Star Wars_ X-Wing 05_ Wraith Squadron - Aaron Allston [13]
“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