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Then he got to work.

He laid the utility droid on its back. Its wheels spun in helpless panic. With his fine-work arm, he popped open the access hatch on the droid’s underside and extended his scomp-link into the opening.

As new programming flooded its tiny brain, the utility droid quieted.

By day’s end, Tonin was in command of three of the utility droids, and one had managed to bring him some of the components—magnetic track strips to replace wheels—he needed to begin their modifications.

Wedge’s four squadrons—Rogue, Wraith, Polearm, and Nova—executed mission after mission, one after another, sometimes two in a single day. Most missions involved only one squadron. In others, one squadron would escort and protect the B-wings of Nova, or Wraith Squadron would be inserted at ground level and then ground-guide the precise bombing runs of one or two of the other starfighter units. Some missions involved nothing more than carefully inserting the Falsehood, then very publicly escorting the ship, usually with Wedge and Chewbacca at the controls, out into space and safety.

By the end of one week, the fighter pilots of Mon Remonda began to lose track of what day of the calendar it was, and had little time left to them for anything but mission briefings, the missions themselves, and sleep.

By the end of one week, between Wedge’s missions and those an Imperial admiral was executing in another part of the galaxy, the Warlord Zsinj had lost more millions of credits than any New Republic fighter pilot could ever hope to accumulate.

• • •

Melvar entered the warlord’s office as silently as ever. Zsinj, turned to stare into his terminal, didn’t react. Melvar took the chair before his desk, no longer bothering to keep his movement quiet, and still there was no reaction. Finally, Melvar coughed.

“They’re killing me.” Zsinj shook his head sorrowfully as he stared at the data on the terminal screen beside his desk. “They want me dead, Melvar.”

“Of course they do,” the general said. “You’re their greatest enemy. It is to your considerable credit that they want you dead.”

“Look at this. My businesses are being seized up and down Imperial space—and Rebel space. The Counterpunch puts in at Vispil and is blown out of space by planetary authorities who refused to stay bribed. A half dozen of my best earners bombed out of existence on worlds within my own borders. Eight percent of my income eliminated in a week. And everywhere, the Millennium Falcon flitting around, fomenting more rebellion.” He sighed. “And my Funeral Project crews around Coruscant? Suddenly, completely ineffectual. A half dozen acts of terrorism or sedition closed down almost before they’re enacted. The rifts between humans and nonhumans in the Rebel government are healing. All my work, years of work, coming undone.”

“Mere setbacks, sir.”

“No. Can’t you feel it? The hordes of my enemies are drawing closer, their claws outstretched, reaching for me.” Zsinj heaved a sigh. “I think, I really think, they are poised to undo me. I think Doctor Gast talked before she died. I think the Rebels and Imperials are cooperating.”

“Impossible.”

“Not impossible. You yourself said I was their greatest enemy. What else could give them the incentive to cooperate?”

Melvar was silent for long moments. In all the years he’d worked with the warlord, this was not the saddest he’d seen him, but it was the most resigned, the most fatalistic. It was a startling change. The warlord had always been an unstoppable force of optimism and will. Now, despite the fact that his girth had not diminished, he seemed somehow reduced.

“Do you think they’ll win?” Melvar asked.

Zsinj took a deep breath, then nodded. “I think, in a sense, they already have. They’ve stopped my processes. They’ve set their own in motion. Theirs are replacing mine, and I can’t seem to do anything about it.”

“So what will it take to pull a victory out of this? Tell me the minimum you need. We’ll achieve that, and more.”

Zsinj switched off his terminal