"How are you getting along with Tainer?"

Janson slumped in his chair and grimaced. "Oh, outwardly, pretty well.

But every time he sees me he shoots me this look of pure hate and knots up into a ball of quivering muscle. He spooks me sometimes. I don't like being comforted by the presence of my blaster on base; I'd prefer to be able to relax among allies."

Wedge nodded. "Can you bear up under it for a while longer?"

"I think so."

"All right. I'd appreciate it if you'd dig us up a squadron quartermaster sometime today. I'll be with the new snubfighters and then with our guest if you need me."

Tyria seemed to be in a state of shock as they left the briefing room.

Kell asked, "What's wrong?"

"I was the last one he named," she said. "I'm last again. The worst pilot in the squadron."

"No. You're tenth out of forty-three."

She glared at him. "The washouts don't count, Kell."

"Well, let me put it to you this way. You're the lowest-rated pilot in a squadron a.s.sembled by Wedge Antilles. You're the worst of this group of elites. Elites, Tyria. And tomorrow, you could be ninth, and the day after, you could be eighth."

Her expression softened. "Well... maybe. But let me ask you something, Kell. Have you ever been the worst at something?"

He thought about it. "No."

"I didn't think so."

The X-wing hangar, so-called because there was only one X-wing squadron on Folor Base and the hangar was given over to its sole use, was cavernously empty. It could have held three full squadrons of fighters, but now was occupied only by nine vehicles.

The largest was the Narra, the Lambda-da.s.s shuttle a.s.signed to Gray Squadron. It had been captured not from the Empire but from a rogue Imperial captain who had turned smuggler. This accounted for the way it had been retrofitted, with a hidden, electronically enhanced smuggler's compartment worthy of Han Solo.

The other eight vehicles were all X-wings. Four had seen combat, the ones belonging to Wedge, Janson, Donos, and Face. Now alongside them were four spotless new fighters. Kell smiled, cheered by the gleaming surfaces, the unscratched paint and canopies, the sentinel-like quality of the sleeping R2 and R5 units tucked in behind the c.o.c.kpits, the overall appearance of invincibility.

The man beside him said, "How I hate these things."

Kell looked at him. Cubber Daine, the squadron's chief mechanic, was a bit under average height and over average weight, straining a little at the seams of the jumpsuit that might have begun life an orange color but was now so stained with lubricants that it was impossible to be sure. He had intelligent eyes deeply sunk in a face that looked as though it had been sculpted out of chopped meat and hastily decorated with hair.

"You hate X-wings?"

"No, no, no. I hate factory new X-wings. They look so sweet. But then you get in under the panels, and what do you have? Factory defects just waiting to blow up in your face. a.s.sembly mistakes no one noticed. And worst of all, they're always making improvements at Incom, slipping in these so-called technological upgrades without doc.u.menting them, without fully testing them-"

"And without getting your explicit permission."

Cubber's face broke out in a broad grin. "You do understand! All right, kid. Let's pop these things open and see what they've done wrong."

Within a few minutes, Kell decided that Cubber was correct. The rails on which the pilots' chairs were mounted, so that they could be adjusted forward or back to account for the pilot's height, seemed to be a glossy black ceramic instead of the stainless metal he was used to; he had no idea how the things would hold up under hard wear. He resolved to make sure there were some of the old-fashioned rails in the replacement parts inventory. The canopy seal on one of the snubfighters was faulty. The inertial compensators, the anti-gravity projectors that kept the pilot from suffering ill effects from acceleration, deceleration, and maneuvering, were smaller than he was used to and lacked the external kinetic rod array that was supposed to supply their internal computers with data about current inertial conditions. One of the four X-wings had a small, rectangular equipment module mounted on its exterior aft of the cargo compartment, but Kell couldn't find any wiring or other connectors from it into the fighter's interior.

So when Wedge arrived and asked, "How do they look?" Kell pulled himself out of one engine and said, "Terrible." Cubber extracted himself from the next one and said, "The worst batch ever." The rest of Cubber's crew, crawling over the other two new snubfighters, shouted confirmation in explicit and unpleasant terms.

Wedge stared at Cubber and Kell with the ill-concealed incomprehension with which normal people routinely greet the p.r.o.nouncements of the interplanetary society of mechanics. He heaved a sigh. "Can they be ready for training exercises tomorrow?"

Cubber looked dubious. "Well, two of them, sure."

Kell said, "If we get a perfect run-through, first time, on the inertial compensator checks, maybe three."

Cubber said, "And if a miracle occurs on the extruder valve tests, we could theoretically have all four ready. Maybe."

Kell kept amus.e.m.e.nt from his face. There was no such thing as an extruder valve on the X-wing design.

Wedge looked unhappy. "Well, do what you can."

Kell saluted. "Will do, sir."

"And when you have a chance, though this isn't necessary for tomorrow, paint out the red stripes on all the X-wings except mine and Janson's.

Replace them with gray."

"Will do."

When Wedge had withdrawn to his personal X-wing on the other side of the hangar, Kell asked, "What do you think? One hour, two?"

Cubber nodded. "One. Unless we do the stripes tonight. Which we won't.

You play sabacc, son?"

"A little. But I'm not very good at it."

Cubber glared. "Do I look stupid? 'I'm not very good at it,' indeed. My six-year-old daughter is a better liar."

"Well, I lie a little, but I'm not very good at it."

Cubber snorted and pulled himself back into his engine.

Wedge Antilles wandered around the hangar for the next hour, long enough for the mechanics to grow nervous at his continued, needless presence.

They got back at him by loudly telling one another stories of amazing mechanical failures they'd heard about, and the great loss of life that had usually resulted therefrom. Their work was done, but Cubber couldn't dismiss them while Wedge Antilles was present; it would fly in the face of the story he'd told of the X-wings' state of readiness.

Finally Kell heard a sound from the far end of the hangar's exit tunnel: Its magnetic containment field hummed into life, and a moment later the heavy doors just beyond it rolled open. Outside, Kell could see dusty lunar surface, blast craters, the silhouettes of other surface buildings of the onetime mine, the distant lunar horizon, and stars.

Then, a light dot in the distance, gradually growing as it approached.

When it was several hundred meters from the tunnel entrance, it resolved itself into a shape Kell recognized. "Corellian YT-1300 Transport," he said. "Not just any YT-1300." Cubber had moved up beside him. "That's the Millennium Falcon."

Kell gave the approaching ship a harder look. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes. I was a year on Hoth, pa.s.sing by that slab of rust and bad wiring every day. I never got to service her - Solo and his Wookiee friend hated for anyone but them to work on her. You can always recognize her by the specific pattern of corrosion."

Kell heard a distant pop as the ship breached the magcon field, which obligingly permitted the ship through but held the tunnel's atmosphere within. The twin-p.r.o.nged prow of the ship dipped a little as it finished navigating the tunnel and reached the hangar proper. The Falcon moved smoothly to the largest bare patch of hangar nearest the tunnel entrance, then rotated in place so the bow was facing back out the tunnel. Only then did it set down, its master displaying considerable skill with the repulsorlift landing engines.

Its boarding ramp descended as Wedge Antilles approached. Down the ramp came General Solo, but not as Kell had seen him on holorecordings.

Instead of being an uncomfortable-looking man in a New Republic general's uniform, Solo wore brown pants and vest and a light tunic much better suited to casual travel. He also wore a broad grin that did much for his craggy features.

He and Wedge embraced, then turned toward the hangar exit. Kell caught a few of their words: "... flight in... diplomatic functions... Zsinj."

Then they were gone.

Cubber clapped Kell on the back. "There's your brush with greatness, kid.

You can tell your children, 'I saw Han Solo get off his ship once. He ignored me completely.' C'mon, let's get out of here."

"Right." But Kell lingered and watched for a moment as a gigantic humanoid ma.s.s of hair, doubtless Solo's companion Chewbacca, descended the ramp. The famous Wookiee stood there a long moment, sniffing the air, then uttered a roar-not menacing, but low and resonant, perhaps just announcing his presence or claiming this part of the hangar as his territory. Then the Wookiee ascended the ramp and was gone.

As Kell returned his attention to the X-wing he'd been working on, he heard a scuttling noise. He jumped, then spun around, looking for its source. The sound was what he'd ex - pect if an insect the size of a small floor-scrubbing droid were running around in the hangar. But he caught no sight of such a thing, and the sound ended as soon as he moved.

Cubber was already dismissing the men and waving Kell to follow. "C'mon, kid. Remember sabacc?"

"Right, right." Kell smoothed down the hair that had stood to attention on the back of his neck. He closed up the last of the X-wing's engine panels and followed.

"How was your flight in?" asked Wedge.

"Dull, what do you think?" said Han. "But not as bad as a night of diplomatic functions back on Coruscant. Sorry I missed you when you got back from Thyferra, but I was off on another pointless leg of the search for Zsinj. "

They pa.s.sed through the archway leading into the main access corridor serving most of the hangar chambers.

"You're not still doing that? I was under the impression that you were on the Mon Remonda and that the Millennium Falcon would be in storage until Zsinj was flushed out."

Han grinned. It was the roguish grin he offered up when he was among friends and enemies, but never at official functions, never in the presence of holorecorders. "I escaped Coruscant and its endless diplomatic functions with the Mon Remonda mission, but we haven't had any luck on the Zsinj pursuit in the last few weeks, so it's all dull procedure and maintenance right now. You know how I feel about procedure and maintenance."

"So you escaped your escape?"

Han nodded. "Officially, I'm hand-carrying orders regarding the hunt for Zsinj. Unofficially, I'm here to compare and evaluate on-base gambling all over the Alliance." He sobered. "The orders are variations of the ones Coruscant has sent out recently. They supercede those orders. We're trying to see whether Zsinj and the other warlords have a tap in on those transmissions. "

"Meaning that if they set up patrols and ambushes that would be really efficient against the old orders but not as good against the new, you have a problem."

"Right. I have to head out again tomorrow for my next destination-which leaves only tonight for recreation. So, what do you do around here for entertainment?"

"Nothing." Wedge kept his face straight. "There are no women a.s.signed to Folor Base. Because of the general's philosophical beliefs, there's no alcohol, no gambling, and we can't watch broadcasts from Commenor. This has led to a rather high suicide rate, but there's no getting around that. We do have some holorecordings of Coruscant diplomatic functions, if you'd like to see them."

Han wore an expression of growing horror, then it became pure outrage. He pointed a finger at Wedge as though it were a blaster barrel. "You-you-"

Wedge grinned. "I had you going. You believed every painful word. Come on, I'll introduce you to General Crespin, and then to DownTime, which has the moon's greatest supply of Corellian brandy. We'll see if we can put a dent in it."

"I should never listen to you."

"No, you shouldn't."

"Even Leia finally realized that you're a liar."

"Well, she's right."

"She always is. But if you ever tell her I said that-"

"I'll be vaped for sure. I know."

7.

Four X-wings raced through the hangar tunnel and punched through the magcon field into the vacuum surrounding Folor.

"Two Group, form up on me," said Kell. "Pack it in close. We're under the eye." The "eye" was another X-wing, Wedge's, already on station half a klick above their position.

Runt, Phanan, and Face formed up smartly around him. This didn't do much to alleviate the tension that had clamped down on Kell as soon as he lit up the engines of the X-wing. Janson wasn't around to cause his concern; no, this was the old trouble, the tightness, the difficulty in breathing that came to haunt him whenever he was in charge of something. It wasn't the same in a simulator; now he was piloting a real snubfighter worth a fortune in a mission where sloppy aim or bad maneuver could cost his life or the life of a wingmate.

He forced his shoulders to loosen, tried to bring himself under control.

Maybe Wedge wasn't listening too closely to the comm, couldn't hear his labored breathing. Maybe no one was monitoring the biodata sensors that were sometimes wired into the chairs of novice pilots. Maybe no one would notice his trouble.

He checked out the data currently reading on his naviga - tional computer-very simple data, as it didn't involve a hyperdrive jump or even extralunar travel. He transmitted the data to the others, then brought his snubfighter around toward the south. A visual scan showed the rest of Two Group maintaining their positions; sensors showed Wedge still on station and another blip, doubtless related to their objective, straight ahead klicks to the south.

Wedge's voice broke over their comm systems. "Gentlemen, this is a simple strafing run exercise. The blip on your sensors is not your target.

That's Lieutenant Janson in the Narra, our shuttle. With the shuttle's personnel retrieval tractor beam, Janson will be maneuvering a target, which will be about three hundred meters behind him. Five and Six will perform their run, then Seven and Eight thirty seconds later. Your orders are simple: Arm at two klicks, fire at a klick and a half, immediately disengage and return to base. There is now a governor on your comm systems; Five and Six will not be able to talk to Seven and Eight, and vice versa. If you hear 'Abort,' break off your attack and await orders; it probably means one of you jokers has taken a target lock on the Narra.

Any questions?"

Kell said, "No, sir," and heard Runt repeat it.

"Good hunting, then."

Kell watched the numbers on the rangefinder spin down at a rapid pace, then saw the faintest shadow of a new blip begin to flicker in and out of existence a short distance behind the Narra. Moments later, he saw the Narra itself, a distant sliver of lightness against the backdrop of some of Folor's mountains, and saw the target: a sail of reflective cloth about the size of the shuttle when fully deployed. It was not fully deployed now; it twisted and curled in the shuttle's tractor beam.

With its shape and size continually changing, it would be a challenging shot at one and a half klicks. He addressed the R5 unit situated behind his c.o.c.kpit: "Reset proton torpedo one to a ten-meter proximity fuse.

Communicate with Six's R2 and instruct him to do the same."

The R5 beeped confirmation at him. Kell hadn't given a name to the shiny new droid; that was the privilege of the first pilot to be permanently a.s.signed to this X-wing and its astromech.

At two klicks, he called, "S-foils to attack position." He reached up and right to throw the appropriate switch, saw the strike foils to port and starboard part into the formation that gave the X-wings their unique profile.

As soon as they locked into place, his heads-up display faded. Kell had a clear sensor view of the target... and no way to lock on to it with his weapons.