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He thought it over, and as the answer came to him he felt his heart sink. “About fifteen minutes.”

She smiled without humor. “You don’t spend very much time dreamy-eyed for a man who’s hopelessly in love, do you?”

He looked down at the tabletop and didn’t answer. She continued, her voice ruthlessly gentle, “The good thing about fantasy lovers is they don’t need much of your time. They’re very low maintenance. Unlike real people. I’m very flattered that you feel you’ve fallen in love with a fantasy Tyria. But she isn’t me, Kell.” She rose and was gone.

Miserable, he stared into his cup of caf—not seeking answers, just avoiding the eyes of those around him.

She was right. Tyria was his idea of perfection. But the real Tyria? How close did she match his idea? He didn’t know.

Face wandered by on his way out. “She shot you down?” he asked.

“Vaped me. One shot.”

“Cheer up. Maybe this was just a simulator run.”

Nor did the day’s trials end there.

Kell stopped in at his locker to retrieve his datapad. He keyed in his personal code and pulled the locker door open.

Something shifted inside as he did so, then a mass of wriggling tentacles leaped out at him, landing on his chest, wrapping itself around him.

Kell let out a yell, tore the slick creature from him, and hurled it to the ferrocrete floor. He gave it a fast kick to send it skidding up along the aisle of lockers. He drew his blaster from where it hung inside the locker and aimed at his attacker.

It lay there on the floor, a collection of greasy tubes and metal springs. Its parts waved in the air, slowly settling down to stillness.

Chuckles and laughter broke out from all directions. Kell looked around. Other pilots, X-wing and A-wing, peering in down the aisles, ducked away as his gaze fell across them.

Face was one of the other pilots, but he didn’t pull back. “A prank.”

“Very funny. Ha, ha.” Kell wiped the sudden sweat from his brow and returned his blaster pistol to the locker. “That’s the last thing I need. To be reprimanded for shooting up the locker room.”

“Well, maybe the prankster will turn his attention to me. Won’t that be fun? I’ll destroy him psychologically. Put him in fear for his sanity. Cost him the will to live.”

“Sounds good to me. Of course, I don’t know that you weren’t the prankster.”

“True.” Face shrugged.

Most of the rest of the squadron gathered for breakfast a little later in the morning.

“So, I’m curious,” Phanan said. “Commander, Lieutenant, who do the old-timers think of as the greatest fighter pilot in the galaxy?”

Wedge and Janson exchanged a look. “Well,” said Wedge, “we can hardly speak for the old-timers. As a matter of fact, you’re older than I am.”

“I’m sorry. I actually meant your generation of pilots.”

Wedge sighed.

“It depends,” Janson said. “What are the criteria for ‘greatest pilot’? I mean, I’ve seen plenty of pilots with brilliant skill. Luke Skywalker is one of them. On the other hand, he didn’t fly regular combat missions for as long as most, so his kills aren’t up there with other pilots who have been around longer. Other pilots were extraordinary, too, but ended up drifting into the path of some Imp gunner and were vaped.”

He glanced at his commander. “If you want to go by numbers and survivability, of course, there’s only one pilot who has survived two Death Star runs. From that perspective, Wedge Antilles is the best pilot ever.”

Falynn snorted with amusement. The rest looked at her.

Janson asked, “Something funny, Sandskimmer?”

“Oh, no offense, sir.” The sarcastic edge to her voice suggested that avoiding offense was nowhere in her mission parameters. “But piloting is for the young. I’m sure Commander Antilles was very good in his prime. He may have been the best pilot at one time, long ago. And I know he’s a good trainer even today. But, Commander, you’re what? Forty?”

Wedge managed to look amused and regretful at the same time. “Twenty-eight.”

“Exactly! Your reflexes are shot.