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“Hobbie? Is that you, Lieutenant Klivan?”

“That’s Captain Klivan … again, just for the next few minutes.”

The other X-wing unit rose into view, gradually attaining the altitude of Wedge’s squadron. Wedge was startled to see that the dozen snubfighters were painted in Rogue Squadron’s traditional red stripes and twelve-pointed insignia. “Hobbie, explain this.”

“No time, sir. We have a course change for you. High Command has decided to broadcast this entire event across the HoloNet—”

“Oh, no.”

“—so set your new course to ninety-three, follow my rate of descent, and we’ll get you there in one piece. After that, you’re on your own.”

Within moments their destination was clear: Imperial Plaza, a ground-level ferrocrete circle so broad that in spite of the surrounding skyscrapers, it could be seen from high in the air at angles other than directly overhead. The plaza was packed with spectators; even at this altitude Wedge could see banners and fluttering haze that looked like chaff but had to be some sort of celebratory confetti.

A speakers platform had been erected on the plaza’s west side, with barricaded open areas north and south of it—obvious landing zones for the two squadrons.

As they descended toward the plaza, Wedge flipped his comm system back to the squadron channel. “Once around the park, outbound port, return starboard, at five hundred, Rogues. They’re here for a show; let’s give them one.”

Immediately he heard Hobbie’s answer on the same channel: “Same, Reds, but starboard to port return at six hundred meters. Sloppiest flight group buys drinks.”

The two squadrons parted, circling the plaza at its perimeter, the wingtips of the X-wings sometimes only meters from the faces of admirers piled up against the skyscraper windows. The squadrons crossed one another’s positions on the far side of the plaza and rejoined at their first position, then spiraled down toward the landing zones.

Rogue Squadron angled toward the northern area, Red Squadron toward the southern. At three hundred meters, Wedge said, “Landing gear and repulsorlifts, people,” and both squadrons began the safe, vertical descents allowed by the snubfighters’ antigravity engines.

Wedge smiled. “Your Red Squadron looks pretty good, Hobbie. A pity you haven’t had time to teach them anything about precision flying.”

“What?”

“Rogue Squadron, Three Diamonds Parade Formation, execute!”

After a moment’s hesitation—it had been some time since the unit had practiced the intricate parade formations—the Rogues split into their three flight groups, each group maneuvering into a diamond-shaped formation—one X-wing forward, one back, the two others side by side in the middle—with Wedge’s group forward and the other two side by side behind, making a triangle of diamonds, all facing eastward.

Even over the sound of the repulsorlifts, Wedge could hear the cheers from the crowd.

Hobbie’s voice came back immediately: “Red Squadron, same maneuver, but one-eighty to their orientation.” He sounded amused rather than angry. And in moments his squadron was in the same Three Diamonds Formation, but his X-wings faced west.

More cheers—the crowd was going wild over the aerial demonstration.

“A little wobbly, Hobbie.”

“We haven’t been together that long, Wedge, but we still know a few tricks. And you started this. Red Group Three, deny Rogue Group One!”

The three-fighter triangle to Hobbie’s starboard rear broke away from the Red Squadron formation, sideslipped and reversed orientation while maintaining the same internal order, and came into position a mere ten meters beneath Wedge’s group, descending toward the spot where Wedge would have landed.

“Not bad, Hobbie. Rogue Group Two, deny Red Group One!”

Corran Horn, in his green X-wing with the black and white trim, led his group in a similar maneuver and positioned them directly beneath Hobbie Klivan’s group.

“You mynock. Red Group Two, deny Rogue Group Three!”

“Rogue Group One, substitute Red Two!”

The two squadrons’ flight groups crisscrossed above the speakers platform