Wraith Squadron (5 page)

He wondered, too, whether Falynn Sandskimmer’s attitude toward a certain Hero of the New Republic had contributed to the two demotions that had canceled her two promotions. Asked about Luke Skywalker, she’d said, “Can you imagine being compared to him all your adult life just because you’re another pilot from Tatooine? No, I’ve never met Luke Skywalker. In fact, I wish I’d never
heard
of him.”
It was an attitude that would not endear her to many of Luke’s friends. Wedge, who was among those friends, simply shrugged it off. Her worth was in her performance, not her lack of appreciation of one good man.

The second pilot, a human male from Etti IV, was facing a court-martial for theft. He expressed confidence that he would be cleared and asked for a chance to prove himself to Commander Antilles. A minute after he’d gone, Wedge noticed that the framed holo of his long-dead parents was missing from the tabletop. He sent Janson after the compulsive thief and scrubbed him from the candidate roster.

The third pilot was a Talz, one of the white-furred humanoid inhabitants of Alzoc III. A former Imperial slave, he’d learned to pilot freighters for the Rebel Alliance and had transferred to fighters when the deadly pilot attrition of the year before the Emperor’s death had put a premium on good fliers. But his record showed a history of psychosomatic illnesses and the possibility of mental breakdown increasing in the last several years. His mental evaluations suggested that these problems resulted from conflict between the Talz’s basically gentle nature and the fighter’s mission of destroying enemy targets.

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.”