Star Wars_ X-Wing 05_ Wraith Squadron - Aaron Allston [143]
Admiral Trigit’s hologram sprang into life before Face a minute later. “Captain Darillian! Your profile has changed since the last time we met face-to-face, so to speak.”
Face turned his head to display his profile. “I think it’s the same. Regal, yet unbearably handsome. Or perhaps you mean Night Caller’s profile?”
“That is what I meant. You’ve picked up a shuttle and made some other modifications, I see.”
Face turned forward again and gave the admiral a conspiratorial smile. “The shuttle we took from a pirate. And the outer escape pods on either side are actually my TIE fighters, Admiral. A notion of mine. Instead of taking a minute to deploy all four, it now takes me one second. If you like, I’ll have my mechanics dig up the modification specifications. I can transmit them to you and Constrictor.”
“Please do.”
“Speaking of modifications, have there been any made to our mission profile?”
“No. We can jump as soon as you’re in position.”
“Which will be in one and a half minutes. We’ll be awaiting your signal.”
Trigit disappeared.
The New Republic forces could have attacked Trigit’s fleet here, in this unnamed system … but since, in theory, only the ship’s captains knew where they were making rendezvous, that would have been a giveaway that one of them was a traitor. This would not matter if Trigit’s fleet were entirely wiped out or captured, but would have cost the Wraiths their false identity if one or more of the ships got away. By attacking in the Morobe system, they could blame all “treachery” on the “Rebels” should they need to.
Face’s comlink cracked. “Coming on station.” It was Hrakness.
He sighed. He wanted desperately to be in the cockpit of his X-wing, but he had to play out his role if Trigit communicated again. For once he regretted his theatrical skill.
Face saw elements of the comm board light up as Night Caller received a data transmission from Implacable. Moments later the corvette’s engine pitch changed. All four ships would be matching speeds and courses.
A minute later they were in hyperspace.
Five minutes from Implacable’s arrival in the Morobe system, Lieutenant Gara Petothel presented herself to the admiral—unusual, since protocol called for her to speak to him from her console in the crew pit below or to use the intercom. “We have a problem, sir.”
“Something we need to deal with before this assault?”
“If I’m right, this assault will destroy us.”
He blinked. “Make it fast.”
“I’ve been running the data from the Morrt Project. The data that told us that Talasea, in the Morobe system, was the probable site of the Folor relocation.”
“And?”
“Nobody had correlated the data of systems being profiled with the parasite units providing the data. Sir, eighty percent of the statistical hits pointing to Talasea come from the same twenty-two units. For this to happen, those units would have to be attached to ships that jumped back and forth between Talasea and neighboring systems. And when the units changed ships, they would have to have changed to ships doing exactly the same thing.”
Trigit kept his features still but felt cold run through him. “The Morrt Project has reached the end of its useful life span,” he said.
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
The admiral turned to Implacable’s commander. “Captain! Drop us out of hyperspace immediately.”
The captain, a dull-looking fellow from Coruscant whose appearance belied his reliability and intelligence, didn’t ask any stupid questions. He looked up, gauged the seriousness of the admiral’s expression, and nodded to his chief pilot.
A moment later the view in the forward window of hyperspace turned into the end-of-jump vista of stars stretching to infinity. Those stars snapped from lines into sharp, unblinking points, with Implacable still light-years from the