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Janson’s voice was ragged. “Eleven pilots we trained. Wiped out by a simple ambush. What a pair of incompetents we must be.”

Wedge shook his head. “It was more than a simple ambush. We’ll know how much more soon. In the meantime, don’t tear yourselves up. Any one of us could have been lured into something like that—all we’d have to do is base decisions on Intelligence reports that seemed reliable. You understand?”

Both men nodded.

From a flight suit pocket Wedge produced a datapad; this he handed to Janson. “There are a couple of files on this. One is a set of pilot-data criteria. The other is authorization to run it against pilot profiles across records of all New Republic armed forces. Tomorrow, I want you to assemble a list of all pilots matching the criteria, then begin to contact them, find out how many of them are willing to put in for transfer to my new squadron for possible permanent assignment. I’ll bet pretty close to one hundred percent will be. Those who answer in the affirmative, send to Folor without informing them of their destination; we’ll meet and evaluate them there.”

He turned to Hobbie. “As soon as you’ve had a chance to debrief Donos, I want you to work up a simulator run based on the mission that destroyed Talon Squad. It will be one of the first simulator training sessions the new squad attempts—and the next one Rogue Squad experiences. So it doesn’t happen again.”

“Understood,” Hobbie said.

“After due consideration and review, I think it’s a terrible idea,” said General Crespin.

It was weeks later, and Wedge Antilles stood before another military leader in another office and prepared to plead his case again. Wedge felt irritation well up within him. Crespin might be his superior, but did not have a grasp of small-unit fighter uses and tactics superior to Wedge’s. Few, if any, officers did. But he clamped down on his emotion. It was important to meet Crespin reason for reason, fact for fact; if he let emotion dictate his defense he would lose this argument.

General Crespin, new commander of the fighter training base on the moon called Folor, and personal commander of two training squads of A-wings, paced behind his desk while Wedge remained standing at attention before it. Crespin was a tall, lean man who seemed to know only two expressions, impassive and stern. Since the last time Wedge had seen him, in the briefings before the assault on the second Death Star, Crespin had been promoted from colonel to general, had picked up a limp, and had had his left eye replaced by a glossy black optical; he usually wore a mirrored patch over the mechanical replacement, as the patch was far less ominous than the black, inhuman eye. Wedge suspected the general could see through the patch. Wedge had heard that Crespin had been injured during a bombardment by Zsinj’s Super-class Star Destroyer, Iron Fist, against a New Republic military base established near the border to Zsinj-controlled space.

“We don’t need misfits representing the New Republic,” the general continued. “We need heroes. Men and women with proper character and clean records. Hologenic pilots who’ll look good in the broadcasts, good in the archives.”

“With all due respect, General, that’s equivalent to piloting a course right into the dark side of the Force.”

Crespin’s head snapped around and he glared at Wedge. “You’re insolent. Explain yourself.”

Wedge took a deep breath. Contain your anger. Make him an ally, not an enemy. “First, since the Alliance was first formed, we’ve made it a policy to accept Imperial defectors.”

“I know that. I’m one of them.” Crespin’s chin came up, as if he were inviting Wedge to address the question of his loyalty.

“Yes, sir. So, as you know, sometimes these people had just been waiting for the chance to side with us. Like yourself. Sometimes they jumped when our position was stronger than the Empire’s. Sometimes they jumped for purely selfish reasons. We never cared, so long as they did their jobs, continued to aid the