[Hand Of Thrawn] - 01(120)

Skywalker paused in the doorway. “She was in a rocky place, floating in water,” he said, not turning around. “And she looked dead.”

Karrde nodded slowly. “I see.”

He was still standing there, gazing at the open door, long after Skywalker bad gone.





CHAPTER


18


Quite unfairly, the battle alarm sounded right in the middle of dessert.

For a split second Wedge considered shoveling the last three bites of his citros snow cake into his mouth at once, decided running to the landing bays with a full mouth lacked the proper dignity, and regretfully left the cake orphaned on the mess-room table.

“Starfighter wings, check in,” the Peregrine’s fighter coordinator was calling as Wedge slid on his flight helmet and dropped into the cockpit of his X-wing. “Rogue Squadron, where are you?”

“Right here, Perris,” Wedge said, glancing around to confirm that the rest of the squadron were indeed present in the bay. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t know for sure,” Perris growled. “All I know is that we just got a panic call from the Sif’kric system. General Bel Iblis talked to them for maybe five minutes, and suddenly we’re getting ready to fly. Okay, you show green-launch when ready.”

“Copy. Okay, Rogues, let’s go.”

Twenty seconds later they were in space, driving forward along the Peregrine’s flank toward vanguard position. “I don’t suppose this might be a drill,” Rogue Six suggested on their private frequency.

“Well, if it is, the general owes me another dessert,” Rogue Twelve put in. “Anyone been following local politics in this sector?”

“I have, a little,” Rogue Nine said grimly. “My father-in-law’s got some interests here. Ten to one it’s the Frezhlix; they’ve been feuding with the Sif’kries ever since we chased the Empire out of the area.”

“Maybe they’ve finally decided to finish it,” Rogue Two suggested.

“With General Bel Iblis and a New Republic task force right next door?” Rogue Six put in incredulously. What are they using for brains, groat cheese?”

“All ships, this is General Bel Iblis,” the general’s voice came on the command frequency, cutting off the conversation. “We’ve just been informed that a strong Frezhlix force is moving on the Sif’krie homeworld of Sif’kric. As that system is only a few minutes away, we’ve been asked to go take a look.”

Terrific, Wedge thought sourly as he glanced back over the New Republic task force. One Katana-fleet Dreadnought, two Nebulon-B escort frigates, and three starfighter squadrons; and they were supposed to take on a force big enough to attack a whole planet?

Bel Iblis might have been reading his mind. “Obviously, we’re not planning to go head-to-head with them,” be continued. “In fact, we’re going to have to be very careful we don’t overstep our legal bounds here. That’s all I can say until we get there and assess the situation. Commander Perris?”

“All ships, check in,” Perris ordered. “Prepare to jump to lightspeed on my mark.”

“What does he mean, legal bounds?” Rogue Six asked as the fleet began its checkin.

“My guess is that whoever called Bel Iblis wasn’t someone who could officially ask for New Republic assistance,” Wedge told him. “Some minor bureaucrat, maybe just a rattled space-traffic controller. If we don’t have an official request-“

“Rogue Squadron: go,” Perris ordered.

“Copy,” Wedge said. He pulled back on the hyperdrive lever, squinted as the starlines flared, and they were off.

It was a twelve-minute flight to the Sif’kric system. Alone in the solitude of hyperspace, he spent those minutes running a final check on the X-wing’s systems and armaments, and wondering how the legendary General Garm Bel Iblis was going to pull this one off.

The timer clicked down toward zero. Settling himself, Wedge pushed the lever back. The starlines flared again&mdash

He blinked. What in space-?

On the Rogues’ private channel, somebody snorted. “You must be joking,” Rogue Two said. “That is an invasion fleet?”

Wedge looked at his tactical readout, shaking his head in silent agreement. Two forty-year-old Kruk battle-wagons, five Lancer-class frigates probably half that age, and maybe thirty modern Jompers customs pursuit ships.

“So much for the big bad threat,” Rogue Eight commented contemptuously. “We could probably chase them out of here all by ourselves.”

“I don’t know,” Rogue Eleven said. “Someone seems plenty worried about them. Take a look at the far planetary rim-must be twenty freighters scurrying for cover.”