Star Wars: X-Wing V: Wraith Squadron

by Aaron Allston

  Wedge and Janson put him through a simulator recreation of the fleet action at the battle of Endor—a target-rich environment where the best fighter pilots racked up impressive kill scores. The Talz did well, but Wedge and Janson watched his biomedical readings climb into the red danger zone—a clear sign that even in simulators, stress was eating away at him. They wished the disappointed pilot a good flight home and recommended a transfer back into freighters.

  “Number four today,” said Janson, “is Lieutenant Myn Donos.”

  Wedge gave his second-in-command a sympathetic look. “Have you had a chance to talk to him?”

  “No, he’s just arrived on base. I read Hobbie’s report, though. New Republic Military Intelligence has cleared him of error or wrongdoing.”

  “Good. Show him in.”

  Janson spoke into his comlink and a moment later a lean man in the standard orange New Republic flight suit entered. He was just over average height, with a round face and a thick mop of black hair. His face betrayed no emotion. He saluted and held it until Wedge returned it.

  “Lieutenant Donos, have a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Donos sat, military-straight.

  “I understand that Command has reviewed the situation on Gravan Seven and cleared you for continued fighter duty. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Donos’s expression did not change.

  Wedge glanced at Janson, who wore a puzzled look as he watched Donos.

  “You’re aware that we’re forming a new X-wing squadron.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Interested in transferring over?”

  “Yes, sir.” There was no enthusiasm in the pilot’s voice, nor was there a trace of the pain he was doubtless still feeling from the destruction of his squadron. Wedge again checked Janson’s reaction; Janson was now leaning back in his chair, studying Donos curiously.

  “Wes tells me that before joining the Alliance, you belonged to the Corellian armed forces. Sniper for an elite counterinsurgency unit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you still sharp as a sniper?”

  “No, sir. I haven’t had a chance to keep up my skills in the last three years.”

  “Do you think you can train up to your previous standard?”

  “Yes, sir.” There was no pride, no enthusiasm in his tone.

  “Do you have a problem with the role of sniper?”

  “No, sir. Whatever my role, my task is the elimination of the enemy.”

  “Right. I also understand that you were decorated on Corellia for conspicuous gallantry. This entitles you to wear the Corellian Bloodstripes. Yet you don’t. Why?”

  Donos took a while to answer. “It just seems a bit silly, sir. I could also wear a sign saying ‘I’m a wonderful person and I give money to the needy.’ What’s the point?”

  “I see.” Wedge tried to discern some hint of anger, pride, regret, anything in the pilot’s expression or attitude, but he could not. “Well, then, for now, welcome to the squadron of candidate trainees.” He shook Donos’s hand. An exchange of salutes later, the lieutenant was gone.

  “He used to wear the Bloodstripes,” Janson said. “I didn’t notice until you mentioned it. This isn’t the Myn Donos I trained.”

  “Interesting. How long was it from the time Talon Squad left on its last mission to the time he returned? Was there enough time for him to have been grabbed by the enemy, to have been programmed?”

  “No, there’s not enough time unaccounted for in his report for him to have stopped into a cantina for a drink. No sign he ever left his cockpit. It’s him, but it’s not him. He wouldn’t even meet my eyes.”

  “Well, we’ll see how he performs. If he shows the slightest sign of cracking up, or of needing a protracted off-duty rest for psychological reasons, I’m going to scrub him.”

  “Understood.”

  “Hypercomm signal detected, Admiral!”

  Admiral Apwar Trigit looked down from his command chair into the bridge crew pit. His expression was mild. “Its origin?”

  “Header code indicates that it’s straight from Zsinj at Rancor Base!”

  “I’ll take it in my private comm chamber.” He rose, aware that with his graying black hair and beard, his lean form, and the silver and black uniform he’d designed himself, he was an imposing figure. He kept his walk graceful and casual as he departed the Imperial Star Destroyer’s bridge—true, he served the Warlord Zsinj, but his chief officers must understand that he merely hired out his services and those of the Implacable, that he was his own master.

  In the spherical chamber reserved for his private communications, Trigit hit a switch on the main console. Immediately, a three-dimensional image appeared before him—Zsinj, twice human-sized, sitting in a black command chair, doubtless the one aboard Iron Fist. Zsinj wore the crisp white uniform of an Imperial grand admiral, a rank he had never truly attained—yet his current power was such that no one could protest this presumption on his part.

  Trigit smiled at the ego Zsinj routinely manifested. “My lord, you’re going to twist my neck from staring up at you.” He slowly turned a knob and Zsinj’s image shrank until it was just over human-sized. He kept from his face the sheer delight the action of shrinking Zsinj brought him; in the Imperial armed forces, it would have been construed as an expression of pure insolence. He would have been lucky merely to have been demoted to garbage scow pilot.

  The warlord—a corpulent man, balding and graying, with a florid complexion and drooping mustachios that gave him an exotic look—favored him with a smile. “I’ve just read the report from your last transmission. I wanted to congratulate you on the destruction of Talon Squadron.”

  Trigit gave him a sardonic little bow. “Thank you. The code-slicer who planted the false information about the security of the Gravan system later reported that they have decommissioned Talon Squadron entirely.”

  “The pilot who escaped the ambush—was that by your design? Or an accident? The report doesn’t say.”

  “No, we made every effort to kill him. His reflexes were just good enough to save him. In the final analysis, I consider it to be just as good as a clean sweep. He’s doubtless told his tale of woe to his superiors; now they can begin to fret about forces cunning enough to wipe out X-wing squadrons without significant loss or effort. A few more such missions, and they’ll begin to develop a supernatural dread about us.”

  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 Morrt 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 Binring 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 paranoid. 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 e
xpression, 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.”