Kell pulled back on the stick, attempting as tight a turn as the X-wing could manage. TIE fighters were actually more maneuverable than X-wings out of atmosphere, but that meant less if they were being flown by indifferent pilots, as these eyeball drivers seemed to be.
He was at the top of his loop, staring relative-down at his pursuers and the surface of Folor beyond, when red laser fire from moonward sliced through one pursuer and a torpedo from the same point of origin destroyed the other. He checked his sensor board and whistled. “Good firing, Three, Four.”
Piggy’s mechanical voice: “Thank you, sir. The eyeballs are breaking off. Shall we pursue?”
They were indeed heading off. But why wasn’t Kell’s canopy fading to black, indicating that the exercise was over?
Kell thought about that long enough to take a couple of deep breaths and steady his nerves. “No, they’re heading back to their carrier. Which means we have more incoming. Did anyone ever get a signal from Control?”
“No, sir.”
“No.”
“Then we have to assume Folor Base is a loss and we’re all that’s left. Close and follow my heading.” Relative to Folor’s surface, he stood his X-wing on its tail, then called up his nav program.
Had this been a real attack and Folor Base unable to launch its transports, he would have been expected to get all viable forces to safety and later link up with other New Republic units. So he plotted a quick jump to get them away from Folor and to an unoccupied spot in space—somewhere from which he could set up a more sophisticated course to Allied-controlled space.
The other two X-wings grouped with him. As soon as he had a navigation solution and had left the moon far enough behind to be free of its gravity well, he transmitted the course to the others. “All right. On my mark, three, two, one, execute!”
But instead of elongating into brilliant stripes of light, the first visual sign that a hyperspace jump was being successfully executed, the stars faded to nothingness. Kell’s canopy rose and harsh artificial light made him wince.
Janson gathered the four pilots together at a table beside the quad group of simulators and Kell got his first look at his wingman.
Gold Two was not human. He was definitely humanoid, with arms, legs, torso, and head arranged in a comfortably recognizable fashion. But, though nearly as tall as Kell, he was very lean, covered in short brown fur, with an elongated face, huge brown eyes, a broad, flattened nose, and a mouth full of squarish white teeth. His were features better suited to a draft animal than a sapient being—but for the inquisitive, luminously intelligent quality of his eyes. He also had a head of hair that would be the envy of many a human, male or female; as Kell arrived at the table, Gold Two was tugging his hair free of an elastic band and allowing it to shake out into a waterfall of midback-length chestnut brown.
Kell tried to rein in his irritation at the other pilot’s blatant disregard of orders and protocol. He extended a hand. “Kell Tainer.”
The alien took his hand and shook it in human fashion. “We are Flight Officer Hohass Ekwesh.”
“We? Is that a royal we?” That would explain the alien’s apparent disdain for procedure.
“No, a collective—”
“Biographies can wait,” Janson said. “We’re here to review performance, remember?”
Kell stiffened up at the reprimand. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. All right. Four, you had two kills and did a good job on your reconnaissance fly-by. Three, three kills, and initiative points for double-checking Tainer’s hyperspace calculations.”
“Triple-checked, sir. I also ran the numbers in my head.”
Kell glared at the Gamorrean. “And did my numbers check out?”
The Gamorrean nodded. “They were inelegant numbers, but perfectly functional, and correct.”
“Gold Two, you scored no kills, disobeyed orders twice—though we have to drop one of those because Mr. Tainer yielded lead to you, even if it was a bit retroactive—and managed to get yourself killed through bad tactics.” Janson paused over the datapad. He kept his attention on the data before continuing—possibly, Kell thought, in order to keep from having to meet Kell’s eyes. “Gold One, very impressive. Five kills, an instant ace if it were real life, including one snap-shot while your strike foils were still in flight position. I’m saving that one for instructional holos. Good choice of new orders when the mission parameters changed. All in all, close to perfect.”
Janson glanced around among them. “Now, for scoring. This mission was worth two thousand, with bonuses possible for exceptional performance. Gold Four, thirteen hundred fifty. Gold Three, twelve hundred. Gold Two, twenty-three hundred. Gold One, zero.”
“What?” The word exploded from Kell. “Lieutenant, I think you’ve got that backward.”
Janson finally met his gaze, and nodded. “That’s right. It is backward. But still correct. Didn’t you hear me cite training protocol one-seven-nine?”
“I did, but I don’t know what that means.”
Janson smiled. “Piggy, it seems to me I heard you telling your wingman over your private channel what that protocol represented. Would you please inform your group commander?”
Piggy cleared his throat; through the mechanical translator, the sound emerged as an ear-popping burst of static. “It is a scoring variation. In order to encourage cooperation, particularly among trainees who have not been together long, each wingman earns the points his wingman scored.”
“That’s—” Kell heard his voice try to crack. He lowered his tone, tried again, but couldn’t keep the anger from his words. “That is manifestly unfair. Is it going on my permanent record that way? A zero for what you called a near-perfect performance?”
“Certainly it’s unfair.” Janson closed down his datapad. “Take it up with the wingman who ended up with all your points. For now, dismissed. I recommend you all talk it over together at DownTime. You’re through for the day, but this is an order: Do not discuss your performance or the mission parameters with other pilot candidates until they’ve concluded the exercise. Understood?” At their chorus of affirmatives, Janson brusquely waved them toward the exit from the simulator chamber.
5
It was just over three hundred paces along one broad cut-stone corridor, down a shuddering, clanking escalator, and through a small chamber to the cantina known as DownTime, and Kell glared at his wingman every step of the way. Finally, in the final chamber before they reached DownTime, the long-faced alien faced him. “I am sorry, Flight Officer Tainer.”
“Why did you do it? Fly off on your own, disobey orders?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? If you’re going to mutiny, you really ought to remember why.”
“It is not so simple.” The alien paused to consider his next words, and the delay brought the four pilots into DownTime.
This was a large chamber cut from living stone back when the Folor Base had been an active mining colony. It was a large gallery, but its size was not what kept visitors from seeing the far wall; the absence of illumination, other than glows from neon decorations and holoprojectors, was to blame.
Kell led them to a four-seat table against one wall, but Piggy pointed to a much longer table nearby. “We’ll be joined by other candidates,” he said, his mechanical voice cutting efficiently through the cantina’s ambient noise, and Kell had to agree.
When they were seated, Kell turned back to the long-faced alien. “You were saying.”
Gold Four laughed. Kell turned his attention to her for the first time.
By the standards of DownTime, they had pretty good available light, most of it a glaring cyan from a nearby holo advertising Abrax cognac, so he got a good view of her—and was stunned by it.
If he could have created a holo of what he thought the perfect female pilot would be, Gold Four would have matched it exactly. She was tall and slender, with light hair, probably blond in normal light, worn long in a ponytail. Her features
were even and expressive; hers was the sort of face that could go from military blankness to unusual beauty just by assuming a smile, and she was smiling now.
Kell covered up his sudden discomfiture by growling, “What’s so funny?” He discovered that his mouth was dry.
She stuck out a hand. “Sorry. Tyria Sarkin. You’re just so relentless it struck me as amusing.” Her voice was low and she spoke with an accent, a rich roll that was as enchanting as her appearance.
He shook her hand and grinned a little glumly. “It’s less funny when you end up with vacuum for a mission score.”
“I suppose. I’m sorry.”
“I will answer,” the alien said. “First, please: I am Runt to my friends and fellows, even when they are angry with me.”
Kell frowned. “Why ‘Runt’?”
“It is accurate. Compared to my siblings, I am tiny. None of them would fit into a fighter cockpit. So. You asked why I did not remember doing what I did. I am beginning to remember. But I did not recall before because it was not I doing that. It was the pilot.”
Tyria asked, “Which pilot?”
“Me.”
Kell slumped, momentarily defeated by the circuitousness of Runt’s answers, and put his head down on the table. He immediately regretted it: His forehead adhered to some dark, nameless substance there. He pulled himself free and began scraping away the stain left on his skin. “I’m not reading you, Runt.”
Tyria said, “I think I am. Runt, are you talking about many organisms, or many minds?”
Runt smiled with the relieved satisfaction of someone who has finally gotten a point across. “Minds.”
“You have many minds, and one of them is the pilot?”
“Yes! Yes.”
Kell snorted. “Your pilot mind owes me twenty-three hundred points and deserves a good beating.”
Runt looked solemnly at him. “We know. We are sorry. He, my pilot, has earned many such beatings. And transfers from many units. I think soon you will see the last of us.”
Kell was relieved of the need to respond by the arrival of the waiter, which was heralded by a repetitive squeaking. The waiter was a 3PO unit, a protocol droid, but this one was unlike most of the ones Kell had seen: Most were all gold tone or silver, but the waiter was mostly silver with several gold parts, and squeaked with each step. Kell said, “I’ll have—”
“Wait,” the droid said pleasantly but firmly, in the melodious voice all 3PO units seemed to share. “In the absence of a hierarchy of rank among you, I will default to ancient protocols and have the lady’s order first. My lady?”
Tyria smiled. “Lum. A good one.”
Kell said, “I’ll have—”
“Wait,” said the droid in the same tone as before. “You have now annoyed me twice. This means you will order last of all, but I will still take your order correctly. If you annoy me three times, you would do well not to drink what I bring you.” He turned to Piggy. “My lord?”
“A shot of Churban brandy,” said the Gamorrean. “And a bucket of cold water.”
“That sounds good,” said Runt. “The same for us. Me.”
The droid turned back to Kell. Kell waited until he was certain the droid was ready for him before speaking. “Corellian brandy. And a wet napkin. Please.”
The droid bowed and departed. Kell heaved a sigh. “Not my day. Even the waiters around here are tyrants.”
Tyria turned her smile on him. “That’s just Squeaky. You’ll get used to him. He has a good heart. Or whatever serves droids for a heart.”
“Why is an expensive protocol droid slinging drinks in a stony hole in the ground? That doesn’t make sense.”
“He does what he wants. He was manumitted years ago. The Runaway Droid Ride, you remember?”
Kell frowned. “I don’t.”
She leaned in close, the better to be heard. “Among droids, and some pilots, he’s famous. He was on the Tantive IV when Darth Vader captured Princess Leia Organa several years back. The humans aboard ship were killed, but he and the other droids ended up on Kessel. He kept inventories of spice shipments for the penal colony.
“Then, one day, he arranges for a whole bunch of the colony’s servitor droids to visit an Imperial freighter that had landed to pick up a load of spice. They arrive over several standard hours, so as not to make the guards suspicious, but they don’t leave. And then the freighter takes off and escapes.”
“He flew it? I thought droids were forbidden to pilot spacecraft. Deep-down programming inhibitions.”
“They are, except for Vee Ones and a few special cases. He didn’t actually act as pilot. What he did was reprogram the ship’s autopilot to fly them in terrain-following mode a couple of hundred klicks away from the spaceport, out of range of the port’s defensive batteries, then punch up out of the atmosphere and jump out of the system. But what he forgot”—her expression turned merry—“was that due west of the spaceport was a series of canyons and mountain ridges, and his terrain-following program was strictly height-above-ground …”
Kell caught on before the other two pilots did and burst out laughing. “So all those escaping droids went on a wild ride.”
Tyria gestured with her hand as though she were following the path of a frantic oscilloscope wave. “So imagine you’re on this tub of a Corellian bulk freighter, and suddenly you’re all over the map, up and down, ‘Whee!’ ‘Aaah!’ ‘Whee!’ ‘Aaah!’ for more than a hundred klicks …”
Runt and Piggy joined in the laughter. Runt’s was a hyperkinetic wheezing, nearly an animal bray; Piggy’s was a pleasant, deep gruntlike noise, one which his implant was apparently programmed not to translate.
The laughter settled. “Anyway,” Tyria said, “they survived, and he came to the Alliance with a bulk freighter and a lot of valuable information about Kessel—such as who was sentenced to serve there and what sort of supplies and defenses the Imperial garrison had. So Squeaky was given his freedom. He doesn’t even have a restraining bolt port anymore. And he earns his living like people do.”
Kell nodded. “By offering insult to those he serves.”
“You know what I mean.”
Runt turned to Kell. “So. You would not release us from the subject. We should not release you until it is done. You will forgive us for our mistake?”
“Sure. But tell your pilot mind I’m going to ride him hard if he fouls up again.”
“I will do that. He deserves it.”
Squeaky returned with their glasses and buckets. Kell went to work on his sticky forehead with the napkin Squeaky gave him. As the droid departed, Tyria glanced at the entry-way and straightened up. “The second wave has arrived.”
The others turned to look. Approaching them were two men in pilot suits; with them was an R2 unit. Both men had been through rough times in the past: One would have been quite handsome but for the long, wicked scar that puckered his left cheek, crawled across his nose, and marred his left forehead, while the other, taller man had a prosthetic shell over the upper portion of the left half of his face.
The one with the scar said, “More survivors of Lieutenant Janson’s bait-and-switch mission scenario?”
Kell managed a mirthless chuckle and gestured for them to sit. “You two just get out?”
The pilot with the prosthetic headgear nodded. The portions of his face still exposed showed lean features, a cold blue eye, and a thin, immaculately trimmed mustache and beard that suggested ex-Imperial warlord more than New Republic fighter. “Ton Phanan. This is Loran and his R2 unit, Vape. The others in our group for the simulator mission were Chedgar and a Bothan who calls himself Grinder. Chedgar was still arguing about the scoring when we left, but I think it’s because he knows he’s about to be washed out.” He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head in an attitude of blissful relaxation. “I just made out like a pirate on points; shot down one eyeball and got credit for Loran’s three. I could get to like this assignment.”
Kell introduced his
companions, then took another look at the man with the livid scar. There was something familiar about the pilot, about the man’s dramatic shock of black hair and emerald eyes, about his poise and ease among the others … “Loran? Not Garik Loran? The Face?”
Phanan sat forward to take another look at his companion; Tyria did likewise. Piggy and Runt merely looked quizzical.
The scarred pilot nodded, looking rueful. “That’s me.”
“I thought you were dead! Seven, eight years ago. The story broke just before the news about the first Death Star.”
“We are sorry,” said Runt. “It is obvious we should have heard of this man, but we have not.”
“Maybe it’s just a human thing,” Kell said. “The Face. The most famous child star of Imperial holodramas. Like The Black Bantha and Jungle Flutes. He made Win or Die and Imperial military recruitment went up five percent. You never saw them?”
The two nonhumans shook their heads. Phanan obviously had heard of Loran; he grinned wickedly at this sudden revelation about his companion’s past.
Tyria had heard of him as well; her jaw was slightly agape. Finally she said, “I had such a crush on you when I was twelve …”
The scarred pilot snorted. “Don’t feel bad. I was hand-picked to be the boy most likely to be the subject of crushes.”
“What happened to you?” she asked. “Everyone said that Alliance extremists killed you.”
He shrugged. “Almost. About the time I was trying to make the transition to teenaged roles, some ex-Alliance extremists kidnapped me. They wanted to kill me as a demonstration to those who aided the Empire in civilian roles.” His voice was melodious, controlled, exactly what Kell would expect in a onetime actor. “They thought it would be a blow to Imperial morale.”
“It was certainly a blow to the morale of young girls,” Tyria said.
“But first they decided to show me what the Empire was all about. I got the hard-core briefing on Imperial military and Intelligence activities. Then, when they were set to kill me, an Imperial commando rescue mission struck. That’s where I picked up my little facial blemish, a graze from a laser blast. The two sides damn near killed each other, with only a couple of commandos left alive. I was a real mess, emotionally as well as physically, so I hid from the Imps. I decided not to be found until I could sort things out. Since my body was missing and never turned up, they reported me dead and claimed kidnapping me was an approved Rebel mission, which it wasn’t.”
Star Wars: X-Wing V: Wraith Squadron Page 6