Zsinj smiled. "What about your code-slicer? What if he's caught and broken?"
"Impossible. She has already left her Rebel station. I'm having her brought in and giving her a commission aboard Implacable."
"It would have been cheaper to have eliminated her. Your previous superior would have done it."
"Ysanne Isard kept all her officers and minions in a state of fear," Trigit acknowledged. "And when they failed her, or proved in any way to be a liability, she did eliminate them. So they knew that there were no happy endings in their futures, no rosy retirements. They literally had nothing to look forward to except death or escape. That's not a way to engender loyalty. That's not my way."
"Good."
"But none of this discussion explains why you've contacted me at such considerable expense."
Zsinj's smile grew broader. "I want to hear early results from the Mont Project."
"Ah. Well, the first few thousand Morrt-class parasite-droids have been distributed. I'm getting preliminary reports already. Naturally, there's a concentration of signal hits from known population centers—Imperial, New Republic, and independent. We're also getting a few hits from unknown sites, and sites designated destroyed or abandoned. Once we get reinforcement on them, we can go looking."
"Good. Keep me up-to-date on all your interesting little operations."
"As always, my lord."
Zsinj gave him a gracious little nod and his image faded to nothingness.
Trigit sighed. Zsinj was much easier to deal with than Ysanne Isard, also known as Iceheart, former head of Imperial Intelligence—now dead at the hands of Rogue Squadron. Unlike Iceheart, Zsinj understood something about the folly of waste—such as murdering subordinates on a whim. But Zsinj's desire to be up-to-date on every operation, to have his fingers in each new plan and enterprise, was extremely tiresome.
Ah, well. As long as Zsinj remained reasonable and kept Implacable stocked with fuel, weapons, food, and information, Trigit would remain with him. Far better than setting out on the lonely warlord's road himself.
That is, until he had power and advantages to match Zsinj's.
"Any more?" said Wedge.
Janson consulted his chrono. "It's getting late. But we have only two more candidates to review."
"Today, or total?"
"Total. Your slave-driving habits have gotten us almost through the first phase of the evaluation process." Janson consulted his datapad. "Next is Voort saBinring, a Gamorrean."
"Very funny. You had me going the first time, Wes, but that joke won't work twice."
"He's a Gamorrean."
The green-skinned, pig-faced Gamorreans were found among untrained guard and police forces on many worlds. They were technologically primitive, disinterested in any of the advanced sciences required for technological professions. "It's impossible to train Gamorrean males to something as complicated as fighter piloting. They have glandular balances that make them very violent and impatient."
"He's a Gamorrean."
"Just keep up your little joke, then, and show him in."
Janson spoke into his comlink. A moment later a Gamorrean—1.9 meters of glowering porcine presence, dressed in the standard New Republic pilot's uniform, the bright orange of the jumpsuit clashing nauseatingly with the creature's green skin—walked in and saluted.
Janson smiled ingratiatingly at Wedge. "Yub, yub, Commander."
Whenever the Gamorrean spoke, his natural voice, grunts and squeals not pleasant to the human ear, emerged first. Then, below it, cutting through it, was his other voice, the mechanical one, emerging from the translator device implanted in his throat. "No, Commander. I have not lived among other Gamorreans since I was a child."
Wedge cleared his throat. "I'm sure you understand that this is new to me. But I am curious, how you, well, overcame Gamorrean biology and learned to fly."
"I did not overcome my biology. These were changes forced upon me. By Binring Biomedical Product."
"I know that name. They provide food to the Empire's armed forces. Nasty green nutrient pastes that take forever to go bad. Perfect for stormtroopers."
The Gamorrean nodded. "They also engineer animals to adapt to different planetary environments. They have less wholesome experiments as well. I was one of them. For purposes of espionage, the Emperor wanted Gamorreans with humanlike methods of self-control. They made alterations to our biochemistries. My attention span surpasses human norm. My mathematical acumen registers at the genius level. I do not lose control of my anger."
"This was an Imperial project?" Wedge thought that through. "How many like you are there?"
"None. I am the only success."
"The other transformations were fatal?"
"In a sense. All the other subjects committed suicide."
"Why?"
"If I knew, I would be among them. But I am certain it has something to do with isolation. How would you feel if you were the only thinking human in the galaxy, forced to live among Gamorreans, and all the other humans you met were bloodthirsty primitives?"
"A good point." Wedge sat back and considered that unhappy prospect for a moment. "How did you come to join the Alliance?"
"One of my creators, who had watched his other . . . children . . . kill themselves one by one arranged to have me put through a variety of different simulator training programs to measure my capacity. Or so he said. In actuality, he was doing it to teach me to pilot many different Imperial and Alliance vehicles. Then he arranged for me to escape the Bin-ring compound. Eventually I reached Obroa-skai."
"The library world."
"I learned much there, and eventually chose to come to the Alliance."
"Your, uh, creator—he didn't choose to escape?"
"He was sad because of the projects he had led. He chose to follow his other children."
Wedge winced. "All right. To more immediate concerns. Your record states that you have temperament problems. You're facing a court-martial for striking a superior officer, though that officer is willing to drop charges to get you transferred as far as possible from his command. What do you have to say?"
The Gamorrean took a few moments to respond. "There are two types of pilots in the New Republic. Those who have been Imperial pilots, and may carry with them an irrational dislike of nonhumans. And those who have had bad encounters with Gamorreans."
"I tend to disagree."
"Your experiences do not match mine. And in my experience, a Gamorrean flyer tends to receive an undue amount of abuse from his fellows. Not just pranks. Sometimes sabotage. Lies. Challenges."
"You didn't strike your officer?"
"I have struck several fellow pilots in well-moderated challenge matches. I have never had to strike one more than once. You will notice that charges were filed against me within half an hour of the alleged incident. No one I have ever struck has been able to speak coherently within half an hour of my striking him. Sir, he struck at me; I blocked his blow. He has chosen to remember that as an attack. He is willing to drop charges only because he is not strong enough to accept responsibility for the full measure of his persecution of me."
Wedge considered. "Well, that's about all for now. Candidate training begins tomorrow." He rose. The others followed suit, and he shook the Gamorrean's hand. "By the way, what do you like to be called? Voort?"
"I am content with Voort. But many others call me Piggy. I am content with it, too, for I can ignore the definite derogatory component that goes with it."
Wedge and Janson exchanged glances. "The lieutenant and I once knew a very fine human pilot who went by Piggy. There's no 'derogatory component' to it in this squadron. Rather, it's a badge of honor I hope you can live up to."
"I will try to do so."
When the Gamorrean was gone, Wedge said, "I wonder what Porkins would have thought of him."
Janson shrugged. "We'll know better when we've flown with him."
"Well, who's next? A mynock? A womp rat?"
"My, you are getting para
noid. No, next, and last, is a human male, Kell Tainer from Sluis Van. I think he's exactly the leader type you want to replace you when it's time to return to Rogue Squadron. Assuming Myn Donos doesn't return to normal."
"Good. Show him in."
A moment later Flight Officer Tainer entered. General Crespin is going to love him, Wedge decided.
Kell Tainer stood nearly two meters tall, with a handsome, sculpted face that holorecorders would adore. Dark hair cut short framed light blue eyes—a couple of shades lighter and they'd make him look like a madman, but at this shade they were piercing, mesmerizing. He was built like an athlete, actually a little too broad in the shoulders to be entirely comfortable in an X-wing's cockpit, but that was a problem for which he would already have learned to compensate.
Kell snapped to a precision salute and held it until Wedge returned it. "Flight Officer Tainer reporting, sir, and a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise. Let me introduce you to my second-in-command, Lieutenant Janson."
Kell had turned toward Janson and was in midsalute as Wedge spoke. Wedge watched as the pilot's back suddenly locked upright. Tainer's salute pose and salute became iron-rigid. Kell did not meet Janson's eyes, but he did ask, "Lieutenant Wes Janson, sir?"
With a bewildered expression, Janson said, "That's me." He finally remembered to return the salute.
Kell turned back to Wedge, kept his gaze focused above Wedge's head. "I apologize, sir. I cannot join this squadron. I withdraw my application. Permission to leave?"
Wedge said, "Why?"
"I'd prefer not to say, sir."
"Understood. Now answer the question."
Kell seemed to vibrate for a moment as his muscles strained against one another. Then, his voice low, he said, "This man killed my father, sir. Permission to leave?"
Janson, his expression shocked, came around to Wedge's side of the desk. His gaze searched Kell's face, and a shadow of recognition crossed his features. "Tainer—your name wasn't always Tainer, was it?"
"No, sir."
"Doran?"
"Yes, sir."
Janson looked away, his eyes tracing something back through the years.
Kell said, "Permission to leave, sir?"
"Wait in the hall," Wedge said.
Kell left. Wedge turned to his second-in-command. "What's this all about?"
4
Janson returned to his chair, finding his way into it by touch; he seemed to look into the past, not seeing anything around him. "My first kill—did I ever tell you that my first kill was an Alliance pilot?"
"No."
"Not something one advertises. Back then, I was a pilot trainee in the Tierfon Yellow Aces. With Jek Porkins."
"Good old Piggy."
"The original. Those were the days when a training squadron might just get picked to do a strike mission that should have gone to an experienced squad—"
"Like today, you mean."
"Well, it's much less common today. You know that. That day, our mission was an ambush of an Imperial freighter and its TIE fighter escort. They were to come in to a landing at a temporary Imperial staging base we'd found out about. We were in Y-wings. One unit of the Yellow Aces was to strafe the base and run, leading off the garrisoned flyers, while the rest was to hit the freighter. To take it, if possible; we really needed the food and fuel."
"So what happened?"
"The first part of the mission went as planned. But as the freighter came in, we saw that the TIE fighter escort was twice as big as advertised. And one of our pilots, a former freighter pilot from Alderaan, Kissek Doran, had a panic attack and took off in his Y-wing. Piggy and I were sent out to bring him back ... or shoot him down."
"And you did?"
The words exploded out of Janson: "Wedge, I had to! If he communicated on any standard frequency, if he crossed into the base's sensor range, if he bounced high enough that the moon's horizon no longer concealed him; if any of these things happened, we were compromised and the unit might have been slaughtered. Porkins tried to crowd him down to land, but he couldn't, and I—" The words stuck in his throat for a moment. "I shot him down. I had to use lasers. Couldn't risk the ion cannon; its energy pulse might have been detected. The blast cracked his cockpit; vacuum killed him. His scrounged flight suit wasn't up to it."
"It sounds as though you did everything you could to keep him alive."
"Yes, until I killed him. I knew he had a wife and two or three kids back on Alderaan. I figured they'd died when the first Death Star destroyed the planet."
Wedge took up Janson's datapad and scanned Kell's record. "It doesn't say anything here about Alderaan or the Doran family."
"They must have changed their family name, falsified records. The unit commander went to visit them, not long after he'd sent them the official notification of Kissek's death. The story he was going to give her, supporting the one in the notification, was that he died in battle . . . but Kissek's wife had already heard the truth from someone. Accused the Tierfon Yellow Aces not only of killing her husband but of ruining the family name. Maybe she tried to fix things by changing their name and moving away."
Wedge sighed over the datapad. "Look at this. Tainer was a fighter-craft mechanic on Sluis Van. When he came to the Alliance, he trained as a demolitions expert. Served with Lieutenant Page's commandos, then demonstrated a native talent for fighting in re-creational simulators and got permission to train in the real thing. Have you ever met Page?"
"No."
"A good man. Teaches his people well. Wes, we really need Tainer ... if we can persuade him to stay."
Janson gave him a look that was all mock cheer. "Oh, wonderful. I killed his father. He hates me. He knows how to make bombs. Come on, Wedge, how does this story end?"
"If he's an honorable man, you're in no danger."
"So he gets to the boiling point, and then he pops like the cork on bad Tatooine wine."
"All Tatooine wine is bad."
"Don't change the subject. Anyway, keep reading."
Wedge returned his attention to the datapad. "In training, one Headhunter crashed. One X-wing set down hard enough that it took a lot of damage. He claimed unresponsive controls both times?"
Janson nodded. "Typical response from someone who can't accept responsibility for his failures."
Wedge looked up and gave his fellow pilot a piercing stare. "So, back when you were hot to add him to our roster, how were you going to convince me to overlook this little crash-landing problem?"
"Wedge . . ."
"Answer the question."
Janson looked unhappy. "I was going to point out that he could have been correct. The two crashes aren't consistent with his skill index. He's good, and I mean brilliant, in the simulators."
Wedge considered the information on the datapad for long moments. "Well, I'll accept your explanation. I want us to try him out. If he doesn't work out, I'll scrub him. If he does work out and yet the two of you can't work together . . ."
"In the long run, you actually need him in this unit more than you need me." Janson's voice was weary. "In that case, with your permission, I'd transfer back to the Rogues. I can swap with Hobbie."
Wedge nodded, solemn. "Thanks, Wes."
Janson let Wedge do all the talking. Wedge imagined that it felt better not to have Kell Tainer turn any attention toward him whatsoever.
Wedge explained the situation in a few words, then asked, "Tainer, are you an honorable man?"
The pilot, his back once again locked into correct but overtense military posture, said, "I am."
"Do you think Lieutenant Janson is any less honorable?"
Tainer took his time in replying. "No, sir." The words sounded as though they were being ground out of him.
"You took an oath to serve the New Republic, and you have to understand that we need your precise skills more than you need to avoid reminders of what happened to your father. Janson took the same oath, though in his case it was to the Alliance to restore
the Republic, back when you were still playing with toys. And he understands that we need his skills more than he needs to be free of the dislike you have for him ... or of the memory of doing something he didn't want to do. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"So I'm going to ask you to stay. For now. If you two can't work together, we'll make arrangements. But I have to warn you, with your record, placement in any other unit means you're not likely ever to fly a fighter again. You'll probably end up back in the commandos."
"I liked the commandos."
"Yes, but you'll never be able to repair your father's name there. You'll never show the galaxy that the name 'Doran' doesn't translate as 'pilot and coward.'' Tainer's head snapped down and he finally met Wedge's gaze. His eyes were as full of rage as any Wedge had ever seen; Wedge resisted the temptation to take a step backward. "How dare you—"
Wedge kept his own voice low. "Attention." He waited three long beats, until Tainer again assumed the proper pose and returned his attention to the wall above Wedge's head. Then Wedge continued, "I dare, if that's the word, because it's the truth. I'll bet you've had this dream, a dream of being a pilot and restoring the honor to your family's name, since you were back on Alderaan. Well, you've yet to fly a combat mission and you're already about to wash out of the pilot ranks. Here's your last chance. So, do you stay or do you go?"
Tainer's jaw worked for several moments, but he made no sound. Then: "I stay. Sir." His voice suggested that he was speaking in spite of a deep stab wound.
"Good. Dismissed."
When Tainer was gone, Janson let out a low whistle. "Wedge, I'm not criticizing . . . but that was the coldest maneuver I've seen in a long time."
"You fly through vacuum, you sometimes need cold-space lubricants instead of blood." Wedge slumped wearily back in his chair. Suddenly he felt impossibly tired, and wondered how many pilots would regularly bring him problems like these.
Kell strapped himself into his seat, an effort made a little difficult because the cockpit was so tight around him, and flipped the four switches igniting his X-wing's fusial thrust engines—actually, igniting the ersatz engines on this X-wing simulator. Simulators being as sophisticated and realistic as they were, it was sometimes an effort to distinguish them from reality; they even used gravitational compensators to simulate zero gee during deep-space mission simulations.
Wraith Squadron Page 4