• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Immediately, as Crespin’s laser lock found them, Trigit’s Interceptor and its pursuit vehicle broke away. To starboard. Donos fired. “One for Falynn. Two for Talon.”

Crespin’s lasers found the engines of the pursuit Interceptor, stitched them with bright red fire. The Interceptor vanished in a bright ball.

Donos’s comm unit popped. Trigit’s voice. “Crespin, I’d like to reconsid—”

Donos’s first torpedo shot between the slit in the Interceptor’s starboard wing and hit the Interceptor where the round forward viewport met the hull. The Interceptor detonated in a brilliant flash. Donos’s second torpedo entered the cloud but did not emerge from it.

Then there was nothing but the hiss of static over his comm unit, a single blue dot on his sensors.

The A-wing began a long, lazy arc back toward Ession. “Nice shooting, son.”

“Nice flying, sir.” Donos brought his own snubfighter around.

In his chest was a coldness to match the vacuum around him. It was the emptiness of his future. But Talon Squad had had its revenge. Now, perhaps, eleven good pilots, one ever-helpful R2 unit, and a Tatooine woman who’d never recognized her own worth would be able to rest easy.

31

Her beaches and seas are almost as beautiful as those on Storinal, Kell reflected. Maybe more so. They aren’t as … deliberate. As sculpted.

The world was called Borleias. Once the site of the biomedical research facility of an Imperial general, later captured by the New Republic as the first stage of the march on the Imperial throne world, Borleias was now home to a fighter training base.

The New Republic had named a troop transport after the battle for this world, and Kell and Runt had saved that transport on Folor. Kell decided, irrationally, this meant the world welcomed his presence.

He certainly felt welcome. He lounged on a puff-cot large enough to accommodate his generous frame—with plenty of room for Tyria beside him. Uniform of the day was bathing suits that might generously be called minimal, and that was a vacation in itself. Beside them on a blanket were half-finished drinks slowly warming in the sun and a small refrigeration unit from which more drinks would emerge as the day grew later.

Up and down the beach, other Wraiths and crewmen of Night Caller splashed in the waves, lounged on puff-cots, rode recreational speeder bikes, sat drinking around tables under broad reflective parasols. Donos was at the end of the line of cots, alone with his thoughts, but remaining within reach of the other Wraiths instead of distancing himself from them.

Phanan was in Borleias’s military hospital, recovering from the loss of his spleen, which had been perforated by shrapnel as he ejected. When Kell had gone to see him, Phanan had explained, “Yes, I got so angry that I had to vent my spleen.”

The Wraiths, Kell’s fellow pilots, his friends. There were no recriminations in their eyes. Most of them knew that he’d had … some sort of attack back on Ession’s moon. They also knew that he’d recovered from it, thrown himself into the worst part of the fight. He’d vaporized more than his share of the enemy and had drawn the fire of even more pilots. Night Caller, her sensors overwhelmed by the deliberately faulty emissions of the nearby retransmission dish and the dust cloud she was kicking up, had no record of his temporary vacation from reality. So, like Donos’s collapse, it wasn’t spoken of. It hadn’t happened.

And it wouldn’t happen again. All he’d ever have to do is imagine what would become of the people he loved if he abandoned them.

He glanced down at Tyria, a teasing remark on his lips; but she was asleep, her head on his shoulder as though it were a pillow.

A shadow fell across them.

Admiral Ackbar stood above him.

Kell saluted out of reflex. “Sir.”

“Don’t get up.” The admiral moved to sit on the next puff-cot over. He turned toward the water, looking at it, as far as Kell could read his posture, with a longing expression. “I am sorry I was not able to speak to you on Talasea.”

“I … was avoiding you, sir.