Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [87]
That injury to his spirit seemed to have healed. A good sign. But Donos still wasn’t the ostentatious sort and wouldn’t have worn a decoration like this, even though it was his right, with his ordinary dress. Wedge gave him a suspicious look and gestured for him to sit. “This obviously isn’t about Face.”
“That’s right, sir. It’s about Lara.”
Donos told him about Lara’s brother, who shouldn’t have survived but did, who shouldn’t have found her again but did. And he described a possible mission to Lara’s homeworld of Aldivy.
Face rose after a long time. Most of it had not been spent sleeping. Nor had he been truly awake; he’d been in a restless state where conscious thought could not take hold, but neither could sleep, for his mind was fully occupied by images of the last two days.
The light on his terminal was blinking, a sign of messages or files received. He brought the terminal up.
A dispatch from the commander. Lara, Wraith Thirteen, was now his wing, and the replacement medic. No surprise there.
A copy of Ton Phanan’s will. Face skipped it.
A message from Phanan. It was dated and timed less than an hour before his death. Face took a deep breath and brought it up.
It was simple text, the only means Phanan had to take notes at the time. It read,
Face:
I’m not going to go into the pathology of this. Suffice to say we’re talking about internal injuries, internal bleeding. Maybe a ruptured kidney; I’m having trouble sorting that one out. Either way, I don’t think I’m going to last too long.
I flatter myself in thinking that you’re going to take it kind of hard. (If I’m wrong, don’t let me know.) While part of me wishes you wouldn’t, another part appreciates it.
I also know that you’re going to punish yourself for this. I wish you wouldn’t. There are two people responsible for me getting injured. I’m one of them, for being not quite the superior flier I needed to be. Some unnamed Zsinj pilot is the other one, and you killed him. (Which I also appreciate, by the way, in case I didn’t tell you.) There’s no room for a third party to blame, so butt out.
I’ve left you some money. A fair amount, actually; I was the only son of wealthy parents, and I didn’t manage to spend it all on good times and prosthetics. By the terms of my will, some of what you receive has to be used for a specific project. If you don’t use it for that, the whole amount goes to an already wealthy actor you’ve mentioned with a certain amount of contempt, and you’ll get to watch him become even richer despite his lack of talent or personal worth. So there.
I really don’t have much time here, and I’m struggling to find some way to sum up what I need to say. I guess it boils down to this:
Thanks for being my friend. I needed one, and you were it.
Ton Phanan
Pilot, Wit, and Superior Intellect
Oh, yes—don’t let my glass prowlers starve. They’re cute little insects. Cuteness should be preserved.
Face waited for some sort of blow to hit him, but he was left only with the dull ache that had been his companion all through the night.
He brought up Phanan’s will and read it as well.
“Some of us will, as you know, be away on missions with varying levels of consequence,” Wedge said. “A couple will remain here at Hawk-bat Base for maintenance and security purposes. The rest—now, contain yourselves—will receive leave.”
He waited through the resulting cheers. They were in the conference-room module, packed in around its table, and the Wraiths’ expressions were a study in contrasts, ranging from glum to suddenly cheerful. Well, partially cheerful. Phanan’s death was still fresh on their minds.
“Mission One is the meeting with Zsinj,” Wedge said. “Face commands, and he has chosen Dia and Kell to accompany him. This is all intelligence gathering, very delicate, which is why the crew is full of deadly killers.” That got a chuckle. Wedge saw Tyria give Kell