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“Logic suggests that the Mon Calamari would be the best choice, since without their engineering expertise and their heavy cruisers we would have had a much harder time of this war than we’ve had. But we suspect that this brainwashing treatment may be confined for now to mammalian and near-mammalian species—it would be much, much harder to devise a treatment that was equally functional across the wide range of all sapient species types. So our prediction is that it won’t be Mon Calamari or Verpines at this time.

“Our best guess is that the next attack will come from Sullustans or Bothans. And we have some ideas about that.” Wedge typed something into the datapad before him; Cracken supposed that he was consulting notes.

“Gotals are known as expert hunters. And for the last several years, Twi’leks, who have traditionally been thought of by Imperial humans as traders, and not particularly bold beings in general, have been trying to impress on human cultures the importance of their warrior tradition. We think it’s significant that the Twi’lek and Gotal disasters have involved single warriors wreaking havoc. In our opinion, the assaults to come will correspond in some way to popular stereotypes and misconceptions about the species whose members initiate them. If the next attack is Bothan, it will involve computer slicing—such as, perhaps, falsified data transmissions that cause disasters. If the next attack is Sullustan, it’s likely to involve a piloting or navigating mishap costing hundreds or thousands of lives. Either way, if it is remotely possible, it’s important that the agents of these attacks be taken alive. Our hope is that they are under compulsion to do what they’re doing, and that the brainwashing technique leaves some consistent physiological evidence that New Republic medics can detect.”

Antilles shut his datapad. His gaze, unsettlingly enough, seemed to seek out Cracken’s. “That’s the best we have to offer, General. But if our predictions come anywhere close to the reality of the next set of mystery terrorist activities, you can rely on it being an attempt by Zsinj to create more chaos within the New Republic, and you can head off the damage his effort might otherwise cause.

“Thank you for your time, General. Antilles out.” The hologram of Wedge faded.

Cracken sat motionless for long moments. The first time he’d heard this transmission, he’d shaken his head and wished, once again, that flyboys would just keep their attention on their cockpits and out of Intelligence affairs. The second time, after Cracken had reviewed the evidence on the Twi’lek and Gotal assaults, it had made a frightening kind of sense … and Cracken had begun devoting resources to an investigation based on the possibility that the Antilles theory was correct.

Now, Cracken wished that one flyboy, Wedge Antilles, would pay less attention to his cockpit and devote some more of his thinking to Intelligence affairs.

Perhaps he could be lured out of Starfighter Command and over to Intelligence.

Cracken made an exasperated noise and shut down his terminal. No, not in this lifetime.

He turned his attention to the ongoing search for evidence of an upcoming Bothan code-slicing effort that would end in disaster.

Face Loran woke to the sound of passerby conversation out in the corridor. He stretched, enjoying the luxury that was to be his—a few minutes of lazy rest before his alarm went off.

Then he glanced at the chrono beside his bed. The time was half an hour after his alarm should have awakened him. He hadn’t set it.

He swore and threw his sheets off. He had just enough time to clean up and dress before mission briefing, if he hurried.

A portion of his terminal’s screen blinked at him—sign of new mail, not yet reviewed. He typed in a command to transfer it all to Vape, his astromech—he’d read it when nothing else was going on during the Kidriff mission.

• • •

The launch bay assigned to the Rogues and Wraiths hummed—not just with activity, but with the bone-cutting whine of X-wing repulsorlift