Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [51]
Face snorted. “An act of revenge on the part of Tedevium’s commander?”
“Probably. Tedevium’s new commander is General Crespin, from Folor Base, and that sounds just like his sense of humor. It’s also possible that Repness’s snubfighter was considered bad luck—you know how superstitious some pilots are. So, anyway, I’ll be bringing her into Wraith Squadron to help boost our complement of snubfighters.”
“That’s great news, sir.”
Wedge gave him a challenging look. “Your job, and Phanan’s, is to make sure that it stays great news, Face.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re awfully subdued, Face. Your sarcasm generator not getting any power?”
“Something like that, sir.”
“Relieved that this whole Lara Notsil situation hasn’t shot your career into a black hole or made an enemy of General Cracken?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’ll inform the smartmouths in the Wraiths that you’re temporarily easy pickings for them. Dismissed.”
8
“She has just been assigned to Wraith Squadron, which is aboard Mon Remonda,” said General Melvar.
He and the warlord were alone in Iron Fist’s officers’ lounge. Yet the lounge was full of the noise of leisure and pleasure—pilots chatting, glasses clinking, drinks pouring—all part of an ambient-noise recording Zsinj usually played at such times.
The warlord froze with his drink halfway to his mouth. Melvar could smell the drink; it was a good Coruscant brandy. But Melvar knew that this had to be a synthesized substitute, alcohol-free; despite appearances, Zsinj never drank while in command of a ship. Yet he would knock down shot after shot of the synthesized stuff and allow his subordinates to believe that he was getting drunk, and his body language and speech would confirm that analysis.
Zsinj said, “But that’s perfect. Arrange for her to give us Mon Remonda’s course and schedule. We’ll destroy it, and General Solo, and those most annoying X-wing units. For a prize like that, I’ll set Gara Petothel up for life and give her whatever position on Iron Fist she wants.”
“Other than mine, I hope.”
“Including yours.” Zsinj smiled. “I’ll find something even better for you.”
“The problem is, we’re not yet in contact with her. It took us some time to put together a visual image of her, and more time to compare it against and disqualify all current female pilots in Antilles’s squadrons, and even more time to trace it to Lara Notsil, a pilot candidate in training. She’d extensively changed her appearance.”
“Wise of her.”
“And then she was on a training frigate at an unknown location, and then in custody there, and then in an advanced training program there under intense scrutiny. We’ve been able to follow her … but never approach her.”
Zsinj merely blinked at him. His expression said, How nice that you have a problem. Now solve it.
“So we’ve found one of her relatives. The relative will make contact for us.”
“A relative of Gara Petothel?”
“No, of Lara Notsil, the woman whose identity she took. The community where she grew up, New Oldtown—”
Zsinj shuddered. “Surely you’re joking about that name.”
“On Aldivy. It was blasted out of existence by Admiral Trigit when it refused to offer him supplies.”
“You’re sure he didn’t destroy it because of that name.”
“Since he’s dead, I’ll have trouble asking him. Anyway, one of the real Lara Notsil’s siblings, from New Oldtown—”
“Don’t ever say that name again. It annoys me.”
“—returned home after spending months at a naval job under an assumed name. He was supposed to be serving time in a jail in his hometown-whose-name-is-nevermore-to-be-said.”
“So you recruited him.”
“I have an agent with him, teaching him to eat with implements, wear shoes, and pretend that Gara Petothel is his sister. He’ll be transmitting a message saying, ‘I’m alive, understand you are the same.’ With enough subtext that she’ll have no problem figuring out what’s going on.”
“Good. Be speedy with this, Melvar. I want Mon Remonda off my trail as soon as possible. Its crew