AWOL

Author: Louise Turner

Fandom: Star Wars VOY

Rating: 18

First published in 1996, in A Tremor in the Force 9

And if it hadn't been for the thick flying gauntlets that he wore, he'd have bitten his fingernails right down to the quick long before. Life-systems still rattled away in the stillness of the cockpit, way above normal, as the inadvertent fear started up once more.

He still didn't know what he might find here.

It had been touch-and-go. Pulling personnel off-planet right from under the Emperor's nose. Playing a deadly game of dodge-the-Star Destroyer once they'd broken out from planetary interface, with the great white ships hanging there like carrion beasts, lying in wait to pluck off the fleeing Rebel transports one-by-one as they sought escape from Hoth.

Four years of living though one furtive retreat after another had never prepared him for this. Fear. Chaos. And carnage…

Even now, the recollection made him sick at the thought of it. He remembered seeing bodies everywhere. The ground troops who had thrown their lives away. Sacrificing themselves so the rest of them might live. And they hadn't been alone.

Hobbie. Zev. Almost everyone he'd once known and worked with. Leaving just the three of them alive out of Rogue Squad: Luke, Janson, and, of course, himself. The irony left him feeling unsettled. Maybe he had put himself in the firing line, but right now, in the safety of his X-wing, that knowledge seemed immaterial. Instead, he felt a sudden sense of déjà vu. He'd seen it all before. Pilots dying all around him, while he, for some unknown reason - whimsical fate, perhaps - just kept on going.

Hoth had been home for only a few weeks. An unpleasant place, admittedly, but even so it had given them security. And now, any kind of feeling they might have conned themselves into believing they had was gone.

He was jolted from his thoughts as the signal to disengage from lightspeed sounded from the console. He pulled the X-wing back, slowing right up and dodging quickly to the left to avoid getting tangled up in stationary shipping, and, when he looked to the side, he could not resist a weary smile, the relief of what he saw there making him sweat with its intensity. Janson had made it, his X-wing coursing alongside his own.

But Luke…

He started at that absence. Checked the 'scopes, didn't want to believe what he saw there and so he craned his head round, trying to get a three-sixty view. No sign. Just himself and Janson and -thank the Force - the last transport the three of them had been assigned to protect.

Wedge sighed. Objectively speaking, to have made it out of there, against such odds, with the loss of only one of the fighter-escort was impressive. He should have considered it a good run then, but that knowledge felt wrong, didn't make the ache inside feel any better. Because it wasn't fair that Luke hadn't come out of it with them.

Luke… Who'd fought through Yavin and saved all their lives that day. Who'd been appointed commander of their squadron not long before this last, ill-fated evacuation. Luke, with his lively, almost idiotic, approach to flying. Gone. After flooring an AT-AT and surviving a crash in a snowspeeder which they'd all feared had finished him then…

Gone.

No. Not gone. Luke couldn't have -wouldn't have - allowed this to happen. Would never have been taken out on a straightforward run like that. He would come back soon enough. He had to…

Wedge shuddered instinctively at the unpleasant possibilities which lurked like shadows in the fringes of his thoughts, hurriedly turned his mind to other equally pertinent matters. He switched on the com, waiting anxiously for a signal to come through from one of the command ships. All else had to be put on hold as he waited for that call, rendering him unable to even spare a few words to Janson until they'd both received their docking instructions.

“Transport Delta proceed to the rendezvous point as planned,” announced a woman's voice across the com. “Fighter escort, take vector 3-4-7 and commence docking procedures with the Liberty. Locational coordinates and landing requirements now commencing transmission.”

So the droid was doing all the work. Fair enough. He leaned back against the acceleration couch, feeling exhausted and anxious and hungry and wondering where the hell Luke had got to. If his friend had run into trouble, it would have been his duty to try and help him. And he hadn't done so. He'd let him down…

He dismissed the thought, trying to focus his interest upon his new surroundings, as the droid carried him safely through the mass of ships and set course towards one of the Mon Cal frigates.

The hangar they'd been directed to was clean and clinical, and almost entirely bereft of other occupants, save a few fighters of a class unknown to him.

Normally, even the faintest whiff of a strange ship in the vicinity would have aroused his interest, but today these unfamiliar craft barely even registered in his consciousness. Instead, he clambered to the floor and stood there dazed, as an army of unfamiliar techs hurried to attend to the needs of his X-wing, saying little and giving him disdainful looks as he accidentally found himself getting underfoot.

So he stumbled away from them, senses deadened after the stress of the long journey. Desperate for friendship, desperate for moral support in this desert of a place, where the faces meant nothing and the worries were the only things that mattered.

Hobbie was gone… Zev was gone… Dack was gone. And now it looked like Luke had gone too. Not to mention the techs. No way of knowing just who'd made it through the blockade and who'd perished in the attempt. Now he and Janson were stuck here, two lost pilots from a dead squadron, stranded in a strange hangar while some unknown individual in command somewhere capriciously decided their fate.

The realisation that his fate was no longer his to control - but then again, he supposed, when had it ever been? - was preoccupying him, so much so that he was only half-listening as the Deck Officer in charge there started mouthing off about how he was to report to the command centre for further instructions. He gazed at the older man with a slightly unfocused stare, expressing inattentiveness in a manner which was pissing the other officer off. But he registered most of what was said, muttered a polite but rather unthinking 'thank you' in response, and got a frosty look in return.

He escaped from the Deck Officer's presence just as soon as he could, wanting his old ground crew around him, not these strangers. He searched the hangar, saw Janson's familiar stolidly-built figure trudging its way slowly towards him. Wedge could not resist the grin of relief at this sight, the worry fading now. In fact, if it hadn't been for Janson getting billeted here with him, then maybe he'd have gone mad. And yet, at the same time, the change in Janson was alarming. He looked so damned worn-out it was frightening, as if the past twenty-four hours had put five years upon his shoulders, and Wedge found himself wondering whether the retreat had taken a similar toll upon himself.

Janson gave a huge smile, expressing similar weary relief. “Damn good to see you, Wedge. Knew that Star Destroyer wasn't going to get us.”

And Wedge laughed, relaxing a little. “Wish I'd had your confidence. What about Luke?”

Janson gave a slight grimace in response to his query. “I don't know.”

And neither of them wanted to say anymore.

The command staff seemed terribly pleasant and sympathetic as usual. They told them how proud they should be of their brave and valiant efforts to save their comrades. They told them that they were to be congratulated. They told them that they should consider themselves fortunate.

Not much consolation to those who had just seen half their friends wiped out…

So they escaped when they could and retired to the rec lounge and the solace of the bottle. Drinking to escape the fear and loss, drinking to escape the isolation, while the personnel aboard the Liberty nudged and whispered amongst themselves, staring at them both like they were part of some freak exhibit. See those pilots over there? they could be heard whispering. That's Antilles and Janson. They're the ones who made it back from Hoth. They're the ones who survived the massacre.

As if they were nothing more than some kind of macabre peepshow for everyone else to gawk at… Two young warriors lost in limbo, trapped in this private hell as they fought to come to grips with what they had just been through…

Then, at last, it was all over. The summons came from the acting Command Council, news that they were to be transferred to another ship. To what? Wedge wondered. New duties, he hoped. A chance to work again, instead of idling through the days occupying himself with nothing more than miserable reflection.

A new posting and new responsibilities. So much change. Dislocating him from those things he'd known and loved, dragging him forward to a future which was as yet unknown to him. He'd felt torn from a great chunk of his past, bereft of an identity. Lacking those friends around him who could help him face this through, help him put things back into some kind of perspective. Even having Janson around hadn't been enough. Instead, the two of them had just served to inflame the anxieties, fuelling each others' tensions instead of quelling them.

So when he flew over to the Headquarters Frigate he felt almost numb to the situation, too worn out to care. To hell with his X-wing. To hell with the flight. To hell with the Rebellion…

He sighed and stretched back in his seat, too exhausted in mind and body to even contemplate laving his ship…

“This isn't what I'd call a great reunion, Wedge.” The woman's voice was familiar.

He looked up then, his spirits lifting. Saw Red Flight's Chief Tech standing there, perched on the crew-ladder over the cockpit, safe and well after the evacuation.

And life suddenly seemed infinitely brighter. Hope was alive again, after those few long days of unending grey depression. He stood up in the cockpit, almost too overcome to speak, and leaned over to hug her in greeting, still in helmet, gloves and all. “Ysabel! I- I didn't know…”

“Welcome home, flyboy!” she laughed. “We'd heard you'd made it, but it took so long to get things organised round here. There's no way we could've coped with having the ships home until we had everything set up for them. And, hell, they weren't going to let a bunch of good-for-nothing techs waste the com-staff's time with sending a message out for you. Now come on, Wedge. Ain't no point in sitting in there all day.”

She was tugging his arm, coaxing him from the isolation of his X-wing, leading him down the ladder to the hangar floor, where he was suddenly surrounded by an army of techs, so many of his old colleagues waiting to welcome him back.

He returned the embraces, sharing the laughter and the joy. And he still didn't know what to say, as he was reunited with those he'd been missing so much since the evacuation.

Then the milling throng was clearing, the ground crew drifting back to their duties, and he found himself facing a reassuringly familiar Deck Officer.

It was only then that it struck him. That everyone looked normal, no longer smothered and muffled in endless layers of winter clothing. People had faces again and recognition required nothing more than a casual glance.

Right now he felt so good that he almost felt like hugging the Deck Officer, but that would not have gone down well, so he settled for a handshake instead.

“Good to see you,” the Deck Officer told him, looking genuinely delighted by his presence. “Look, I'm sorry to have to spoil the celebrations. I reckon I'm just destined to take on the role of hangar killjoy. But I was told to let you know just as soon as you arrived that you're wanted in the command centre, Commander.”

Commander… Wedge frowned at him. “Huh?”

“You're Red Leader now, Wedge,” reminded the Deck Officer, helpfully, understanding Wedge's confusion in an instant. “Congratulations.”

“But- I mean- What about Luke?” The words were stumbling out in a torrent of panic, his voice sounding strained with frantic disbelief. “I mean - I can't…”

“Luke's no longer here, sir,” the Deck Officer replied, and he looked troubled.

“What do you mean? He was right behind us when…” Wedge broke off, suddenly realising that maybe he'd still been hoping inside that Luke, somehow, had got separated from them on the way. That he might have made it, that he might have been diverted to a destination elsewhere in the fleet…

The Deck Officer took a deep breath, winced slightly. “He didn't make it, sir.”

There was something about the way he'd said it. It wasn't a case of Luke being just another casualty of war. There was something more, he could tell… “Luke?” he asked.

And the Deck Officer's façade of professional indifference crumbled in an instant, to be replaced by reluctant vexation. “There's rumours coming down from Command, sir. Rumours that he was last seen heading off in the opposite direction. He said he was heading back to cover your tails but in reality he just kept on going. They say he's gone AWOL.”

“Luke? Gone AWOL? Naw, he wouldn't do that. No way would he do that.” Wedge shook his head in vehement denial, laughing nervously in reaction to this news. “Hyperdrive malfunction?” He flinched inside at that possibility, couldn't even entertain the thought that Luke's fighter might have bounced off-course and stranded him in the middle of nowhere.

The Deck Officer shook his head in vigorous denial. “Definitely not, sir. The sensor crew seemed quite adamant. Soon as I got wind of the news, I did what I could to find out more, and that's what they said: 'Skywalker headed off in the opposite direction.' Their exact words. There's rumours that maybe it was all too much for him. As you know, he was just out of the medcentre, and then he was plunged straight into combat. That's a hard enough situation for anyone to deal with, if you ask me, without the added pressure of losing most of your squadron and your gunner. Unofficially-“ He broke off, looking warily to either side to check that none of the techs were in earshot, “-Command thinks he's flipped.”

Wedge felt his cheeks burn in outrage at that suggestion. “Do you believe that?”

And the Deck Officer's worried expression grew even more intense. “Well, no, sir.”

“Good,” muttered Wedge. “Command Centre, did you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

Wedge flashed him an aggrieved glance at that. “In the name of the Force, Devrin, would you stop calling me sir?”

“But you're the Commander now,” the Deck Officer told him, bluntly reminding him of the change in circumstances. “You're in charge.”

Wedge just gave him a look of horror at that. He sighed and surveyed the hangar, grimly. The techs were hurrying about their duties, attending the few ships that were already berthed there. And the responsibility for this little world was his now, and his alone. He shuddered in response to that sudden realisation and hurried quickly off, unwilling to reflect further on the implications.

“But it's Luke's flight,” he argued, feebly, as he sat down with a beer in the rec lounge. “He'll come back. I know he will. He has to. I mean, it doesn't feel right, taking things over this way. I don't feel like I've got any right to it. He never even had much of a chance, for gods' sakes!”

Ysabel shook her head. “You don't know what's going to happen, Wedge. Anyway, for the moment, you've been placed in charge, so it's your duty to make sure Luke has something left to come back to, isn't it?”

“But I can't!” Wedge protested.

“Wedge!” she retorted, a sharp rebuke. “Don't give me that. I know this isn't easy for you. Hell, it's hard enough for anyone to take over this way but I know for a fact that you're overreacting. Come on! You've been a part of this for a long time now and really it's no big deal, is it? Deep inside you know well enough that you're capable of it. How long have you been wanting this flight? Now don't try and lie to me! How long?”

He looked up, stared across at her, startled by the stark openness of the question.

“How long?” she persisted.

He shrugged, unwilling to air his thoughts.

“Ever since you came here,” she told him. “Ever since you first sat your butt in the cockpit of a T-65. And don't go and pretend otherwise. Now you've been given that chance, so don't whatever you do shy away from it. You've got to carry on the tradition. For Luke's sake, for Narra's sake. And for Dave, too. For all of them. They all did what they could and now it's your turn, so you've just got to make the most of it. Right?”

“Right,” he muttered.

“And don't forget the perks.” She reached out across the table, closed her hand reassuringly about his own. “You get the best techs in the fleet now. And you don't have to dorm with the boys any more. You've got your own room now, so why don't we celebrate? I could call in on you later.”

“What's there to celebrate?” he retorted, in sullen defensiveness.

She looked sternly at him in response. “I told you, Wedge. Taking that kind of attitude ain't going to do any on us any good, is it? Stop that right now! Or else this flight's going to find itself having an even quicker turnover in flight leaders.”

And she was right, he supposed. So he sighed, and he had some more of his drink and he tried hard to put his mind to the future. However it might turn out…

He groaned in quiet appreciation, his eyes closed, as her fingers kneaded the tight muscles about his shoulders and his neck. And he felt strangely contented in her presence, despite the fact that the prospect of the coming day already filled him with terror.

They had a meeting convened with Command the following morning. An initial discussion with the strangers who would now be his senior officers. And it was a frightening realisation, to know that he was alone now, no longer able to rely on another man's decision. He was the one in charge, the one upon whom everybody else would be looking fir guidance and inspiration…

How, he wondered, had Luke dealt with that knowledge? How had he kept his sanity when he knew that everything he did might have hideous repercussions? In situations where mistakes were paid for by mens' lives…

It had never seemed to bother Luke in the slightest. But then maybe it had always been nothing more than a façade. Luke's flippancy, his tossing-away of dangers like they were nothing more than a light shower of rain in the springtime.

Luke. Who'd gone the same way as the rest of them. And it just didn't make sense. Luke couldn't be dead. He couldn't believe it, would have to have witnessed something - an explosion from the corner of his eye, one last crackle of the com breaking off…

And now there were rumours that he'd turned tail and run out on them.

No way. No damn way. And if anyone dares to open their mouth and say that to my face, then they'll damn well pay for it…

“I don't think he's left us for good.” Ysabel's voice spoke quietly in his ear, as if she guessed his thoughts.

“I hope he makes it,” he murmured. “Just feel so bad about this. I feel like I'm taking what should be his. And I don't want to do that, Yzzi. I just don't want to do that.”

“No,” she whispered. “You're not taking it. Not like that. Think of it more like he gave it to you. You know that's what he wanted, Wedge, for you to carry on after him. He always said that. That he'd stood in your way long enough. That it was high time he got out so you could at last get what you'd been waiting for…”

Her voice faded, as the friendly banter they'd all engaged in back on Hoth became suddenly ironic.

“I'm going to miss him,” Wedge admitted, grimly. “I know there were many times in the past when I thought he was a jumped-up little jerk and a complete pain-in-the-ass, but, hell, he always seemed to lighten up the whole place. I mean, when everyone was feeling down, he'd just come breezing in and say something and then things'd be looking better. There was just something about him. And I'm really going to miss him.”

“We all are, Wedge,” was her subdued reply. “We all are.”

He sighed. “But you're right, Yzzi. We've got to start looking forward now. Hell, I'm tired. I'm so tired. Couldn't really get much sleep the last few days. Didn't know…”

“Then you'd better try and make up for it now,” she advised him. “Tomorrow's your big day, remember. And I want to be on top form, too. Devrin's been getting indications that we're short of X-wings. And that they're filling the gaps with those new A-wings. He kind of got the impression that the change might be permanent.”

And that, decided Wedge, was the last thing he wanted to hear.

They were staring, as the two of them entered the messroom for breakfast. Elbowing one another and whispering. Not the techs, who knew better than to question the sleeping habits of their colleagues. Instead, the interest was being shown by the admin people and the main shift com officers who gathered here with the flight crew for their meals. Some were familiar, the others unknowns, but the subject of their gossip could not have been mistaken.

They were talking about him…

He felt suddenly uncomfortable. Once he'd been able to mingle unnoticed with the crowd. Nobody had cared about what he did, nobody could have given a damn about how just another pilot had chosen to spend his nights. But now…

“Moving in there fast, Jaconti,” remarked one of the com officers, momentarily neglecting her breakfast. She was addressing Ysabel and pointedly disregarding Wedge. “Up to your usual tricks, I see. Catch 'em when they're young, I say.”

“You'll be a contented woman now, Jaconti,” added her companion. “Finally got the flight you wanted it, haven't you? You've always hoped he'd get there. From what I've heard, he's always been under your thumb.”

“Up yours,” said Ysabel, briskly.

And she paused, almost in mid-stride, waiting as he drew level, then tugged sharply at his sleeve to pull him forward, away from those who were paying him so much unwelcome attention.

While he felt confused, because it just didn't seem fair. That he should be the unconscious recipient of all this bad feeling and resentment. Just because he'd somehow stumbled his way into the role of Red Leader…

“They're jealous,” she told him, a whisper of definite conviction.

His reply was louder than he'd ever intended it to be. “Jealous?” He frowned, in credulous disbelief. “Of me?”

“Oh, don't be dense, Wedge!” she told him, sternly. “Me, you idiot. Funny how harmless acts of friendship suddenly become so sinister once the man in question's reached a certain rank… And another problem is, kid, that you're filling out nicely now. You've lost your skinny looks. You're not so thin and peaky-looking. Or haven't you been paying too much attention to yourself in the mirror lately?”

“Been too damn cold to waste much time that way, Yzzi,” he admitted, feeling suddenly uncomfortable at her observation.

Janson was already seated at one of the messroom tables with some of the techs. Wedge spotted him with some relief, headed determinedly over to join him. Janson and his companions, of course, said nothing about the coincidental arrival of the newcomers in the messroom together. And they took no notice of the whispering hordes that were clustered around them.

“Morning,” said Janson, and the techs murmured their additional greetings.

Wedge gave a noncommittal grunt of assent and settled down beside Janson. He'd barely had the opportunity to put his tray down before Janson set down his cutlery, grabbed Wedge's arm and pulled it to gain his attention. “Got some gossip for you, Wedge.”

“Huh?” At this time in the morning, Wedge wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to hear it or not. After all, he still didn't feel like he was in one hundred percent control of his mental faculties, fatigue still making him feel hazy and distant.

“Look over there,” Janson whispered, tossing a nod towards the queue. “See the pretty lady in the meal queue, just going back for seconds? The one with the dark hair and the cute butt? I heard her talking when I was up getting my food. She's on the shortlist.”

“Her?” Wedge's head jerked up and he focused on the subject of Janson's words.

“Wedge, don't stare.” Ysabel's reprimand came quiet but stern from across the table.

“A woman in the flight?” He still wasn't sure whether his reaction was one of amazement or horror.

“That a problem?” Ysabel asked, with false levity in her voice.

Wedge gave her a guilty look in response. “Well, no… But… It's unheard of. A woman!”

Ysabel shrugged. “Crap, Wedge. It's no big deal. Flying, tech duties. Two sides of the same coin. Only a small step from one to the other. Could've worn the orange myself once. Had the chance, turned it down. And you wouldn't have objected to me being part of the flight, would you?”

Wedge blushed in embarrassed response to Ysabel's comments. “No, but… You're different.”

“You're not a woman, Yzzi,” explained Janson. “Not in Wedge's set of categories. He divides the world into men, women and techs. You're in the last group, you see, so that means he knows how to deal with you.”

She snorted in disgust. “Well, thank you, Wedge. And I love you too, flyboy.”

“Aw, come on, Yzzi!” continued Janson. “You know Wedge. He can cope with the techs okay, but if a real woman gave him the come-on, he'd run a mile!”

“Oh, shut it, Janson!” snarled Wedge.

“Stop fighting, the pair of you!” Ysabel told them, sternly, and then she looked up, staring over their heads with a sunny smile upon her face. “Morning, Devrin.”

And the Deck Officer, of all people, was wandering round their table to sit down in the vacant chair at Ysabel's side. The Deck Officer, who wouldn't normally be seen dead out of the company of senior hangar crew or command staff and who hardly ever even deigned to talk to wayward pilots. Making the next move in this subtle game of social politics, clearly aligning himself with the one who'd just been catapulted from near-obscurity to notoriety.

“Morning,” said the Deck Officer.

“Hey, Devrin!” called Janson. “We were just discussing the girl. In the orange.”

The Deck Officer gave a slowly appreciative smile. “Oh, her…”

“Uh-oh,” muttered Janson. “The Deck Officer's rediscovered his hormones. Know what, Devrin? Wedge here doesn't want to believe it.”

“Believe it,” replied Devrin, and he cast a sly grin towards Ysabel. “She cuts quite a mean figure in a flightsuit, that one. And she knows it, too. Force knows where she came from, but I think the girl's had command experience.”

“How do you know?” Wedge challenged him. “You been looking at her files?”

“Me?” Devrin looked insulted. “Since when would I have had that authority, Wedge? No, I just keep my eyes and ears open. I heard the woman loudly bitching about the situation with her colleagues. That's all.”

“Naturally you've been curious to find out all about her,” Ysabel told him, her voice humorously sarcastic. “That's why you were hanging around her yesterday, isn't it? Giving her that bullshit about the fact that you wanted her X-wing moved.”

“Well, it wasn't in the right place,” said Devrin, half-heartedly.

“See what happens, Yzzi?” laughed Janson. “You trade your old faithful in for a younger model and he's soon off to find his own entertainment. Any luck, Devrin? You got any forthcoming midnight liaisons you'd like to tell us about?”

The older man looked slightly crestfallen. “I don't think so,” he replied. “I got the feeling within a few seconds of talking to her that she considered ground staff as being on the same level of humanity as Imperial tax-inspectors.”

“Charming,” remarked Ysabel. “Remind me not to put her on my drinks list then. No, strikes me she'll have her sights aimed higher. She'll have her eyes on the flight leader.”

And Wedge suddenly lost his appetite.

“Need to get him a leash, Yzzi,” advised Devrin. “Make sure he doesn't stray.”

“She looks kind of domineering,” added Janson with a laugh. “She might make an interesting ride.”

“Oh, just leave it, would you?” Wedge retaliated, irritably trying to dismiss their teasing.

Devrin caught his eye, then said, “Ah, berfore it slips my mind… Ysabel, we have a meeting at fifteen hundred shipboard.” And Wedge felt infinitely grateful that the man was considerate enough to rescue him from being the unwilling focus of any further attention. There's a member of the A-wing design team coming over to talk us through things. And they're planning on bringing one of them across from the Liberty sometime, too.”

“Right. Anything else I need to know?”

“Only the command briefing at ten. Look smart.”

“Yeah, yeah. I hadn't forgotten.”

And Wedge, to his discomfort, suddenly remembered that he had other reasons to feel profoundly unsettled this morning.

Command briefings. Exclusive affairs, attended only by the privileged few. And he'd only ever been to one on a single previous occasion in his life, present as Luke's deputy during these brief few weeks on Hoth. He'd been nothing more than a passive onlooker then, watching in silence as others had conducted the meeting. He remembered it well enough. An informal gathering, under Rieekan's regime. Luke had slouched there in the command centre, cup of galshi held nonchalantly aloft in his had, while Rieekan's approach had seemed equally laid back. The only one who'd shown any signs of agitation had been Ysabel. She had snapped and snarled and announced to all their faces that she wished the damned snowspeeder would go straight to hell and never come back to plague her or any of her techs ever again.

But Riekkan, worse luck, had never made it on to the final transport from Hoth. He'd ended up as just another casualty of war, linking his life with an episode of history, just as Antilles and Dodonna had done before him. Which meant that Command was an unknown quantity to him…

As were the ground crew at this particular point in time. He couldn't quite come to terms with Ysabel, who looked like an alien doppelganger had gone and replaced her. In dress uniform, with her sloppy coveralls exchanged for plain beige breeches and a khaki jacket which was belted neatly in place. Her leather boots were polished and shining, her blonde hair braided neatly back. And suddenly, those half-dozen years or so between them had become an immense gulf which he could never have dreamed of bridging. Her lean-boned face, her entire demeanour, carried with it an aura of endurance and of wisdom. And adding depth to this image was the respectable smattering of medals across her chest, gleaned through a dozen years of service within a military organisation where even a technician was forced on occasion to learn the true meaning of heroics.

Right now she was walking along before him, level with the Deck Officer. Their elbows just touching, an indication of complete solidarity, as if they were one single, independent entity…

Pilots and techs… Two sides of the same coin, perhaps, but they could not have been more different. Each needing the other to continue operating, but with different requirements, different objectives. And right now, the two reps from the ground crew were making it perfectly clear that they were out for themselves, displaying no intentions of jeopardising their own futures for anyone.

Understandable, and he didn't begrudge them their self-interest. Because if the ground staff didn't fight for themselves, then no one else would bother to defend them. So essential to the war were they, and yet so undervalued… Treated as the lowest of the low because they didn't willingly take up arms and fight with the rest of them.

Wedge was suddenly glad of Janson's presence, because at that moment in time he wasn't entirely sure of Ysabel's motivations. She'd become a complete stranger, her thoughts submerged beneath a mask of polite detachment.

He yearned to look like that, so full of self-confident composure. He felt hideously exposed, the air of the corridor chill against his neck. Ysabel had insisted that morning that he have his hair trimmed before he met his new superior officers. So he wouldn't look so unkempt, so disorganised.

So he wouldn't look so young…

There were a few hairs itching beneath the collar of his flightsuit, and it was irritating him, and he didn't want to go through with this, and he wished like hell that he could turn straight around and walk away from all of this…

The command reps awaited them in a small committee room near the bridge.

First thing that struck Wedge was the alien. A Mon Cal. Skin tone a rich, copper-tinged brown, eyes a haunting gold. He'd never seen one of them at close quarters before, though he'd seen some slip like shadows ahead of him through the corridors of the frigate. He'd heard that they'd become deeply involved in the war now, that they'd even supplied the command ships. Though, like so many non-human species, they seemed to keep themselves very much to themselves.

The Mon Cal was flanked by two human officers. Male, in their late forties, perhaps early fifties. Both were generals. They smiled, distantly, and the Mon Cal lifted a webbed hand and gestured to the chairs which flanked the side of the table which faced him.

Devrin and Ysabel were already heading over to the furthermost chairs and sitting themselves down, and neither of them looked remotely disturbed by the formality of the arrangement. But Ysabel shuffled the files in her hands, briskly, tapping the edges against the tabletop to align them correctly, while Devrin coughed in faint nervousness.

They were just as apprehensive then, despite their facades of indifference, and that made things feel a little easier. Wedge settled himself into the chair next to Ysabel's, and waited.

The Mon Cal drew breath, a huge rasping wheeze, then spoke, voice coarse as river gravel. “Commander Antilles? Congratulations upon your promotion.” He paused, drew another breath, then continued, “We understand how hard it must be for you to take on this burden of responsibility after what happened on Hoth, and I know that the loss of Commander Skywalker must be a source of profound sorrow to you. But we must look ahead now. We're sure you will be a most worthy successor. And may I say how good it is to see the son of Brennan Antilles achieving such a position of authority.”

Wedge stared stupidly across the table at him, unable to formulate a suitable reply.

But the Mon Cal was not expecting one. “May I introduce the acting members of the Command staff-”

And Wedge wasn't entirely listening to him, one absence suddenly striking him, filling him with concern. There's no sign of Princess Leia. She should be here… She's not… Where the hell is she?

“-to my left is General Ostinath, currently responsible for logistics and supply, I am Admiral Ackbar, and it is my responsibility to co-ordinate this campaign. All fighter-squadrons will be reporting directly to me.”

Ostinath cleared his throat. “Our command structure is currently in a state of flux, Commmander, and I hasten to add that all appointments must be considered temporary. Certain members of High Command are yet to join us here, and they may have different opinions as to how things should be run. Admiral Ackbar will, however, be remaining in his current position of authority, so things should remain consistent in that area, at least.”

Ackbar nodded his large head in agreement, then took a gasping breath once more before continuing. “My intention - and I see no reason why any incoming command staff should disagree with me on this point - is one of reconstruction. Morale is of utmost importance and we wish to build upon the achievements of the past, using them as a foundation upon which we can base a force which is prepared to face the future. Since you and Lieutenant Janson are a means by which that link with the past can be clearly maintained, we felt that you would be excellent individuals around which a new squadron could be created. Your appointment to this frigate - our command ship - has been quite deliberate. We require a crack fighter unit to be operational as quickly as possible, to function as much as a source of inspiration to the rest of our fighters as a means of defence. The establishment of this unit will be your responsibility, Commander. Are you prepared to accept it?”

Wedge still stared, blinked a few times. He'd dreamed of this moment, over and over again. And it couldn't be happening, it just couldn't… At last the words found their way out. “Uh, yes, er thank you, sir.”

“Then may we be the first to congratulate you, Red Leader,” Ackbar told him. “We look forward to working with you in the future. It is regrettable that Commander Skywalker could not be here to carry on his work, but war is war, I'm afraid.”

“There are rumours, Commander,” added Ostinath. “Concerning Commander Skywalker. Rumours about his disappearance. Rumours that he may have gone AWOL. There is no basis to any of this speculation. No basis whatsoever. We believe that Commander Skywalker's X-wing was hit during the evacuation. There are no indications that he turned his back on us and ran. I hope you will make this quite clear to anyone who may try and discuss the subject with you.”

He found all three senior officers staring emphatically across the table at him. And the words were too assured, too insistent. They didn't know, then, and now they were trying to prevent the gossip regarding Luke's disappearance from turning into a demoralising factor which sapped strength from the war effort. Didn't they know that it was too late, that any information they tried to feed out to the rank-and-file now would just be tossed back at them as proof of some sinister conspiracy theory being plotted by the new command staff?

First Luke. Now Princess Leia. Coincidence, or what…?

“Next item on the agenda,” murmured Ackbar. “Ships. Sergeant Jaconti, your appraisal of the situation, please?”

“Er, yes, sir,” responded Ysabel. She cleared her throat and opened the topmost file on the pile which lay neatly stacked before her. “We've made our preliminary examination of the ships provided, sir. Out of the nine, I consider two to be unworthy of sustained flight and I propose that we reserve those for spares. Of the other seven, I can say that while at present they are in varying conditions of repair, they should all be combat-ready by the end of this standard week.”

“Good,” commented Ackbar. “General Ostinath, if you please?”

“We can provide you with one more X-wing imminently and we will have in addition another two of the X-wing class available soon, perhaps in a month or two.”

Which made ten… Wedge cast a glance towards Ysabel, noted no change of expression on her face. But she must have been waiting with just as much trepidation for the news as he was.

“We were anxious to retain the X-wing as our primary combat ship, for the short to the medium-term at least,” explained Ackbar. “Though it is said now that it is losing its lead over its rivals. There are some who say these ships should be rendered obsolete as soon as possible as a result of their age, but in my opinion it has as much symbolic value as anything.”

“Sir,” Ysabel spoke out, irritation clearly apparent in her voice. “The comments made against the Incom T-65 in certain quarters are no more than a fallacy. We've carried out extensive research and development over the years, and the X-wing's current capabilities cannot even be compared with those shown by the ships that flew at Yavin. In the hands of a skilled pilot they can still outmanoeuvre anything the Empire might care to fling at us.”

“That may be the case, Sergeant,” retorted Ostinath. “But the way in which you presented your statement just then illustrated the problem quite clearly. You said yourself that what we require is a trained pilot. Skilled pilots take a long time to train up properly, remember. It is also a fact that the TIE Interceptor has been developed by Imperial researchers with the sole aim of tackling the X-wing on equal terms. Therefore I believe that it is time to address this problem, and I am proposing to the council that we should seriously consider investing more in the A-wing. It is, after all, the fighter of the future. I agree with Admiral Ackbar that at the moment a recognition of our past is important, but we cannot cling to it indefinitely, I'm afraid.”

Ysabel glowered at him in indignation from across the tabletop, but didn't offer a reply.

Ackbar took a massive breath once more, then said, “Commander, I am prepared to keep an open mind upon this matter for the moment, but we are facing a serious shortfall in X-wing numbers, one which can only be rectified by requisitioning alternative craft and using them until a full compliment of X-wings can be achieved once more. Since you are the flight leader, I feel it is imperative that you become accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of the ship. We have arranged for you to receive instruction in its handling from one of the test pilots who worked on it. I hope this is acceptable?”

Wedge shrugged listlessly in response, knowing that the question was rhetorical. And he felt strangely resigned to the ignimony of the fact that he, the Alliance's longest-serving fighter-pilot, was being forced to take flying-lessons.

“Here are your files, sir,” said Ackbar, and he pushed a thick wad of sheets across the table towards Wedge. “A shortlist of eighteen names, from which you are expected to structure the flight. There are of course facilities available for combat sims which you may use. May I suggest that you commence your work as soon as possible? And I think that's all I have to say. Have you any further questions?”

They all said nothing.

“Very well, then,” said Ackbar. “We will be reconvening in a few days' time to discuss the assessments and final line-up. That will be all then, thank you. Dismissed.”

Ysabel stormed her way down the corridor, her polite annoyance instantly transformed into livid fury. “What the hell did they think they were on about? Invest more in the A-wing! Never heard such crap in all my life!”

“Step closer to the enemy,” commented Devrin. “Economy move, you see. Get more reasonable pilots sooner, and pay less per ship, too. Quicker turnover. Fast results, short-term gain.”

“It's obscene!” Ysabel loudly declared. “That damn A-wing might take you away from trouble better, but there always comes a time when you just can't get out of something. Then what'll happen? It's at times like that when the X-wing's a life-saver. It'll take a hell of a lot more damage and that way it'll give you a better chance of survival. With an X-wing you can hang on a little longer 'till someone can step in and save your ass. I don't know how many times a pilot's life's been saved because the X-wing is so solid and robust. Take Wedge here. He wouldn't have lived to take on the role of red Leader if he'd flown one of those tin-cans at the Battle of Yavin.”

“You know, if they get their way then we'll all be out of a job this time next year,” added Janson. “Only one of us with a future here is the damn Deck Officer. Least stomping around the hangar looking pissed off and yelling at people all the time isn't something which has to be restricted to one type of ship.”

“Then maybe we can all get promoted to Deck Officer,” retorted Ysabel. “Have four people stomping around yelling at people instead of one. That would give them all something to think about, wouldn't it?”

“If they want to replace the X-wing, then they can replace the flight leader, too,” Wedge said, sourly. “They can make me obsolete along with the techs and the flight crew.”

“That way we could maybe set up our own independent franchise,” suggested Janson.

“Don't get so worked up,” Devrin advised. “Not yet. You're all acting like the change is going to happen tomorrow. It's long-term, remember. I'll bet it'll be a year, at least, before we even notice anything different. That gives everyone a long time to persuade our new commanding officers that their decisions are completely misguided.”

“Complacent optimism, Devrin,” said Ysabel, “just doesn't suit you. So cut it out, would you? Wedge and Janson'll do okay. They're young enough to adapt. But I'm a whole different matter. I've spent fourteen years working on the T-65, and there's no way I'm going to catch up on an entire history of R and D on something I'm not familiar with. Let's face it, I'm through.”

“Hell, Yzzi! A ship's a ship!” Devrin said. “It has engines, it has a hyperdrive, it has a weapons system. A transfer of knowledge, that's all. They'll always make room for you.”

“Making room for me is not enough!”

Janson laughed. “Sure, Yzzi. I know what the problem is. You just don't want to give up the power and the suthority, do you? That's it, isn't it?”

And Ysabel's silence spoke eloquently of her feelings on the matter.

The shortlist went up in the rec lounge later on that morning. Wedge stuck the sheet up on the noticeboard, acutely aware of the stares which were focussed upon him. He barely had time to vacate the board's vicinity before an eager flurry of fifteen men - and, of course, one woman - descended upon it.

Wedge returned to Janson and pulled a woebegone face at his friend. “This is going to be wonderful.”

“Tell me about it,” Janson agreed, pushing a beer in Wedge's direction. “So what's the situation?”

Wedge frowned in concentration, rethinking his schedule. “I'm giving everyone a shot on the sims tomorrow. That gives me a chance this afternoon to read through the files. The bureaucracy, Janson! It's just way out of line! Seems like I'm drowning in admin already and I was only officially appointed this morning!”

“That's life,” sighed Janson and he cast a wry grin at Wedge. “Who knows what's going to happen to you now, Wedge? Too much paperwork and you'll wind up turning into a clone of Devrin. Now that's a thought, isn't it?”

Wedge just gave him a withering look in response.

He went down to his room to read up on his future pilots, couldn't concentrate, so in the end he trailed down to the hangar, files and all, and sat himself down on an empty packing case to work while the techs were preoccupied with painting his ship. Janson soon showed up, too, bored with all the inactivity. He was happy to keep Wedge company, and, though he never said so, was quite plainly eager to find out more about their future colleagues.

Wedge had just started reading file number six when the bad news first struck him. “Oh, hell!”

“What?” asked Janson.

“She's a Commander.”

“Commander? Sheesh…”

“Listen. 'Commander Cyndi Toscanna' it says here. She's had six months in charge at some backwater base somewhere. Sounds like she's got promise…”

Janson laughed. “Watch your back, Wedge!” he warned his friend. “If the little lady gets a demotion, then she'll have a knife sharpened ready with your name on it.”

Wedge gave a sigh of petulant disbelief. “Great. The bastards had to land me with this.”

“Poetic justice,” Janson reminded him. “I remember how you were when Luke showed up. Smiling sweetly to his face and muttering poison behind his back. True friendship.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Wdge, looking slightly uncomfortable. It was time, he decided, to change the subject, so he looked over towards his ship once more, placing a hand over his eyes to shield them from the harsh hangar lights. “Hey, Yzzi! What the hell are you guys doing over there? There's more paint on you and Jace than there is on the X-wing.”

Ysabel regarded him angrily from one of the upper foils, glowering at him from behind paint-spattered goggles. She pulled away the breathing-mask from her face and mouth then retorted. “Up yours, Antilles! You want this lady tidied up for you or not?”

“Mixed feelings!” he replied. “Think I'm going to have to dig out the snow-goggles again. Else I'll be going blind with the snow glare every time I step inside this place!”

“Hah, hah,” she said, sourly. “Go do something useful, would you? Instead of sitting there filling in forms and winding up those of us who are stuck with doing the real work round here. I'm parched. Get us a galshi, would you?”

“I make that, oh, around thirty-five minutes since the last one,” mentioned Janson. “Not really good enough, Sergeant Jaconti. Think Commander Antilles is going to have to do something about the time-management in this place.”

“This is proper time-management!” Jace retorted. “We're saving resources here. Getting the two of you to bring our refreshments over to us is making good use of resources. And it'll cut at least six minutes off the standard time recommended for a break. So don't complain.”

“Janson,” said Wedge, keeping his face as straight as he could. “You heard them. Techs want refreshments and they want them now. I'm delegating that responsibility to you. So go see to it, would you? Right now.”

Janson tutted. “Conspiracy!” he muttered. But, as he stamped his way off towards the drinks dispenser, he was smiling, all the same.

They all took a break then. Ysabel and Jace were grateful for the rest and they sat themselves down next to Wedge, their coveralls marked in places by splashes of white paint.

The Deck Officer soon noticed their little gathering and he came ambling over to join them. “Chatter's getting worse down here,” he commented.

Ysabel looked up towards him. “Tell me more.”

“It's all about Luke and his little disappearing trick. Yeah, I know Command's gone and released its official version, but that cover-up doesn't seem to be working very well. Rank-and-file aren't having it.”

“Command shouldn't keep trying to insult our intelligence like this,” Ysabel declared. “Strikes me it's obvious. Falcon's not here, for one thing, and we all saw that Princess Leia wasn't there on the command council. They've run into trouble and Luke went back to get them out of it. Simple.”

“So why didn't they pick up something on the general com?” argued Devrin. “And how did Luke know they'd got into difficulties? Some kind of message would have had to have reached the com staff.”

“Devrin, you're getting as jittery as the rest of them,” Ysabel told him, sternly. “Luke just wouldn't have run out on us like that. No way. You know that. I know that. And that's final.”

Her determination didn't convince the Deck Officer, who shrugged and winced in reluctant denial. “I wish I had your conviction, Ysabel,” he replied. “But to tell you the truth, I'm not entirely sure what to think right now…”

“What's new?” retorted Janson, lifting his head and offering Devrin a cheeky grin. “Lieutenant Indecisive strikes again!”

Devrin gave him an injured look.

Ysabel glared at them all, her expression almost defensive. “So it's weird? Okay, I accept that. But I know Luke. We all do. And we know that this is not like him. He wouldn't have abandoned us this way without one hell of a good reason. I'm sure about that. I'd even bet a month's wages on it. There's no way that he would turn tail like that and leave us. No way. That's right, isn't it? Wedge, you agree with that, don't you?”

But Wedge, for once, had no reply to give to her. No words of reassurance seemed to come to him as he sat there, filled with gloomy confusion, wanting to be optimistic, while at the same time a favourable outcome to Luke's disappearance seemed to be getting increasingly unlikely.

At eleven-forty shipboard the following morning she was waiting there for him. The mysterious female X-wing pilot, her body slouched nonchalantly against the simulator. Her legs were long, her finely-shaped oval face quite straight and bereft of any humour. The whole demeanour she presented was one of lazy elegance and faint arrogance.

As he arrived to join her she straightened slightly. Smiled at him in faint welcome, but her eyes remained cool, distant, almost calculating.

Or was he already inventing imagined plots against him?

“Commander Toscanna?” he asked amicably.

The smile evaporated. “Lieutenant, actually,” she replied, coldly, and the grey eyes which were focussed upon him narrowed into a hostile glower. “They pulled my rank down just as soon as they transferred me. Or didn't you know that?”

He hadn't expected that one, and the sharp retort threw him somewhat. “I, er, I'm afraid I wasn't told,” he stammered.

She gave a little snort of disgust and held her head high in lofty disdain. “Organisation round here stinks.”

“I think I'll second that one,” he agreed, and his attitude seemed to shake her grim composure slightly. The frown on her face became marginally less antagonistic, more confused, as if she didn't quite know what to make of his reaction. So he seized the moment to push the bundle of files he held under one arm and thrust his now-empty hand towards her. “Delighted to meet you,” he told her. “I'm Wedge Antilles and I'm acting flight leader for the squad just now.”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” she replied, but she shook hands all the same. “Look, Antilles, don't take this personally, but I don't respect people until they earn it. Okay, so you flew through Yavin? So you were on the Death Star raid? So what? Just because you were in the right place at the right time doesn't make you some kind of a hero.”

“I've never claimed that it did.”

The way he'd just tried to shrug aside his notoriety seemed to unsettle her even more, She paused, carefully considering her next words. Then she looked him straight in the eyes, and said, “Sir, objectively speaking, I'd say I was a good pilot. It's your decision whether or not I get into this flight, but I won't be too impressed if certain mitigating circumstances operate against me.”

Wedge stared at her, and it was his turn to look perplexed now. “Why should they?

His confusion only seemed to irritate her. “Let me put it straight, sir. You may say this is presumptious of me, but I've heard it said you're something of a misogynist.”

“I'm what?”

“To put it bluntly, sir. You don't like women.”

“Huh?” Wedge floundered for a response, astounded by her allegation. “Look, who told you this?”

“I heard people say it around the mess, sir.” The accusation was even stronger in her gaze.

He couldn't just stand there and take that kind of slander in silence. “So who the hell was this?” he demanded. “Wasn't the com staff, by any chance, was it?”

“In point of fact it was, sir.”

“Well, I…” He stumbled into silence once more, fighting to contain his anger at the com staff's collective unpleasantness. Because it was so unfair, that all this bad feeling aimed at Ysabel should somehow end up collapsing on top of him. He sighed, fitfully, felt the rage boil away inside of him and could maintain his dignified silence no longer. “What the hell's going on round here?” he exclaimed, his voice loudly defensive. “Can't even live my life without the damn com staff providing some kind of long-running social commentary. Look, Lieutenant, the com staff aren't the ones to talk to. Half the techs in this place are women. Go talk to them. Or if you really want to know how this hangar works then maybe you should go have a chat with Sergeant Jaconti.”

“Ah, but you would say that, sir,” she retorted, in barbed response to his invitation.

He took a deep breath, dumbfounded by the unspoken allegation implicit in her words. “Lieutenant,” he said, “all I ask is that you put aside these preconceptions just now. I'm here today so I can give you a chance, but I need exactly the same degree of cooperation from you.”

“Forgive my reluctance, sir,” she replied, “but I'd just like to remind you of my circumstances. I'll have to put my life on the line for you. Your decisions, Commander, will mean life or death for me. I'm aware of that - as I'm sure you are - and that's why I have reservations. I came here expecting to be fighting for some kind of seasoned war vet, and I find myself looking at a kid. Okay, so you've survived most of the major engagements the Alliance has ever fought, but maybe there's people out there wondering why you survived. You've got a reputation, sir, and it's not a very encouraging one. Maybe you won't like me for coming out with this, but at least I'm being honest and telling you exactly what I think.”

“So what else have you heard?” asked Wedge, coldly. “Is it only me that's coming in for this kind of flak round here? Perhaps you'd have preferred if it Commander Skywalker was still in charge.”

“Sir, we all know that Commander Skywalker isn't here,” she said. “And maybe there's people wondering why he didn't turn up at the rendezvous. Now, I'm not be any means superstitious, but I've heard some people say that you and this whole damn flight are jinxed. They say that's maybe why Skywalker did a runner. They say that's why he turned around and kept on going. 'Cause at least that was he was getting out of it when he could.”

“That was below the belt, lady!” snarled Wedge. “Luke was my friend, and I don't know what the hell's happened to him, but I know for a fact that if he left this place then he had a damn good reason for doing so. I've fought with Skywalker for three years and I've saved his hide in a dogfight more times than I can remember. And he's done exactly the same for me. I'm prepared to give that kind of loyalty to any one of you out there, but how am I meant to do that when I know you hate me before I even get any kind of chance to get to know you? Despite what people say about me, I don't care what sex you are. If you make the grade and get into this flight, then you'll be treated the same as anyone else. Alright? So if you want that chance then just go on and get in the sims, would you?” He gestured quickly towards the simulator.

He closed his eyes briefly, pausing before he followed her. He hadn't meant to lose control like that, but the stress of listening to all those accusations had finally grown too much. The wave of responsibility hit him again with a vengeance, tugging at him like vertigo.

He felt suddenly depressed and he stared bleakly towards the starscape which lay beyond the hangar entrance. Wishing, in sudden desperation, that Luke had made it back and spared him all of this antagonism.

“Heard you finally lost your temper,” remarked Janson, sitting down at the table with a beer in either hand. He slid one of the disposable cups across the table to Wedge, who looked up from his files with a half-hearted frown.

“Oh?” replied Wedge, noncommittally. “Who said that?”

“Alinna. She just happened to be checking out the outlying parts-stores when you had that little disagreement with Lieutenant Toscanna outside the simulator. She said she couldn't believe it. Said she'd never heard you fly off the handle like that before.”

Wedge winced. “That bad?”

“What did she say to you?”

“Nothing much,” muttered Wedge. He scanned the list before him and sighed. “She's a hot flier.”

“Good for her,” said Janson.

“No, I mean it. Damned good. Joanson…” He paused, looked across at his friend.

Janson caught his gaze. “Yeah, what?”

“I don't want to have to say this, because I thought it was only fair that you should have the opportunity to carry on with the flight if anything should happen. To me, that is… But she's got the right stuff for command, And she's experienced, too.”

“So you're pushing me down the line?” Janson shrugged. “That's fine by me.”

“Janson-” Wedge began, cautiously.

Janson just laughed. “Look, Wedge, it's not all of us who want to be the best there is. I should've thought that you'd know me better than that by now. Make her your deputy. I don't care. If you want the truth, Wedge, then I'd be happier staying as your wing. Really, Wedge. I'm not just saying it to make you feel better. I'm proud to fly with you.”

Wedge looked startled by his response. “Really?”

“Really. So go on. Make her feel like she's worth something. She's already been slapped in the face by Command so you might as well try and make things up to her now. Give her some kind of responsibility. It'll make her respect you more and probably be better for the flight.”

“But Janson…”

Janson shook his head, amused by Wedge's apologetic response. “Wedge, I'm not insulted. In fact, I'm kind of relieved. I wouldn't want to take over from you. Not if something happened. It just wouldn't seem right.”

Wedge nodded, wondering if Janson had exactly the right attitude. If passing on the right of succession might have been the sensible thing to do. Because that way, you didn't have to fulfil the expectations that came with your inheritance, that way you didn't have to take on the collective mantles of all those who'd gone before you…

Once there's been Skywalker. Now there was Antilles. That's the way it was now and there was no changing it. No going back. And so he'd just have to make the best of things, just as Luke had done before him.

That evening, after he'd run all the prospective flight members through the sims and had some dinner, he left the company of Janson and the techs and wandered over to where the first woman to be accepted into Red Flight was hunched alone with a beer at a deserted table.

He couldn't blame her for being so uncivilised towards him that morning. He'd felt like tearing the world around him to shreds when he'd been stationed on the Liberty with Janson for those few long days after they'd shown up here for the rendezvous, and he guessed she was probably in a similar mood right now. They'd dragged her away from her base; she'd left most, if not all, or her friends behind her there, so it was small wonder that she was taking out her feelings of isolation on everyone else in her vicinity.

Wedge wasn't renowned for being overtly sociable, but a little act of friendship never went amiss, he reckoned, and it looked like she could do with some company right now. But, following her words to him earlier, he found himself fervently hoping that she wouldn't take this the wrong way. Or else he'd never live it down, when she went around telling the com staff that the obnoxious Wedge Antilles had designs on her body.

“May I join you?” he asked her, his voice sounding a little sheepish.

Her response was equally subdued. She shrugged and gestured to a nearby chair.

Mentioning the events of that morning was not, he felt, a constructive start to the conversation. So he omitted any reference to her caustic remarks towards him, his explosive response, and the icy politeness they'd shown to one another all the way through the twenty-five minutes of combat simulation.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You're in the flight.”

She lifted the cup before her to her lips, sipped the beer within, and raised her eyebrows briefly in nonchalant acknowledgement. “Thank you.”

“Look, Lieutenant-”

“Call me Cyndi, sir. It is my name.”

“Well, okay then, Cyndi. I just wanted to tell you that I wanted to get you a drink. I mean, you flew pretty well today, considering the fact that we'd just had that slight altercation, and I, er, just wanted to let you know that I was really impressed.” His voice faded and he blushed in furious frustration at his own verbal ineptitude. Am I really coming out with this crap? he asked himself. Woman'll think I'm either desperate to bed her or a complete jerk. Or maybe even both… He grimaced at the thought. “Er, maybe I'd better rephrase all that…”

And to his horror, she was smiling. Then she laughed, looking profoundly embarrassed herself. “Those damn com officers!” she snorted. “Wound me up beautifully, didn't they? Know what, Wedge? They were coming out with all this bantha-shit about you being some kind of a malicious ladykiller who had a real ego problem when it came to women! And I fell for it. And what do I find instead? Some awkward kid who copes well enough when he's in the orange and can act the part of responsible leader just fine, but who still doesn't know what he's doing as far as social politics are concerned.”

“Thank you,” muttered Wedge, looking crestfallen.

“Don't take it like that!” she told him, earnestly. “Hell, I'm the one that should be apologising. I was rough on you today. I said some pretty mean things, considering I'd never even met you before. So maybe I'll remember what you said in future. About preconceptions.”

He smiled slightly. “Good. Because I've been thinking things through and I was discussing the situation with Janson, and well, I thought I should tell you that so far you're the favourite for the post of deputy. Depends on the flight tomorrow, but I felt you showed the right kind of attitude, as well as the most polished flying amongst the whole lot of them. Only thing is; you're probably thinking I'm just doing this so you won't get anything to gripe about.”

Cyndi shook her head. “I don't think so, Wedge. I should've known better than to trust a bunch of gossiping com staff. To tell you the truth, I thought I'd really gone and screwed things up this morning.”

“No, no. These things happen sometimes… Look, do you want to join us over there? You should maybe get to know some more of the techs and the Deck Officer and all that. And anyway, you looked kind of lonely…”

She responded to his clumsy invitation with a genuinely grateful smile. “I'd like that very much.”

So they left their seats and filed their way back across the room towards where the others had congregated around one of the larger tables. She was nervous, Wedge could tell, but he did what he could to help put her at ease, offering her some brief small-talk as they crossed the floor, telling her a little about those whose company they would shortly be joining. And that, at least, seemed to reassure her. Her laughter grew less strained, less forced, her reactions to his conversation more natural. It was strange, to think that he might have been the one behind her trepidation, to realise that his presence might be something that others could not deal with now. To understand that he'd suddenly become transformed into something great, cast in this role of authority that so many would view with respect, even awe.

When, all the time, what he wanted was to be himself.

The paintwork on his X-wing was finally finished the following afternoon. He'd taken Janson and Cyndi and a couple of the others out for some practice at strafing runs and he returned with a strong of complaints about the state of the ship he'd been temporarily allocated. But there were none of the senior techs to be seen when he landed and, when he quizzed the junior tech who'd helped him disembark, the youth helpfully pointed Wedge over towards where his preferred ship was berthed. “They're over there,” he said, gesturing across to where a crowd of ground staff had gathered round the X-wing in question. “Sergeant Jaconti said I should ask you to go and see her once you landed. They're just finishing up now.”

“Thanks,” said Wedge and he hurried off towards the others. He pulled his helmet from his head and frowned, wondering what all the apparent high spirits were in aid of. “What's going on?” he inquired of the Deck Officer.

“Final touches,” explained Devrin, and he thrust a plastic cup into Wedge's gauntleted hand. “We're celebrating.”

Wedge looked doubtfully down at the cup he now held and found it half-filled with wine, rich red in colour. “The other ship-”

“-is crap. I know,” Devrin replied, and his voice sounded unusually animated. “Don't you go and worry about that. This one's ready for you now. So you'd better come and drink to its success.”

“Oh, right!” Wedge understood now, dimly recalling memories of similar events. But he'd been excluded then, an onlooker destined to view things from afar. There'd be an official inauguration ceremony later, he supposed, but this was the techs' way of affirming that he was now the one in command.

And this, he felt, was a gesture which meant more than a thousand words of gratitude from the brass.

“He's here!” Devrin announced, shouldering his way through the crowd of ground staff. The buzz of chatter grew even more intense now and Wedge eventually arrived at his ship to find Jace perched on the crew-ladder and Ysabel standing upon the nose, thoughtfully surveying her surroundings.

“Let's get things started then!” said Jace. He held his cup aloft, flourished it in Wedge's direction and called, “Here's to Red Wing, and here's to the new Red Leader!”

The resulting cheer that erupted from the techs who were huddled behind Wedge was almost deafening, and they all swallowed the meagre ration of wine that's each been allotted with equally vigorous enthusiasm.

Ysabel threw her now-empty cup to the floor, stretched out her hand towards Jace, who passed her the wine bottle. She regarded the dregs, critically, then held the bottle up over her head at arm's length, a flamboyant gesture which seemed quite unashamedly aggressive. “This lady's payload's going to be more than just proton torpedoes!” she announced, loudly. “She'll be giving those damned Imps some gifts from all of us. This ship's going to bring them a taste of the things we've been forced through all these years. Like fear, and hate and death, and retribution. Give 'em hell, Wedge!”

The applause and the whistles started up again, growing in intensity as Ysabel up-ended the bottle. The last of the wine flooded out, splashed down upon the pristine white of the X-wing's nose, trickling down the sides like rivulets of blood.

The symbolism was disturbing, deliberately so, and Wedge was transfixed by the sight, only vaguely aware of the collective zeal of his comrades. They were slapping him on the back, and their high spirits were infectious. Despite the horror that Ysabel's overt expressions of malice towards the enemy provoked, there was another part of him that thrilled at the prospect of the future. Part of him wanted out of there right now, wanted to take the ship into battle, allowing it to fulfil the expectations that its new identity brought with it. The excitement of the chase was almost overpowering, the promise of the future pulling at him like a magnet.

While around him the techs were dispersing. Wandering off to duties elsewhere, leaving him alone there with his X-wing. He was content to revel in this sudden isolation and he used the opportunity to gaze approvingly upon his ship. The paintwork glowed fresh white, save where the wine had stained the nose in places, and he could just catch a glimpse of the marking on the foil which proclaimed his newly achieved status here.

He sighed, thoughtfully.

Someone's hand tugged on his shoulder and looked around to see Ysabel standing there beside him. “How did the flight go?” she asked him.

“They're flying well. Toscanna's good. I let her run things on her own for a while and she knows what she's doing okay. I think it's going to work out.”

“Then why are you so down?”

Wedge shrugged. “It still doesn't seem right. Luke never saw any of this. Didn't get any official kind of recognition. And I have… I just hope I'm able to do as well as he did. I'm not him, after all.”

“Then don't pretend to be. You've got your own way of doing things. Don't try and force yourself into being another Luke, because it just won't work.”

“Suppose…” He gazed over at his X-wing once more, brooding silently, then suddenly he smiled. “You know? I had this feeling when I was out there. That everything would turn out okay. That I'd do justice to what he'd started.”

“Course you will,” she replied. “But there's one thing you haven't really thought about. What if he does come back?”

And it was true. He hadn't even considered it. He gave her a look of wary uncertainty. “Is that likely?”

It was her turn to shrug. “I don't know. Like you, I have this feeling. But it's a hunch, about him. You've been getting really aggravated recently because you know it's right that he should have gone this way. Well, I know what you mean. But I'm not going to let it get to me, because I know inside that the kid hasn't really gone. He'll be back, I'm telling you. One of these days, that tatty old X-wing of his is going to come in from that hangar, and he's going to come leaping out of it, all grinning and boisterous like he's never been away.”

It was almost possible to believe that she was right. And then what would happen? To him, and to all those future possibilities he was already constructing in his thoughts?

The sound of engines shook him from his reverie. Engines which weren't those of an X-wing. He blinked, turned his head towards the sound of the disturbance, and found that already the newcomer was attracting itself an audience. Members of the tech crew were heading off towards it, as if its exotic presence drew them closer on some nameless pilgrimage which they were powerless to resist.

Wedge regarded it, sadly, feeling pangs of resignation as the ship flew nearer. It was small, made up of a long flattish nose section, a cockpit and an engine assembly and not much else. Light and neat and insubstantial, but nevertheless elegant, in an ephemeral kind of way. The lean efficiency of its outline was accentuated by a broad stripe of reddish-brown which stretched from the cockpit canopy right down to the tip of the nose. Its unfamiliarity was what had gripped the techs' attention so completely; as Wedge looked on wearily, the Deck Officer flagged it down in a clear stretch of the hangar floor.

The engine faded, the cockpit opened and the pilot rose to his feet, pausing as a ladder was brought over to him. He stepped out, his drab green uniform looking somewhat out-of-place. But the tech crew were curious, obviously, and he loitered there on the ladder, revelling in the novelty of their interest.

There was something in the body language. Something which set the teeth vaguely on edge. The A-wing pilot was basking in the attention her was being given here, arrogance oozing off him in almost palpable amounts. And then he saw Wedge. He must have done, for he turned his head and returned the X-wing pilot's stare. He didn't move, just stayed immobile for a few long seconds, keeping imagined long-distance eye-contact, then finally he raised his hand up high in a thumbs up gesture, an action which smacked as much of faint superiority as it did solidarity.

Wedge's view of this interloper was framed by the familiar shape of his X-wing, which stood there, safe, permanent in this time of change. And the juxtaposition of images was in itself unsettling. He sighed, and looked dejectedly down at the helmet he still held in his hand.

Past and future. Old and new… Which, he wondered, would his name be associated with?