Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [92]
“In the bay, you asked me something. You asked if we met Lara again, which Wraith I’d want to kill her instead of me. I still don’t understand why you asked. What the question even means.”
“Well, answer the question. Then I’ll explain why I asked.”
“I’m not sure I can. I don’t want to kill her, not anymore. I don’t want her to be dead. I’m not even sure I want her punished. She was an enemy when she gave Admiral Trigit the data on my squadron, then she became something that wasn’t an enemy.” His shrug suggested helplessness. “I don’t know what I want.”
“That’s what I thought. One reason I asked was to gauge your reaction to the thought of somebody killing Lara. You didn’t like that idea. And I also asked so you’d think about this: If we run up against her in an adversarial situation, and—in the faint likelihood that you’ll be piloting by that time—you lose control again and assault her, you may provoke her into fighting back. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If your squadmates see you having trouble with an enemy, they may come in to help you. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which puts them in the position of possibly having to kill her. Which also puts her in the position of possibly having to kill one of them. The other half of that question was, which of your squadmates are you willing to sacrifice?”
“None, sir.”
“Then get your head fixed. Or I will accept your resignation.”
Donos rose and saluted. The expression on his face was a glum one. But, Wedge reflected, at least it was an expression.
When Donos and his boot were gone, Wedge let out a sigh and tried to relax. He’d had too many years of command not to have some experience at taking the attention and thoughts of a pilot and redirecting them, but it was still an effort, one that filled his gut with acid.
Donos was on the edge. Wedge recognized that. One step the wrong way and he’d be lost as a pilot, too erratic and undisciplined to be trustworthy.
But he hadn’t quite taken that step, and if Wedge could keep him from taking it, he’d save the New Republic the staggering number of credits that had been spent on Donos’s pilot training. He might even save a man whose warlike skills and impulses would not translate well to civilian life.
There was another rap at the door.
“Come.”
Wes Janson strolled in, datapad in hand, and stopped short. He stared at Wedge’s bootless foot. He said, “Should I ask?”
“Not unless you’d like me to decide on a new place for my boot to go.”
11
She was drifting, in pain, and knew she did not want to awaken. But something would not let her sleep. Not just the pain in her back. She opened her eyes.
Pink, she was floating in a sea of pink. No, nothing so poetic—she was suspended within a bacta tank, and the pain she felt suggested she was going to be here for some time to come.
But a female technician with a perky smile was outside, gesturing for her to rise to the top, so she gave a few feeble kicks and floated up through the cloying liquid.
When she broke the surface, a hand, a male hand, reached down to help disengage the breather unit from her face. When her vision cleared, she recognized the individual leaning across the top of the bacta tank, reaching in to assist her: it was that Twi’lek lawyer, Nawara Ven.
“Doctor Gast,” he said, “I have an offer for you. One half a million credits. Amnesty for all crimes to which you provide confession and full details. And a new identity—quite easy to manage, as you are already officially dead; only a couple of medics and three officers know you’re still alive. But this offer is only valid if you can tell us, among other things, the biological signs and markers that indicate when someone has been subjected to Zsinj’s brainwashing techniques.”
Gast let a slow smile spread across her features. “My, you have been doing your research.”
“We’ll keep today’s meeting short,” Wedge said. He looked out over his audience of pilots, trying to gauge their mood.
They were quiet. Few wisecracks. Little banter. They were even refraining from badgering Elassar Targon. A bad sign; morale was low.