Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [61]
A few minutes later, a new voice took the comm, Solo’s. “Rogues, return to Mon Remonda. Star Destroyer Agonizer is communicating. They want to have a face-to-face with you, Rogue Leader.”
Wedge raised an eyebrow. “Is Agonizer a Zsinj unit or Imperial?”
“According to our latest records on this ship, about a year old, she’s Imperial.”
“Interesting. I guess I’d better go over and see what they want.”
“Negative, negative. You’re too likely a prospect for assassination. Me, too. I’ve transmitted a recommendation that Captain Onoma make the visit. Wait a second.” The delay was nearly a minute. “They didn’t like that idea. Probably because he’s Mon Calamari. They’re willing to accept someone out of your squadrons.”
Wedge ran a roster review in his mind. His Rogues were bone-tired, and he really needed to gauge their reaction to Tal’dira’s death … and find out what had led up to it. “Ask Face Loran to volunteer. I think he’ll satisfy their requirements.”
“Done. Come on back in.”
Face had been part of a mission that had landed aboard a Star Destroyer before—in his case, the Super Star Destroyer Iron Fist—but then he’d been in disguise, an apparent ally of the people he was visiting. This time he came as an enemy under temporary truce, and he could feel his heart rate increase as his X-wing rose into the hangar bay in the underside of the gigantic vessel. On repulsorlifts, he drifted laterally toward the Imperial officer waving the glow rods, and set down where the man directed, between two half squadrons of TIE fighters.
As he climbed down the ladder from his cockpit, an Imperial naval lieutenant bowed to him. “Captain Loran? The admiral is waiting.”
“Good.” Face returned the bow. Then he looked up at his R2 unit. “Vape, if anyone comes within three meters, activate self-destruct.”
His astromech gave him a happy beep in the affirmative. With luck, none of these Imperials would actually risk such an approach to determine that, in fact, this X-wing had no self-destruct mechanism.
Two halls and two turbolifts later, the lieutenant led Face into a conference room. The oval table overflowed with food—cooked dishes, platters of fresh fruit, containers of wine, vases stuffed with fresh flowering plants. Struck by the ostentatiousness of it, Face laughed before he could check himself.
The room’s sole occupant, a lean man, clean-shaven, of graying middle age, smiled from his chair behind one of the flower arrangements. “It is a bit pretentious, isn’t it?” He rose, revealing that he wore an admiral’s uniform, and approached, his hand out. “Still, appearances must be maintained. Admiral Teren Rogriss.”
“Garik Loran, Captain, New Republic Starfighter Command.” Face shook his hand.
“And let me say I thought your holodramas and comedies were puerile, badly written things—though you rose above your material.”
“Of course they were puerile. They were Imperial productions. But thank you.”
The admiral barked a laugh. His amusement seemed genuine. He gestured for Face to sit. “Please, help yourself. Protocol demands I put it out, so we should eat it. But I won’t keep you long. Time presses for me as I’m sure it does for you.” Following Face’s lead, he sat, and immediately helped himself to what looked like a plate of small boiled eggs drenched in some sort of syrup. “What I’m going to tell you is entirely unofficial. Make announcements about it, transmit queries to us along official lines, and we’ll denounce it as typical Rebel lies. On the other hand, it does come down from the highest levels.”
“Go ahead.” Face tried one of the eggs. The fluid dressing was tart and not sweet at all; the yolk had been replaced by some sort of meat filling, though he had not seen a seam on the boiled surface of the egg. It had the rich taste of something that took a fair amount of preparation and cost a lot, so only the wealthy forced themselves to think they liked it.
“Our differences, Imperial and Rebel, are