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brought in and giving her a commission aboard Implacable. ”
    “It would have been cheaper to have eliminated her. Your previous superior would have done it.”
    “Ysanne Isard kept all her officers and minions in a state of fear,” Trigit acknowledged. “And when they failed her, or proved in any way to be a liability, she did eliminate them. So they knew that there were no happy endings in their futures, no rosy retirements. They literally had nothing to look forward to except death or escape. That’s not a way to engender loyalty. That’s not my way.”
    “Good.”
    “But none of this discussion explains why you’ve contacted me at such considerable expense.”
    Zsinj’s smile grew broader. “I want to hear early results from the Morrt Project.”
    “Ah. Well, the first few thousand Morrt -class parasite-droids have been distributed. I’m getting preliminary reports already. Naturally, there’s a concentration of signal hits from known population centers—Imperial, New Republic, and independent. We’re also getting a few hits from unknown sites, and sites designated destroyed or abandoned. Once we get reinforcement on them, we can go looking.”
    “Good. Keep me up-to-date on all your interesting little operations.”
    “As always, my lord.”
    Zsinj gave him a gracious little nod and his image faded to nothingness.
    Trigit sighed. Zsinj was much easier to deal with than Ysanne Isard, also known as Iceheart, former head of Imperial Intelligence—now dead at the hands of Rogue Squadron. Unlike Iceheart, Zsinj understood something about the folly of waste—such as murdering subordinates on a whim. But Zsinj’s desire to be up-to-date on every operation, to have his fingers in each new plan and enterprise, was extremely tiresome.
    Ah, well. As long as Zsinj remained reasonable and kept Implacable stocked with fuel, weapons, food, and information, Trigit would remain with him. Far better than setting out on the lonely warlord’s road himself.
    That is, until he had power and advantages to match Zsinj’s.
    “Any more?” said Wedge.
    Janson consulted his chrono. “It’s getting late. But we have only two more candidates to review.”
    “Today, or total?”
    “Total. Your slave-driving habits have gotten us almost through the first phase of the evaluation process.” Janson consulted his datapad. “Next is Voort saBinring, a Gamorrean.”
    “Very funny. You had me going the first time, Wes, but that joke won’t work twice.”
    “He’s a Gamorrean.”
    The green-skinned, pig-faced Gamorreans were found among untrained guard and police forces on many worlds. They were technologically primitive, disinterested in any of the advanced sciences required for technological professions. “It’s impossible to train Gamorrean males to something as complicated as fighter piloting. They have glandular balances that make them very violent and impatient.”
    “He’s a Gamorrean.”
    “Just keep up your little joke, then, and show him in.”
    Janson spoke into his comlink. A moment later a Gamorrean—1.9 meters of glowering porcine presence, dressed in the standard New Republic pilot’s uniform, the bright orange of the jumpsuit clashing nauseatingly with the creature’s green skin—walked in and saluted.
    Janson smiled ingratiatingly at Wedge. “Yub, yub, Commander.”
    Whenever the Gamorrean spoke, his natural voice, grunts and squeals not pleasant to the human ear, emerged first. Then, below it, cutting through it, was his other voice, the mechanical one, emerging from the translator device implanted in his throat. “No, Commander. I have not lived among other Gamorreans since I was a child.”
    Wedge cleared his throat. “I’m sure you understand that this is new to me. But I am curious, how you, well, overcame Gamorrean biology and learned to fly.”
    “I did not overcome my biology. These were changes forced upon me. By Binring Biomedical Product.”
    “I know that name. They provide food to