Star Wars_ X-Wing 05_ Wraith Squadron - Aaron Allston [11]
“So?”
“So all these defectors are retreads, General. Many are men and women with spots on their records. Sometimes more than spots. Here’s an example. We pulled Black Sun criminals off Kessel, introduced them onto Coruscant, and kept the faith with them so long as they did with us. You seem to be saying that their contributions should be ignored, kept hidden—the only people whose efforts we acknowledge will be those with spotless records, uniforms, and faces.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Second, this idea that appearance needs to be a factor in the choice of new pilots so they’ll look good on holograms and broadcasts—sir, I understand your reasoning, and I approve”—the lie nearly stuck in Wedge’s throat but he accelerated past it—“but it exposes the New Republic, the Provisional and Inner Councils, to a danger I think you’ve overlooked.”
“Which is what?”
“If all our pilots have to look a specific way, meet or surpass some arbitrary degree of beauty, we’re exactly the same as the Empire, which kept hundreds of sapient species under its heel because they weren’t human. Because they didn’t meet specific human standards of appearance.”
“Preposterous!” But Crespin looked a trifle shaken by Wedge’s last accusation.
“Of course it is, sir. It’s more than preposterous, it’s idiotic. Especially in light of all the nonhumans in Rogue Squadron and other units. But put that argument into the hands of Imperial insurgents working within the New Republic and you’ll have insurrections, protests from every New Republic signatory race that isn’t represented in the cockpit of an X-wing or A-wing somewhere.”
Crespin grimaced but didn’t answer.
“Third, the new squadron’s makeup allows for better, not poorer, public relations. Every pilot who makes it will be a success story, a come-from-behind story, suited to a holodrama or series. Most importantly, they’ll be common-being stories. Not everyone can identify with Corran Horn from Corellian Security, or with Bror Jace, millionaire prince of the bacta-producing monopoly on Thyferra. But some tug pilot who joined the Alliance, fumbled his career into the gutter, and then recovered it, repaired the damage he’d done to his life—”
“Yes, yes.” Crespin waved for him to be quiet. “Very well, Commander. Your passion for this experiment is obvious. Your reasons are sound. Do it your way for now. Do note that I expect this experiment to be a disaster … and I’ll be on hand to clean it up when it detonates in your face.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll have to be aware of some changes implemented since the last time you were stationed here. You may have noticed when landing that the base’s emissions are much more contained than they used to be; external visual beacons are lit off only when landing craft need them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We need the extra security, what with Zsinj’s raids increasing in frequency and boldness … and with occasional lapses such as your own pilot, Erisi Dlarit, turning out to be a traitor—”
Wedge reined in another flash of anger. “I should point out that she was placed in Rogue Squadron for political reasons, not recruited by me. And so far as we have seen, her controllers kept the information she sent them about Folor Base to themselves, not sharing it with renegades like Zsinj. And now they’re dead.”
“Whatever. We still need the improved security. So long as this is border territory, we’re vulnerable to assaults like the ones Zsinj is so fond of making. All your pilots are being brought in without knowing where they are; the washouts will go out the same way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well.” Suddenly Crespin looked inexpressibly weary. Wedge wondered how many officers regularly brought him arguments and back talk—even when it was as polite and well reasoned as Wedge’s. “Dismissed.”
3
“You look like you’ve fought a few rounds with a rancor.”
“Thanks, Wes. I’m sure General Crespin will appreciate that comparison.” Wedge sat back in his chair with a sigh, put his booted feet up on his desk. His office was a former storeroom with dismal lighting