• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“I will do that. He deserves it.”

Squeaky returned with their glasses and buckets. Kell went to work on his sticky forehead with the napkin Squeaky gave him. As the droid departed, Tyria glanced at the entry-way and straightened up. “The second wave has arrived.”

The others turned to look. Approaching them were two men in pilot suits; with them was an R2 unit. Both men had been through rough times in the past: One would have been quite handsome but for the long, wicked scar that puckered his left cheek, crawled across his nose, and marred his left forehead, while the other, taller man had a prosthetic shell over the upper portion of the left half of his face.

The one with the scar said, “More survivors of Lieutenant Janson’s bait-and-switch mission scenario?”

Kell managed a mirthless chuckle and gestured for them to sit. “You two just get out?”

The pilot with the prosthetic headgear nodded. The portions of his face still exposed showed lean features, a cold blue eye, and a thin, immaculately trimmed mustache and beard that suggested ex-Imperial warlord more than New Republic fighter. “Ton Phanan. This is Loran and his R2 unit, Vape. The others in our group for the simulator mission were Chedgar and a Bothan who calls himself Grinder. Chedgar was still arguing about the scoring when we left, but I think it’s because he knows he’s about to be washed out.” He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head in an attitude of blissful relaxation. “I just made out like a pirate on points; shot down one eyeball and got credit for Loran’s three. I could get to like this assignment.”

Kell introduced his companions, then took another look at the man with the livid scar. There was something familiar about the pilot, about the man’s dramatic shock of black hair and emerald eyes, about his poise and ease among the others … “Loran? Not Garik Loran? The Face?”

Phanan sat forward to take another look at his companion; Tyria did likewise. Piggy and Runt merely looked quizzical.

The scarred pilot nodded, looking rueful. “That’s me.”

“I thought you were dead! Seven, eight years ago. The story broke just before the news about the first Death Star.”

“We are sorry,” said Runt. “It is obvious we should have heard of this man, but we have not.”

“Maybe it’s just a human thing,” Kell said. “The Face. The most famous child star of Imperial holodramas. Like The Black Bantha and Jungle Flutes. He made Win or Die and Imperial military recruitment went up five percent. You never saw them?”

The two nonhumans shook their heads. Phanan obviously had heard of Loran; he grinned wickedly at this sudden revelation about his companion’s past.

Tyria had heard of him as well; her jaw was slightly agape. Finally she said, “I had such a crush on you when I was twelve …”

The scarred pilot snorted. “Don’t feel bad. I was hand-picked to be the boy most likely to be the subject of crushes.”

“What happened to you?” she asked. “Everyone said that Alliance extremists killed you.”

He shrugged. “Almost. About the time I was trying to make the transition to teenaged roles, some ex-Alliance extremists kidnapped me. They wanted to kill me as a demonstration to those who aided the Empire in civilian roles.” His voice was melodious, controlled, exactly what Kell would expect in a onetime actor. “They thought it would be a blow to Imperial morale.”

“It was certainly a blow to the morale of young girls,” Tyria said.

“But first they decided to show me what the Empire was all about. I got the hard-core briefing on Imperial military and Intelligence activities. Then, when they were set to kill me, an Imperial commando rescue mission struck. That’s where I picked up my little facial blemish, a graze from a laser blast. The two sides damn near killed each other, with only a couple of commandos left alive. I was a real mess, emotionally as well as physically, so I hid from the Imps. I decided not to be found until I could sort things out. Since my body was missing and never turned