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“Very well.” Wedge gave the general a quizzical look, but the older man merely rose and departed.

Wedge took a look around. The table where Lieutenants Wes Janson and Hobbie Klivan had been swapping stories was empty. Wedge would track down the Rogues again later to catch up on their news. For now, it was time to check up on Night Caller’s progress. He headed out into Talasea’s fogmuted sunlight.

The New Republic encampment was a creeper-overgrown field surrounded by trees. The field was now dotted with inflatable domes and various forms of fighter craft and fighting vessels. All were dimmed by the near-permanent haze that shrouded the planet.

In the middle of the field were the two corvettes, Night Caller and Constrictor, both ships showing considerable damage.

Night Caller’s bridge had been cored, leaving behind a blackened hole with peeling edges. Work crews were hard at work welding armor plates and a single transparisteel sheet across the gap. Wedge had insisted that the repairs look sloppy, unsophisticated; they were supposed to be all his crew had been able to throw together in a few hours.

Constrictor’s bow hold doors were gone. In fact, the hold itself was gone, its hemispherical outer hull torn away by explosions from within; the bow now looked eerily like a skull whose lower jaw had been lost. The ship also had scoring damage along its sides.

Provocateur had been unrecoverable. Internal explosions and venting atmosphere had claimed the lives of any crewman surviving the torpedo attack. The frigate was a drifting tomb well before New Republic rescue forces could reach her.

“Commander Antilles.”

Wedge turned toward the source of that familiar, gravelly voice. “Admiral.” He saluted.

Admiral Ackbar, accompanied by a major, approached. He returned the salute. “My crews tell me you are almost ready for space. Are you sure you want to go back after Trigit so soon?”

“The more time he has to think, the greater the chance he’ll see through our disguise.”

“I’ll leave that decision to your initiative, then.” The Mon Calamari lowered his voice. “I did want to thank you for your kind words regarding my niece.”

“You’re very welcome, sir. I wish—” The extent to which Wedge wished stopped him short. I wish we could have saved her. I wish I could have found words to help your family hurt less. I wish a bad-smelling pocket of womp rats shaped like men hadn’t been there to endanger her. I wish every legacy of the Empire were wiped clean from the galaxy. He gave the admiral a regretful look. “I wish.”

“I understand.” Ackbar looked around, at the people moving between vehicles and vessels, at the areas where inflatable domes were already being brought down. “I, myself, wish I could find the pilot who went to such efforts to save her life. I would like to offer him my thanks.”

“I’ll make sure Flight Officer Tainer wanders across your path.”

Ackbar held out his hand to the major, who placed a large case upon it. This Ackbar handed to Wedge. “It has taken some time for the New Republic bureaucracy to catch up to Wraith Squadron’s exploits. Even this morning I had to modify the contents of this package. I thought it most appropriate for you to issue these items.”

Wedge opened the case and whistled at what he saw.

Wedge had the Wraiths and Lieutenant Atril Tabanne line up in Night Caller’s forward lounge. From their faces, it was evident that no one felt much like celebrating; some of them were somber, others looked more than ready to head spaceward and get back into their fighter cockpits.

“Your sins have caught up with you, Wraiths,” Wedge said. “And just as significantly, High Command has not managed to lose my reports on our mission progress, and appears actually to have read them. Flight Officer Tyria Sarkin.”

She straightened, became impassive.

“I have only a little to offer you, Sarkin. Home One has delivered us a pair of X-wings to bring us back to full operational capacity. And that, plus the fact that your behavior