Wraith Squadron Page 6

  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!' 'Wheel' '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, look
ing 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."

  Tyria looked delighted. "But where have you been all these years?"

  "With some members of my extended family. I grew up on Pantolomin, but my people were from Lorrd originally, so when I got back to civilization my parents arranged to send me there. From Lorrd it was an easy step to reach the Alliance. My parents had invested my earnings pretty well, so I never lacked for money when hiding out."

  "If you don't mind the question . . ." Tyria looked a little distressed. "Are you allergic to bacta? Is that why you still have your scar?"

  "No. I just kept it. A little reminder I earned from people I helped quite a bit when I was young." He shrugged.

  Phanan held up a hand. "I'm the one allergic to bacta.

  That's why I'm twenty percent mechanical, and gaining." He smiled at Tyria. "But every human cell longs to become better acquainted with this lady."

  She shot him a look of amused scorn. "Is this going to be one of those units where there's one female pilot, me, constantly being pursued by every jockey with nothing better to do?"

  Phanan sat forward and grasped her hand. His voice became low, melodramatic in tone. "Tyria, I've just met you, and already I love you. And don't think I love you for your looks, which are stunning, or your body, which is stellar, or your manner, which is bold and inflames me with desire. No, I love you because I hear you're a Jedi in training, and I need all the powerful friends I can get."

  She looked distressed and yanked her hand away. "You heard wrong. And you have the manners of a womp rat."

  Kell said, "Are you really a Jedi in training?"

  "No. I have just a little, a very little, control over the Force. But I've been working on it for years and haven't improved on it much." She managed a wry smile. "The Force is weak in this one."

  Satisfied that his forehead was as close to normal as he could make it, Kell discarded his napkin. "Have you ever met Luke Skywalker?"

  She nodded. "He put me through some exercises. A lot of them, really. And he was so nice when he told me he didn't think I'd ever progress very far in my control of the Force. That this dream I'd had for so long was never going to come true."

  The scarred pilot said, "You know, if I had even the tiniest control over the Force, what I'd do with it?"

  She shook her head.

  "On those long missions, I'd scratch that little spot in the center of my back I can never reach . . ."

  She stood up fast enough to rattle her tankard of lum. "Go ahead, make fun."

  "Oh, come on. You think Skywalker doesn't do that?"

  "I don't have time for this. I have things to do." She headed off toward the exit, her stride suggesting she was furious.

  Phanan twisted to watch her go. "Can I walk you to your quarters?" he called after her.

  "No!" She didn't look back.

  "Can I help you with your things?"

  "No!"

  "What can I do for you?"

  "Shoot yourself!" Then she was out the entryway.

  Phanan settled back in his chair, looking morose. "I've done that a couple of times. Shooting myself. Accidents. It's not fun."

  Kell glared. "Thanks, Phanan, Face. That helped a lot."

  The scarred pilot shrugged, apologetic.

  Phanan ignored him. He looked around, raised his hand. "Waiter? Hey, you, the bucket of bolts. We could use some service, right now."

  Kell grinned. "Phanan, you just named your own punishment."

  The next simulated mission was an ambush on a volcanic world. Kell escaped that one damaged but alive. He heard that Runt had once again been vaporized without scoring a kill, and that Lieutenant Myn Donos, senior ranking pilot candidate, was not required to undergo the scenario; Kell wondered why.

  On another simulator mission, Kell was paired with Runt again. In the exercise, Green Squadron and a squad of TIE interceptors converged on an asteroid field; Green Squadron was to defend the space station concealed there, the interceptors to find and destroy it.

  Eight klicks from the engagement zone, Runt let out another wild, warbling whoop and kicked his thrusters, moving out ahead of his wingman.

  Kell centered his targeting bracket on his partner's X-wing. It went red, the computer giving him the tone of a good lock, a split second later.

  A moment later Janson's voice sounded in his ear. "Green Five, what are you doing?"

  Kell tensed at the sound of that voice and silently cursed himself for doing so. "Just trust me on this one, Control."

  Runt's irritating war cry cut off. Then he said, "Six to Five, are you going to fire on us?"

  "Negative, Six."

  "Then what are you doing?"

  "Getting your attention. Do I have it?"

  "Yes, Five."

  "Then get back in formation. Right now. I'm lead, you're wing. Do you read me?"

  "Yes, Five." Runt decelerated a notch, returning to his proper position behind Kell.

  Runt was good until battle was well under way. Then, when he and Kell each had one kill, he belted out his war cry again and rolled out of formation, attempting a pursuit of two interceptors.

  Kell hastily said, "You have lead, Six," and followed.

  When the lead interceptor tried to peel off and circle back behind Green Six, Kell used his trailing position to cut a tighter circle and vaporized the Imperial craft. It took him a standard minute to pull up abreast of Runt again, and in that time Runt smoked his own opponent with a torpedo.

  Kell keyed his comm unit. "Five to Six."

  The war cries ceased, but it was a moment before Runt replied. "Six here."

  "Just checking. Try to rein your pilot in whenever you don't need him; he's too noisy."

  "We read you, Five."

  "Good. Keep the lead; I'm on your wing."

  Kell ended that episode with only two kills; an interceptor smoked him with a pop-up shot from behind a rapidly twirling asteroid. Still, he didn't feel too bad about it; he was actually getting through to Runt, forcing him to respond.

>   Kell's canopy seal broke and the simulator canopy opened. Beyond were bright light and Janson.

  Kell's gut went cold and he suppressed the urge to stay under cover. Intellectually, he knew he was in no danger from Janson, but he still felt a jolt of fear every time he saw the veteran pilot. In spite of it, he clambered out of the simulator and stood before the squadron's second-in-command.

  Janson barely glanced at his datapad. "Average earnings this time around, Tainer. But some unorthodox tactics in"— he hesitated over the words—"personnel management worked pretty well. Some bonus points there. Let's bring up the win-loss ratio a little bit next time; otherwise pretty good. Any questions?"

  "Yes, sir. Was it a program mat vaped me, or a pilot?"

  Janson managed a tight smile. "There's pilot ego for you—unwilling to accept that a standard program took you out. No, you're right. It was a pilot. You've heard of him. Wedge Antilles. Likes to sit in on these missions from time to time. Dismissed."

  The training took its toll on the roster of candidate pilots.

  Chedgar was gone the next day, the victim, Kell believed, of his own paranoia about officer conspiracies against him. The Quarren named Triogor Sllus was washed out two days later, for backhanding a Mon Calamari candidate named Jesmin Ackbar—the niece, Kell learned, of the legendary Admiral Ackbar. A human named Banna, a decent but not extraordinary code-slicer, was caught "improving" his recorded scores; his bunk was empty the next day. Others vanished with no explanation, and Kell wondered if they'd all failed at their last chance at a piloting career. He wondered if he'd be next.

  At one of the pilots' DownTime gatherings, he discussed this with other surviving candidates. "When I arrived to try out for this squadron, I thought I was the only one at the end of my rope as a pilot. But it looks more and more as though all of us are walking in thermal boots on thin ice. Am I wrong?"