• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Janson said, “Sandskimmer—”

Wedge said, “You’re only nine years from that same grim fate.”

“If I should live so long, I’m sure I’ll find some way to make myself useful. Just like you have.”

Wedge stood. “Come along.”

“I’m not through eating, sir.”

“You’re young. You can afford to miss a meal.” Wedge reached over and drew Falynn’s tray away from her. “Come on.”

Reluctant and annoyed, she stood. “Where?”

“We’re going flying. A little competition. If you’re up to it.”

“Now, wait. That’s not fair. Until I’m through training, you still have some points on me in X-wings.”

“How about repulsorlift ore haulers? Do you give up any points to me in those?”

“No, sir!”

“Come along.”

The rest rose to follow, but Janson waved them down. “Finish your breakfasts and assemble in the briefing room. I’ll follow and transmit. This should be interesting.”

It was the oldest, dingiest hangar on Folor Base, and not truly in use by the New Republic military. It held vehicles from the mining colony that had originally inhabited Folor, vehicles that were still functional but not in use by the base garrison.

Among the vehicles on hand were three repulsorlift vehicles large enough to carry four X-wings nose to tail, with beds deeper than a man is tall. The vehicles still bore scratched traces of their original gray coats of paint and their beds were littered with dust and pebbles from the last ore loads they carried, years ago. None of the three had an enclosed cockpit.

Datacards still in place in their simple computers indicated they’d been serviced within the last year, and all three started up when activated. Wedge and Falynn listened to all three, agreed on which two engines sounded best, and flipped a decicred coin to see who’d get the best one. Falynn won.

Minutes later, wearing vacuum suits, they guided the open-air vehicles through the hangar’s magnetic containment field and headed at a leisurely pace toward the near end of the Pig Trough.

The Pig Trough was an anomalous geographical feature of Folor. It was a meandering lunar fissure, created at some distant time when the moon’s surface was not quite cool and tectonic plates were still in motion. Its near terminus was only a klick from Folor Base, and the lengthy geographical feature wandered for thousands of kilometers to the northeast, then cut sharply northwest for an even greater distance. The nearer portions of the trough were too broad, with curves too gradual to be of any use to the trainers, but more distant portions were used by pilot trainees for trench maneuvering and bombing practice.

On the lip just above the first descent into the Trough, Wedge and Falynn brought their ore haulers to a halt. “Comm check,” Wedge said. “You receiving?”

“Yes.”

“Wes?”

“I’m here. I’ve dropped a flare four klicks up the trench. That’s your goal.”

“Sandskimmer, you ready?”

“I’ve been ready since I confirmed seal on my suit.”

“Go.” He issued the command in a mild tone, but there was nothing restrained about the way Wedge kicked his ore hauler forward, roaring down the Trough’s shallow slope as though he were in command of a fast-moving combat assault vehicle.

“Cheater!” Falynn was only a split second behind him. Well before they reached the bottom of the slope, she’d drawn almost even with him to the left. She sideslipped into him.

Wedge felt rather than heard the impact, but it didn’t maneuver him out of line. He grinned. Only the greenest pilot would have failed to anticipate the maneuver and compensate for it. He gunned his engines and leaned into his leftward slide. The nose of his hauler was still a few meters ahead of hers and thus able to push hers out of line. He shoved her until her left side began to scrape along the rift wall; the sudden friction slowed her and he shot out ahead.

“Keep trying, Sandskimmer. I’m old. I might be tiring already.”

Her curses lit up the comm unit.

The other pilot trainees gathered in the briefing room and watched the visual sensor feed from Janson’s X-wing. Janson was