Wraith Squadron soars back into action, on a full-throttle mission to match wits and weapons with an Imperial General gone rogue. Wraith Squadron: The elite X-wing unit of rogues and misfits who became legends of the Rebellion, specializing in carrying out the most dangerous and daring operations before breaking up and going their separate ways. Now, three decades later, their singular skills are back in demand for a tailor-made Wraith Squadron mission. A powerful general in the Galactic Alliance Army, once renowned for his valor, is suspected of participating in a conspiracy that nearly succeeded in toppling the Alliance back into the merciless hands of the Empire. With orders to expose and apprehend the traitor—and license to do so by any and all means—the Wraiths will become thieves, pirates, impostors, forgers . . . and targets, as they put their guts, their guns, and their riskiest game plan to the test! “A rare entry point for newbies to the Star Wars expanded universe.” —Kirkus Reviews Aaron Allston is the New York Times bestselling author of the Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi books Conviction, Outcast, and Backlash; the Star Wars: Legacy of the Force novels Betrayal, Exile, and Fury; the Star Wars: The New Jedi Order: Enemy Lines adventures Rebel Dream and Rebel Stand; novels in the popular Star Wars X-Wing series, including Mercy Kill; and the Doc Sidhe novels, which combine 1930s-style hero-pulps with Celtic myth. He is also a longtime game designer and in 2006 was inducted into the Academy of Adventure Gaming Arts & Design (AAGAD) Hall of Fame. He lives in Central Texas. CHAPTER ONE Ryvester, Meridian Sector 13 ABY (31 Years Ago) Imperial Admiral Kosh Teradoc paused, irritated and self-conscious, just outside the entryway into the club. His garment, a trades-being’s jumpsuit, was authentic, bought at a used-clothes stall in a poverty-stricken neighborhood. And the wig that covered his military-cut blond hair with a mop of lank, disarrayed brown hair was perfect. But his posture--he couldn’t seem to shake off his upright military bearing, no matter how hard he tried. Loosening his shoulders, slumping, slouching . . . nothing worked for more than a few seconds. “You’re doing fine, Admiral.” That was one of his bodyguards, whispering. “Try . . . try smiling.” Teradoc forced his mouth into a smile and held it that way. He took the final step up to the doors. They slid aside, emitting a wash of warmer air and the sounds of voices, music, and clinking glasses. He and his guards moved into the club’s waiting area. Its dark walls were decorated with holos advertising various brands of drinks; the moving images promised romance, social success, and wealth to patrons wise enough to choose the correct beverage. And they promised these things to nonhumans as well as humans. One of Teradoc’s guards, taller and fitter than he was and dressed like him, kept close. The other three held back as though they constituted a different party of patrons. The seater approached. A brown Chadra-Fan woman who stood only as tall as Teradoc’s waist, she wore a gold hostess gown, floor-length but exposing quite a lot of glossy fur. Teradoc held up three fingers. He enunciated slowly so she would understand. “Another will be coming. Another man, joining us. You understand?” Her mouth turned up in the faintest of smiles. “I do.” Her voice was light, sweet, and perhaps just a touch mocking. “Are you the party joining Captain Hachat?” “Um . . . yes.” “He’s already here. This way, please.” She turned and led them through broad, open double doors into the main room. Teradoc followed. He felt heat in his cheeks. The little Chadra-Fan--had she actually condescended to him? He wondered if he should arrange an appropriate punishment. The main room was cavernous, most of its innumerable tables occupied even at this late hour. The music and the din of conversation grew louder. And the smells--less than a quarter of the patrons were human. Teradoc saw horned Devaronians, furry Bothans, diminutive Sullustans, enormous, green-skinned Gamorreans, and more, and he fancied he could smell every one of them. And their alcohol. “You’re upright again, sir. You might try slouching.” Teradoc growled at his guard but complied. There was one last blast of music from the upraised stage, and then the band, most of the players nonhuman, rose to the crowd’s applause. They retreated behind the stage curtain. Moments later the noise of the audience, hundreds of voices, changed--lowered, became expectant in tone. A new act filed out onstage. Six Gamorrean males, dressed in nothing but loincloths, their skin oiled and gleaming, moved out and arrayed themselves in a chevron-shaped formation. Recorded dance music, heavy on drums and woodwinds, blasted out from the stage’s sound system. The Gamorreans began moving to the music. They flexed, shimmied, strutted in unison. A shrill cry of appreciation rose from Gamorrean