Honoghr
Lieutenant Helm Yaerger blinked a few times as the instructor's harsh tone finally began to sink into his mind, reminding him where exactly he was. For a moment he became fully consciouse of where he was and what he was supposed to be doing, instead of where he wanted to be.
"Are you with us now Yaerger?" the instructor, Commander Tslaut, a vicious and scarred male Duro, barked as his fist slammed against the desk in the front of the room.
Helm at first was at a loss for words and therefore simply nodded. When at last he'd remembered exactly who this enormous Duro in front of him was he turned pale white and responded with a firm "Yes sir."
Tslaut could not supress his amused laugh.
He was a harsh man, who had fought the Empire his entire life - only recently willing to resign himself to training duty on account of his prosthetic leg. He had over a hundred battle stories to tell - and then even more for those that he was not allowed to tell.
Helm was, by all accounts, thankful to be taught by someone as aged, experienced and, oddly enough, brutal as this man. Whenever he felt that churning hatred in his belly he calmly reminded himself that this was for his benefit.
"Now," the Duro declared, standing up erect in front of the monitor behind him, "how many here can tell me the survivability rating of an average X-Wing pilot against your average Imperial enemy, most poignantly being the TIE Devil."
Several hands shot up immediately, including Helm's. Tslaut pointed toward a female human from Corellia, Lieutenant JG Amy Krells. She stood, taking a brief glance at her notes on the desk in front of her before looking forward.
"The average survivability between a TIE Devil and an Incom T-65 X-Wing is approximately 95% in the X-Wing's favor," she responded, hoping to score points with the technical additions. Tslaut however did not seem as impressed as she'd hoped.
"Why the margin of five percent?" he asked, his voice hinting at disappointment. This time no hands raised and she found herself at a loss.
The girl had gotten her information from her books, not through any kind of actual knowledge. In the sims the TIE Devils were easy enough with the right formations, it was just a matter of lining the little @#%$ up in your sights.
Which could sometimes be close to impossible.
Amy's primary attribute had always been in her ability to modify her craft to fit a given situation. It was her who figured out how to adjust the sights so that they would follow the targetting reticle against the Devils, allowing the cannons to have a chance at slightly following the miniscule target.
One pilot had commented on TIE Devils as being "less practicle to hit than the damn exhaust port on the Death Star".
"Well? Why the five percent margin?" the Duro reiterated, as though the woman had not heard him the first time.
Amy scrunched up her brow a bit, the frustration of thought evident across her face.
"Because....all considerations must be taken in to...consider the possible errors of sentient and human reaction?" she asked far more than she stated. Tslaut nodded a bit, approving the answer.
"That is correct, sit down Lieutenant," he responded, to which she thankfully fell right back into her seat. His deep black eyes returned to pondering the rest of the twenty-four pilots laid out across the room.
In a way he seemed almost disappointed in them all - which caused a kind of insecurity to rise in every one of them. Helm shuffled in his seat, looking left and right at those on either side.
The Noghri to his left only shrugged - he too was beaten down by the incredulous stare of the flight instructor. That caused Helm to be taken back just a bit...Noghri were of course noted for their incredible endurance and stamina, both mentally and physically.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Sovereign Starfighter Corps,
Claymore Squadron, you will be the back bone of the Sovereign forces, you will do only the most dangerous missions, you will fly only against the most deadly targets, and you
will succeed, do you know why?" Tslaut stated, earning him only curious stares from his students. "Because if you don't that makes
me look bad, do you understand?"
The entire room entered a chorus of "Sir yes sir", to which the aged and grizzlied pilot simply nodded. He eased back into his chair, grunting lightly as he did so.
Helm could not help but be curious if he himself would one day turn out like him. The Duro's enormous head had several gashes coming down the middle and across the top, while two of his fingers were missing - perhaps prosthetics would have costed too much or would have been too painful. He was, afterall, a pilot during the Galactic Civil War for the Rebellion, fake phalanges weren't exactly easy to get ones' hands on.
Perhaps the real question in his mind was...would he mind if he turned out like that? Tslaut had a kind of benevolent, or maybe even menevolent, aura about him, the kind that caused others to simply stare in awe as he passed.
Most officers who tried to approach the commander found themselves simply talked down by the abbrasive instructor, who seemed content living out his days in the Sovereignty's service.
He did not seem to care who he yelled and cursed at, be it the lowliest private in the marines to the highest admiral of the fleet, what could he lose? He could no longer fly and his bones were ready to give way.
Helm was more than a little amused by that.
"When you're in the cockpit up there," Tslaut started, his eyes fading into a kind of memory, and Helm knew that he no longer saw a dimly lit class room with a second elevated level with two exitting doors, or the two dozen students who looked up to him with obvious respect, he was seeing his days of glory and battle, "it's nothing like a civilian can ever fathome. You're there, and for thirty seconds that seems like a course of infinity, you and that man in front of you are linked in a way no words can describe. You both know it's either you or him and that builds a seething hatred for one another...but that also builds an unseen brotherhood that every pilot shares."
Just as Tslaut finished his small speech, the beeper on his desk rang several times, indicating that this day's class was done and that they needed to report to the simulators under Captain Emerson.
The students rose in a tummulted rush. They had four minutes to get through several hundred yards of stretching corridor to prepare for the closest thing to combat they were going to see for the next week or two.
Tslaut just sat there in his chair, envy rising in his mind. It had been at least a year since he'd been in the cockpit, he could not shake off the feeling of regret, like it was all coming to an end.
And that it was, at sixty-five years old, Tslaut probably should not have been exherting himself the way he was. But he was not about to let the Empire stamp on his grave. He made a vow many many years ago that he would not stop fighting until the last breath left his body.
By his estimation...he was still breathing quite regularly.
But it was a tragic thing, he began to realize, to be old. To look back at one's life and realize it was all coming to an end. Everything was coming to an end.
Though in that end, he decided, he would be allowed to at least look back and remember that he had made an impact on the galaxy. Maybe Admiral Me'Vere was right, and the
Claymores could be the next Rogue Squadron.
Pfft...yeah....right.
The reminiscing of the elder Duro was cut off by the sound of doors hissing open somewhere in the room. Looking up he saw a well-dressed man on the elevated platform, quickly stepping down the "stairs", his boots making no noise against the brown carpet.
When he got closer, Tslaut winced his eyes, trying to get a better look. He recognized Commodore Wells as soon as the blur turned into a physical shape.
Clasping his hands together, Tslaut waited for him to come to a stop in front of his desk. He seemed to be holding a kind of manella folder in his hand.
"Commander Tslaut?" Wells asked, though he knew full well who it was. That was a simple greeting. Tslaut nodded anyway. "I'm sent from fleet command, Admiral Me'Vere would like an update as to the status of
Claymore Squadron."
"They're progressing well enough..." Tslaut responded, earning an amused smirk from Wells, "but they're no Rogue Squadron."
Wells's smirk disappeared as quickly as it had come. "They've only been training two weeks, give them time Commander," he responded, placing the folder down on the desktop.
Tslaut cocked an eyebrow. "What's that?"
"Profiles and new fighter squadron tactics," the commodore responded. He was obviously uneasy with this discussion, preferring to be in the "safety" of his Star Destroyer. Somewhere where he was definitely in charge.
Being stared down by this aging and heroic legend of a pilot was not Wells's ideal situation.
"I think I've gotten all the profiling I need for our
Claymores," said Tslaut, as though the added information insulted him.
"Did you know that Lieutenant Peters served a year in the Imperial academy on Carida before being shot down by our fighters, only to be rescued by Captain Xiler when he was a lieutenant commander?" Wells countered, throwing the flight instructor off.
The alien waved his hand dismissively. "Bah, petty details," he responded unconvincingly.
"Petty details...well Admiral's orders, read them."
Tslaut finally leaned forward, opening up the folder and checking inside. It was on old flimsiplast, a lot of it was copied on a kind of copy machine, obvious by flaking ink and the fact that it was hand-written primarily.
He caught the title of one as he flipped through the pages.
"Cluster buster?" he asked, looking up accusingly at the Commodore.
"We can focus on naming later, right now we need to get the tactics themselves into these pilots' heads."
The Duro did not seem convinced.
"Trust me...the tactics work."
"Alright..." Tslaut said. Wells simply stared at him, causing the pilot to throw his hands up in the air. "Alright I said."
"Alright then Commander, good luck with the squadron," Wells said before turning and making his way for the door.
Tslaut just sighed visibly.
