Star Wars_ X-Wing 08_ Isard's Revenge - Michael A. Stackpole [87]
Wedge walked beside him and realized that he ought to be drinking in more of the base’s details. The two squadrons that had come to rescue the Rogues had more TIE Defenders in them than Wedge thought had ever been manufactured. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that the base belonged to High Admiral Teradoc or even had been set up by Grand Admiral Thrawn. And if that’s the case, I should be gathering all sorts of intelligence here.
The industrious portion of his mind couldn’t shift the weight of his emotions and the numbness he felt inside. He’d lost four pilots in the Distna ambush. While part of him acknowledged that survival rate was miraculous considering the odds they faced, the pilots resisted becoming statistics. Lyyr and Slee had been relatively new to the squadron, but the fact that he identified them by their first names meant they’d gotten past the defenses he usually raised against getting to know new pilots.
Asyr’s loss sent a chill through him. He’d liked her and admired how she had defied the Bothan hierarchy in continuing her membership in the squadron and her relationship with Gavin. Asyr never compromised or backed down from a fight. Her spirit and determination had always pushed everyone in the squadron to perform at their highest level. The pride that the Bothans felt in her exploits meant Borsk Fey’lya and other politicians left the squadron largely alone.
Wes Janson’s death—Wedge couldn’t even begin to think about it without feeling an invisible hand squeeze his heart. He’d known Wes for what seemed like forever. They’d been through everything together since just after Yavin to when the squadron had been re-formed. After the overthrow of Isard’s regime on Thyferra, Janson had joined Wedge in running Wraith Squadron, then had stuck with him during the Thrawn crisis. Though Janson’s sense of humor rankled from time to time, Wedge would have given his right arm to have Janson pop up with a quick “Yub, yub, Commander.”
Vessery looked over at Wedge. “I don’t wish to intrude on your thoughts, but I have two things to say to you.”
Wedge sniffed and blinked. “Please, Colonel.”
“First, I wish my people and I had gotten there sooner. I count the deaths of your people as failures on my part. Traveling through hyperspace seldom allows one to get split-second rescues right, but I should have. If I had trimmed some margins on some of the courses, we’d have been there on time.”
Vessery’s voice came low and sincere, bringing a solemn nod from Wedge. “Thank you, Colonel. You couldn’t know exactly when they would strike, so it’s not your fault. The fact that you did arrive means we lived, and for that I’ll be eternally grateful.”
“You are too kind, General.” Vessery paused before a door. “The second thing I would like to say to you is this: The person you’ll meet in here is responsible for our arrival. Without orders originating from this office, Rogue Squadron would be dead. Try to remember that.”
Wedge frowned. “You shouldn’t believe Imperial propaganda, Colonel. New Republic officers can be very grateful and gracious.”
“Good.” Vessery punched a code into the keypad on the lockplate and the door slid open. He waved Wedge into the darkened room. “After you.”
Wedge entered the darkness boldly, striding ahead for the full length of the patch of light streaming in through the door. When the door closed and cut off the illumination, he stopped and clasped his hands at the small of his back. He heard the scrape of Vessery’s boots on the floor as the other pilot joined him.
The lights in the room came slowly up, infusing an orange glow into the wooden strips that formed the walls, floor, and ceiling of the oval room. The woods had been fitted together with such precision and artistry that the growth rings and grain formed exquisite patterns in which the casual observer could easily become lost. Cabinets built into the walls were faced with great slabs of