Chapter Six

"Rogue Squadron, this is Rogue Leader. Tighten it up out there: diamond formation, by flight."

It had been ten minutes since the squadron had left the hangar on Coruscant, and were quickly thereafter cleared by military traffic control to exit the double shields protecting the planet. Now through those shields, they were free to head out towards the debris belt orbiting the planet and start the mission they had simmed for part of the morning. At this particular moment, however, Wedge wanted to see how both new and old Rogues would react to an order they weren't expecting and hadn't practiced. As there were new pilots in two of the three flights, this would be an excellent chance to see how everyone would perform.

"Gate, record this, will you?" His R-5 droid tootled a short response then a question scrolled across Wedge's secondary screen. "Yes, it has been a while since I've done this, and yes, I'll be careful. It's just a little test for them. Sit back and enjoy the show."

Already moving from words to actions, Wedge used his stick to take his place at the head of One Flight's diamond, with Tycho on his right, Hobbie moving smartly into position on his left. Thras Nyl was the fourth point, flying just behind both Hobbie and Tycho, and slightly below. Looking to his left, Wedge could see Three Flight, with Corran's green and white fighter in the lead, nimbly move into its own diamond. Twisting to his right, Wedge saw Two Flight in the midst of confusion.

Wes had taken his place as lead, but Varnestra and new pilot Hepat Avaan seemed to be mystified as to who was going where. Varnestra was to have taken the point to the rear and left of Wes's fighter, but Avaan had gotten in her way, and she had to shift to the right. That left Ecla Idec trying her best to stay out of the way of both of them, finally settling into the rear position.

Wedge switched over to Two Flight's frequency. "Any time you're ready, Two Flight."

"They'll get it, Lead. And rest assured, we'll be practicing this when we get home." Wes sounded frustrated, which wasn't surprising. This kind of formation flying was one of the first things pilots learned. For pilots that were good enough to join the Rogues, it should almost have been second nature by now, but Wedge knew it was probably more a case of miscommunication than anything else. Wes would get them straightened out in short order.

As Two Flight finally had something resembling the correct formation, Wedge switched back to the squadron's frequency, addressing the entire group. "Two Flight, replace Three Flight."

Wedge turned again to watch as the fighters under his command moved to obey his order. This time there was hardly any hesitation on Two Flight's part. They moved below Corran's Three Flight, maintaining their diamond formation, taking their place on Wedge's left. The other flight took its place to his right, returning the squadron to their roughly triangular configuration.

"Better, Rogues. Okay, everyone head for the debris field and take up a holding position at outer marker sixteen, by wingpair."

Wedge moved forward with a short burst of speed, separating himself from One Flight's diamond. Tycho moved with him, his perfect mirror image. Wedge smiled. It was at times like this that he really enjoyed being a pilot; just flying freely through space in what he considered one of the best fighters ever built. There was no one trying to slip in behind him and kill him, or shoot at his wingmate, or ambush him; just the pleasure of flying for the sheer enjoyment of it.

Unfortunately, though, there was work to be done. Wedge and Tycho were the first to reach the outer marker, and they cut their engines to wait for the rest of the group to join them. He hit a switch on his comm unit, taking him to the private frequency he shared with his wingman and second. "Two?"

"Yeah, Lead?"

"Who should we pick on first?"

Wedge heard Tycho chuckle before he replied. "Well, since Avaan seemed to be causing some chaos earlier, how about him and Wes? Will give Wes a chance to burn off some of his frustration as well. Maybe that way he won't leave any permanent marks on his wingmate when we get back to base."

"Is one way to reduce the datawork caused by charges. Okay, let them know that they're up first, and marker forty-eight is their goal. Worst time to the finish buys the first round."


Rozrrom sat in his private office, studying fleet deployments and personnel rosters in the New Republic, with an eye towards fighter squadrons. It had been a few days since he'd sent out his message to his potential spy, composed to look like an order for droid parts. The message had a special coding, which, when sent through a specific set of relays, was rerouted to a terminal on Coruscant. Once there, it waited as a junk message until the spy punched in a particular code, either from that location or a remote. The spy was alerted to the waiting message with a one-word file transmitted to an encrypted personal account.

Rozrrom had used this method to contact this particular spy before, but only from time to time, since it was hard to get a message through to a pilot always on the move. But he used this technique whenever he could, and it usually produced useful results, providing him with all kinds of information on both Imperial and New Republic activities. He had never employed the agent full time for fear of discovery, but desperate times called for extreme measures. It was well worth the risk if it could bring his plan to fruition.

He hadn't heard anything yet, however, and he was beginning to wonder if his agent had wholeheartedly joined the Rebellion, forgoing all other loyalties. Rozrrom shook his head, grumbling to himself. Not that one. May pretend to fit in, but really only loyal to those who can afford to pay for the information.

A tone sounded from his console, and he hit a switch. "Yes, what is it?"

"Security has captured Rends, sir. He was trying to steal a shuttle from hangar A."

"Bring him to me," Rozrrom said with a satisfied smile. His security team had only been looking for the man for just under an hour. Although the base was small by most standards, it was a maze of dark tunnels and shafts, causing his security teams some trouble in tracking down disgruntled employees or prisoners who were trying to escape. An hour was the best time they had posted so far for a search and recovery. He would have to give them a suitable reward.

"Yes, sir," the voice replied, then the comm went silent.

A few minutes later, two security guards entered, dragging the trembling Rends by his arms. A trickle of blood ran down his face from a cut just above his hairline, and his tunic was ripped in several places, showing bruises and more cuts beneath. The two heavily muscled guards dropped him in the middle of the cavern, before Rozrrom's desk, and he landed on his hands and knees. The two well-armed guards held him down with a hand on each of his shoulder blades.

"Thought you could escape, didn't you Rends," Rozrrom said, walking deliberately slowly over to the terrified man. The general was an imposing figure, tall and well-built, and he used every inch of his presence to put the fear of whatever gods Rends worshipped into the prisoner as he approached him.

"N-no, sir, of course not," the small figure said with a high pitched voice, cracking at the end. He reached up to swipe at the blood on his face, and was cuffed on the back of the head by one of the security guards.

"I think you did, Rends. I can't have you setting a bad example for the rest of the men. You know the penalty and I have to enforce it."

Rends visibly swallowed. "But, but I-"

"No buts, Rends. You know very well that it is our law, and it must be obeyed. But you have an alternative. If you can prove your loyalty to me, I may let you live. You can still be useful, if you prove loyal."

"L-loyalty? No, please don't ask me to-"

"I'm not asking you to do anything, Rends," Rozrrom said, crouching down until he was face-to-face with his former computer expert. "I'm offering you a chance to save your own life. I think that is most generous of me considering the circumstances."

Rends stared at him with wild eyed terror, and Rozrrom knew that if the security guards were to let him go, he would probably scurry into a corner and curl up into a ball. The weak-willed coward had never liked the restraints that had been placed on him when he joined the Inexorables, despite the lavish rewards for success, but he was talented enough-and essential enough-that Rozrrom kept him on, even after he obviously did not wish to stay. Still, Rozrrom would never have picked Rends as one to be brave enough to run, but he had been wrong before. Not often, but it did happen.

Rozrrom nodded to one of the security guards, who handed Rends a short but obviously sharp blade. "You know what I expect you to do, and the choices you have," Rozrrom said, stepping back a meter. "Do it and I may reconsider your fate."

Rends looked at the blade in his hand, then up at Rozrrom. He certainly knew what he had to do to prove his loyalty to their leader, the only way of saving his life. What he didn't know, the General reflected, was that he would be killed anyway, regardless of what he did. If the leader of the Inexorables let him live, it could give other unhappy crew the excuse to try and escape their "employment" as well.

The prisoner's hands shook so badly that he had a hard time holding onto the small knife; his breathing became shallow and gasping as he glanced around the large cave, as if an avenue of escape might appear out of thin air. When none presented themselves, he squeezed shut his eyes and raised the blade to his left ear. As he made the first cut, separating the top portion of his ear completely away from the side of his head, he screamed. Before his shriek had even stopped echoing around the office, Rends fell to the rocky floor, blood beginning to pool under his head.

"Kill him," Rozrrom said with a wave of his hand, turning back towards his desk. The sound of a blaster firing reverberated around the cavern, and the customary bright flash silhouetted Rozrrom against the wall behind his chair before he sat down. As he settled in, he noticed a light blinking to show that a text message was waiting for him. He reached out and hit a number of switches, then watched absently as one of the security guards dragged the lifeless corpse out of the room by one foot, the other guard mopping up the trail of blood left behind.

With a sparkle of light, a text message popped up in front of Rozrrom, in the form of a holo above his immense desk. It was encrypted, and he had to try several different keys before the words unscrambled into basic. The first thing Rozrrom noticed was the route it had taken to reach him, which was not a familiar one, having bounced through at least forty relays between the sender and the recipient in an obvious attempt to hide the origin. And from what Rozrrom was reading, it was not from his prospective agent as he had hoped it might be. In fact...

"I don't believe this," he said aloud, his voice rumbling through the cavern that he had chosen as his office. "This is too good to be true!"

"Sir?" the guard asked, looking up from his bloody rag. But Rozrrom waived him out of his office with a careless flick of his hand, and quickly composed a message to the author and sent it back via a variation of the route it had come through. And if the sender was true to his word, then the Inexorables were about to add a great deal of power to their fleet. Enough that perhaps even the much celebrated Rogue Squadron may not be able to stop them.


Hobbie and Thras Nyl were the last pair, preparing to make their way through the tangled and continually shifting clutter of the debris field. Hobbie flipped several switches, bringing his engines back online, and asked his astromech to run a final systems check. He did a visual check of his fuel levels, armaments, temperatures, pressures, and his scanners all out of habit, his eyes moving from dial to dial to screen. Everything seemed to be in order for his first exercise with Thras Nyl.

Although it wasn't really a competition, everyone had been trying to beat the best time posted so far, by Corran and Ooryl. The long-time wingmates had raced through the pieces of wreckage and space garbage, alternately taking the lead, and exploded past the previous leading time of Myn Donos and Inyri Forge. But that wasn't what Hobbie was thinking about at the moment. He couldn't wait to get back to base and tease Wes about the fact that he and Hepat Avaan were in last place.

The Sullustans were well known throughout the galaxy as natural pilots and mechanics, but Hepat had seemed to have some difficulty keeping up with Wes and his rather unorthodox and improvisational style of flying, and consequently the Sullustan reached the marker far behind his wingmate, causing them to put up the worst time. Hobbie hoped Avaan enjoyed simming, because between this and the formation confusion, there was going to be a lot of it in his future. Fortunately, Wes was a good teacher. In his own inimitable manner, of course.

But now it was Hobbie's turn. He'd simmed this with Nyl earlier in the day with no complications. However, if there was one thing that Hobbie had learned from his years of experience, it was that sims never showed all of the problems and dangers that could arise during a mission. Sims were exactly what they were supposed to be: a practice-run for the real thing, not a replacement. Always expect the unexpected was a rule that Hobbie had learned to live by.

Hobbie looked to his left and saw Thras Nyl's X-wing. It didn't really bother him that his new wingman was an ex-Imperial-Hobbie was one himself since defecting to the Rebellion shortly after his graduation from the Academy. That had been a year before the destruction of the first Death Star, just over ten standard years ago.

Stars, am I that old?

"All right, Rogues Three and Four, your turn," Tycho said, derailing Hobbie's increasingly depressing train of thought. "Best time to marker forty-eight. Whenever you're ready, go ahead. And Four, don't mangle your fighter this time."

"Hey, it wasn't my fault last time!" Hobbie protested. "Wes cut me off and I had no choice but to go left. The wreckage got in my way."

"Sure, Four, I've heard that story before. Whenever you're ready."

Hobbie growled as his R-2 unit, Argh, tootled behind him. Despite trying his best to mope, Hobbie was forced to laugh as the translation scrolled by. His droid had been nicknamed Argh by the techs that had repaired his fighter the last time, and he'd decided to keep it. They said it was what the little R-2 unit groaned every time Hobbie crashed or otherwise damaged his ship-which didn't happen nearly as often as everyone made out.

"I promise, not a scratch this time," he told his droid. He flicked over to the comm channel he shared with Nyl. "All right, Three, ready for some fancy flying?"

"After you, Four. Show me how it's done." There was a hint of amusement in Thras's voice, and Hobbie got the feeling that maybe someone had filled him in on the details of his wingmate's last run through the debris. Hobbie was pretty sure that the facts had been made a little more interesting than they actually were.

"Starting the run now," Hobbie growled, his improved humor escaping as quickly as oxygen into vacuum. "Argh, give me an audio warning if Rogue Three gets further than fifty meters from me." He moved past marker sixteen, and Argh started a counter on his main screen. Thras was a dozen or so meters behind him, giving him space to manoeuvre while not falling behind.

Hobbie got into trouble almost immediately, narrowly missing a spiralling piece of junk that used to be a communication satellite. While avoiding that, he headed straight into the path of another piece of trash, then another. Suddenly he was losing control of the situation, reacting instead of taking the offensive. "Three, a little help here!"

While in the simulators, Hobbie and Thras had decided on a strategy for how to navigate through the debris. One of them would take the lead, moving through the field, concentrating mainly on his flying, while the other stayed behind him, giving him a heads up of what was ahead and the best route to take. It had worked well; in the sim at least.

"Okay, you have several large pieces of debris directly ahead," Thras answered. "Take the route to the left."

"Thanks. Keep tight behind me for a bit. I don't want anything cutting you off."

"Understood, Four."

Hobbie chewed on his lower lip as he settled into a state of deeper concentration. He swooped around a fighter's hulk, passing close enough over the top of it to see that the pilot's couch was missing. He then threw his stick over hard to squeeze between it and the old bow of a Star Destroyer. As he rounded a piece of wreckage the size of a frigate, Thras was back on the comm. "There's a clearing just behind this large segment where we can pick up our speed for a bit. Head to your starboard-just past that damaged freighter-then take a sharp right around that big piece of space station."

"Copy, Three."

After dodging several smaller chunks, the pair entered the clearing Thras had spotted. Hobbie pushed his throttle up to full, glancing over his shoulder to get a good view of Thras on his starboard side. "Your turn, Three. Take the point."

"With pleasure, Four." Hobbie smiled at the satisfaction evident in Thras's voice. He could tell that the Coruscant native enjoyed flying as much as he did, and took pride in his skills. "We'll go through at point three-eight mark four, between the two hunks of wreckage on the right. I'll keep my speed up as much as possible. You right behind me?"

"You can't get rid of me that easy, Three," Hobbie replied. "Besides, if I lose you on our first run together, Lead'll have me on cleaning duty for a month, never mind the dataforms I'd have to fill out." As they passed between the two derelicts, Hobbie searched his short-range scanners for any incoming objects that may cross their route. "Three, you have a large chunk straight ahead moving to your left. Recommend you take it on the left anyway, since it seems to be smooth flying after that. Three kilometres to the marker."

"Understood, Four. Adjusting course now."

Hobbie watched as Thras headed off to the left, overtaking then starting to move past another wreck. He started after his wingman, leaving Nyl just enough room to manoeuvre if he had to, but still close enough to protect him. At that moment, Argh began to screech. Hobbie searched his scanner, then the space in front of him, and was just in time to see a huge twisted piece of metal appear from close behind the derelict ship. It was heading straight for Thras, who only saw it once it cleared the cover of the freighter. He had no hope of getting out of its path before they would collide.

"Three, break left. Now!" Hobbie yelled. At the same time he switched his lasers from quad to dual fire. The crosshairs of his heads-up display fell over the piece of wreckage and he was firing. Thras was a mere meter out of the way when Hobbie's lasers flashed past his wingmate's starboard S-foil, hitting the debris dead on. It wasn't enough to destroy it, but deflected it enough to let Nyl get out of its way. Hobbie let out a long breath, slouching back in his pilot's couch.

"Thanks, Four," Thras said, relief evident in his voice. "That was a little too close."

"Good thing you have excellent reflexes or I might've shot you instead of the wreckage, and that would have been harder to explain than letting you get crushed," Hobbie replied, catching up with his new wingman. "Head straight for the marker. We still have a shot of leaving Five and Six in the dust."

"Follow me, then. I'll try not to get into any more trouble."

Hobbie smiled grimly. "You're a Rogue now, Thras. Trouble comes with the unit patch."


Ecla Idec yanked off her helmet and shook her head, letting dark locks fall freely down around her ears. It had taken her nearly a year to grow her hair to this length, and although she preferred the style to the cropped one she'd sported before, tucking the longer tresses up inside her helmet was annoying, and slightly uncomfortable. It felt good to let it fly loose again.

The clang of the ladder hitting the side of her ship turned her head, and she pulled at her gloves. Once they were off, she tucked them into her helmet and climbed up and over the side of her fighter. Most of the other Rogues had already landed and moved out of the hangar, but she and Varnestra had been held up in orbit, waiting for Coruscant military traffic control to clear them through the planetary shields. Just when she was beginning to despair of ever receiving clearance, the call came through with their approach vector. Just as she had been told, it was easier to get off Coruscant than return to its surface.

As her feet hit the deck, Shi'dora, the unit's chief mechanic, approached her. "Everything go all right?" the Twi'lek asked her.

"Yes, fine," Ecla answered with a grin. "Just got stuck in orbit."

"Nothing unusual there," Shi'dora said. "Tell me, how did Major Janson perform in the exercise?"

Ecla frowned. "He flew well. Why do you ask?"

Two sharp fangs appeared, momentarily taking Ecla by surprise, until she realized the native of Ryloth was grinning at her. "He did not seem at all pleased," she replied. "It will take me at least a cycle to repair the damage to the equipment he kicked on the way out of the hangar. It may take longer for his wingmate to be repaired, however."

A gurgling chuckle followed the statement, and Ecla finally caught on. "Ah yes, Flight Officer Avaan may have some questions to answer this evening."

"Everything functioning well on your fighter?" Shi'dora asked, slowly heading towards the nose of the X‑wing. Her taloned fingers traced a line down the freshly painted red Rogue stripe as she went.

"Yes, no problems," Ecla answered, and the Twi'lek responded with a flourish of her lekku as a wave as she ducked under the fighter and headed off across the empty space on the other side of Ecla's ship. Ecla looked past the departing mechanic and saw a quartet of X-wings approaching the gaping entrance to the hangar. Since they were within atmosphere, there was no need for a magcon field. During the day, the hangar doors usually stayed open, and then were closed at sunset.

Ecla knew that the only pair that had still not made their run after she was done was Major Klivian and Flight Officer Nyl. The other two fighters had to be General Antilles and Colonel Celchu, who had been waiting for all of the Rogues to finish before heading back. She decided to remain in the hangar, telling herself that all she wanted to do was use the opportunity to observe such fine pilots manoeuvring their ships so expertly. But really she wanted to know who had gotten the best time. She knew it was not Varnestra and herself, since they had been unable to better the time set by Captain Horn and his wingmate, but she was curious all the same.

The first pair entered the hangar, five meters above the floor. Two techs waved them over to their landing zones, and they crept forward on repulsors. Once they reached the squared-off area, they pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees, turning to face the direction they had come from, as if ready to make a quick escape through the hangar doors.

As skilful as that landing had been, though, it was nothing compared to the fluid grace with which the last two veteran Rogues moved into position to land. Ecla leaned her back against the port landing strut of her own fighter, captivated as the two X-wings entered the hangar. They were wingtip to wingtip, showing a confidence in each other that was borne of years of flying experience. Ecla knew it was Antilles and Celchu, but whether this was their usual style of flying, or if they were just showing off for an audience, she couldn't be sure. Maybe a combination of both? she thought to herself, coughing to hide a giggle.

The area that had been set aside for them was in an awkward corner, just to the left of the huge doors. They would have to move into the center of the hangar, an area usually kept clear, then manoeuvre backwards into the corner, not really having enough space to pivot in place. It was a tricky spot to land one ship at a time, but they seemed determined to land together, continuing into the hangar side by side.

Once in the center of the immense chamber, the two fighters turned in tandem, the tips of their S-foils still only about thirty centimetres apart. Ecla straightened, all of her attention now focused on the display of proficiency; it was like a dance being performed right in front of her, highly technical, yet beautiful. She couldn't help but admire them, her practiced eyes following every move, every minute correction or adjustment.

As they ended up side-on to the hangar entrance, the two fighters began a slight drift backwards, all the time keeping a tight formation. A small crowd had gathered now, mostly techs and other people on duty in the hangar. They stood on either side of Ecla's fighter, watching as two of the New Republic's most famous pilots put on a small show.

The fighters' drift lessened and stopped as they came close to their parking sites. They began to slowly rotate a few more degrees into position, then move backwards, reversing into their places, stopping only about two meters from the rear wall. It was only then that Ecla noticed there were no techs guiding them-they were on their own.

As the two fighters settled to the ground, and the rumble of the repulsorlifts died, applause erupted from the people gathered around Ecla. She realized she was just staring in awe.

"Show-offs," a voice said from her left. Ecla turned to see Major Klivian shaking his blond head in mock disgust. He was smiling, though, without venom or jealousy in his remark; he had obviously seen this kind of thing before, possibly even done it himself.

She looked back to where the fighters had landed. The canopies were open now, two helmeted pilots standing on their couches, calling back and forth to one another. "They are very proficient," she said simply.

"Sure. But do they have to flaunt it?" he replied, chuckling.

"I would," she answered seriously, before turning on her heel to head for the exit.


"I'm sure you would," Hobbie said more or less to himself, raising an eyebrow. He had planned to introduce himself to Flight Officer Idec, but she hadn't really given him much of a chance. He watched as she wound her way between people and machines, finally making it to the exit and disappearing through it.

"Did you say something?" Thras Nyl asked, coming up to Hobbie's right.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing," Hobbie responded before turning slowly towards his wingmate. "Apparently I was just talking to myself."

"I see. I think I'll head for the showers. Worked up quite a sweat in that run." Nyl scratched at his damp black hair with one hand, his helmet dangling from the other.

"I should think so. I know I was in a cold sweat when I saw that huge chunk heading for you. How would that look if I let my wingmate get crushed on our first training mission together?"

"Not the best thing to have on your record, I suppose." Thras offered Hobbie a wide, easy grin. He hoped that the ex-Imp was beginning to feel a little more at home. "I'll see you at the debriefing?"

"Yup, I'll be there," Hobbie smiled in return at his wingman. Thras moved past him, heading for the door. Hobbie watched as he too disappeared through it, following the course set by Ecla Idec, leaving him to wonder briefly when he would finally get to meet the pretty pilot he had managed to annoy in their very first conversation.

That had to be some kind of record.