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“Oh, come on, Wedge. If it’s good enough for those upstanding citizens, it’s good enough for us.”

Wedge managed a faint smile. “Then you go first.”

“Ton, a few minutes privacy?”

Wedge stood just inside the door to sick bay. Phanan gave him a stiff nod and left without a word.

On one of the bay’s beds lay Kell Tainer, somber, pale. He gulped, obviously aware he was in for a dressing-down.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Wedge said. “You do such good work. Then you screw everything up.”

Kell nodded. “It’s my fault Jesmin is dead. I know that.”

“Not that, you idiot. It’s that tank driver’s fault she’s dead. It’s the fault of a failed inertial compensator. It’s her body’s fault for failing her, letting her fall unconscious, when she could have used those extra seconds you gave her to reach her ejection control. The maneuver you pulled, trying to rescue her, was crazy and brilliant. Most pilots in Starfighter Command would’ve cracked up performing it.”

Kell drew back from the anger in Wedge’s voice. He looked confused. “Then what—the screwup—”

“It’s this.” Wedge waved at him, at the sick bay. “You think you’ve failed. You go to pieces. Every one of us lost a friend today, and who’s in sick bay? You. Myn Donos has a concussion and he’s just sleeping it off. You need a doctor’s care.”

Kell started to say something, then clamped down on it.

“Now, get up, get back into uniform. I want you to search the pirate base for explosives. I don’t want any of us losing hands—or our lives—when we’re exploring. We need you.”

Kell started to rise, then pain crossed his face. To Wedge, it looked like a massive cramp.

“That’s part of it, too, isn’t it?” Wedge kept most of the scorn out of his voice—leaving in just enough for Kell to detect. “Someone needs you and you go to pieces. Well, we do need you. We’re relying on you. Our lives depend on you. Right now. What’s it going to be?”

Kell stood up. His face was a curious mixture of fury and pain. That pain doubled him over, but he straightened up almost instantly. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Go ahead.”

“Every time you make one of these motivational speeches I want to beat you to death.”

“And how do you suppose I feel about you whenever some responsibility sends you into vaporlock?” Wedge turned and left.

In the corridor, he realized what his next task had to be. He resisted the urge to turn back. He’d rather argue with Kell for hours than perform his next duty. He’d almost rather let Kell beat him to death than perform it.

He could put it off for a while. He had to dictate the report of the assault on this pirate base. He had to put in a recommendation that the New Republic seize this site, just in case it became useful in the war against the warlords and the Empire. He even had to put in a recommendation for a citation for Kell Tainer—even if the man folded up in a pinch, his efforts today were above and beyond the call of duty.

But then, ultimately, he had to write Admiral Ackbar to tell him that his niece was dead.

Wedge sat under a single light in the captain’s quarters that had once been lavish but were now echoingly empty.

He began writing on his datapad’s touch pad. A terminal keyboard would have been faster, but he knew it was not the interface that would slow him tonight. Slower still would be finding the right words.

He wrote, Sir, I’m afraid this letter comes to you as a bearer of bad news.

He looked at his words. A bearer of bad news. A trite phrase, and it wasn’t correct. The letter wasn’t the bearer. Whoever brought Ackbar the letter would be the bearer. Perhaps it would just be a wall terminal.

He hit the clear button and the words winked out.

Sir, I wish I could find some way to soften the news—

No. With a preface like that, Ackbar, if his emotional patterns were like those of humans, would merely feel a mounting fear of dread … just before realizing his dread was justified.

He hit the clear button.

Sir, I regret to inform you that your niece,