Most of the others looked sober. Ton Phanan didn't; he smiled with diabolic humor. "I have a bit of a problem with luck in combat. Unlike most of you, I've seen some of it—"
Tyria snorted. "Braggart."
"But in five live-fire missions, I've been shot down twice and landed successfully three times. Not a good ratio. Between that and all the new prosthetics, I'm sort of an expensive proposition for any commander."
Runt, his big eyes solemn, said, "We know why we are here. We lose track of ourselves. But Lieutenant Janson says we are doing better, with many thanks to Kell."
Kell smiled. "You're worth it. One day you'll be able to toggle between minds as though they were channels on the holoprojector. Tyria, Face, it's you two I don't get. You two don't act like screwups—"
Phanan glared with his good eye. "Unlike the rest of us, you mean."
"That's right. You especially."
Far from being offended, Phanan grinned at the rejoinder. "Just so that's clear."
Face leaned back, relaxed. "I bought my way into the fighter corps, Kell. That's what my first commander said, and he's right. I used my own money to purchase an A-wing, under kind of odd circumstances, and to get the training I wanted. Flew two missions with Colonel, I mean General, Crespin's Comet Group and had to punch out or eat a bomber torpedo. Bought an X-wing next time just for variety . . . and ended up back at the base run by Crespin, just my luck.
"The general thinks I'm a dilettante who did too much good for the Empire in the old days ever to make up for it. Maybe he's right . . . but when he told me I'd never amount to anything, I snapped back at him like an idiot. I said I was just following in his footsteps. Well, that was it for my career. Until this opportunity came up." He shrugged.
"You're that rich."
"Not rich enough to keep buying fighters, no. I hope to be accepted as a real pilot someday. Enough so that if I lose this snubfighter, the Alliance, rather than my personal accounts, will replace it."
They all turned to Tyria, who looked uncomfortable under their scrutiny. "I don't want to talk about it," she said.
"Fair enough," Face said. "But tell us this: Does whatever it is that brought you here fall within the parameters we've been talking about? Something may have wrecked your chances for advancement?"
She was silent, but nodded.
"Interesting," Face said. "There's something else. I noticed one of the quartermasters delivering Lieutenant Donos a hard-shell case that suggested 'laser rifle' to me—"
Phanan smirked. "There's another vaped career. You know that sim run on the volcano world? I heard—"
Kell's comlink beeped. As he reached for it, each of the other pilots' comlinks also signaled for attention. He turned away from them and activated it. "Flight Officer Tainer."
The voice was female, impersonal, and, he suspected, recorded. "Your presence is required immediately in the X-wing squadron briefing amphitheater. Repeat, your presence is required immediately in the X-wing squadron briefing amphitheater." There was a click as the speaker disconnected. Kell heard the comlinks behind him all repeating the same message.
He looked at the others. "I think we have a unit roster," he said.
6
The briefing amphitheater was a white dome. Several dozen seats were assembled along the wall of one half of the dome; long curved tables, a dais and lectern, and a holoprojector curved along the other half.
Tyria sat at the end of one row of seats. Phanan smoothly moved in to sit beside her, but Kell, uncharacteristically awkward, bumped him out of the way with his hip and sat there instead. "Oh, sorry, Phanan. Were you there? I didn't see."
Phanan smiled, unperturbed. "Perhaps you need an optical enhancement. I could arrange for you to lose an eye; then you could put in for one."
"Thanks, no."
Ten pilots arrayed themselves among sixty seats; then Wedge Antilles and Wes Janson entered the chamber. The door closed behind them. Kell felt his ears pop as a pressure seal activated.
Janson took a chair by one of the long tables; Wedge stood before the lectern and holoprojector. Without preamble, he said, "I'd like to congratulate you on surviving our initial culling process. We had forty-three candidates; you ten survived. We'd actually hoped to have twelve, a full squadron roster of new pilots, but to put it simply, you ten were good enough and the other thirty-three weren't."
Wedge glanced down at his datapad for a moment. "Now to what we're here for. You ten, plus Lieutenant Janson and myself, are forming a new squadron; that much you know. What you probably don't know is that we're doing something a little new.
"Rogue Squadron, the last time it was reorganized, was built with pilots who had a number of intrusion skills. Our new squadron is the reverse: a full-fledged commando unit augmented by X-wing fighters." He looked among the ten pilots, making eye contact. "As much as anything, it is your secondary skills, some of them barely acknowledged in your records, that have earned your places here. We'll be doing as much work on the ground—sabotage, subversion, intrusion—as flying."
Phanan put up a hand. Wedge acknowledged him by pointing. Phanan asked, "Assassination?"
Wedge hesitated over his reply. "If you can find a way for us to infiltrate and surgically destroy an Imperial base without our enemies being able to call it assassination, I want to consult with you after this meeting. Other than that, under my command, members of this unit will never be assigned a task like picking off a speaker at an assembly or walking up to a target and knifing him."
"That's fine. I just wanted to know. I actually don't mind assassination."
Wedge gave him a cool look before continuing. "At the moment, we are designated Gray Squadron. Put in recommendations for a permanent name; if I see one I like well enough to choose it, the submittor gets a three-day leave on Commenor.
"Now, our roster. Most of you know one another. Because of our shortfall of pilots, Lieutenant Janson and I will be flying with Gray Squadron as well as being in command. Janson, incidentally, is a crack shot with hand weapons and fighter weapons systems; anyone who wants some extra weapons training should consult with him.
"Our next ranking officer is Lieutenant Myn Donos."
Kell looked over to where the emotionless Corellian pilot sat, well away from the other nine. "In addition to his flying duties, Donos is our sniper.
"The rest of you are all of equal rank. For this briefing, I'm going to dispense with the tradition of arranging you by the date of your commission or by your specific flight experience; instead, I'll rank you by your scoring during our pilot training. So first among equals of you flight officers is Kell Tainer. He's our backup mechanic when we're away from our support crew and is our demolitions expert. He also served with distinction among the commandos who helped take Borleias last year."
Tyria gave Kell a wide-eyed look. She whispered, "Did you really?"
He shrugged. "I planted charges while my buddies returned fire against unfriendlies. Somebody thought it called for extra recognition."
Wedge cleared his throat to regain everyone's attention. "Next, Garik Loran—" He was interrupted as Face stood and took a bow; several of the pilots offered mock applause. Amused, Wedge gestured for him to sit, then continued. "Face is one of our insertion experts, proficient in makeup, speaks several languages other than Basic—"
Face called out, "Don't forget, master actor."
Wedge nodded amiably. "And sometime cook. You're peeling tubers on kitchen duty tonight. Do you have anything else to add?"
"Uhhh ... No, sir."
"Falynn Sandskimmer knows a lot about ground vehicles, and is a Y-wing ace." All glanced at the dark-haired woman from Tatooine; she stared back, an expression somewhere between hard-edged and actively hostile. Her look made her features, which under ordinary circumstances would have been attractive, rather forbidding. "In the absence of our support crew, she's also in charge of acquisitions."
Kell raised a hand.
"Mr. Tainer?"
&n
bsp; "Speaking of acquisitions, do we have a squadron quartermaster? I'll want to work with him on the matter of spare parts for the X-wings . . ."
"We don't yet, but I'm looking among available personnel for someone who can do that. I'll let you know." Wedge looked down at his datapad to find the name of the next pilot. "Ton Phanan is our medical officer."
Three or four pilots burst out in laughter; the fact that Phanan was at least one-fifth mechanical and not possessed of a healer's manner was well known. Phanan himself grinned.
Face asked, "Corpsman?"
Phanan shook his head. "No. I used to be Dr. Phanan. Fully licensed to cut you open and weld you shut again."
Tyria leaned across Kell and whispered, "Why did you give it up?"
He gave her his most diabolic smile and whispered back, "Because I didn't care for patching up people I don't care about and do enjoy killing people I hate."
Tyria drew back with a shudder.
Wedge nodded to the female Mon Calamari sitting on the front row; her chin barbels twitched at the recognition. "Jesmin Ackbar is our communications expert. Voort saBinring, Piggy, is proficient in hand-to-hand combat, and capable of infiltrating Gamorrean units, which will be helpful on certain worlds. Hohass Ekwesh, Runt, has substantial physical strength—nearly three times greater than a human of equal size, and I understand he's small for a member of the Thakwaash species. Eurrsk Thri'ag, whom most of you have met as Grinder, is our code-slicer." The Bothan named Grinder sat upright, his gorgeous silvery fur rippling, and nodded at Wedge. Kell didn't know much about him; he'd kept to himself much of the time, not bonding with any of his flying partners.
Wedge continued, "Tyria Sarkin is one of our intrusion experts; she is a member of the Antarian Rangers from Toprawa, and particularly proficient in silent movement in difficult terrain."
Kell restrained a whistle. He'd never heard of the Antarian Rangers, but he knew the name Toprawa: a human-occupied planet where members of Alliance Intelligence had staged the critical data that led to the destruction of the first Death Star. Not long afterward, Imperial forces had savagely destroyed the world's armed forces, incinerated its cities, and sent the entire native population out of the cities to live in undeveloped wilderness. Kell had heard that the surviving inhabitants had to participate in regular rituals of self-degradation before the Imperial conquerors in order to receive food.
Wedge shut down his datapad. "All right, wingmates and designations. I'm Gray Leader or Gray One. I'm taking both designations to limit confusion. Mistress Ackbar, you'll fly with me as Gray Two."
The Mon Calamari nodded again. "An honor, sir."
"Falynn, you're Three. Grinder, you're Four." Both the woman from Tatooine and the Bothan looked unhappy with the pairing. Kell suspected that neither would be pleased with any wingman assignment.
"Kell, you're Five. Can you guess who's Six?"
"Runt, sir?"
"You're developing into something of a genius, Kell." The others laughed. Wedge continued, "Ton Phanan, Seven. Face, Eight. I want the majority of the squadron's sarcasm concentrated in one wing pair so we can dispose of it more conveniently.
"Lieutenant Donos, Nine, you're with Tyria, Ten. Lieutenant Janson is Eleven, paired with Piggy, Twelve. When we break down into four-fighter flights, I'm in charge of One Flight, Kell's in charge of Two Flight, and Janson's in charge of Three Flight. Any questions on organization?"
There were none.
"Good. You're done for the day. Except you, Mr. Tainer: We've received the first delivery of new X-wings, four of them so far, and I want you and the mechanics to go over them this evening. Join us in the X-wing hangar in fifteen minutes. Tomorrow, live-fire exercises in the real thing." Wedge smiled through the pilots' whoops and cheers, then added, "Dismissed."
Wedge waited until the last of them was gone. "What do you think?"
Janson stretched; tendons popped. "A pretty good roster ... if we can keep them out of trouble. Some of them are experienced hard cases."
"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 assembled 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-dass shuttle assigned 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 cockpits, 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. Assembly mistakes no one noticed. And worst of all, they're always making improvements at Incom, slipping in these so-called technological upgrades without documenting 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 pronouncements 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 amusement 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.
Wraith Squadron Page 7