Star Wars - X-Wing 02 - Wedge's Gamble Page 11

  14

  I guess now is the time we will see if this disguise really works or not. Wedge sat back in the starliner's plush seat, barely glancing at the screen built into the rear of the seat in front of him. On it played little holographic reports about the nature of the Rebellion and the war being fought against it by the Empire. The gist of the reports was to suggest that the battle with Palpatine's murderers was going well and justice was being restored to the gal­axy as victory after victory over the treasonous Rebels was gained.

  Wedge, disguised as he was, presented an argument that belied the Empire's propaganda efforts. A metal mask covered his forehead, right eye, and cheek on down to the edge of his jaw. Part of the mask continued on past his right ear, flattening it utterly, and on back to the rear of his skull. Another piece curled down along his jaw and wrapped around his throat. A round lens set in place over his right eye enlarged it and made it very easy to see how blue the contact lens he had on was.

  Surface pressure kept the mask in place, making it de­cidedly uncomfortable to wear. It also made the rounded edge on his face dig sufficiently into his skin to appear as if the metal had replaced flesh on that side of his face. The mask also unbalanced his head enough that his neck hurt too much to hold his head straight all the time. As a result he let his head loll to the right for the most part, and that added to his disguise.

  The Customs official who had come aboard right af­ter the Dairkan Starliner Jewel of Churba entered the Co­ruscant system stopped in the aisle opposite him. "I need to see your identification."

  Wedge slid an identification card from inside the breast of his black Imperial uniform. He used his right hand that had been encased in black leather. The glove did little to hide the blocky, angular nature of the hand, though even if it had been smooth, the fact that it con­sisted of two thick fingers and a thumb would have given the Customs man the idea something was wrong. Gentle whirring sounds emanated from the glove as Wedge's fin­gers tightened on the card and his wrist rotated to hand the card over to the official.

  "Here you are, sir." Wedge's words came in a buzzing croak, half because of the pressure on his larynx and half because of the voice modulator built into the mask.

  The Customs official gave the ID card only a cursory glance before he swiped it through a slot on his datapad. "Colonel Antar Roat ..."

  "Ro-at."

  "What?"

  "My name is pronounced Ro-at." The buzz made the words all but unintelligible, though the emphasis he placed on them appeared to get through to the Customs official.

  "Pardon, sir. Colonel Ro-at. You are bound for Impe­rial Center for reconstr . . . yes, of course." The man's voice trailed off. "Everything seems in order here, Colo­nel."

  Wedge raised his hand to take the card back, but did not let his claw close on it yet. "Are you certain? My bag­gage is in my sleeping berth."

  "Yes, I am certain." The man impatiently tapped the card against Wedge's thumb.

  "I understand the need for security, sir."

  "I'm certain, sir."

  "If you have trouble, I will help." Wedge let his voice fall to a whisper, as if suddenly overcome with fatigue. His head dipped slightly at the same time, then he brought it back up. "I will help."

  The Customs man nodded. "I will remember that, Colonel."

  Wedge took the card and fumbled a couple of times before he slid it home again. "I live to serve."

  The Customs man moved on, mumbling under his breath. "You're dead and still serving. The Emdee-fours should have let you die."

  Wedge would have missed the remark, but the hear­ing enhancement built into the mask and fed into his right ear allowed him to catch it. He killed the smile the com­ment threatened to produce because he knew Colonel Antar Roat would find little in life that was funny. And getting caught by Customs as I try to land on Coruscant would not be funny at all.

  It had not occurred to Wedge to wonder how he would be inserted into Coruscant until he was on his way for his briefing about his cover. He'd known, of course, that he couldn't fly an X-wing in there, and he sincerely doubted much in the way of contraband or illegal immi­grants made it onto Coruscant without someone knowing and approving of it. He'd assumed he would be disguised somehow, but it never crossed his mind that he would head into Coruscant in an Imperial Naval Officer's uni­form.

  The briefing about his new identity had been fasci­nating. General Cracken's people had fashioned several identities for him. One, Colonel Roat, was designed for insertion and possible reuse later to get back out again. He had another one for the time he would be scouting around on Coruscant and a third as his exit identity. He had been informed about the latter two identities, but all

  datacards and other things for them would be supplied on Coruscant after he had been met and had a chance to set­tle in.

  The Intelligence division had chosen Colonel Antar Roat as his insertion cover for a couple of reasons. The first was that the prosthetics hid Wedge's identity almost completely. Moreover, they were a forbidden attractant— they made him unusual enough that people would pay at­tention to him, but they would see the parts, not the man wearing them. And people caught staring at him would look away in shame. They would remember a man with war injuries, but any details would concern his mechani­cal parts. Since the parts could be removed and discarded, authorities would be looking for a man who no longer existed once Wedge had shed that disguise.

  The second reason Roat had been created for Wedge was because Wedge was a pilot. He could accurately and intelligently converse about starfighter combat if pressed. His cover story indicated he had been shot down in the defense of Vladet, in the Rachuk system, and Wedge could talk about that battle since he'd been there.

  7 was on the Rebel side, but I was there.

  A slight tremor rippled through the ship. Wedge hit a button beside the screen in front of him and the view shifted to an external one being flashed from a holocam mounted in the aft of the Jewel of Churba. A shuttle lifted off from a spinal docking port on the top of the ship. The ultra-class passengers had traveled in what was supposed to be unparalleled luxury on the starliner's upper decks and those who could afford it clearly took their own shuttles down to the planet to avoid waiting to disembark with the other travelers.

  It amazed Wedge that people would or could exist in such luxury in such a time of turmoil. He found their de­sire for pleasure and ease less disturbing than their appar­ent lack of foresight. From the Rebellion's point of view the end was nigh for the Empire—though whether the Re­bellion or someone like Warlord Zsinj was going to emerge as the new force in the galaxy was open to conjec-

  ture. The fact was, though, that no matter who won, avoiding unnecessary expenditures of money in such dire times seemed just to be common sense to him.

  He did realize that some people would spend money to spin around themselves a cocoon within which the Re­bellion did not exist. Maintaining the illusion that the Empire was hale and hearty was not difficult if price was no object. Wedge had no doubt that in some far-flung en­claves of the Empire not only were there people who did not believe the Emperor had died, but there were people who would keep on believing he was alive and well for years if not decades and possibly even centuries.

  Ignorance I can understand, but not willful igno­rance.

  He killed another smile before it could blossom, though this one was more difficult to kill than the first. The very same people he considered willfully ignorant would find him deluded and misguided. Half of them would deny there were any problems inherent in the Im­perial system—as if slavery, anti-alien sentiments, and weapons that destroyed planets could be so easily forgot­ten. The other half might admit there were problems, but they would shy from accepting open insurgency against the legitimate government as a solution to them. For those people, working within the system was the way to achieve change, but they failed to realize that when a sys­tem had become as corrupt as the Empire, significant change was impossib
le without a shattering of the power structure.

  The trick of it all—and what tempted him to smile— was that all sides could make reasonable and logical argu­ments for their points of view. Therein was the problem with politics. Since it was the art of compromise, round upon round of discussion could end in no solution being reached. The only time serious change was made was when an individual was willing to die for what he be­lieved. Absent that basic commitment—a commitment most Imperial citizens were not prepared to make—the

  Empire would continue to exist in one form or another, in­stitutionalizing evil.

  A man appeared at the end of his row of seats. "Col­onel Roat?"

  Wedge looked over slowly, then nodded. "Prefect Dodt. It has been, well, years."

  As Parin Dodt—an Imperial Prefect with greying brown hair and brown eyes—Pash Cracken nodded. "It was last at the ceremony ending the year of mourning, as I recall, just before you were transferred away. I would not have known it was you, but the Customs man told me who you were. The galaxy gets smaller as time goes by."

  Wedge stiffly patted the seat beside his. "Join me, if you do not mind. My body has been broken, but my brain was unaffected. You are coming to Imperial Center on business?"

  "You know better than to ask such questions, Colo­nel, just as I know not to ask where you were injured." Pash settled himself into the seat and loosely fastened the restraining belts on. "This has been a very smooth flight."

  "It has indeed." Wedge nodded. Pash's comment had confirmed what Wedge had decided about the journey to Coruscant: security was not so tight as to uncover them, nor as lax as might have been expected were the Empire's core institutions breaking down. It also told him that Pash had encountered no trouble fitting in with the other passengers. While the two of them had known they were traveling on the same flight, they had not made contact previously. Had there been any difficulties they would not have made contact prior to landing, and only did so now to facilitate pickup in the spaceport.

  A smiling flight facilitator's face appeared on the flat screen. "We are beginning landing operations. Please bring your seats into a full and ..."

  Wedge killed the sound on the display. "I hope our landing is as smooth as the flight."

  "As do I." Pash sighed convincingly. "I hate space-

  port tie-ups. If things are going to go wrong, it's generally there."

  The spaceport at which Jewel of Churba set down was a multistory facility built atop a triad of towers approxi­mately fifty kilometers from the Imperial Palace. The docking bay had multiple levels that allowed passengers from the various classes to disembark without having to mix with the others. The rich who had not left in their own shuttles were received in an opulent, spacious area that Wedge saw through the porthole as Jewel settled in for a landing. The keelrunners—aliens and low-class humans—were off-loaded in a secure cargo area.

  The first- through third-class passengers exited the starliner through multiple ports and into a clean but crowded waiting area. Customs officials ran spot checks on some of the passengers, but Wedge saw no one hustled away. Beyond the Immigration area was luggage retrieval, but before he or Pash could worm their way into the crowd to get their things, a brown-haired woman in a prim grey medtech uniform approached them.

  "Colonel Roat?"

  Wedge nodded. "I am Roat. This is my friend, Prefect Parin Dodt. You are?"

  "Irin Fossyr. I am from the Rohair Biomechanical Clinic. I was sent to meet you."

  "You were."

  "I had been told you were notified. I left word with your aide, Captain Seeno."

  "That explains it. Seeno was killed just before I began my journey."

  "You have my sympathies, sir."

  "Accepted." Wedge nodded solemnly. The woman had used the correct phrases to introduce herself, proving she was one of Cracken's agents. Wedge waited while she and Pash picked up the luggage, then she led them out to a waiting lift-car. It had labels on the side proclaiming it to be from the Rohari Biomechanical Clinic but otherwise

  looked utterly ordinary. Their luggage was loaded into the external rack, then the three of them climbed in and the driver in the forward compartment headed them away from the spaceport.

  The woman sat back on the bench seat that faced the rear of the craft. "It will take us fifteen minutes or so to get where we're going. We could get there faster, but ..."

  Wedge smiled as much as the mask would allow him to. "Precautions, we understand. I was wondering, though, if I can't take this mask off."

  "By all means."

  Wedge subvocalized the command that let the air out of the built-in bladders, loosening the mask. He worked it off, then coughed and finally shucked his hand out of the claw glove. "Luke doesn't seem to mind his replacement hand—it must be that Jedi training."

  Pash chuckled politely, but the woman just sat there and stared for a moment. Then she blushed and looked away. "Forgive me. I had been told you were important, but I didn't realize. I remember your face from some early Imperial warrants. You're Wedge Antilles, right?"

  Wedge nodded. "You saw Imperial warrants with my picture on them?"

  "They had limited circulation—the Diktat might have been with the Empire, but not so all Corellians." She ex­tended her hand to Wedge. "I'm Iella Wessiri. It's a plea­sure to meet you."

  Iella Wessiri? Why is that name familiar? Wedge shook her hand and let her introduce herself to Pash Cracken—eliciting another blush—while he thought about her name. Then it came to him. That's what Corran's human partner was called.

  "You saw the Imperial warrants when you were with CorSec."

  Iella blinked, then nodded slowly. "They must have given you a thorough briefing."

  "Not really, but I have heard of you." He shrugged. "I can't say from where, of course."

  She shook her head. "No, of course not." "What I can say is this"—Wedge smiled—"what I have heard makes me think this mission's smooth start should extend yet further and give us a chance to accom­plish everything we set out to do."

  15

  Corran Horn felt miserable. The cover story prepared for his entry into Coruscant called for him to be swathed in multiple layers of cloth—most of it oppressively heavy and hot—forming the purple and red robes he wore. The collar on the shirt he wore closest to his skin had been starched and pressed until its edge felt like a razor, espe­cially where it pressed up against his larynx. A big, old, rounded cylinder hat crowned him while the skirts of the outermost robe dragged on the deck of the Jewel of Churba's exclusive ultra-deck.

  He kept his hands hidden in the sleeves of the robe, as he had been instructed a good Kuati telbun would do. The goal of the clothing was to render him all but gender-less, and were he traveling on Kuat with Erisi, he would be considered all but invisible by the upper crust of soci­ety. On Jewel he had been a curiosity and the combined object of envy and pity.

  Erisi's appearance had been the source of envy for ev­ery male in ultra-class. She wore tight blue leggings be­neath a loose blue blouse flecked with scintillating points of light that flashed gold and silver. A belt gathered the blouse at her waist, which was just as well because it had

  no fasteners and lay open from throat to tails. Thus, though she was fully clothed, anyone with enough intelli­gence to outwit a Kowakian monkey-lizard could imagine what Erisi looked like naked, and the idea of having to share a cabin with her doubtless seemed wonderful to plenty of men.

  Pity came when people saw how she treated him. Erisi berated him mercilessly—on those occasions she chose to acknowledge his presence consciously. Most of the time he trailed respectfully after her, paying for things she bought, carrying things she wanted carried, picking up after her, and apologizing graciously in her wake. While her conduct was far from graceless, she appeared to draw strength from the cruelties she inflicted upon him. Theirs appeared to be a symbiotic relationship where Corran endured abuse in return for sexual favors.

  In the final analysis, desp
ite Erisi's beauty, no one thought it was an even bargain.

  Erisi tapped her foot impatiently as a stocky female Customs official wandered along from the previous dock­ing foyer to where they waited. Erisi folded her arms and gave the woman a withering stare. At first the official hes­itated, then she smiled slowly. The expression on her face all but broadcast her thoughts to Corran. She's remem­bered she has the power here, at this moment, and will make Erisi pay for her disrespect.

  The official glanced at her datapad. "Ris Darsk?"

  Erisi nodded coldly.

  "I have a travel file with the appropriate visas for you, but not for him."

  "He is Darsk Ristel." Erisi waved her left hand dismissively. "He is there."

  "I only show one passenger."

  Erisi reached out with one finger and punched a but­ton on the woman's datapad. "There. Baggage."

  A scowl settled over the official's face. "State the pur­pose of your visit to Imperial Center."

  "It is a private matter."

  An oily smile spilled over the scowl. "That is insuffi­cient for our records."

  Erisi glanced at Corran, then she produced a razor-edged smile that slashed into the official's confidence. "Mine is a pleasure journey here, though I anticipate very little of it."

  The official turned toward him. "The purpose of your visit, sir?"

  Erisi answered for him. "His is a business trip."

  "Business and pleasure? Should it not be one or the other?"

  Erisi shook her head slowly. "Not when my pleasure is his business. He is telbun."

  The official's head drew back, trapping an extra chin against her throat. "Telbun?"

  "Exactly. My telbun bore me here on Imperial Center so, in keeping with my family's tradition, I have come here with this telbun to conceive."

  "To conceive? A child?"

  "You understand."

  "Telbun. I see." The official looked at Corran and he averted his eyes. "Telbun."

  Telbun were drawn from the middle classes on Kuat. They were raised and trained by their families to excel in academics, social manners, and athletics. When they reached the appropriate age, they underwent a battery of tests that produced a ranking by combining scores for in­telligence, grace, health, and genetic makeup. The upper classes of the great Kuat merchant houses then purchased telbun from their families for the purpose of parenting a child with a member of the merchant family, then raising that child. The child would be an heir of the merchant house, thereby getting all the benefits of its birth, while the telbun's family would be greatly enriched by the fees paid for the telbun's service.