First Published in 'A Tremor in the Force' # 8

1. In Memoriam

Diplomatic immunity.

What a farce!

And she laughed to herself, dark sardonic humour. Because that was all one could do. Laugh. When all of a sudden it felt like the universe had staggered down onto its knees in preparation for the final stroke to slit its throat.

They'd always said it was a mistake to play games of chance with Vader. Inside, they'd all believed that Brennan Antilles had known it as much as anybody else, when he took the Tantive IV out on another supply run for the Rebellion. And while he'd always tried to hide behind that shield called 'diplomacy', it was obvious that diplomacy would never have made much impression on the Dark Lord.

So Brennan had finally taken one chance too many, and in doing so he'd dragged his crew down with him, down into the hell he'd made for himself by daring to defy the Empire for so long. And he'd taken his son, too.

That knowledge left an even sourer taste in her mouth. The man she loved, meeting his end at Vader's hands. She shuddered instinctively at the thought, wishing she had some other answer to her doubts and fears than those hateful letters, M.I.A.

There could be no hope, after all. All the thoughts that filled her head were black. No light of redemption there; just sickening visions of what he might be going through. And yet everyone here just expected her to keep smiling and get on with her life as if his corpse had been neatly laid out before her eyes.

No, she wouldn't shake herself from this melancholy for a long, long time. Not when she had to lie awake in her bunk thinking about what they might be doing to him. Reflecting on the fact that the body of the man with whom she'd spent so many nights of relaxed pleasure would be suffering who knows what as those craven brutes did all they could to tear the knowledge he had about the Rebellion from him.

That thought made her shudder. That he should meet his death this way. Huddled somewhere in pain, no doubt. Begging them to ease his agony, perhaps, and that possibility was enough to make her eyes smart with renewed grief. He had been so proud, so self-assured. And they would break him, sooner or later, because they could break anyone.

And he'd probably be thinking of her.

That knowledge haunted her like a leering phantasm all the time. Made her start from her work in the day, woke her at night, and turned the food she forced herself to eat into nothing more than tasteless glue which sank slowly down into her gut.

He'd be thinking of her, and she was powerless to help him. Impotent to do anything which might save him, stuck here in idle frustration while she watched the X-wings come and go.

Though she supposed it hadn't been much different when he'd still been here. She'd never been able to offer him anything more concrete than meaningless words and warmth and soothing hands at night.

What good was that in the end? In truth, very little, when lying beside a man who was so damn scared he didn't even want to know about his duties anymore. Torn between loyalty to his father and service to the Royal House of Alderaan, and hanging onto those things he had here on Yavin. A woman who loved him, and some kind of security against the marauding threat of the Empire.

Last time they'd been together, he'd confessed it all to her. Poured out his problems as they lay there side by side in the dark. She'd wondered then if Brennan had known how badly Vance was taking all of this. Brennan had kept no secrets from his son, revealing all the fears and troubles which plagued him, finding some kind of comfort in Vance's inevitable optimism. When all the time Vance had been living out a lie, unwilling to inflame his father's paranoia yet further by admitting his own fear. Yet he'd had to tell someone. Had to share the feeling of lonely and inevitable destruction with someone who would listen.

All she could do was offer sympathy and kindness. She'd had no answer, because there wasn't one. They never openly addressed the fact. They hadn't needed to, because it was so damn obvious. And as the weeks and the months passed, and Vader kept up his games of cat-and-mouse which spanned the length and breadth of the Galaxy, Vance's whole outlook had changed. The transition had come slowly, and it hadn't been until the last time they'd slept together that she'd been truly aware of it.

He'd been so tense and anxious, the muscles in his shoulders and back stiff and unyielding, and acting almost as if he were unwilling to go the full way. But she'd eased the agitation out of him, finally had him more relaxed, and then they'd enjoyed each other's company the way they used to, before this nightmare started getting out of hand. While all the time they'd known that the Tantive IV would be heading to Alderaan the following day, and that Vader was getting a little tired of hearing the words 'diplomatic mission' quoted faithfully back at him every time they had a run-in at jump points.

And after they'd made love, they'd lain together in the cramped intimacy of the bunk in her quarters and he'd confessed that he wasn't sure if he would ever see her again, and that he thought he was running out of time.

He'd wept, too, and that had her scared for him. He normally acted so flippant towards danger, laughing off the supply shipments like they'd been nothing more than a smuggling run in the Outer Rim, and not a showdown with the Imperial Forces which teetered upon disaster each time they happened.

Then she'd heard the news.

The Tantive had run into trouble and hell if she believed that yarn the Empire was concocting right now. She'd talked to Command about it and the prognosis wasn't good. Dodonna was depressed because he'd lost a friend in Brennan and he had a right to take it badly. While she was inconsolable.

We have to look to the future, Dodonna had told her. And she had to agree, just to make him feel better, because Jan had known Brennan for years, and Brennan's loss was making him remember his own mortality. We have to look the boy, now Brennan's gone. She'd wanted to snarl back that Wedge could look after himself now, thank you very much, but those sentiments hadn't stayed long.

Wedge needed them, more than he ever had before. He'd been a kid when he came there, was still a kid in most people's reckoning, even though he'd killed enough men in his own right to make the civilised people out there shiver in disgust. His youthful innocence had touched them all when he came there, reminding them of how they'd all been once, in the days before naivety had fallen victim to the vicious circumstances which had dragged them from a kaleidoscope of past lives into this conflict. Now he in his turn had been plunged straight into brutal recognition of this war, same as they all had before him.

She wondered if Wedge was seeing this in the same way. Wondered if the boy had any real understanding of what was happening. Wondered if he felt things like she did, when he'd never yet seen with his own eyes what could happen, and had never witnessed Imperial barbarism at close quarters in his life. While she had and now she spent her life reflecting on Vance and what might be happening to him.

Vance, who'd been just twenty-three years old, and now he'd as good as come to the end of his life. Just twenty-three years old, and they would be torturing him. And with his death her hopes for the future were dying, too. Nothing would ever mean the same to her after this, when she'd have no way of laying to rest the one who'd meant so much to her.

Someday, we'll win this war, she reminded herself. And then I'll look for you, my love. I won't be satisfied until I've searched every damn penal colony and labour camp from here to Kessel. And then perhaps I'll know…

Inside, though, she hoped she wouldn't find him. Hoped she wouldn't have to confront a shattered reflection of the man she'd once known. Because right now, she had her memories, of someone strong, someone full of life and vigour, and not a man who'd been driven to the edge of his sanity by the cruelty of the enemy.

Is it wrong to wish him dead? she wondered, feeling somehow guilty that she held such sentiments. Is it wrong to hope he died with some of his pride left intact, instead of hanging on, waiting? Waiting for someone to put an end to…

And the pain dragged its way through her soul once more. She leaned over the laser cannon, head reeling in momentary panic.

Until that time, all she could do was wait, powerless to take concrete action herself, perhaps, but then even a tech can do something, in her own little way… She drew her breath, sharply, wondering why she felt so bleak about the future, and why this sense of frustration was so intense.

Wasn't as if she were sitting here on her butt doing nothing except thinking. Not when she had twelve X-wings under her responsibility. Twelve fighters who'd be repaying the enemy on her behalf each time they took on the Imperials.

She slotted the new circuit boards into place, checked the linkages and smiled in poignant satisfaction at last, as she locked the panel back down. This was her small part in the tragic drama that surrounded her, and hell if she wasn't going to do it properly. She wasn't exactly on her own. Hard to remember, sometimes, when the melancholy took hold of her, and she wanted to lash out at anyone who made the mistake of coming near her. There were others here. Others who knew what it meant to her, who'd be willing and able to mete out revenge on those who'd wronged her…

2. Surviving

The TIE buzzed past him, harsh engine scream ringing out through the shipboard speakers. He twisted the joystick, sending the X-wing banking after it. The 'scopes lit up amber and somewhere in the back of his mind he registered the warning, the words ringing out clear as a klaxon. He's behind you. He's closing in. Get the hell out of there while you can.

But the quarry was so close now, almost within range of his guns. He wanted to bring it down; longed to fire the fatal shot with a desperation that bordered upon frenzy. He pushed onwards after the Imperial ship, jinked in automatic response to the peril homing in on his tail, heard the speakers resounding to the electronic beeping of the warning system.

Still he lingered. Nearly got you, you bastard. Nearly blown you away. Not long now… Not long…

He opened fire, felt the vicious explosion of satisfaction blossom within him, as the TIE spewed fire against the stars. And then the thundering crack sounded, nearly deafening in its close proximity. The ship juddered; he felt it slew inexorably to the left. The stars were spinning before him, he felt sick as he watched them race and tumble in unfamiliar madness. No control. Just stuck here in a mortally wounded X-wing, waiting for them to blow him to pieces.

There was a final boom from the wallowing X-wing and the images faded. Stars were replaced by blackness and the crazing bucking and tossing of the fighter settled into still sanity once more.

He just sat there. Frozen into stupid immobility, too shocked even to read the computer analysis of his efforts. Stared at the words floating fuzzily onscreen, realised that his ability to focus was being ruined by tears, filling his eyes, swimming in inevitable preparation for the outburst.

He fought it. He fought it valiantly, pulling in one sharp breath after another, until his chest hurt with the effort. And then it all spilled out and he broke down, curling up against the side of the cockpit and howling out his despair. He beat against the instrument panel with his fist, taking out his anger on the simulator, because it - like everything else - had failed him.

Then, as quickly as it had erupted from within him, the grief had gone, and he sat back, soul hollow, the loss pulling deep inside. As he thought back to that horrible moment when he'd known that things were going wrong…

… They'd come down into the hangar. Willard and Dodonna. Walking through the echoing space amongst the X's and Y's. And when he'd first noticed them, something inside warned him that things weren't right.

He couldn't put a finger on it. Just felt a dark looming premonition of disaster as he watched them. Slowing up as they approached the Deck Officer, stopping to talk. A quiet huddle of senior staff having a private discussion amongst themselves.

He'd turned around then, breaking the sense of morbid fascination and horror which held his eyes to the scene before him. Cast a glance over his shoulder at the Chief Tech, wondering if she'd noticed.

She had. She was straightening up from where she'd been crouched over an engine on Red Leader's ship. Face long and straight with unfamiliar solemnity. But not moving from her post. As if she didn't really want to know. As if she wanted to keep any bad news at a distance as long as she could.

Because it was bad news. He'd felt that inside him just as soon as they'd come in and right now, they were looking straight at him, walking slowly towards him. Their expressions told him clearly that something had happened, as if they'd loudly shouted out their tidings. No humour, no laughter, in any of their faces. Only grim reluctance, an unwillingness to confront some hideous truth.

They were closing in on him, the dead serious line of officers making their inevitable way across the hangar. Hands clasped behind their backs, heads down. So they wouldn't have to look him in the face.

The words rang out inside his head, as he awaited them in silent panic. It's the Tantive. Something's happened to the Tantive. Dad, what have you gone and done? What's gone wrong?

“Wedge.” First name. Instant indication of disaster.

He stood upright, muscles locked in sudden rigid terror. Didn't want to hear it. Wanted to think they'd got it wrong. That someone, somewhere had made a mistake. He didn't speak, didn't acknowledge their presence. Waited there in numb anticipation for Dodonna to continue.

You see, Wedge, the day might come when we don't make it back. The Tantive runs a race with death every time she takes on a supply shipment. I hope that day won't come, but we've got to be realistic, haven't we? And he'd said it almost in jest, smiling slightly. Trying to hide the unease.

Things were changing out there. They'd tried to keep it from him, tried to protect him from their fear. But he'd noticed things that were different. Little things. Subtleties, really. Like the way his father acted in the rec lounge, slumped in the corner with Red Leader and Jan Dodonna, sipping away at a glass of brandy. Hardly talking, leaning back in against his chair in morose silence and brooding over past and future, when once he'd laughed with the others, enjoying the company of his comrades.

It was Vader's fault. Vader had told his father that it was only a matter of time. Vader said that he'd get that Alderaanian ship under some charge or other in the end. And Brennan Antilles had been shit scared of Vader, because Vader knew the Force and could sense things that any other blinkered official would look straight through.

“I'm sorry.” Dodonna smiled his grandfather's smile, eyes misting slightly.

“She's gone, isn't she?” he had replied and what had surprised more than than anything was the way he'd felt nothing. No emotion, just empty understanding. As if he watched someone else. He felt almost light-hearted, detached from the news.

Dodonna nodded, swallowed, then said, “They claim she hit a meteorite. Said they sent assistance, but found no survivors.”

And they're lying. The damned bastards are lying. Dad, what's happening to you and Vance? Where have they taken you? The panic was hitting him now, as the torrent of thoughts rushed in upon the initial sense of blank shock. As he realised that his father and his brother might be dead, might be dying. Might be suffering unimaginable agony for the part they played in the Rebellion.

Where are you, Dad? What're they doing to you? And Vance? Is he gone, too? Did they make one of you watch the other's death? And the horror of that possibility made his stomach cramp right up. It can't be happening to you You can't go. Not that way. It's a lie. A damn lie.

His shoulders shook and the sorrow crept out into the open. No loud explosion of grief, no angry denial. Just quiet acceptance. He wiped his hand across eyes, felt Dodonna's hand close gently upon his shoulder.

“Wedge, the news has come as a shock to all of us. He meant a lot to us, your father. He wasn't just a colleague; he was a friend. If there's anything we can do to help…”

Dodonna's voice failed him, quavering into awkward silence. Wedge stared at them, looked at the faces as if they belonged to strangers. Dodonna, brow creased with what looked like paternal concern. Willard, gazing at him with genuine anxiety. And the Deck Officer looking plain uncomfortable.

He didn't want their compassion. He didn't want their sympathy. All he wanted was somewhere he could scream out his frustration in peace, far away from this small army of well-meaning officers.

“What's going on?” The Chief Tech's voice spoke from over his shoulder, taut with fear.

“Come on, Yzzi, you'd better come with me.” The Deck Officer broke formation from the group, walking forward and leading her away.

While Wedge just stood there, unmoving, fighting to comprehend the enormity of his loss.

“We'll do our best for you, Wedge, I assure you,” said Dodonna, but the words were running almost unheard through his head. And he still stood like a startled animal caught in the glaring light of a huntsman's lamp, as they turned and made their slow, slump-shouldered retreat from him.

The wail of anguish echoed around him, and he flinched. Yzzi knew now and the sound of her violent reaction to the news touched a nerve deep within him. At last he wept, with the techs staring at him in semi-comprehending bewilderment…

… and since then life had been madness. He'd waded through it like he was floundering through nothingness, facing up to the training flights with vague disinterest, shying instinctively away from the bumbling sympathy of his comrades. Spending the nights with Ysabel, because she was the only one who knew how he felt. And they cried themselves to sleep, grieving over the loss of different fragments of their souls, as she mourned her lover, and he mourned his family. Locked together, in this nightmare of bereavement…

Now Red Leader was worried, apparently, because he wasn't reacting properly out in the training flights. He'd been ordered to get himself more hours logged up in sims and the result was disaster. His flying was gone, his inspiration dead with the Tantive, and he felt himself sinking into a miserable spiral of despair, channelling him ever downwards, sucking him further and further towards fatal oblivion…

“Antilles!”

Stirring from his introverted misery, he opened the door to the simulator, and stumbled out. Red Leader was standing there, arms folded across his chest, and he looked mad. “Not again, Antilles?”

Wedge nodded, shame-faced.

“You're supposed to learn from your mistakes, kid, not fall right into them time and time again. Pull yourself together.”

All Wedge could do was shrug in mournful apology. “Sorry.”

Red Leader sighed. “Listen Wedge,” he said, tone firm but kind. “I know it hurts. The only way the hurts gonna stop is if you end up as roast meat out there. And that ain't gonna do much good, is it? Who'll remember the Tantive then, when those that should be fighting in her name have killed themselves? You've got to get out of this, Wedge. For your father's sake, for your brother's. You have to fight for them now. Get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make sure you remember. Gold Leader's on a cargo strike tomorrow and I'm running escort duty. I need my wingmen working in top form. I want you and Darklighter, Wedge. Okay? And neither Biggs nor me want to get killed by any of your insane heroics. Your form's not too hot right now, but I want to trust you. Don't screw up on us.”

Wedge nodded.

“Briefing at nineteen hundred hours. We set off at twenty hundred hours. Short run, quick strike, then home. Nothing complicated. But the art of flying is using the limitations of your ship to your own advantage, not trying to push it into doing things that it just ain't capable of. Think about it.”

And he was gone.

***

Wedge watched the techs fuelling up his ship and setting the 'droid in place and he swallowed, feeling suddenly frightened at the prospect of taking that thing out of the hangar and straight into combat. He looked sadly down at the helmet he cradled in his arms. Its tatty dark grey colouring wasn't standard Rebel issue.

God knows where Vance had picked it up - Flying those pokey little death-traps just isn't my style, Wedge. Doubt I'll ever be needing it again. Dunno why I kept it, but you might as well have it know. Nope it brings you luck, little brother…

Vance's helmet. Constant reminder that he would have to live to fulfil the retribution, to bring justice down upon those who'd taken his family. He traced the central rub with his finger, idly outlining the broken black line which marked it.

“Hey, Wedge.” It was Biggs, standing beside him. “You okay now?”

Nervous for me, or nervous for yourself? Wedge almost said. But instead he just smiled, distantly. “Oh, yes. Quite alright.”

“I'll be right, if there's any problems,” Biggs assured him.

“There won't be any problems,” Wedge replied. And he'd suddenly lost the fear, just felt a sudden sense of savage elation. He was doing something real and concrete now, making someone out there pay, not chasing illusions across the flat unreality of the vid screen in the simulator.

“Wedge!” Ysabel was hailing him from where she stood by Red Leader's ship. She was looking grim-faced as she stood there, hands on hips. “Kill them,” she told him, flatly. “For me, as well as for yourself.”

He nodded, saying nothing. Silently recognising the strength of her feelings.

“But don't kill yourself, Wedge. I don't think I could take it if you went, too. Don't try that stunt you keep pulling. She won't cope with it right now. Just try and fly safe, will you?”

“Do what I can,” he promised her. He set the helmet in place, fastening the chin-strap with meticulous care. Relishing the preparations for what felt inside like the most important battle he'd yet had to face.

* * *

The jolt as they left lightspeed thrust him back into his seat. Stars shone on the bulk of an Imperial carrier, illuminating it faintly as it made its ponderous way to its jump-point. Time was of the essence here, a race to beat the Imperial ship's lightspeed calculations.

All of a sudden, the short range com leapt into activity.

“Red Leader standing by. All 'Wings report in.”

“Red Four here. All accounted for, sir.”

“Red Seven reporting in. My two made it safe and sound.”

“Red Leader, this is Gold Leader. We're ready to start the bombing run. Cover us.”

“Red boys, open foils and form up. We'll be hitting trouble any second now.”

“Red Leader, this is Red Seven. Picking up signals from behind the carrier. They're coming in.”

“Get a fix on them. How many can you see?”

“Got eight, sir.”

“Copy, Red Seven. Let's give 'em something to think about. Right boys, follow me. Standard attack pattern.”

Wedge gripped the joystick firmly in his hand, strained his eyes as he fought to make out his quarry. The blips were showing on the 'scopes, splitting up into two sets of four. One of them's mine, he told himself, and he smiled in private anticipation. Has to be. If there's any justice in this damn war, I'll get back at them today.

Red Leader's voice sliced through his reflections. “Draw them away from the bombers. We want to distract them. Reds Two and Three, stay with me. We're heading to the right.”

And the next few minutes were spent in that state of familiar pandemonium. Where time seemed to slow down amidst the chaos, and the head seemed giddy and detached after all the fear and worry of the preparations. A smile grew on his face, as he realised that now he was flying out here for real, it felt different. It wasn't anything like the sims. The blind obsession had been replaced by cool sanity, the possibilities shining out clear at him as he made his appraisal of the situation.

“Watch that one, Red Three!” Red Leader called. “He's breaking formation.”

“On him, Red Leader. He's heading left.”

“Biggs! His wing's after you. Hold your course and keep on your target. I'll cover your tail.”

“Thanks, Wedge.”

He eased out the throttle, felt the X-wing surge forward, and closed in upon the hapless TIE. It jinked and fluttered before him, but he stuck with it, hanging on in relentless concentration as its pilot fought to escape him. The TIE soon blew into oblivion beneath his guns, and Wedge felt that sense of glorious delight soar within him for a split second. That's for Dad, you son of a bantha. That's for Vance. That's for all of those you murdered when you took the Tantive IV…

“Red Two! Form up and stay alert! They didn't like that. Got two coming in for you. I'm on your back. Darklighter, get back here and cover me!” It was Red Leader, in the right place to save his hide, thank the Force, and the offending Imperial which plagued him soon became an incandescent blaze against the blackness.

“Torpedoes away!” announced Gold Leader on the mid-range com. “Direct hits on all releases. We got one unhappy supply ship.”

“Copy, Gold Leader. Right, boys, disengage. We're going home.”

And they pulled away, quick as they could, leaving the survivors to gather their wits and gratefully reflect on the fact that they still lived. The TIE's blundered after them, a forlorn pursuit as the Rebel ships sprinted quickly off for their jump point.

Wedge locked his ship into place just behind Red Leader's, glancing to the side to check that Biggs had made it safely. The other ship was coasting along beside him, foils closed, all set for the jump. He engaged the autopilot, leaving the rest of the journey to Artoo Ceefive, and twisted back in his seat to savour the result of their assault. Behind the rest of the squad and the Y-wings, the remains of the supply ship consumed itself in an insane conflagration.

He settled back against his seat in readiness for the journey home, feeling a warm glow of achievement amidst the empty sense of loss that had sucked all sense of direction from him over the last day or so.

His father had lost out in the war against the Empire. But Red Leader was right: sitting around in listless mourning wasn't going to bring him or Vance back again, and what good would it have done if he'd pushed himself over the brink into virtual suicide? He wouldn't forget what had happened to the Tantive IV, and so long as he was around, he'd make sure no-one else would, either. He was fighting now, the only way he could, and it was working. Already they were paying for the sin they'd committed against his family, and against the Rebellion and everything it stood for.

And this, he reminded himself, with a chill sense of fulfilment, was only the beginning.