Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [17]
Piggy grunted a laugh. “You’ll need plenty of cleanser for that scum when it assembles and comes at you. At all of us.”
• • •
“A minute of your time, sir?” Castin Donn stood at the door to Wedge’s interim office. Rather, he leaned against it, his body language suggesting a man who’d prefer to be elsewhere—definitely anywhere but a military base. He was unshaven, his eyes tired.
Wedge would have accepted this pose and manner from one of the established Wraiths, but not from a newcomer. He merely cleared his throat and looked expectant, as though the pilot hadn’t spoken.
Castin apparently got the hint. He straightened, slowly enough to demonstrate reluctance, and threw a salute. “Flight Officer Castin Donn reporting, sir. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”
Wedge took a moment before responding with his own salute. “Certainly, Donn. Have a seat.”
Donn’s posture, once he was seated, reverted to that of a career code-slicer; he slumped into his chair as though he’d left his spine in his locker. “I was wondering if I could get assigned to different quarters.”
Wedge brought out his datapad and tapped up the information on living assignments. It showed that Donn had been put in the same bunkroom as Runt Ekwesh. Runt’s former roommate had been Kell Tainer, but that pilot had been assigned solo quarters ever since his promotion to lieutenant. “Is something wrong with your current assignment?”
“Yes, sir. I’m not getting any sleep.”
“I don’t understand. Does Runt snore?” Kell had never made any such complaint.
“No, sir. It’s just not working out.”
“Personality conflict.”
“No, sir.”
“Request denied, Donn. Unless you can come up with something a little more substantial than ‘it’s just not working out.’ ”
Castin squirmed in his chair. Wedge thought it an unusually childlike mannerism from a grown man who’d been through pilot training and scored high enough to be fit for Wraith Squadron. “Sir, he, uh … he smells.”
“I take it you mean he smells bad.”
“Yes, sir. It’s keeping me up at night.”
Wedge kept his face impassive and thought about it. Runt Ekwesh was a member of the Thakwaash species, humanoids who averaged over three meters in height and were covered with fur; Runt came by his nickname because he was, in fact, very short for his species, the only reason he could fit in standard New Republic cockpits. And his odor was indeed different from that of humans, though it was very faint, usually undetectable except when he was wet or had been in the cockpit for several hours.
Wedge kept the pilot waiting, still squirming restlessly, while he brought up Castin’s full record. The man, a native of Coruscant, had been a code-slicer since he entered his teens, and had belonged to a rebel group not associated with the Alliance. Shortly after the Emperor’s death, nearly four years ago, he had forged himself a false identity, arranged passage offworld, and had ended up in New Republic-controlled space, where his technical skills had served him and the New Republic well. After two years as a coder for the fleet, he’d transferred to Starfighter Command and entered pilot training.
The synopsis said very little about him as a man. Wedge switched to the record of his citations and reprimands. He’d seen all this data before, while reviewing the new pilot candidates for approval, but he’d been looking only for specific types of information then.
There were citations for courage and ingenuity under fire, but also many punishments for failure to perform routine duties in a reliable fashion. That hadn’t bothered Wedge; he knew Castin would either shape up in that regard or be kicked out of Starfighter Command altogether, a motivation that should keep him in line. But in the record was also a chronicle of personality conflicts with fleet bridge crew members, mostly Mon Calamari. Transfer from the fleet accepted after a fistfight … with a Sullustian navigator. Hmm.
“I could put you in with Piggy. Voort saBinring,” Wedge said.
Castin’s squirming