successfullyexecuted, the stars faded to nothingness. Kell’s canopy rose and harsh artificial light made him wince.
Janson gathered the four pilots together at a table beside the quad group of simulators and Kell got his first look at his wingman.
Gold Two was not human. He was definitely humanoid, with arms, legs, torso, and head arranged in a comfortably recognizable fashion. But, though nearly as tall as Kell, he was very lean, covered in short brown fur, with an elongated face, huge brown eyes, a broad, flattened nose, and a mouth full of squarish white teeth. His were features better suited to a draft animal than a sapient being—but for the inquisitive, luminously intelligent quality of his eyes. He also had a head of hair that would be the envy of many a human, male or female; as Kell arrived at the table, Gold Two was tugging his hair free of an elastic band and allowing it to shake out into a waterfall of midback-length chestnut brown.
Kell tried to rein in his irritation at the other pilot’s blatant disregard of orders and protocol. He extended a hand. “Kell Tainer.”
The alien took his hand and shook it in human fashion. “We are Flight Officer Hohass Ekwesh.”
“We? Is that a royal we?” That would explain the alien’s apparent disdain for procedure.
“No, a collective—”
“Biographies can wait,” Janson said. “We’re here to review performance, remember?”
Kell stiffened up at the reprimand. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. All right. Four, you had two kills and did a good job on your reconnaissance fly-by. Three, three kills, and initiative points for double-checking Tainer’s hyperspace calculations.”
“Triple-checked, sir. I also ran the numbers in my head.”
Kell glared at the Gamorrean. “And did my numbers check out?”
The Gamorrean nodded. “They were inelegant numbers, but perfectly functional, and correct.”
“Gold Two, you scored no kills, disobeyed orders twice—though we have to drop one of those because Mr. Tainer yielded lead to you, even if it was a bit retroactive—and managed to get yourself killed through bad tactics.” Janson paused over the datapad. He kept his attention on the data before continuing—possibly, Kell thought, in order to keep from having to meet Kell’s eyes. “Gold One, very impressive. Five kills, an instant ace if it were real life, including one snap-shot while your strike foils were still in flight position. I’m saving that one for instructional holos. Good choice of new orders when the mission parameters changed. All in all, close to perfect.”
Janson glanced around among them. “Now, for scoring. This mission was worth two thousand, with bonuses possible for exceptional performance. Gold Four, thirteen hundred fifty. Gold Three, twelve hundred. Gold Two, twenty-three hundred. Gold One, zero.”
“What?” The word exploded from Kell. “Lieutenant, I think you’ve got that backward.”
Janson finally met his gaze, and nodded. “That’s right. It is backward. But still correct. Didn’t you hear me cite training protocol one-seven-nine?”
“I did, but I don’t know what that means.”
Janson smiled. “Piggy, it seems to me I heard you telling your wingman over your private channel what that protocol represented. Would you please inform your group commander?”
Piggy cleared his throat; through the mechanical translator, the sound emerged as an ear-popping burst of static. “It is a scoring variation. In order to encourage cooperation, particularly among trainees who have not been together long, each wingman earns the points his wingman scored.”
“That’s—” Kell heard his voice try to crack. He lowered his tone, tried again, but couldn’t keep the anger from his words. “That is manifestly unfair. Is it going on my permanent record that way? A zero for what you called a near-perfect performance?”
“Certainly it’s unfair.” Janson closed down his datapad. “Take it up with the wingman who ended
Janson gathered the four pilots together at a table beside the quad group of simulators and Kell got his first look at his wingman.
Gold Two was not human. He was definitely humanoid, with arms, legs, torso, and head arranged in a comfortably recognizable fashion. But, though nearly as tall as Kell, he was very lean, covered in short brown fur, with an elongated face, huge brown eyes, a broad, flattened nose, and a mouth full of squarish white teeth. His were features better suited to a draft animal than a sapient being—but for the inquisitive, luminously intelligent quality of his eyes. He also had a head of hair that would be the envy of many a human, male or female; as Kell arrived at the table, Gold Two was tugging his hair free of an elastic band and allowing it to shake out into a waterfall of midback-length chestnut brown.
Kell tried to rein in his irritation at the other pilot’s blatant disregard of orders and protocol. He extended a hand. “Kell Tainer.”
The alien took his hand and shook it in human fashion. “We are Flight Officer Hohass Ekwesh.”
“We? Is that a royal we?” That would explain the alien’s apparent disdain for procedure.
“No, a collective—”
“Biographies can wait,” Janson said. “We’re here to review performance, remember?”
Kell stiffened up at the reprimand. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. All right. Four, you had two kills and did a good job on your reconnaissance fly-by. Three, three kills, and initiative points for double-checking Tainer’s hyperspace calculations.”
“Triple-checked, sir. I also ran the numbers in my head.”
Kell glared at the Gamorrean. “And did my numbers check out?”
The Gamorrean nodded. “They were inelegant numbers, but perfectly functional, and correct.”
“Gold Two, you scored no kills, disobeyed orders twice—though we have to drop one of those because Mr. Tainer yielded lead to you, even if it was a bit retroactive—and managed to get yourself killed through bad tactics.” Janson paused over the datapad. He kept his attention on the data before continuing—possibly, Kell thought, in order to keep from having to meet Kell’s eyes. “Gold One, very impressive. Five kills, an instant ace if it were real life, including one snap-shot while your strike foils were still in flight position. I’m saving that one for instructional holos. Good choice of new orders when the mission parameters changed. All in all, close to perfect.”
Janson glanced around among them. “Now, for scoring. This mission was worth two thousand, with bonuses possible for exceptional performance. Gold Four, thirteen hundred fifty. Gold Three, twelve hundred. Gold Two, twenty-three hundred. Gold One, zero.”
“What?” The word exploded from Kell. “Lieutenant, I think you’ve got that backward.”
Janson finally met his gaze, and nodded. “That’s right. It is backward. But still correct. Didn’t you hear me cite training protocol one-seven-nine?”
“I did, but I don’t know what that means.”
Janson smiled. “Piggy, it seems to me I heard you telling your wingman over your private channel what that protocol represented. Would you please inform your group commander?”
Piggy cleared his throat; through the mechanical translator, the sound emerged as an ear-popping burst of static. “It is a scoring variation. In order to encourage cooperation, particularly among trainees who have not been together long, each wingman earns the points his wingman scored.”
“That’s—” Kell heard his voice try to crack. He lowered his tone, tried again, but couldn’t keep the anger from his words. “That is manifestly unfair. Is it going on my permanent record that way? A zero for what you called a near-perfect performance?”
“Certainly it’s unfair.” Janson closed down his datapad. “Take it up with the wingman who ended
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