Wraith Squadron Read online

  "He turned out to be all right. He made me hold salute for a while, looked me over, returned my salute, and said, 'It's obvious this project was a failure. I suggest you go and cover up its shortcomings.' So I did."

  Falynn snickered, then asked, "What about the lieutenant?"

  Face shrugged. "She had a sense of humor like mine. Probably why we got together, and certainly why we got apart just as fast. The next day, they found my clothes just in front of the intake door of the food reprocessing plant. There was a note on them saying, 'I cannot live with what I have done. Think of me whenever you have a bite to eat.' She signed my name, of course. I got away clean, so to speak, with the naked-in-the-halls thing, only to be written up for my 'practical joke.' I had to clean everyone's dress uniform boots for graduation."

  Phanan said, "So, Lieutenant."

  Donos looked up. "We're off-duty. You can call me Myn."

  "So, Myn, do they do that sort of stuff in the Corellian armed forces?"

  Donos nodded. "A long and honorable tradition. I'll tell you sometime about the dead gurrcat that wouldn't stay buried."

  Grinder sniffed. "Practical jokes. A ridiculous waste of time."

  The others looked at him. Face said, "You've never sliced into someone's secure files and changed them, left messages or something, just for your own amusement? Or to make them look stupid?"

  "Certainly not."

  "You're not like any code-slicer I've ever met."

  The Bothan smiled. "I'm better."

  Falynn turned away from him and back to Donos. "So, were you really a sniper?"

  The lieutenant nodded.

  "Did you ever have to ... you know ... I mean, don't answer if that's too personal."

  "Did I ever shoot someone in cold blood? Without giving him a chance?"

  She nodded, somber.

  "Yes. Three times I did that. I didn't much care for it; if I did, I'd probably still be doing it. But better to have dead enemies than dead innocents." He glanced at his chrono. "Speaking of which, I need to suit up and get in some practice out on the range." Folor Base had an interior shooting gallery for blaster pistol practice, but the distances for which a laser sniper rifle was best suited were much greater. Donos and Janson had put together a target site on a hilltop outside, in hard vacuum; Donos would be sniping on it from several surrounding hills. "Ten, are you still going with me?"

  Tyria nodded. "I'm certainly not going to let you wander around out there alone."

  Jesmin said, "Please, let me. I need the vacuum suit practice." She rose.

  Donos followed suit and, with a short nod for his squadmates, left with the Mon Calamari flyer.

  "He certainly opened up," Phanan said. "It makes me feel all warm inside, seeing the barriers come down. I think we should get him a toy bantha to cuddle at night."

  "Oh, shut up," said Falynn. "He is better. He talked, a little. He even smiled."

  "Imagining Face naked would make anyone laugh."

  Falynn glared at him. "Ton, would you die for Myn Donos?"

  The cyborg chuckled. "Maybe some other day."

  "Would he die for you?"

  "I don't know."

  "He would. I'm sure he'd die for any of us. He wanted to die for his last squadron, but his responsibility wouldn't let him. As far as I'm concerned, that makes him better than you. Ton, what's it like to be constantly making fun of people better than you?" She rose, not waiting for an answer, and stormed out of the cafeteria.

  Phanan raised his eyebrow. "I say she's sweet on him." He turned to Face. "Want to bet? I'll give you three to one."

  "No, I'm betting your side."

  Grinder leaned in. "I'll have some of that. I am an expert in human psychology. She is too independent and pragmatic to have romantic yearnings for him. She is merely responding to the pain of a hurt animal. This is a human female instinct. She wants to nurse him back to health."

  Phanan grinned. "Twenty creds?"

  "Fifty."

  "Done."

  Kell fixed Tyria with a stare. "What do you bet?"

  She shrugged. "They may both be right. Some women see a man who is a mess, feel the urge to repair his problems, and then fall in love with him while they're working on him."

  "Emotional distress as an attractant. Say, Tyria, I have a sharp pain in my childhood memories."

  Phanan winced. "What a terrible line. I wish I'd thought of it."

  Tyria stood and turned an indulgent eye on Kell and Phanan. "You two go play your boy games. The rest of us have some studying to do. You know we're going to have a hyperspace nav mission soon. How are your nav scores?"

  Kell shrugged. "So-so. But Piggy's the navigational genius."

  "That's right." She turned to walk away, but called back over her shoulder. "That's why we can be sure Wedge will forbid him to help."

  "You know," Face said, "she's right."

  Phanan looked glum. "I hate it when that happens."

  The file appeared on Admiral Trigit's datapad, its title "Recent Morrt Project Data-Gathering Results and Conclusions." Its listed author was Gara Petothel, the code-slicer who had been so useful to him in providing information leading to the demise of Talon Squadron.

  He brought up the file and read its contents, then skimmed them again. Finally he crooked a finger to summon his XO.

  "Prep the TIE squadrons," he said pleasantly, "do full diagnostics on our weapon and shield systems . . . and tell Night Caller to prepare a load of the new Empion mines. We'll plant them in the unoccupied systems closest to Commenor, and then head on to Commenor system itself. It looks as though the Rebels are staging from the moon Folor . . . and I think it's time for us to put an end to it."

  8 Over breakfast, Kell told her, "I think I'm in love with you."

  They sat again in the officers' cafeteria, but this time it was Kell and Tyria alone at one of the smaller tables, early enough that only Face of the other members of Gray Squadron was eating at another table; there were a few of the A-wing pilot trainees about. Kell had arisen early, adjusting himself to Tyria's hours in order to catch her alone here.

  Something like exasperation showed in Tyria's eyes. "No, you aren't."

  Kell nodded. "I know you think I'm probably kidding. Like Ton Phanan always does. But I'm not."

  "Oh, I'm sure you're not kidding. You're just wrong."

  He laughed. "How could you possibly think that? How could I be wrong? Love is love. You're not making any sense."

  She stirred listlessly at a nameless green puddinglike mass on her plate, then shoved the plate away. "All right, let's hear your reasons."

  "Reasons?" He stared at her, genuinely surprised. "Reasons why I love you?"

  "Reasons why you think you do, yes."

  He sat back, the cold of panic beginning to spread through his gut. She was not responding the way he thought she would. He'd prepared himself for acceptance, for refusal, for confusion, and let's-talk-about-it-later, but not this coldblooded call for analysis.

  He took a couple of deep breaths to steady his nerves and organize his thoughts. "Well, it boils down to this: You're everything I want in a woman. Smart, talented, brave, beautiful. I've been attracted to you since that first simulator run."

  "Yet you've barely talked to me."

  "Well . . ."

  "You're aware I have no family?"

  "Well . . . yes." Face had mentioned that to him in passing, that her family had died when her world of Toprawa had fallen, that she had survived by her ranger skills for years until a New Republic Intelligence reconnaissance mission had brought her and a few other rescuees offworld.

  "Now, what I want to know is this. Is my lack of a family a draw because I'll bring you no in-laws to complicate your life, or because you get to bestow me with the boon of your own family and make me happy again?"

  He drew back. "That's uncalled for."

  "Not the sort of thing you'd expect me to say, is it?"

  "No."

  "Proving my point that you
don't know me. You've just decided that I match the concept in your mind of what your perfect mate should be, so now you're in love. We'd be the perfect couple. I'm tall, so you wouldn't have to bend over too far to kiss me, and we'll look good on the holograms together. I'm a pilot, so we can be partners. I assume, back when you were in the commandos, that your perfect mate would have been a commando. Right?"

  The coldness in his gut solidified into a solid block of ice. "You're wrong. You're wrong about me."

  "Then tell me," she said, "how much time you spent thinking about me yesterday."

  "What?"

  "That's a simple question. How much time? Six standard hours? One? Ten minutes? Kell, give me a truthful answer. Set Honesty to On."

  He thought it over, and as the answer came to him he felt his heart sink. "About fifteen minutes."

  She smiled without humor. "You don't spend very much time dreamy-eyed for a man who's hopelessly in love, do you?"

  He looked down at the tabletop and didn't answer. She continued, her voice ruthlessly gentle, "The good thing about fantasy lovers is they don't need much of your time. They're very low maintenance. Unlike real people. I'm very flattered that you feel you've fallen in love with a fantasy Tyria. But she isn't me, Kell." She rose and was gone.

  Miserable, he stared into his cup of caf—not seeking answers, just avoiding the eyes of those around him.

  She was right. Tyria was his idea of perfection. But the real Tyria? How close did she match his idea? He didn't know.

  Face wandered by on his way out. "She shot you down?" he asked.

  "Vaped me. One shot."

  "Cheer up. Maybe this was just a simulator run."

  Nor did the day's trials end there.

  Kell stopped in at his locker to retrieve his datapad. He keyed in his personal code and pulled the locker door open.

  Something shifted inside as he did so, then a mass of wriggling tentacles leaped out at him, landing on his chest, wrapping itself around him.

  Kell let out a yell, tore the slick creature from him, and hurled it to the ferrocrete floor. He gave it a fast kick to send it skidding up along the aisle of lockers. He drew his blaster from where it hung inside the locker and aimed at his attacker.

  It lay there on the floor, a collection of greasy tubes and metal springs. Its parts waved in the air, slowly settling down to stillness.

  Chuckles and laughter broke out from all directions. Kell looked around. Other pilots, X-wing and A-wing, peering in down the aisles, ducked away as his gaze fell across them.

  Face was one of the other pilots, but he didn't pull back. "A prank."

  "Very funny. Ha, ha." Kell wiped the sudden sweat from his brow and returned his blaster pistol to the locker. "That's the last thing I need. To be reprimanded for shooting up the locker room."

  "Well, maybe the prankster will turn his attention to me. Won't that be fun? I'll destroy him psychologically. Put him in fear for his sanity. Cost him the will to live."

  "Sounds good to me. Of course, I don't know that you weren't the prankster."

  "True." Face shrugged.

  Most of the rest of the squadron gathered for breakfast a little later in the morning.

  "So, I'm curious," Phanan said. "Commander, Lieutenant, who do the old-timers think of as the greatest fighter pilot in the galaxy?"

  Wedge and Janson exchanged a look. "Well," said Wedge, "we can hardly speak for the old-timers. As a matter of fact, you're older than I am."

  "I'm sorry. I actually meant your generation of pilots." Wedge sighed.

  "It depends," Janson said. "What are the criteria for 'greatest pilot'? I mean, I've seen plenty of pilots with brilliant skill. Luke Skywalker is one of them. On the other hand, he didn't fly regular combat missions for as long as most, so his kills aren't up there with other pilots who have been around longer. Other pilots were extraordinary, too, but ended up drifting into the path of some Imp gunner and were vaped." He glanced at his commander. "If you want to go by numbers and survivability, of course, there's only one pilot who has survived two Death Star runs. From that perspective, Wedge Antilles is the best pilot ever."

  Falynn snorted with amusement. The rest looked at her. Janson asked, "Something funny, Sandskimmer?"

  "Oh, no offense, sir." The sarcastic edge to her voice suggested that avoiding offense was nowhere in her mission parameters. "But piloting is for the young. I'm sure Commander Antilles was very good in his prime. He may have been the best pilot at one time, long ago. And I know he's a good trainer even today. But, Commander, you're what? Forty?"

  Wedge managed to look amused and regretful at the same time. "Twenty-eight."

  "Exactly! Your reflexes are shot. There's only so far experience can go to overcome that handicap."

  Janson said, "Sandskimmer—"

  Wedge said, "You're only nine years from that same grim fate."

  "If I should live so long, I'm sure I'll find some way to make myself useful. Just like you have."

  Wedge stood. "Come along."

  "I'm not through eating, sir."

  "You're young. You can afford to miss a meal." Wedge reached over and drew Falynn's tray away from her. "Come on."

  Reluctant and annoyed, she stood. "Where?"

  "We're going flying. A little competition. If you're up to it."

  "Now, wait. That's not fair. Until I'm through training, you still have some points on me in X-wings."

  "How about repulsorlift ore haulers? Do you give up any points to me in those?"

  "No, sir!"

  "Come along."

  The rest rose to follow, but Janson waved them down. "Finish your breakfasts and assemble in the briefing room. I'll follow and transmit. This should be interesting."

  It was the oldest, dingiest hangar on Folor Base, and not truly in use by the New Republic military. It held vehicles from the mining colony that had originally inhabited Folor, vehicles that were still functional but not in use by the base garrison.

  Among the vehicles on hand were three repulsorlift vehicles large enough to carry four X-wings nose to tail, with beds deeper than a man is tall. The vehicles still bore scratched traces of their original gray coats of paint and their beds were littered with dust and pebbles from the last ore loads they carried, years ago. None of the three had an enclosed cockpit.

  Datacards still in place in their simple computers indicated they'd been serviced within the last year, and all three started up when activated. Wedge and Falynn listened to all three, agreed on which two engines sounded best, and flipped a decicred coin to see who'd get the best one. Falynn won.

  Minutes later, wearing vacuum suits, they guided the open-air vehicles through the hangar's magnetic containment field and headed at a leisurely pace toward the near end of the Pig Trough.

  The Pig Trough was an anomalous geographical feature of Folor. It was a meandering lunar fissure, created at some distant time when the moon's surface was not quite cool and tectonic plates were still in motion. Its near terminus was only a klick from Folor Base, and the lengthy geographical feature wandered for thousands of kilometers to the northeast, then cut sharply northwest for an even greater distance. The nearer portions of the trough were too broad, with curves too gradual to be of any use to the trainers, but more distant portions were used by pilot trainees for trench maneuvering and bombing practice.

  On the lip just above the first descent into the Trough, Wedge and Falynn brought their ore haulers to a halt. "Comm check," Wedge said. "You receiving?"

  "Yes."

  "Wes?"

  "I'm here. I've dropped a flare four klicks up the trench. That's your goal."

  "Sandskimmer, you ready?"

  "I've been ready since I confirmed seal on my suit."

  "Go." He issued the command in a mild tone, but there was nothing restrained about the way Wedge kicked his ore hauler forward, roaring down the Trough's shallow slope as though he were in command of a fast-moving combat assault vehicle.

  "Cheater!
" Falynn was only a split second behind him. Well before they reached the bottom of the slope, she'd drawn almost even with him to the left. She sideslipped into him.

  Wedge felt rather than heard the impact, but it didn't maneuver him out of line. He grinned. Only the greenest pilot would have failed to anticipate the maneuver and compensate for it. He gunned his engines and leaned into his leftward slide. The nose of his hauler was still a few meters ahead of hers and thus able to push hers out of line. He shoved her until her left side began to scrape along the rift wall; the sudden friction slowed her and he shot out ahead.

  "Keep trying, Sandskimmer. I'm old. I might be tiring already."

  Her curses lit up the comm unit.

  The other pilot trainees gathered in the briefing room and watched the visual sensor feed from Janson's X-wing. Janson was pacing the ore haulers at an altitude of about fifty meters. Kell guessed that Janson was running on repulsorlifts, occasionally hitting the thrusters, else he wouldn't be able to move slowly enough to keep them in his sensor view.

  Donos said, "She's actually moving that bucket around pretty well. She was probably a pretty hot stick back on Tatooine." He sounded more analytical than admiring, but it was the longest single statement Kell had heard from him.

  Kell shook his head. "I've serviced rigs like that. They're not like recreational skimmers. Their repulsor fields extend out ahead several meters. They have to be anticipatory to keep those haulers from gutting themselves on rough terrain. If she doesn't know that, she'll bounce—there she goes." Indeed, the front end of Falynn's hauler rose an additional two meters as the craft approached a boulder outcropping. The hauler went skyward, gaining enough altitude to lose repulsorlift contact with the ground, and Wedge's vehicle gained another handful of meters on her.

  Donos said, "She'll take him."

  Kell pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. "Ten credits."

  "You're on." Donos's coin joined his on the tabletop.

  The other pilot candidates rummaged through pockets and began pulling out coins, money-transfer cards, jewelry, pieces of candy.

  They ran now with Falynn's bow to Wedge's stern. Whenever she sideslipped to try to pass, he broke in that direction, blocking her move. The richness and color of her nonstop cursing were testimony to his success.