Free Wraith Squadron by Aaron Allston

“they survived, and he came to the Alliance with a bulk freighter and a lot of valuable information about Kessel—such as who was sentenced to serve there and what sort of supplies and defenses the Imperial garrison had. So Squeaky was given his freedom. He doesn’t even have a restraining bolt port anymore. And he earns his living like people do.”
    Kell nodded. “By offering insult to those he serves.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    Runt turned to Kell. “So. You would not release us from the subject. We should not release you until it is done. You will forgive us for our mistake?”
    “Sure. But tell your pilot mind I’m going to ride him hard if he fouls up again.”
    “I will do that. He deserves it.”
    Squeaky returned with their glasses and buckets. Kell went to work on his sticky forehead with the napkin Squeaky gave him. As the droid departed, Tyria glanced at the entry-way and straightened up. “The second wave has arrived.”
    The others turned to look. Approaching them were two men in pilot suits; with them was an R2 unit. Both men had been through rough times in the past: One would have been quite handsome but for the long, wicked scar that puckered his left cheek, crawled across his nose, and marred his left forehead, while the other, taller man had a prosthetic shell over the upper portion of the left half of his face.
    The one with the scar said, “More survivors of Lieutenant Janson’s bait-and-switch mission scenario?”
    Kell managed a mirthless chuckle and gestured for them to sit. “You two just get out?”
    The pilot with the prosthetic headgear nodded. The portions of his face still exposed showed lean features, a cold blue eye, and a thin, immaculately trimmed mustache and beard that suggested ex-Imperial warlord more than New Republic fighter. “Ton Phanan. This is Loran and his R2 unit, Vape. The others in our group for the simulator mission were Chedgar and a Bothan who calls himself Grinder. Chedgar was still arguing about the scoring when we left, but I think it’s because he knows he’s about to be washed out.” He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head in an attitude of blissful relaxation. “I just made out like a pirate on points; shot down one eyeball and got credit for Loran’s three. I could get to like this assignment.”
    Kell introduced his companions, then took another look at the man with the livid scar. There was something familiar about the pilot, about the man’s dramatic shock of black hair and emerald eyes, about his poise and ease among the others … “Loran? Not Garik Loran? The Face?”
    Phanan sat forward to take another look at his companion; Tyria did likewise. Piggy and Runt merely looked quizzical.
    The scarred pilot nodded, looking rueful. “That’s me.”
    “I thought you were dead! Seven, eight years ago. The story broke just before the news about the first Death Star.”
    “We are sorry,” said Runt. “It is obvious we should have heard of this man, but we have not.”
    “Maybe it’s just a human thing,” Kell said. “The Face. The most famous child star of Imperial holodramas. Like The Black Bantha and Jungle Flutes . He made Win or Die and Imperial military recruitment went up five percent. You never saw them?”
    The two nonhumans shook their heads. Phanan obviously had heard of Loran; he grinned wickedly at this sudden revelation about his companion’s past.
    Tyria had heard of him as well; her jaw was slightly agape. Finally she said, “I had such a crush on you when I was twelve …”
    The scarred pilot snorted. “Don’t feel bad. I was hand-picked to be the boy most likely to be the subject of crushes.”
    “What happened to you?” she asked. “Everyone said that Alliance extremists killed you.”
    He shrugged. “Almost. About the time I was trying to make the transition to teenaged roles, some ex-Alliance extremists kidnapped me. They wanted to kill me as a demonstration to those who aided the