Wedge Antilles was seldom surprised by the antics of his pilots.
He had grown up on Corellia. His parents had owned a fueling depot on the Gus Treta station in the Corellian system. His family had maintained quiet business relationships with a number of smugglers, like Booster Terrik and his daughter Mirax, and his formative years were spent hearing stories of the ridiculous misadventures of miscreants operating outside the law.
Later, his brief stint in the Imperial academy had adequately demonstrated that, outside of a uniform, plenty of the Empire’s own pilots were no different; only fear of official recognition and punishment for misdeeds kept most of his fellow pilot cadets in line. And later still, after defecting to the nascent Rebel Alliance, Wedge had seen plenty of fellow Rebel pilots and soldiers get into trouble for ill-considered actions while on leave. Wes Janson, in particular, had twin reputations as a joker and a cantina brawler that would’ve gotten him drummed out of Imperial service, but the Rebellion needed good fighters more than they needed perfect discipline.
And yet, as Wedge sat in the Rogues’ common area with a bowl of mystery grain porridge, Puck Naeco’s question took him completely off guard.
“So, Captain, who snapped and painted the X-wings?”
Wedge blinked, reached for his caf, and took a swallow while he tried to assemble Naeco’s words into a question that made sense. He failed. “What?”
Puck grinned. “I need to know who won the betting pool.”
That statement made more sense. “What was the bet?”
“Who was going to snap first under the security lockdown.” Puck reached for Wedge’s caf, saw Wedge’s expression, and decided he was better off getting his own mug. “Hobbie’s running the ‘who gets cleared first?’ pool, but all the smart money is on Skywalker.”
Wedge shook his head. “Back up. What do you mean, painted the X-wings?”
“You know, X-wings. The starfighters we fly. Built by Incom.” Puck considered. “Well, not anymore, since the Empire nationalized Incom. Designed by Incom and built elsewhere.”
“Painted the X-wings,” Wedge repeated, enunciating slowly. “Painted. What are you talking about?”
“All of them,” Puck said, nodding. “Brand new, matching paint on all twelve. Even painted over the kill markers. I wanted to see Commander Skywalker’s reaction first, but I found you and not him.” Puck’s face was merry. “No more Death Star kill marker.”
Wedge took another drink of caf, trying to decide if he was still asleep. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure I’m awake. “What does it look like?” he asked, hoping irrationally that Puck was making some sort of joke that he didn’t understand.
“Professional. White base, red striping. Matching all the way down. They actually look like a squadron now.”
Wedge shook his head. “If they look that good, it had to be the ground crew. Any of you jokers would have either vandalized two or three of them, not done a professional job on all twelve. Maybe Rieekan ordered it.”
“You really think the ground crew would’ve painted over the kill markers?” Puck snorted.
He blearily rubbed his face with one hand and looked around at the present Rogues. As Puck had noted, Luke was absent, as were Janson and Karie Neth. The rest were scattered around, sitting in various poses with caf, breakfast bowls, or both. Given the security lockdown, the mess in Pilot Country had been delivering a cart with food three times a day, and this morning’s selection had been the porridge or a reconstituted protein bake that could probably double as crash padding. He looked past Cesi Eirriss, engrossed in her reading as usual, and Mara Jade, who looked half asleep, until he finally caught Hobbie’s attention. “Klivian!” he called. “Is Puck trying to pull something over on me?”
Hobbie offered a dour look. “My kill markers are gone, too. I have to repaint them all.”
“This time you can paint as many as you want and no one can argue with you about the tally!” Puck said cheerfully.
Wedge thought for a moment, drinking more caf. This caf is probably a war crime itself. He shook his head, turning it over. Would Luke have had the X-wings painted without telling me? Honestly, that sort of job seems like something he’d ask me to schedule with a maintenance crew. Though he’s probably going as stir-crazy as the rest of us and just hides it better.
“You know anything about it?” he directed at Hobbie.
The other man shook his head. “Happened during the night. I was in the hangar with my astromech before I turned in last night. Everything was normal at 2200 when I left.” He offered a sarcastic smile. “Maybe Colonel S’man had them painted as a gesture of goodwill.”
“Not unless he thinks we’re getting assigned to the air wing,” Wedge groused. He gave up on the porridge, pushing the bowl away.
Puck grinned. “You’d think if we’re in a security lockdown there’d be a lot less access to our hangar, wouldn’t you?”
Wedge shook his head. “This mystery can wait until I’m awake enough to deal with your nonsense.”
“But I need to know who won the pool!” Puck’s tone was far more amused than concerned.
“Keep it up, and the first pilot who snapped will be me.” Wedge crossed to the caf maker, shook his head at the Property of Independence Air Wing text that none of the Rogues had bothered to obscure, and refilled his mug. “I’m twenty-one,” he muttered, “and somehow I feel like I’m the father figure half these idiots should have had.”
Luke’s quarters in Rogue Territory were sparse. He had left Tatooine with two droids and the clothes on his back, and in the months since he had hardly accumulated much. The civilian clothes he’d worn back then were laundered and tucked away, and here on the Independence he’d acquired a few sets of shipboard greys that were uniforms in all but name. A flight jacket and his flightsuit hung from a hook in the corner. He had a pair of static holograms on top of the heavy, squat dresser: one featuring Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru on Tatooine, the other an image of Luke himself with Princess Leia, Han Solo, and Chewbacca after the award ceremony on Yavin IV. The medal from the award ceremony was tucked away as well; Luke didn’t care to look at it. A mass-manufactured chair, lightweight and cheap, was tucked under the desk attached to the wall. The only other notable furniture in the room was a heavy shipboard bunk, hauled in while he was on a mission and magnetically clamped to the floor.
He’d fashioned a stand for his lightsaber, but his father’s weapon, along with his service blaster, were currently in the hands of Alliance Security. The training remote he’d been using to practice with the lightsaber and the Force had also been confiscated.
The security lockdown, now in its seventh day and hopefully ending soon, was the longest Luke had gone without trying to train. And without the lightsaber and training remote, his options were limited.
Which led to him now sitting cross-legged on the floor in his quarters, his back against the bunk.
Ben understood me even better than I realized at the time, Luke thought as he closed his eyes. He saw that the best way for me to connect to the Force was through action. That’s why he started me with a lightsaber on the Millennium Falcon. He told me about meditation, but he knew that wouldn’t be my first choice.
But now, I don’t have other options.
He calmed his breathing, counting seconds as he breathed in, held it, and breathed out his stresses. Slowly, the worries about the security review, the concerns for his pilots, the nagging worry that he wasn’t worthy of the trust the Alliance had invested in him with Rogue Squadron, calmed into background noise. Stretch out with your feelings, he heard Kenobi’s voice.
It felt, at first, like the faint tingle he remembered from a malfunctioning moisture vaporator with its plating removed. The hair on his arms stood up, but Luke didn’t open his eyes. Trust your feelings.
He tried, he pushed, trying to sense things beyond his quarters. It was an odd sensation, like he was squinting to see through the gloom on Tatooine after the twin suns set, but it felt…murky. Was there someone moving past his quarters in the corridor? Maybe? I’m not sure, he thought. Frustration threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed it back down.
Luke thought back on Ben’s words to him on Tatooine. It’s an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us, it penetrates us, it binds the galaxy together.
“The Force is everywhere,” he murmured, eyes never opening. It binds the galaxy together. Does that mean it connects us, then?
He frowned as he considered that idea, the faint staticky hum of the Force in the back of his mind, a persistent tingle across his skin. It’s worth a try.
Luke relaxed, breathing out the distractions again, and the tingle, the hum grew stronger. This time, instead of trying to just stretch out his senses, he focused in one particular direction. Wedge, he thought, focusing on the Force and on his friend.
It wasn’t like a flare lighting in the dark, but as he focused on his friend, and as the Force grew stronger around him, he realized he had a sense of where Wedge was. Not far, in all honesty, and if Luke had to put the sensation to words he’d have described Wedge as probably being in the small room he’d claimed as an office, perhaps forty meters away. Of even more interest, as Luke focused, he could feel that Wedge was concentrating on something, with a mix of uncertainty and determination. He’s…trying to figure something out? Something with the security review? But the sensation didn’t become any clearer, and the Force didn’t offer him any further insights.
Luke let the connection ebb. That was…something new. I bet if I practice, it’ll get stronger. Maybe.
Yet again he wished wholeheartedly that Ben had not died on the Death Star at Darth Vader’s blade.
Buoyed by the success, he tried stretching out again. Hobbie. He didn’t know the Ralltiir pilot as well as he knew Wedge, of course, but they’d flown together under intense conditions and Luke had no doubt that Hobbie considered him a friend – or as much of a friend as his commanding officer could be. He focused, and slowly, his sense of Hobbie clarified.
In the hangar again, Luke decided. He’s focused on…something. Something with his hands. Working on his X-wing again? Underneath Hobbie’s focus was a tangle of emotions Luke took a moment to sort through. Concern. Worry. Some of it is here, but some of it is far away.
Ralltiir. The name came not from the sensations in the Force but from Luke’s own head making the connection. Hobbie’s from Ralltiir. He asked me what the city looked like from the sky after we got back. I didn’t know why until Wedge told me later. He’s worried about the people at home.
Luke let the sensation fade, choosing to turn his focus elsewhere. Zev, he told himself, stretching out.
He found the older man, he was fairly certain, but the sensation was muted and muddied. Like a poor radio transmission. Or a poor connection. I barely know Zev, so it’s harder to connect to him. He tried to get a sense of what the man was doing, where he was, but the sense was so vague he could’ve been doing anything, anywhere within a hundred meters.
Abandoning the effort, a bit discouraged and vaguely aware he was tiring, he decided to try once more. Mara. He stretched out again, the tingle stronger this time as he poured more focus and strength into the effort.
For a long moment, Luke sensed nothing, not even the vague and indecipherable impressions he’d gotten from Zev Senesca. It wasn’t at all what he expected, given the missions they’d flown together – Yavin, Dantooine, Ralltiir. The nothing was concerning enough he had a brief, irrational pang of worry that Alliance Security had arrested Mara during the night and dragged her to a holding cell elsewhere. Mara? he wondered, still searching and pushing in the Force.
And then he finally found her, not far away; his impression was that she was less than thirty meters away, probably closer, most likely in her quarters. But where he had a bright sense of Wedge, a dimmer but still vivid sense of Hobbie, and a hazy sense of Zev, from Mara he got…
He fumbled for an adequate description, and finally settled on an eclipse. He almost couldn’t perceive her at all, but bits of light leaked around the proverbial moon between Mara and himself. From those bits he could sense weariness and fear and determination.
Luke finally let the Force connection go, the tingle fading from his skin and the hum from his mind. Did I do something wrong? Maybe I don’t know her well enough to connect.
I wish Ben were here to explain this to me. To teach me.
Darth Vader had many crimes to pay for.
It was early afternoon when Rieekan summoned Luke and Wedge for a meeting.
The summons were terse, but Wedge had no doubt the meeting was about the security review.
It was the first time he’d left Rogue Territory in a week, and being escorted by Alliance Security was somehow both comforting and ominous at the same time. I feel like we’re being walked to an execution, as ridiculous as that sounds.
Luke looked completely unbothered.
General Rieekan’s office was three decks up, with an antechamber as big as the Rogues’ common room. Three different desks crowded the room, all of them occupied by analysts in fleet uniforms. Two R3 astromech droids were plugged into computer terminals as well, no doubt providing extra analytic capability for Rieekan’s people. Wedge took in the details at a glance and then focused on keeping pace with Luke.
There was no delay at Rieekan’s office door; he was clearly waiting for them.
Luke and Wedge both came to a halt in front of his desk and offered salutes. Rieekan returned it. “Sit down,” he said, though his tone was more casual than strict.
When the Rogue pilots had settled in their chairs, Rieekan picked up his datapad and glanced at the content. No doubt he already knows everything on his pad, Wedge thought.
“Your security review is complete,” Rieekan said without preamble. “The short version is that everyone in your squadron has been cleared. You’ll be returned to active duty tomorrow.”
“The long version, sir?” Luke asked.
Rieekan grimaced. “Let’s start with Lieutenant Sarkli, Commander,” he said grimly. “Security swept his quarters, your squadron’s berthing, your hangar, his computer access, everything. Ultimately, we found nothing.”
Luke’s lips compressed into a tight line. “So he wasn’t an infiltrator.”
“We don’t actually know that,” Rieekan cautioned. “There’s reason to think he might have been. Did Sarkli disclose to either of you that his uncle is an Imperial fleet captain?”
Wedge’s eyes bulged. “No,” he and Luke said together. They exchanged glances, then back at Rieekan. “No,” Wedge said again, “Sarkli never mentioned any family connections at all.”
Rieekan’s smile was faint and humorless. “Captain Firmus Piett, commanding officer of the Imperial Star Destroyer Accuser.”
“The Star Destroyer over Ralltiir,” Luke said.
Rieekan nodded. “And the Star Destroyer that Celchu served on before his defection.”
“That’s circumstantial evidence,” Wedge felt the need to point out. “Sarkli might not have mentioned it because he knew what sort of attention it’d bring. He had every reason to believe the Rebellion wouldn’t trust him if we knew he had ranking Imperial fleet officers in his family.”
Rieekan nodded. “Though the alternative isn’t really a better look for him,” the general said. “Commander Skywalker, I’ve been over all the reports about your squadron from when you and Antilles were putting together a squadron. Some of your command decisions have been highly questionable.” He held up a hand to forestall comment. “That said, the proper response to concerns about a superior officer isn’t to try to sabotage a mission and defect to the Empire.” Rieekan’s expression hardened into stone. “Given the implication that Sarkli was highly unstable, I’m even more concerned about Alliance screening practices. I don’t blame you two for accepting him into your squadron, but if he wasn’t an infiltrator and really was that volatile, I would’ve expected someone to flag him before it exploded.”
“So you think he was an Imperial plant?” Wedge persisted.
“I would like to. I don’t have enough hard evidence to stamp it as such.” Rieekan looked tired. “Sarkli had been with the Rebellion long enough that he might never have been properly screened. I sent a message to General Cracken, to see if Alliance Intelligence can give me something more firm, but with long-range comms down the request went by courier and I’ve had no reply yet.”
“What about the rest of the squadron?” Wedge asked. “Anything concerning?”
“Most of your pilots are concerning,” Rieekan said dryly. “If you weren’t, you probably wouldn’t be flying starfighters for a rebel insurgency. Some of you have serious holes in your files that can’t really be accounted for, like Commander Skywalker.” He nodded at Luke. “But in your case, you blew up the Death Star. Senesca had a couple different officers in Supply vouch for him as a long-time smuggler before he joined the starfighter corps. General Syndulla vouched for Jade in spite of her file being almost completely empty and threatened me for even asking about her. Cesi Eirriss’s university files were purged by the Empire, but one of our officers talked to her doctoral advisor and a few of her university roommates.” He shook his head. “But we didn’t find any unexpected Imperial connections, nothing we didn’t already know about.”
Wedge settled back into his chair. “So what happens now?”
“Now, we tighten security around your unit,” Rieekan said. “We’re implementing improved screening practices. Celchu is being transferred to your unit tonight, though Intelligence isn’t happy that I’m turning him over to you this quickly. That should put your unit back at ten pilots, and I took the liberty of reviewing several more candidates for your unit.”
“You want us back in action,” Luke said.
“Yes,” Rieekan said simply. “Your squadron did three missions in three days that saved a number of lives.”
“It also broke us,” Luke pointed out. “We need time to train.”
“I know you need some time to run basics,” Rieekan said with a frown. “Celchu will need to be checked out in an X-wing, and you’ll need to complete familiarization with several of your later additions. But you’ve been getting trained pilots for your squadron, not rookies.”
Wedge leaned forward, shaking his head. “General, we need time to train because we’re going to try something experimental.”
“Experimental?” Rieekan’s eyebrows raised. “I don’t need experimental. I need a functioning squadron. What does this experiment look like?”
Wedge and Luke exchanged looks. “Give us a week, General,” Wedge said. “We’re still working out details. But give us a week to try it. We’ve been in lockdown with no access to simulators.”
“A week,” the Alderaanian repeated, clearly considering. “Alright. A week. It’ll take that long to finish filling your roster, even if you approve the candidates I’m suggesting for your squadron.” He offered a wry smile. “If I gave you any more of Colonel S’man’s pilots, he’d probably approve of Sarkli’s actions on Ralltiir.” He nodded at Luke and Wedge. “We’ll talk in a week. In the meantime, start using the mess hall in Pilot Country. They’re not a delivery service. And don’t antagonize S’man more than you have to.”
Luke and Wedge rose to their feet, recognizing the dismissal. A week, Wedge thought. A week to build a new doctrine that doesn’t break like the three-ship element broke on Ralltiir.