humans could manage even ten, other than acrobats, martial arts masters … and pilots.
“C’mon, Dance. You’re slower than a ronto in eight g’s.” That was Benjo.
“Yeah, while we’re young,” Raal added. “Well, some of us, anyway …”
Vil grinned, snapped his hand down, and grabbed the dozen tenths, no problem. “Easy money,” he said.
There was a moment of surprised silence among the squad, then:
“Five says he can’t do fourteen.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
“Ten says he can.”
“Odds?”
“Odds? What, do I look like a Toydarian bookie? Even!”
While the pilots argued, Vil collected two more coins from a stack on the table. Fourteen, eh? Still four less than his top number, though he didn’t see any real point in mentioning that right—
The scramble horn blared, a series of short, insistent hoots. The pilots dropped the chatter, along with whatever else they were holding except for their credits, which they stuffed into pockets as they ran toward the exit. Vil set his mug down on the table and followed. There had been only one swallow of ale left; it would haven taken all of two seconds to finish it, but when the horn howled, you stopped whatever you were doing
right that instant
and hauled butt for your station. First, it was the right thing to do; everybody knew that. Second, you never knew when an Imperial holocam might be watching you, and if you got caughtdragging your feet during a call to station, instead of being a crack TIE pilot, you might find yourself transferred to a few months of “droid duty” scrubbing out garbage bins and latrine holding tanks.
And third, Vil liked flying even more than he liked drinking.
“Gotta be a drill,” somebody said. “Not likely another prison break after that last batch we cooked.”
Vil didn’t speak to that. Somewhat to his surprise, he’d had a couple of uncomfortable nights after that experience. Yes, they had been criminal scum, and it was his job to stop said scum, and they
had
been shooting at him, but even so it hadn’t been a real contest. The
Lambda
hadn’t had a chance. He’d blown that ship out of vac and watched the remnants of the crew whirl through the coldness, freezing in clouds of their own bodily fluids. One tended to think about it as shooting blips, like in the holo sims, not people, but seeing the carnage that had resulted from his weapons had …
Well, let’s be honest here
, Vil told himself,
since it’s all just between me
. The truth was … he’d had a few dreams.
No, not dreams. Dreams were innocuous fragments of this and that, things like not having studied for a test or flying without a craft or being naked in public. These hadn’t been dreams.
These had been
nightmares
.
Thankfully, he’d forgotten the details almost immediately after waking up, save for one night. That had stayed with him. One of the flash-frozen corpses, drifting through the void about ten meters away from the cockpit of his fighter. Its head and body had been ravaged by shrapnel to such an extent that Vil couldn’t tell if it had been male or female. He’d watched, fascinated, as the lacerated body rotated slowly, bringing its face into view. He’d noticed that, by some miracle of chance, the eyes had been untouched by the sleetstorm of metal …
And then the eyes opened.
Vil suppressed a shudder. That had been the worst. He told himself that it wasn’t unusual, that it was part of the job. That he’d get used to it.
It helped. A little.
As Vil approached the hangar, he saw the assistant to the command officer on deck waving the pilots in.
“Move like you’ve got a purpose, people! A pregnant Pa’lowick could run faster! Let’s
go
!”
“ADO,” Vil said as he approached. “What’s flyin’?”
“You and your squad, among nine others,” the ADO said. He kept waving at the still-approaching pilots, down now to only a handful. “VIP escort for the
Imperial
-class Destroyer
Devastator
.”
Vil
“C’mon, Dance. You’re slower than a ronto in eight g’s.” That was Benjo.
“Yeah, while we’re young,” Raal added. “Well, some of us, anyway …”
Vil grinned, snapped his hand down, and grabbed the dozen tenths, no problem. “Easy money,” he said.
There was a moment of surprised silence among the squad, then:
“Five says he can’t do fourteen.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
“Ten says he can.”
“Odds?”
“Odds? What, do I look like a Toydarian bookie? Even!”
While the pilots argued, Vil collected two more coins from a stack on the table. Fourteen, eh? Still four less than his top number, though he didn’t see any real point in mentioning that right—
The scramble horn blared, a series of short, insistent hoots. The pilots dropped the chatter, along with whatever else they were holding except for their credits, which they stuffed into pockets as they ran toward the exit. Vil set his mug down on the table and followed. There had been only one swallow of ale left; it would haven taken all of two seconds to finish it, but when the horn howled, you stopped whatever you were doing
right that instant
and hauled butt for your station. First, it was the right thing to do; everybody knew that. Second, you never knew when an Imperial holocam might be watching you, and if you got caughtdragging your feet during a call to station, instead of being a crack TIE pilot, you might find yourself transferred to a few months of “droid duty” scrubbing out garbage bins and latrine holding tanks.
And third, Vil liked flying even more than he liked drinking.
“Gotta be a drill,” somebody said. “Not likely another prison break after that last batch we cooked.”
Vil didn’t speak to that. Somewhat to his surprise, he’d had a couple of uncomfortable nights after that experience. Yes, they had been criminal scum, and it was his job to stop said scum, and they
had
been shooting at him, but even so it hadn’t been a real contest. The
Lambda
hadn’t had a chance. He’d blown that ship out of vac and watched the remnants of the crew whirl through the coldness, freezing in clouds of their own bodily fluids. One tended to think about it as shooting blips, like in the holo sims, not people, but seeing the carnage that had resulted from his weapons had …
Well, let’s be honest here
, Vil told himself,
since it’s all just between me
. The truth was … he’d had a few dreams.
No, not dreams. Dreams were innocuous fragments of this and that, things like not having studied for a test or flying without a craft or being naked in public. These hadn’t been dreams.
These had been
nightmares
.
Thankfully, he’d forgotten the details almost immediately after waking up, save for one night. That had stayed with him. One of the flash-frozen corpses, drifting through the void about ten meters away from the cockpit of his fighter. Its head and body had been ravaged by shrapnel to such an extent that Vil couldn’t tell if it had been male or female. He’d watched, fascinated, as the lacerated body rotated slowly, bringing its face into view. He’d noticed that, by some miracle of chance, the eyes had been untouched by the sleetstorm of metal …
And then the eyes opened.
Vil suppressed a shudder. That had been the worst. He told himself that it wasn’t unusual, that it was part of the job. That he’d get used to it.
It helped. A little.
As Vil approached the hangar, he saw the assistant to the command officer on deck waving the pilots in.
“Move like you’ve got a purpose, people! A pregnant Pa’lowick could run faster! Let’s
go
!”
“ADO,” Vil said as he approached. “What’s flyin’?”
“You and your squad, among nine others,” the ADO said. He kept waving at the still-approaching pilots, down now to only a handful. “VIP escort for the
Imperial
-class Destroyer
Devastator
.”
Vil
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