blinked. “We got a rainbow-jacket admiral? A Moff?”
“Not exactly. The guy running this ship is more of a monotone,” said the ADO. Noting Vil’s blank look, he added, “All black.”
Vil got it then. “Darth Vader.”
“Friend of yours?”
Vil laughed. They were side by side on the stairs, almost to the flight deck. Vil said, “Never met the man—or whatever he is. Saw him fly once. TIE school, out of Imperial City Naval Base. Against Barvel.”
There was no need to specify that he was talking about Colonel Vindoo “The Shooter” Barvel, one of the most decorated TIE pilots ever. During the Clone Wars, Barvel had taken out more than thirty confirmed enemy craft in ship-to-ship combat, twice that many more probables, and nobody knew how many he hadn’t even bothered to report. Vil knew he himself was a good pilot, a hot-hand even in training, but Barvel, who had been cycled out of combat by jittery brass to make sure the Empire had a live hero to parade around as a recruiter, was the best. Eventhough he was only a captain at the time, he’d been put in charge of the pilot school at ICNB. Barvel could power-dive the wings off any other craft and hit a target the size of a pleeky on the way down at top speed, port or starboard cannon, you pick which gun. In training missions he’d flown with the man, Vil had felt like a small child who could barely walk trying to keep up with a champion distance runner.
During maneuvers for the about-to-graduate pilots, Darth Vader had shown up. He didn’t have any military rank per se, but he was the Emperor’s wrist-hawk and everybody knew it. If it came from Vader’s augmented voxbox, it might as well have come from Palpatine’s lips, and you argued with it at your peril, no matter how high your rank.
Vader had watched for a time, then asked for a TIE fighter. He had climbed in, taken off, and joined the mock battle. Within seconds, his electronic guns had painted half a dozen ships, and it had come down to Vader versus Barvel. Vil, whose ship had been hit in a three-on-one early in the pretend fight, had been in a holding pattern waiting for the engagement to finish, and he’d watched it all.
Vader hadn’t exactly flown circles around Barvel, but every time The Shooter jigged or jinked, Vader was half a second ahead of him. Barvel was doing things Vil didn’t think were possible in a TIE, and Vader not only matched him, move for move, he just plain outflew him. It was—no other word for it—astounding. Vil quickly realized that Vader could have taken the flight school commander out at any time—he was only playing with him.
That had been as spooky in its own way as Vil’s nightmare. He’d never seen a human pilot move like that. Damned few alien ones either, for that matter.
After a few passes, and with what had seemed a slow, offhand, lazy series of rolls and loops, Vader came around, nailed Barvel with his training beams, and it was “Gameover.” All the pilots hanging there in space had to reach up and shut their mouths manually.
The ADO looked down the hallway, but no more pilots were inbound. He turned and pointed. “Better get to your ship, Dance.” A short pause, then: “Vader’s good, huh?”
“Better than good. If it was him against me, I’d just overload my engine and blow myself up—that way I’d get to pick my own moment to die.”
What Vil hadn’t mentioned, mostly because he still didn’t believe it himself, was that the mechanic who’d serviced Vader’s borrowed TIE fighter afterward had come out of the bay shaking his head. The nav and targeting comps had been turned off, he’d said. Cockpit recorder showed that Vader had done that
before
he’d left the dock. So if the mechanic was to be believed, not only had Vader beaten the best pilot in the navy as easily as if Barvel had been a crop duster on some backrocket world, he had done so on
manual
.
Which was simply
impossible
.
“Go,” the ADO said. “Hit vac—you
“Not exactly. The guy running this ship is more of a monotone,” said the ADO. Noting Vil’s blank look, he added, “All black.”
Vil got it then. “Darth Vader.”
“Friend of yours?”
Vil laughed. They were side by side on the stairs, almost to the flight deck. Vil said, “Never met the man—or whatever he is. Saw him fly once. TIE school, out of Imperial City Naval Base. Against Barvel.”
There was no need to specify that he was talking about Colonel Vindoo “The Shooter” Barvel, one of the most decorated TIE pilots ever. During the Clone Wars, Barvel had taken out more than thirty confirmed enemy craft in ship-to-ship combat, twice that many more probables, and nobody knew how many he hadn’t even bothered to report. Vil knew he himself was a good pilot, a hot-hand even in training, but Barvel, who had been cycled out of combat by jittery brass to make sure the Empire had a live hero to parade around as a recruiter, was the best. Eventhough he was only a captain at the time, he’d been put in charge of the pilot school at ICNB. Barvel could power-dive the wings off any other craft and hit a target the size of a pleeky on the way down at top speed, port or starboard cannon, you pick which gun. In training missions he’d flown with the man, Vil had felt like a small child who could barely walk trying to keep up with a champion distance runner.
During maneuvers for the about-to-graduate pilots, Darth Vader had shown up. He didn’t have any military rank per se, but he was the Emperor’s wrist-hawk and everybody knew it. If it came from Vader’s augmented voxbox, it might as well have come from Palpatine’s lips, and you argued with it at your peril, no matter how high your rank.
Vader had watched for a time, then asked for a TIE fighter. He had climbed in, taken off, and joined the mock battle. Within seconds, his electronic guns had painted half a dozen ships, and it had come down to Vader versus Barvel. Vil, whose ship had been hit in a three-on-one early in the pretend fight, had been in a holding pattern waiting for the engagement to finish, and he’d watched it all.
Vader hadn’t exactly flown circles around Barvel, but every time The Shooter jigged or jinked, Vader was half a second ahead of him. Barvel was doing things Vil didn’t think were possible in a TIE, and Vader not only matched him, move for move, he just plain outflew him. It was—no other word for it—astounding. Vil quickly realized that Vader could have taken the flight school commander out at any time—he was only playing with him.
That had been as spooky in its own way as Vil’s nightmare. He’d never seen a human pilot move like that. Damned few alien ones either, for that matter.
After a few passes, and with what had seemed a slow, offhand, lazy series of rolls and loops, Vader came around, nailed Barvel with his training beams, and it was “Gameover.” All the pilots hanging there in space had to reach up and shut their mouths manually.
The ADO looked down the hallway, but no more pilots were inbound. He turned and pointed. “Better get to your ship, Dance.” A short pause, then: “Vader’s good, huh?”
“Better than good. If it was him against me, I’d just overload my engine and blow myself up—that way I’d get to pick my own moment to die.”
What Vil hadn’t mentioned, mostly because he still didn’t believe it himself, was that the mechanic who’d serviced Vader’s borrowed TIE fighter afterward had come out of the bay shaking his head. The nav and targeting comps had been turned off, he’d said. Cockpit recorder showed that Vader had done that
before
he’d left the dock. So if the mechanic was to be believed, not only had Vader beaten the best pilot in the navy as easily as if Barvel had been a crop duster on some backrocket world, he had done so on
manual
.
Which was simply
impossible
.
“Go,” the ADO said. “Hit vac—you
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