• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Wedge considered the information on the datapad for long moments. “Well, I’ll accept your explanation. I want us to try him out. If he doesn’t work out, I’ll scrub him. If he does work out and yet the two of you can’t work together …”

“In the long run, you actually need him in this unit more than you need me.” Janson’s voice was weary. “In that case, with your permission, I’d transfer back to the Rogues. I can swap with Hobbie.”

Wedge nodded, solemn. “Thanks, Wes.”

· · ·

Janson let Wedge do all the talking. Wedge imagined that it felt better not to have Kell Tainer turn any attention toward him whatsoever.

Wedge explained the situation in a few words, then asked, “Tainer, are you an honorable man?”

The pilot, his back once again locked into correct but overtense military posture, said, “I am.”

“Do you think Lieutenant Janson is any less honorable?”

Tainer took his time in replying. “No, sir.” The words sounded as though they were being ground out of him.

“You took an oath to serve the New Republic, and you have to understand that we need your precise skills more than you need to avoid reminders of what happened to your father. Janson took the same oath, though in his case it was to the Alliance to restore the Republic, back when you were still playing with toys. And he understands that we need his skills more than he needs to be free of the dislike you have for him … or of the memory of doing something he didn’t want to do. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I’m going to ask you to stay. For now. If you two can’t work together, we’ll make arrangements. But I have to warn you, with your record, placement in any other unit means you’re not likely ever to fly a fighter again. You’ll probably end up back in the commandos.”

“I liked the commandos.”

“Yes, but you’ll never be able to repair your father’s name there. You’ll never show the galaxy that the name ‘Doran’ doesn’t translate as ‘pilot and coward.’ ”

Tainer’s head snapped down and he finally met Wedge’s gaze. His eyes were as full of rage as any Wedge had ever seen; Wedge resisted the temptation to take a step backward. “How dare you—”

Wedge kept his own voice low. “Attention.” He waited three long beats, until Tainer again assumed the proper pose and returned his attention to the wall above Wedge’s head. Then Wedge continued, “I dare, if that’s the word, because it’s the truth. I’ll bet you’ve had this dream, a dream of being a pilot and restoring the honor to your family’s name, since you were back on Alderaan. Well, you’ve yet to fly a combat mission and you’re already about to wash out of the pilot ranks. Here’s your last chance. So, do you stay or do you go?”

Tainer’s jaw worked for several moments, but he made no sound. Then: “I stay. Sir.” His voice suggested that he was speaking in spite of a deep stab wound.

“Good. Dismissed.”

When Tainer was gone, Janson let out a low whistle. “Wedge, I’m not criticizing … but that was the coldest maneuver I’ve seen in a long time.”

“You fly through vacuum, you sometimes need cold-space lubricants instead of blood.” Wedge slumped wearily back in his chair. Suddenly he felt impossibly tired, and wondered how many pilots would regularly bring him problems like these.

Kell strapped himself into his seat, an effort made a little difficult because the cockpit was so tight around him, and flipped the four switches igniting his X-wing’s fusial thrust engines—actually, igniting the ersatz engines on this X-wing simulator. Simulators being as sophisticated and realistic as they were, it was sometimes an effort to distinguish them from reality; they even used gravitational compensators to simulate zero gee during deep-space mission simulations.

Around him, in the viewscreens that simulated the X-wing’s transparisteel canopy, he saw a fighter launch bay; he knew the real one was actually half a klick above him, much closer to the lunar surface.

His board indicated that all four engines were live and