19
Wedge Antilles watched as Gavin Darklighter and Corran Horn floated all but lifeless in bacta tanks. Seeing them there brought back memories of the time he had spent in such a tank—it hadn’t been aboard the Reprieve but on Home One, Admiral Ackbar’s flagship at Endor. He’d been barely conscious during his time in the tank, which he saw as a blessing. Being awake and thinking while being able to do nothing would have driven him insane.
“Your pilots have improved, Commander Antilles?”
Wedge turned and blinked his eyes in surprise. “Admiral Ackbar? What are you doing here, sir?”
The Mon Calamari clasped his hands at the small of his back. “I read your report and found it disturbingly clinical. I decided I wanted more information.”
Wedge nodded. “There wasn’t much time to prepare the report.”
“And you have never really liked datapadding.”
“No.” Wedge rubbed a hand over his face and discovered a fair amount of stubble on his chin and jaw. How long has it been since I slept? “You could have requested a supplemental report, or asked me to report to you aboard Home One and saved yourself the trip.”
“I thought of that, but I knew another report from you would be light in bytes and that you would refuse to leave your people, so I chose to save myself the annoyance.” Ackbar stared through the viewport at the two men in the tank. “Besides, the tone of the Provisional Council meetings is beginning to wear on me. The fate of Rogue Squadron is important enough that I was able to slip away without being accused of running.”
The Corellian looked over at his commander. “Are things that acrimonious?”
“I probably exaggerate. Politicians tend to view soldiers like their pet Cyborrean battle dogs.”
“And soldiers don’t like to be considered pets.”
Ackbar’s barbels twitched slightly. “Since we are the ones who get bitten and bleed and die, we tend to resist plans that are politically expedient but militarily suicidal.” He tapped his hand against the viewport. “Is the picture of what happened there any more clear?”
“Not yet. The basics are the same—three pilots seriously wounded, one dead, and all six sentries dead. A number of others have cuts and scrapes. It should have been much worse but it looks as if the stormtroopers wanted to plant the explosives, withdraw, then arm and detonate them by remote. Had they just put them on timers we would have lost equipment and people before we found them all. A full platoon was operating on Talasea. We got all of them and captured the Delta DX-9 Transport they came in on.”
“Hardly worth the cost, but a good thing, nonetheless.”
Wedge nodded. “The ones we captured—two stormtroopers and all five of the transport’s crew—refuse to talk. I have them in detention, isolated from each other. I’ve had an Emdee-oh and Emdee-one droid engaged in postmortems of the troopers we killed. With luck something will give us an idea where they came from.”
“And Talasea was evacuated?”
“Yes, sir. We expect Imperials to come looking for whatever got their people, so we set up some booby traps and other surprises for whoever follows us in there.” Wedge sighed heavily. “I have a list of what we left behind in case we ever have cause to go back.”
The Mon Calamari nodded slowly. “What is the mood of your unit?”
Wedge turned and pressed his back against the cool transparisteel. He just wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep, and he feared he’d do just that if he did close his eyes. “We’re all stunned and exhausted. Losing Lujayne came as a shock. She wasn’t the best pilot in the unit, and not one to take chances, so none of us had her pegged as someone who would die first. Corran or Bror or Shiel were easy to picture going out in a blaze of glory—and Corran almost did. Lujayne was a fighter, so having her die in her sleep was, well, it just made it worse. She was murdered, not killed in combat, and I guess I thought we were somehow immune to that sort of ignominious death.”
He shook his head. “That makes no sense, of course.”
Ackbar patted him on the shoulder. “It does make sense. We know war is barbaric, but we try not to be barbaric in waging war. We hold ourselves to a high standard that demands we only attack legitimate military targets—not civilians, not medical frigates. We would like to see this honor we demand of ourselves reflected in the actions of our enemies.”
“But if they were as honorable as we are, we’d not be fighting this war.”
“And in that, Commander Antilles, you have the core of the whole problem.” The Mon Calamari paced away from the viewport. “When will your people be out of the tanks?”
Wedge glanced down at his chronometer. “Twelve hours more for Horn and Darklighter, another twenty-four to forty-eight for Andoorni Hui. I’ve been told it has something to do with her metabolism, but she was hurt worse than they were, too. I want to hold a memorial for Lujayne fairly soon.” He rubbed his eyes. “Gavin will be crushed—she’s been helping him sharpen his astronavigation skills.”
“It seems, then, nothing can be done until at least twelve hours from now.”
Wedge shook his head. “Nope, we just have to wait.”
“No, you just have to sleep.”
The Corellian turned and looked at Ackbar. “I can rest later.”
“But you will rest now. Consider that an order, Commander, or I will order a Too-Onebee droid to sedate you.” Ackbar’s chin came up as he spoke and Wedge knew he’d carry out his threat. “In fourteen hours I want to see you and your XO on Home One. General Salm will have arrived by then.”
“If I’d known I could look forward to a dressing down by him, I’d have let the stormtroopers shoot me.”
“Yes, he can have that effect, can’t he?” Ackbar’s mouth hung open in a silent laugh at his joke. “The purpose of this meeting is not a reprimand, however.”
“No?”
“No.” Ackbar’s voice became calmer, yet more intense. “Someone in the Empire struck at one of my forward bases. If we don’t strike back, and strike back hard, they might feel emboldened to continue such activity. I don’t want this to happen. General Salm’s bomber wing should be sufficient for exacting retribution.”
“If you want Rogue Squadron to fly cover for such a mission, you have us.”
“That was the reaction I expected from you, Commander. Now, go get some sleep.”
“Yes, sir.” Wedge saluted. Sleep it is, and dreams of retribution will be very pleasant indeed.
Corran wasn’t certain what was worse: the sour taste of bacta in the back of his throat or feeling like he was still bobbing up and down in the tank. To him bacta tasted like lum that had gone flat, gotten stale, and been stored in the sort of plastic barrel that lent it an oiliness that slicked his tongue. Because the blaster bolt had punctured his right lung and collapsed it, a little bacta had been circulated through the lung, bringing the fluid’s cloying bouquet to his nose every time he exhaled.
Other than that, he felt pretty good. He still had a reddish spot on his chest where he had been shot. The mark on him was about half the size of the mark on Gavin. Corran realized that armor had saved his life by absorbing some of the power of the bolt—how Gavin survived taking a shot to the naked abdomen he hadn’t a clue.
Gavin rolled onto his side on the next bed over. “Never done that before.”
“Blunder into a lightfight or spend time in a bacta tank?”
“Neither.” The youth frowned. “I didn’t think I was blundering …”
“You weren’t.” Corran shook his head and swung his feet around so he could sit up. “I should have realized you didn’t know to wait until I signaled the hall was clear. I didn’t think, which is why you went down. It was my fault you got shot.”
Gavin covered the reddish area on his stomach with his right hand. “It hurt a lot, then I guess I fainted.”
“You’re lucky that’s all you did. That shot should have killed you.”
“I know I shot back at the stormtrooper. Did I get h
im?”
“I don’t know, Gavin. Unless you have a holo of a lightfight, trying to reconstruct it after the fact is all but impossible.” Corran slid from the table and found his legs supported him with only a few minor tremors. “He and his buddies died, and that’s all that counts.”
“Were any of us killed?”
Corran remembered the impression of death he’d had in the corridor, but he shook his head. “I don’t know, Gavin.”
The med-center hatch opened and Wedge Antilles stepped through it. His smile broadened at first, then shrank slightly. He paused and returned the hasty salutes Gavin and Corran managed. “Good to see both of you hale and hearty.”
“Hearty, perhaps, sir, but hale will need some work.” Corran worked his right arm up and around in a circle. “A night’s rest ought to make it all right.”
“And you, Gavin, how do you feel?”
“Fine, sir. I could fly right now if you need me.”
“That’s not necessary right away.” Wedge’s expression darkened. “We’ve abandoned Talasea and evacuated it cleanly. We got the stormtroopers and captured their transport ship. Forensic analysis of the bodies has given us a good indication of where they came from. I’m meeting with Admiral Ackbar and General Salm to consider a counterstrike against their base.”
“I’m in.”
“Me, too.” Gavin hopped off the bed. His knees buckled, but he caught the edge of the bed and remained upright. “I want to go and repay them.”
Wedge nodded and Corran knew he was getting to the worst part of the report. “In the raid we gave better than we got—but we had casualties. Six of our sentries died. You two and Andoorni were severely wounded.” Wedge glanced down at the deck, then over at Gavin. “Lujayne Forge was killed.”
Gavin leaned heavily on the bed. “Lujayne is dead?”
Corran sat abruptly on the floor. He’d felt her die, he knew she had died, yet he couldn’t believe it any more than Gavin could. She’d always been the member of the squadron who was concerned with the welfare of the others—not just their physical welfare, but how they felt. She formed the heart of our unit, bringing us together. There’s no way she should have been the first of us to die.
He stared down at his empty hands. She never even collected on that favor I owed her for fixing my X-wing and now she’s gone.
Gavin shook his head. “She can’t be dead. She’s been tutoring me in astronavigation. She …” The youth balled his fists and hammered them against the edge of the table. “Dead …”
Wedge sighed. “It’s never easy to lose a friend, Gavin.”
Gavin raised a fist as if he wanted to smash it down again, but let it slowly drift back to his side. “This is the first time anyone I’ve known has died.”
Corran raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“He’s only a kid, Corran.”
“I know, sir, but his cousin …”
Gavin shook his head. “I’ve met people before who later died. I remember Mr. Owen and Aunt Beru—that’s what I called them on the couple of times Biggs let me tag along when he visited Luke at the Lars farm. When they died, my father took the farm over …”
Wedge frowned. “I thought Luke had given it to an alien.”
“Yes, Throgg was his name. He worked it for a couple of seasons, but my uncle wanted to add that farm to his holdings, so he got the Anchorhead Municipal Council to pass an alien landowner tax which would have broken Throgg to pay. My father didn’t hold with his brother’s tactics, so Dad bought the farm from Throgg, paying him what it was worth instead of letting Uncle Huff buy it in a tax auction.” Gavin shrugged. “Growing up on that farm I could remember having seen the Larses, but I never really knew them. I was a kid, a real kid. They were nice to me, but …”
“But you didn’t know them.” Corran drew his knees up to his chest. “I understand. Still, your cousin, Biggs …”
“Biggs was eight years older than I was. There were times he liked having me around and times he didn’t. I couldn’t understand why not then.” Gavin shrugged. “I’ve grown up since then, so I kind of understand now but, still, I didn’t really know him. And not seeing his … him or Luke’s aunt and uncle after, well, it’s not like I know they’re gone. I do, but, you know …”
“I do know.” Wedge folded his arms across his chest. “I was there when Biggs died. I got hit and pulled up out of the trench on Luke’s orders. Your cousin and I both knew we were really there as an added set of shields to keep Luke safe, but we didn’t regret that. We knew he’d have done the same thing for us and we also knew he had to blow the Death Star. Biggs stayed there, keeping the TIEs back, and died there. And even though he died, he bought Luke the time he needed to destroy the Death Star.”
The Rebel commander’s eyes nearly shut as he stared off into space. “I flew with Biggs before Yavin and he was really good. It seemed like he could read the minds of TIE pilots. He knew when to break, when to shoot, and did everything necessary to stay in their ion exhaust and blast them to bits. He was proud of his record and his skill, but not arrogant.”
Gavin smiled. “He had that smirk, the one he’d give you when he’d done something you couldn’t.”
Wedge chuckled. “I used to hate that smirk, but I didn’t have it directed at me all that often. In his first mission we went against an Imperial convoy, right after they’d started assigning Nebulon-B frigates, just like the Reprieve here, to jump cover for the convoys. It launched two dozen TIEs at our squadron. Biggs lit and vaped five, making him an ace, but another pilot claimed his number-three kill. That kill made the other pilot an ace—I think he was on his fifteenth mission at the time. Biggs gave the guy the smirk and let him have it. And thereafter when Biggs got five of something, he’d give this guy the third one. He wasn’t nasty about it, but he didn’t let the guy forget.”
Gavin nodded. “Biggs was like that—he’d needle you with your own little foibles until you did something about it, or it didn’t bother you anymore.”
“It was his way of making everyone toe the line and push themselves to be the best they could. That’s why he used to get after Luke about going to the Academy. He didn’t want to see anyone waste themselves when they could be doing more.” Wedge scratched the back of his neck. “If he’d survived Yavin, we’d be reporting to him now.”
Corran raised a finger. “Did the third-kill guy ever redeem himself?”
The curve of Wedge’s smile flattened out. “The guy, Karsk was his name, Amil Karsk, took the third of five scheduled patrols for Biggs. It was an easy job—nursemaiding a blockade runner on a courier mission. It even promised a couple of days of rest and recreation. It was a plum assignment, but Biggs let him have it and was willing to call it even. That mission and that courier took Karsk to Alderaan. He was on the ground when the Death Star appeared.”
“Ouch.” Corran reached up and hauled himself to his feet. “Biggs was lucky he let the mission slide.”
“Yeah, but luck runs out eventually.” Wedge’s brown eyes hardened. “Ours hasn’t, not entirely, yet. I’m glad you’re both back with us. I’d prefer not having to add you to the list of friends I’ve lost to the Empire. The list is too long already.”
Gavin swallowed hard, once, then extended his hand to Wedge. “Thank you, sir. I feel like I know Biggs a bit better now.”
Wedge shook the youth’s hand. “Thanks for giving me the chance to remember the good things about Biggs. Too much of war is remembering the loss—the point at which people cease contributing to this life. Biggs, Porkins, Dack, Lujayne—they all need to be remembered as more than just casualties. I don’t do that often enough.”
Their commander glanced at the chronometer on the ship’s bulkhead. “I’m due to meet with Admiral Ackbar shortly. You’ve got about four hours before we’ll have a memorial for Lujayne and the other people we lost on Talasea. And after that, Ackbar willing and Salm being sanguine, we’ll bleed some Imperials pale of luck and let our dead rest just that much eas
ier.”
20
Emtrey’s uncharacteristic quiet on the flight over from the Reprieve to Home One had started Wedge wondering if the galaxy hadn’t changed around him while he’d been sleeping. The droid hadn’t wheedled, cajoled, begged, or bored him with details about the need for him to travel to Home One—he just showed up and said he had things to take care of on board the Rebel flagship.
Tycho had shrugged, so Wedge agreed. The droid seemed uncharacteristically quiet, but that didn’t seem sinister and really was quite welcome. As he piloted the Forbidden on the run over to the Mon Calamari Star cruiser he realized he’d not seen much of Emtrey during the time on Talasea, and he’d heard even less from him. He’d heard even fewer complaints about the droid, and this he took as a good sign. He felt caring for pilots was tough enough without having to worry about droids, too.
The smile on General Salm’s face as Wedge and Tycho entered Admiral Ackbar’s briefing room increased the Corellian’s sense of dislocation with the galaxy. “Good to see you, Commander Antilles, Captain Celchu. It was very kind of you to have your M-3PO droid send that gross of new flight suits to Defender Wing. We accept your apology and look forward to working with you on this mission.”
Wedge looked at Tycho, but his XO gave his head a nearly imperceptible shake. If it makes Salm happy, do I really need to know what’s going on? “You’re welcome, General. We’re all on the same side, after all.”
Ackbar’s face shifted from Wedge to Salm and back again. He blinked, then clasped his hands together. “Clear water, gentle waves, good.” The Mon Calamari seated himself and pushed a button on the chair’s arm. “Our droids have double-checked the findings of the forensic team working on the stormtroopers you brought up from Talasea. They confirm the rash on three of them as being Rachuk roseola. DNA analysis of the virus shows a variation from the sequencing reported there two years ago, and given the spontaneous mutation rate, this would be the most recent strain.”
Wedge nodded. “So they came from Rachuk.”