The admiral rolled his eyes in different directions. "That is preposterous. General Cracken's son Pash has been in the path of danger since he joined the military. He even flew with Rogue Squadron, hardly the safest place in our armed forces."
"Perhaps there's still some Imperial-style overprotectiveness of females—or contempt for us—also at work, Uncle. But preposterous or not, I was a waste of training. I wasn't doing anything. I can't tell you how happy I was when Commander Antilles accepted me to the new squadron ... and how much happier I was the first time I was put out in the line of fire. Finally, I am a pilot instead of a waste of volume." She gave him a steady look. "If I do come to my death in this unit, I hope you will not hold it against Commander Antilles."
"Are you happy here?"
"I am."
"Then I will hold him blameless. But if you do everything he says and learn whatever he tries to teach you, you might not ever give me cause for such grief."
"I'll try, Uncle."
After the last of the prisoners had been transferred over to Home One, the next shuttle trip brought them their new crew for Night Caller. Wedge was introduced to a small, neat man with a weathered face, Captain Choday Hrakness of Agamar, the new ship's captain, and to a tall, elegant-looking brown-haired woman of Coruscant, Lieutenant Atril Tabanne, his second-in-command, as well as to a number of technicians and mechanics.
Together they all watched Borleias and Home One jump out of system, then they set about reorganizing Night Caller.
The expanded mechanics crew, under Cubber's direction, reinforced the brackets holding the X-wings in the bow hold, making them steadier and more durable.
Officers and crew were assigned permanent quarters. Since many of the former crew of Night Caller had been stormtroopers and had not been replaced by New Republic ground troops, their departure left the ship comparatively empty. Every pilot received his own small stateroom, and Wedge, as commanding officer of a provisional group that now included the corvette, Wraith Squadron, and Rogue Squadron, was obliged to accept the huge and garishly over-decorated captain's cabin. He immediately sent the velvet drapes and antique furnishings collected from around the galaxy off to the hold and converted the captain's private audience chamber into a second conference room.
Meanwhile, the pilots settled into a new routine.
For Kell, it was less than a pleasant one. Night Caller was a much smaller environment than Folor Base, and consequently he could not avoid running into Wes Janson several times a day. Most were simply incidents of passing one another in the hall, but even those brief and innocuous encounters brought cold fear to his belly and the lockup of all the muscles in his back.
After one such ordinary encounter, Runt told him, "You think he means you harm."
"I think he's waiting for me to make a mistake. I just don't know whether he intends to send my career into a trash receptacle or literally vape me in combat."
"I think you are wrong," Runt said. "I think your bad mind is imagining things."
"I think all your minds ought to go out and play in a mine field sometime so that only one or two come back."
Runt responded with a braying laugh. Kell shook his head; he could never tell what his wingman would find amusing.
Runt, too, was putting new skills to the test. Because of the multiplicity of his minds he was charged with reading the mail the ship's former crewmen had received and writing responses for those who had been active correspondents—a small number, fortunately. He submitted his efforts to Face for both a human's and a performer's input, then broadcast them. He told Kell that the duty was strange and sometimes tedious, but was very helpful at teaching him to switch from one mind to another with greater speed and less effort.
Meanwhile, the ship's two simulators were almost continuously occupied. The X-wing simulator became the near personal property of Tyria, who flew its missions obsessively, trying to bring her scores out of Wraith Squadron's basement. Meanwhile, Falynn Sandskimmer monopolized the TIE fighter simulator, a tactic, she admitted, she hoped would make her the default choice for a wingman whenever Wedge flew TIE fighter missions. Tyria prevailed upon Grinder to program simulations of launches and landings in the difficult bow hold of Night Caller.
In the ship's mess, Kell and Phanan settled in on either side of Tyria. Intently studying her datapad, she was slow in noticing their arrival. "Oh. Hello."
"We're the committee to force you to relax once in a while," Kell said.
Phanan nodded. "According to our mission chrono, it has been thirty-six standard hours since you enjoyed any aspect of your life, and twenty-three since you even cracked a smile."
She managed one now, a very faint one.
Grinder, seated opposite her, said, "You'd think she was facing her final pilot's examination. Relax, Tyria. You made it."
"You don't know anything about it," she said. "Besides, I'm still the bottom-rated pilot in this unit."
"Not in kills," Kell said. "Because of the way Folor Base came off, Runt and I still have zero. You got one there."
She waved away his objection. "You sacrificed one combat's worth of kills and came up with a tactic that probably saved the Borleias. That's a bright spot on your record, Kell, not a black one."
"Well," Grinder said, "there are ways to bring up your scores. Techniques a lot more effective than flying simulators hours every day until you're bone tired and stupid from lack of food."
She looked at him dubiously. "Such as what?"
"Well . . ." He looked around conspiratorially. "I shouldn't do this, because if you improve your rating, that leaves me at the bottom of the squadron. But I don't particularly mind. I could slice into your simulator records and bump them up a few points. Put you out of the danger zone. By way of compensation, I wouldn't ask much—"
She came over the table at him, knocking him off his bench to the floor, and landed on him hard. She struck him in the face three times, over his shouts of pain and surprise, before Kell and Phanan could shake off their shock. They scrambled around the ends of the table, converging on her, and seized her arms before she could continue turning Grinder's face into a bloody mess.
The other diners, a tableful of Cubber's mechanics and technicians, watched in surprise; some were laying down bets just as Kell and Phanan yanked Tyria upright.
Her face was flushed, her expression not just furious but hate-filled as she glared down at the Bothan. "You bastard" she said. "How dare you—"
"You want me?" Grinder scrambled to his feet, his nostrils streaming blood. "A fair fight, not an ambush? Bring her to the lounge, boys—"
"Attention!"
All of them snapped upright, mechanics included. Wedge and Janson stood in the doorway. Both pilots looked grim as they strode in. "Explain this," Wedge said.
Tyria didn't immediately respond; she seemed to be concentrating on catching her breath. Phanan said, "Well, sir, we were discussing some fine points of a specific hand-to-hand combat takedown maneuver, and—"
Wedge looked as pained as if Phanan had stabbed him. "Flight Officer Phanan. How many times do you suppose I've heard that 'We were discussing a boxing maneuver' excuse?"
Phanan looked confused. "I, uh, don't know, sir."
"That was a rhetorical question, Phanan. Do not reenter this conversation."
Pale where his skin could be seen under his skull prosthetic, Phanan shut up and stared off through the near wall.
Wedge dropped his voice. "Grinder, Tyria, come with me."
In his ridiculously well-appointed office, with Janson beside him, Wedge glared at the two junior officers and asked, "Grinder, did you do anything to provoke this?"
If possible, the Bothan's posture became even stiffer. "I didn't think so initially, sir. But in jest I did offer to do something unethical for her. I suppose she may not have gotten the joke."
"Tyria, did you 'get the joke'?"
"I suppose I didn't, sir."
"Grinder, a good comedian adjusts his joke
s for his audi- ence. Watch Face and Phanan sometimes. They're annoying, but proficient. Dismissed."
Grinder saluted and made good his escape.
Wedge turned his full attention on Tyria. "It appears to me that your response was completely out of proportion to the offense."
"Yes, sir."
"Explain yourself."
"I have no excuse, sir."
"I'd like to help you here, Flight Officer Sarkin. Your record already has one notation for gross insubordination. It would be good not to make it worse."
Tyria bit her lip. Wedge could tell that she recognized that his use of her full rank and name meant this discussion had reached a more official level. "Thank you, sir. But I have no excuse, sir."
"Very well. Consider yourself on report. For the time being, your X-wing will be reassigned to Ton Phanan. Dismissed."
For a moment she could not keep the dismay from her face. Then she recovered herself, saluted, and followed Grinder's escape vector.
Wedge sighed. "Any ideas?"
Janson shook his head. "This really came out of the asteroid belt. I thought she was one of the most steady of them."
"Me, too. Do me a favor and write up this incident report, would you? But keep the language flexible. I'd like to be able to monitor the situation and make adjustments to the report up until the time I have to file it."
"Will do. You going to make her apologize?"
"No, I'm going to find out if she apologizes. A forced apology is worth nothing."
"True."
"How are things going with Tainer?"
Janson grimaced. "Worse than ever. And now I understand he's received some demolitions components from Home One."
"I told you, you don't have to worry about that."
"You also told me Tyria was one of the most steady of them."
Wedge glared in mock anger. "You don't want to get into a 'let's recall who has screwed up the worst' contest with me, Wes."
"I think I'll be off to write up that report. Sir."
"Good."
Tyria entered her quarters and switched on the lights.
At her table sat Kell and Phanan.
"Oh, great," she said. "One reprimand, you get one pilot in your quarters. Two reprimands, two pilots."
"You may doubt this," Phanan said, "but we're not part of your punishment. We're worried about you."
She fell over, full length, onto her bed and buried her face in the pillow. Her voice came out muffled. "Well, don't be."
Kell dragged his chair beside her. "Tyria, what happened in the mess was crazy. We'd like to help, but we can't if we don't understand it."
Phanan said, "Your wingman ought to be in here. But Donos is about as warm, tender, and helpful as a methane ice comet. So we're here. Tyria, we're your friends."
"No, you're not. You just want to jump into bed with me."
Phanan looked crestfallen. "I'm sorry if I gave you that impression. Yes, I do want to jump into bed with you. It's nothing personal. You're talented and beautiful, and for some reason I find that appealing. But I'll break off my most ardent pursuit, forever, if you wish, if you'd only talk to us."
She pulled some of her flowing hair from over her eye and stared at him. Then she looked up at Kell. "You, too?"
He winced. "Whatever you like. I really wasn't assigned to this unit to make you feel worse."
She managed a low chuckle. Then she rolled up on her side, her back to the cabin wall, and looked them over frankly. "Look, you two. I'll tell you this, but if it gets out, it's the end of my career. Literally and without recourse."
"I understand," Kell said. Phanan nodded.
"All right. I got into the New Republic Academy pretty much for one reason: because I demonstrated I had a little control over the Force."
Phanan said, "They were hoping you'd train up to be a new Luke Skywalker."
"That's right. But in my early simulator work I flew more like a drunken dinko. I was on the verge of washing out when I was transferred to a squadron for, well, remedial pilots in training.
"The unit commander, Colonel Repness, seemed to be a pretty good instructor. My scores came up into the acceptable range. Then, just before final examinations, he came to me and said, 'Would you like to make sure your final examination and average scores don't just earn your wings, but also bump you out of the bottom quarter of this class?' "
Kell grimaced. "I can see where this is going."
"Well, maybe not. He wanted me to take a training run in an X-wing and simulate equipment failure. A very sophisticated simulation, backed by transmissions from my astromech. I'd ditch in the ocean and the rescue crews would pick me up ... but the X-wing would have sunk thousands of meters to the bottom, where no one could recover it.".
Phanan nodded. "Except Repness would actually have been waiting for you at the ditch site and would make off with the X-wing. Which he could put on the black market."
"That's right."
Kell whistled. "What did you do?"
"I said no. And I said that I was going to turn him in. He seemed shocked. He started begging. He said, please wait, give him a day to tell his wife and set his affairs in order." She took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Like an idiot, I told him I would. I was actually naive enough to think that I was the first one who'd ever refused him, that I was in charge of the situation."
Phanan grimaced. "So naturally he took the extra time to cover his tracks and set you up."
"Basically, yes. I reported for duty the next morning and found out that he had put me on report for gross insubordination. He claimed that I had made advances toward him— talk about unchecked ego—and had also made horrible disparaging remarks about his wife. With a blot like that on my record, I'd have to score very high on my final examinations and keep my record clean for a long time afterward to stay in the service.
"So I went to him and told him to take that off my record. And he said, 'You can either turn me in and see your career go straight into the incinerator, or leave the record as it is and go on to a career as the mediocre pilot you're destined to be.' I didn't understand what he meant until he showed me. He'd been falsifying my records all along, since the day I transferred to his unit, recording my scores as higher than they were—I'd actually have washed out weeks before. If the truth about his offer to trade my services in stealing an X-wing for grades went on the record, so would my true scores." She looked very, very tired. "So you kept quiet," Kell said.
"Yes, I did. I shut my mouth and accepted the reprimand and graduated at the very bottom of my class. And immediately the offer to try out for this squadron came in—and I later learned that it was just because of my Ranger experience. I've tried so hard to improve . . . and now Grinder comes up to me with this same suggestion—"
Phanan's voice was gentle. "I truly doubt that he was offering to raise your scores for profit, Tyria. He was just being a code-slicer."
"Maybe. I didn't think about that. I wasn't capable of thinking. I just wanted to smash his face in. To smash Colonel Repness's face in."
Kell said, "Another thing you have to understand. Wedge Antilles would never let an inferior pilot into a squadron he commanded."
"He's probably anticipating that I can learn more control of the Force. He's investing in that. He hasn't yet figured out it's never going to happen. In the meantime, Ton here gets my X-wing."
Phanan said, "I'm sorry."
"Which means," Kell said, "that whenever Falynn is asleep or something, you should be training in the TIE fighter simulator. You might get some time in one of the TIEs. And also do some shuttle training. I'll drop a word in Cubber's ear and see if I can get him to give you some instruction there."
"All right," she said.
"So," Phanan said, "are you going to hold me to my deal?"
She looked confused. "What deal?"
"You did talk to us. Must I now abandon my pursuit of you? That would sadden me beyond measure—"
Tyria's pillow bounced
off his face.
"Ah. Well, I'll just put it on hold, then."
"Tell me about these Rangers," Kell said.
She gave him a curious look. "Why?"
"Because I'd like to know."
"All right." She turned on her back and stared up at the featureless ceiling. "It's an old order, the Antarian Rangers. Founded centuries ago to aid Jedi Knights. A few of them, anyway; most of the Jedi tended to be pretty solitary. But some of them appreciated having loyal, reliable warriors to help them. Freedom's Sons were one such order, and the Rangers were another.
"To be a Ranger meant knowing how to move in any environment. To blend in with the forest or grassland, to sail, to swim, to dive, to pilot. To be masters of our surroundings. We were good spies, good warriors, very adept at intrusion and escape.
"In the old days, there were communities of the Rangers on several worlds, including Toprawa. There was some intermarrying between the Jedi and the Rangers, which may be where I inherited my own nearly useless talent with the Force. Gradually, there were fewer and fewer Rangers around. The Clone Wars killed off whole clans, and then most of the rest were purged with the Jedi. The rest went underground. My family stayed hidden for decades, and then before we could emerge, Toprawa was bombed into barbarism by the Empire. That's when the last of the Antarian Rangers on Toprawa died."
"Except you," Phanan said.
"I'm not sure it's a matter of 'except me.' I expect that I will die in this service, without continuing my line. The Sarkins are gone. I'm just a living reminder, hoping to make something of myself before I join them. That's why I make few plans for the future." She turned toward Kell as he opened his mouth. "Don't say it. Don't tell me that I may doom myself by being fatalistic. I've heard it before." "Then why haven't you listened?" he asked. Instead of being offended, she smiled. "Kell, I've failed at everything I wanted to do in life so far. I failed to keep my family alive. I failed to learn the ways of the Force and uphold my family tradition. I failed to enter the fighter corps on my own merits. But I got in anyway, by way of a cheat I shouldn't have accepted. Now all I want to do is find some sort of grace, something that will make up for my failures. Just once before I die. Can't you understand that?"
Wraith Squadron Page 18
