries, but any details would concern his mechanical parts. Since the parts could be removed and discarded, authorities would be looking for a man who no longer existed once Wedge had shed that disguise.

The second reason Roat had been created for Wedge was because Wedge was a pilot. He could accurately and intelligently converse about starfighter combat if pressed. His cover story indicated he had been shot down in the defense of Vladet, in the Rachuk system, and Wedge could talk about that battle since he’d been there.

I was on the Rebel side, but I was there.

A slight tremor rippled through the ship. Wedge hit a button beside the screen in front of him and the view shifted to an external one being flashed from a holocam mounted in the aft of the Jewel of Churba. A