Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [71]
“Hawk-bat Seven, two in the green, all systems charged, and I’ll have a mint liqueur with a lomin-ale chaser.” Phanan’s voice was a bass rumble, which he couldn’t have managed in person.
“Hawk-bat Ten, all ready.” And Shalla’s voice was distinctly that of a male.
Wedge cleared his throat. “Hawk-bat One, ready to launch.”
Laughter erupted from his comm set, several voices’ worth. Frustratingly, he couldn’t even recognize the voices now. He said, “Is there a problem?”
Face’s growl answered, “No problem, sir. We’re receiving you at full power.” But Wedge could hear poorly restrained laughter in his voice.
As the count continued, Wedge switched his comm unit over to a private frequency, one he shared with his X-wing and his astromech. “Gate, are you receiving?”
His R5 unit responded with a cheerful mechanical tweet.
“On my first mark, record my transmission. On my second mark, cease recording and transmit what you’ve recorded back to me. Mark. ‘We, the Rebel Alliance, do therefore in the name—and by the authority—of the free beings of the galaxy, solemnly publish and declare our intentions.’ Mark.”
His words came back to him a moment later. But they were not in his voice. In fact, they were high-pitched and fuzzy, a type of jabber Wedge well recognized. They were exactly what an Ewok would sound like if trained to speak Basic.
He sighed. “Thank you, Gate. Out.” He switched back to the Hawk-bat Squadron channel and banged his helmeted head on his pilot’s yoke.
At least morale was high.
Escort duty was tedious, but it drew extra pay. That’s how Lieutenant Milzin Veyn, native of the city of Hullis and starfighter pilot, looked at it. And as a husband and father of three, he could always use the extra credits.
Today he and his wingman were guarding the tanker Bastion. Such a warlike name for an inelegant, rusting hulk of a spaceship … Currently, it was in dock at Station 17, one of Halmad’s few remaining asteroid-belt mining colonies, while Veyn’s TIE fighter and his partner’s watched protectively from a distance of about a kilometer.
Veyn’s comm system hummed. “Hey, Lieutenant.”
“Veyn here.”
“Bad news. We have a fuel-pump failure. They’re repairing it, but it’s going to be a couple of hours at least.”
“Maybe you should just disengage and go home.”
“We should … but the captain says we’d just have to come out again tomorrow, and we can repair with parts on hand, so that’s what we’re doing.”
“Wonderful.”
“Listen, we can power sensors back up … and you and your wingmate can come in for some caf. There’s a fresh pot brewing.”
“Ooh. Shouldn’t.” But the thought of spending some of those extra hours in a heated mess with fresh caf instead of drifting in zero gravity was an appealing one.
“Well, what if I said, uhhh, that the captain wanted to consult with you on matters pertaining to the future protection of Bastion.”
“Sounds serious. We’ll be right there.”
Two minutes later, in the colony’s crowded main hangar, Veyn and his wingman clambered out of their cockpits, climbed down the access ladders, and turned to face into the muzzles of blasters.
Two figures wearing TIE-pilot gear—but colored gray instead of traditional Imperial black—held blaster sidearms on them. One appeared to be a tall woman, the other a very corpulent man. A third enemy, a man of slightly better-than-average height, wearing a gray pilot’s suit and a cold-weather mask but lacking the extra equipment of a pilot, covered them with a blaster rifle.
Veyn and his partner raised their hands.
The man with the rifle said, “There’s bad news and good news. The bad news is that we’re the Hawk-bats, and we’re going to take your starfighters and blow up some ground facilities with them. But the good news is that we really do have fresh caf for you in the mess.” He gestured with a flick of the rifle tip toward the main exit. “Let’s go.”
When the rifleman and his captives had gone, Tyria activated her comlink. “Five, the pilots are on their way. We’re going to need Two to get through any security on the TIE fighters.”
“He