Chapter Text
Wedge Antilles, highly decorated member of Rebel Alliance Starfleet Command, commander of Rogue Squadron, struggled back to consciousness through a pounding headache and a general sense of bodily separation from reality. Thought seemed a potentially deadly overexertion, moving even more so. He couldn’t feel the lower half of his body — in fact, just about the only thing he could feel was the pain lancing through his head with laser-fire precision.
“Ugh,” he said, with characteristic eloquence, the sound feeling wooly in his mouth. He said it again, struggling to sit upright and take stock of the dark space he’d found himself in. This was not how he’d planned to begin his leave of absence.
That thought sparked the emergence of more memories, hazy and blurry. The Princess’s voice, insisting that the four of them “deserved a break” in the tone that nobody liked to argue with. A rickety old Skipray Blastboat, currently unused (a rarity in the spread-thin Rebel fleet), in exchange for their X-wings, which were needed elsewhere. Janson’s raucous laugh as he held up not one—not two—but three full bottles of top-shelf Corellian whiskey to complement the poisonous home-brewed stuff he kept in an unused fuel canister. Wedge groaned. “Never get into a drinking contest with Janson”: one of the first things he’d learned about survival in the Rebellion. It looked like, in the excitement of an upcoming leave, he’d forgotten all about it.
Well, that explained the headache. He tried to sit up again, studiously ignoring the sick lurch that accompanied the motion. The weight on his legs shifted slightly, then settled again with determination. He peeled away the blanket to reveal — “Hobbie?” The other pilot was curled up in the fetal position on the lower half of the bed, cutting off the circulation to Wedge’s knees and feet. He snuffled slightly in his sleep, drool leaking out of the corner of his mouth.
“Gross,” Wedge muttered, trying to work his tingling extremities loose. “Come on, buddy, make this a little easier for me.” Predictably, Hobbie didn’t move.
“Well, if it isn’t our fearless leader. Finally awake, are we?” A chipper voice, coming from the corridor — Janson, sounding far more cheerful than any man had a right to be after a night of hard carousing. “Thought you were gonna sleep for the whole trip.”
“Yes, well, wish I had,” Wedge said, not really feeling up to Janson’s characteristic unremitting glee. He gave Hobbie another push.
“This might help,” said Janson, snapping the light on with a grin.
“Oh, curse you,” Wedge said, throwing up an arm to shade his eyes. Janson just laughed. “How are you not hungover? Because heaven knows I’m nursing a headache the size of the Death Star.”
“Practice.” Janson mercifully dialed down the brightness, leaving the chamber in a warm half-light much less offensive to Wedge’s battered brain. “Plus you were doing most of the drinking, boss. I just did the pouring.”
Wedge gave Hobbie a final shove, finally freeing his legs, and swiveled to perch on the edge of the bunk. “Sure, like I’m going to believe that.” He put his hands to his temples and squeezed, trying to get rid of the pounding sensation. It didn’t work. “Hang on. You mentioned ‘the whole trip’ — where are we?”
Janson leaned on the doorframe and crossed his arms. “On our way to Corellia, of course.”
The fog in Wedge’s brain cleared with an abruptness that only made the headache worse. “What.”
——
Sure enough, when Wedge made his way to the cockpit — Janson trailing behind him, totally unrepentant — the view outside was the customary mottled blue and white of hyperspace. Sitting in the captain’s chair was Tycho, looking wan and tired but alert. He took one look at Wedge and silently passed him a couple of painkillers and a tall glass of water with a sympathetic wince. Wedge accepted them without a word, still gazing with disbelief out the cockpit window.
“It was your idea—“ Janson started, but Wedge cut him off with an upraised hand.
“Give me a minute to absorb the enormity of the situation before you explain, will you?” he said, popping the painkillers in his mouth and washing them down with a long swig of water.
“We’re about five hours from the Corellian system,” Tycho said quietly, glancing sidelong at Wedge. “We’ve already been en route for a good seven hours. The Blastboat’s too old to course-correct while in transit—”
“—Or else you would’ve turned us around as soon as you woke up,” Wedge finished, flopping into the copilot’s seat. “What happens when we arrive and there’s an Imperial Star Destroyer controlling who enters and exits the system? Because there absolutely will be one.”
“Got it covered, boss, fake credentials are all set,” Janson said. “We may be impulsive, but we’re not stupid.”
Wedge relaxed a little. “Okay. Okay, so we’re not immediately going to die once we come out of hyperspace. This is good. Now,” he continued, pinning Janson with a glare, “how about you explain how this was ‘my idea.’”
Janson grinned, obviously delighted to tell Wedge the tale of his own folly. Wedge sighed internally. No matter what this story was, he was never going to live it down. “Well, you were drunk —“
“We were all drunk,” Tycho corrected, “including you, Wes, you’re not innocent in this chain of events.”
“Fine, whatever. We were all drunk, and Hobbie was singing some old ballad from his home planet—“
“I don’t remember this at all,” Wedge said.
Tycho muttered, “Be glad you don’t, Hobbie’s singing voice is atrocious.”
Janson gave them a mock glare. “I’m trying to tell a story here, guys.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“So Hobbie was singing, and I said it had been a while since I’d been home, and you, Wedge, started going on and on about Corellia. Calling it the ‘Silver Cup of the Old Republic,’ gushing about how beautiful it was, talking about how much you missed it. I don’t think anyone actually calls it ‘the Silver Cup of the Old Republic,’ actually, but that’s definitely what you said.”
Wedge groaned. “Leave it to me to get maudlin about home,” he said. “So what next?”
“Well, Hobbie stopped singing — I hadn’t thought he’d been listening, but I guess you were being disgustingly nostalgic loudly enough for him to hear you over the sound of his own voice—“
“Oh, shut up,” Wedge interjected amiably.
“—and said ‘Why don’t we go home?’” Janson continued, grinning. “After that it was just a matter of whose home planet we went to. Tanaab still isn’t doing too hot after the big battle a couple months ago, Hobbie’s planet — Ralltiir?”
“Ralltiir,” Wedge confirmed.
“— is too far away for us to make it there and back, and— well.”
“Alderaan’s not really a planet anymore,” Tycho said with a touch of black humor. Wedge gave Tycho a sympathetic glance, touching him briefly on the shoulder.
Janson’s voice grew somber. “Yeah. Sorry, Tych.” Tycho shrugged and gestured for him to continue. “So,” Janson said, brightening, “that left Corellia. We had been drinking on the Blastboat anyway, out of convenience, so it was no biggie to just get clearance to take off, make it out of atmo, and punch in the hyperspace coordinates. And here we are!”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Wedge said, appalled. “Go back a few steps. Who was flying? Drunk?”
Janson looked a little sheepish. “That woulda been me,” he said, “but like I said, I was a lot less drunk than the rest of you.”
Wedge shook his head in fond disbelief. “It’s definitely a miracle we’re all alive. And this situation is definitely not my idea, buddy, you’re the one who punched in the coordinates and sent us on our merry way.” No matter how this played out, he was going to have a lot of things to explain to the Princess, the Admiral, and several generals. The thought gave him a little bit of dread in the back of his mind, but that was quickly overtaken by the thought of seeing home again. Corellia. He hadn’t been to the planet itself in over ten years, since his parents’ refueling station near Gus Tetra had blown up in a fiery flash and he’d been taken in by Booster Terrik. In spite of the ridiculousness and danger of the situation, he still found himself warming at the thought of the beautiful fields and oceans, the spires of Coronet City… He shook his head firmly, bringing himself back to reality. The likelihood of their being able to go sightseeing with any kind of freedom of movement was slim to none. And that was fine. There would be time after the war.
“Okay!” he said, clapping his hands. Janson and Tycho both jumped. “Here’s what’s going to happen. In five hours, we leave hyperspace. We’re out of hyperspace maybe fifteen minutes tops, because we’re going to get our bearings, calculate the jump back to the fleet, and go. We never speak of this again. Got it?”
“Got it,” Tycho said immediately. Janson made a sour face, but echoed him.
Wedge stretched in the co-pilot’s seat, tentatively testing his flexibility and muscles. Everything seemed to be in order, even after the riotousness of the night before. “So,” he said, “anything to eat on this crate, or are we gonna starve all the way to Corellia?”
——
A few hours of hyperspace travel and three unsatisfying rations packs later found the three of them sitting around the Blastboat’s tiny kitchen table, playing what had to be the twentieth or thirtieth round of sabaac. The bass hum of the hyperdrive vibrated the pile of credchips, coins, and assorted trinkets that Janson had accumulated — Janson always won whenever the squadron decided to play a game or two, and Wedge suspected him of getting Han to show him a few tricks. He didn’t really care, though. It was an easy enough way to pass the time, and he’d rather have something to do than just sit around worrying about what was going to happen when they left hyperspace. No matter how good the fake credentials are, this could still turn into a disaster… He made himself stop that train of thought, just as the cards phase-shifted for the fourth time that round.
“Sabaac!” said Janson gleefully, spreading his cards out to reveal a perfect sum of 23. “Thank you, gentlemen, I’ll be here all day.” He collected the chips from the pot and deposited them in his own pile.
Tycho groaned and leaned back in his seat. “At this rate, you’re going to be winning our pensions from us next.”
Janson just grinned. “All skill, baby.”
Wedge snorted. “Course. No luck involved in sabaac at all. Wes’s mental prowess is the only thing that’s contributing to his success.”
“Hey,” Janson said in a tone of mock hurt. “That wounds me, it really does. I’ll have you know—“
The door to the sleeping chamber slid open, and Hobbie shuffled out, still wrapped in the blanket, shuffled out. Wedge had to grin at his appearance: bleary bloodshot eyes, hair sticking straight up along the right side of his head, creases from the fabric on his face. Clearly he had just as big a headache as Wedge himself had when he awoke. “Look who’s still among the living,” he said.
“Urrrrghhgh,” Hobbie said articulately. Tycho raised his eyebrows in amusement and got up, silently heading for the sink for water and the medkit. Hobbie just slumped into the seat next to Janson and clutched the blanket tighter. “Not sure about that. Don’t feel too alive.”
Janson patted him consolingly on the back. “There, there. I’m sure you’ve had worse hangovers.”
“Well, most hangovers aren’t caused by your foul moonshine brew,” quipped Tycho, returning with water and painkillers. Janson wrinkled his nose in mock offense.
Hobbie accepted them gratefully, gulping the water before folding his arms on the table and then resting his head on them. “What’s going on?” he said, his voice muffled.
Janson gave a predatory grin, but before he could launch into the whole ridiculous story again, Wedge forestalled him. “We’re in hyperspace on our way to Corellia, due to a sequence of frankly appalling decisions by Wes here.” Janson saluted cheerfully. Wedge just shook his head and continued, “We’ll be headed back to the fleet as soon as possible, because nothing about this plan was a good idea and I’d like to forget about it as soon as possible. Questions?”
The top of Hobbie’s head moved as he shook it without lifting his face from his arms. “I regret so much about this.”
“Me too,” Wedge said sympathetically. “The headache won’t last too long, mine went away about fifteen minutes after I took the pills.”
“I don’t suppose we have any caf on board?” Hobbie said hopefully.
“Yeah, there’s a dispenser,” Janson said, getting up to peer at the machine. “Couldn’t get it to work earlier, but I might as well try again—“ He broke off as the sound of the hyperdrive abruptly shifted to a high-pitched shriek and rattle, shaking Janson’s pile of winnings into disarray.
“That doesn’t sound good,” said Wedge.
Hobbie surfaced, glaring ineffectually in the direction of the engine room. “Not helping the headache,” he muttered.
“I’ll go check it out,” Tycho said, heading for the cockpit. “Proximity alarm should be going off any second, anyway, I think we’re nearly there.”
The hyperdrive rattled again, juddering throughout the ship, and Wedge could feel the hair on the back of his neck rising. A lifetime of flying had taught him how to listen to a ship; how to feel it as an extension of his own body; how to know the signs of distress that meant something very, very wrong was happening. He hadn’t had too much experience with Blastboats, but there was something definitely off about this particular noise. He just hoped it wouldn’t be catastrophic—
“Wedge,” Tycho called from the cockpit, a note of urgency in his voice. “I could use your help here.”
The unease in Wedge’s mind grew as he rose to follow Tycho into the cockpit. Whatever this was, it sure wasn’t going to be good. Stepping foot into the cockpit, he was immediately accosted by a diverse array of blinking red lights. “Sithspit,” he said under his breath. “I guess this is why the old crate was out of action. What’s the damage?”
“Not sure,” Tycho said apologetically. “I haven’t flown enough Blastboats to be familiar with the systems, but I think we’ve lost a couple of non-essential systems and at least the top gun bay, possibly the bottom as well. And,” he added, peering more closely at the diagnostic readouts, “I hate to say this… but I think the hyperdrive’s next.”
“Sithspit,” Wedge said again. “Not good. What are our—”
Just then, the klaxon of the proximity alert sounded, signaling their near arrival in the Corellian system. “Well, at least we’ll make it in one piece,” Tycho said, hastily throwing himself into the copilot’s seat as Wedge buckled in. “Getting back is going to be another story. Let me know when to pull the lever, boss.”
“Everything all right, boys—oh,” Janson’s voice came from the doorway. “Well, shoot.”
“Yeah. Shoot,” Wedge said, letting an edge of sarcasm creep into his voice. “When we get back to the fleet, you and I are going to have strong words about the proper procedure for checking vehicles for spaceworthiness. Tych?”
“Ready when you are.”
Wedge watched the readout on the proximity sensor count down. “Four, three, two— now.” Tycho eased the hyperdrive lever back as Wedge kicked in the sublight engines. The blue-and-white tapestry of hyperspace gave way to starlines that quickly resolved into the familiar Corellian star field, complete with the moon Gus Talon in the foreground. Wedge heaved a sigh of relief, but just as he did so, the hyperdrive gave a loud, metallic BANG — and then a second, more explosive sound: BOOM.
“Sithspit!” Wedge wrestled frantically with the pilot’s yoke as the Blastboat started spinning out of control. “Status report!”
“Well, the hyperdrive’s gone,” Tycho said breathlessly, flipping on the stabilizers. “Wes — are we venting atmosphere?”
“No venting, but there’s a fire,” Janson yelled back. “Hobbie and I have it under control.” His voice was accompanied by the loud hiss of the fire extinguisher and the smell of burning metal.
“Get on the horn to traffic control and request an emergency landing, will you?” Wedge said, pulling back hard on the yoke in an effort to stop the spinning. “Sithspit — the credentials — Janson!”
“Captain Tre Bonders of the Screaming Ewok!”
“The Scream— I’m going to kill him,” Tycho muttered, keying in the correct frequency. “Gus Talon spaceport, this is Captain Tre Bonders of the… Screaming Ewok… requesting an emergency landing. We’ve lost multiple systems and have a fire on board ship, repeat, a fire on board ship.”
The controller’s voice crackled back. “Screaming Ewok, this is spaceport control. Permission to land granted at landing bay 15-A. Will you need an emergency crew on your arrival?”
“I’ll let you know when I get there,” Tycho replied shortly. “Screaming Ewok out.” He flipped the comm off and glanced over at Wedge. “All you, boss.”
“Thanks,” Wedge said, gritting his teeth. His knuckles whitened around the controls as he worked to stabilize the ship’s precipitous descent towards the moon’s surface. The spaceport was rapidly coming towards them — too rapidly. “Kick in the repulsers, will you?” Tycho wordlessly flicked the switch, and their fall slowed — a little. Too little. “Sithspit,” Wedge said again, the fifth time in as many minutes.
Behind him, he heard a pained yell from either Janson or Hobbie — he couldn’t tell which — and the renewed hissing of the extinguisher, but there was no time to ask what the trouble was. Scanning the spaceport hastily through the viewport, he spotted the bay marked 15-A and aimed for it, crossing his fingers and hoping for the best. “Boost power to the repulsers — and hang on tight,” he said, tempted to close his eyes against the impact. For a split second, he felt a flicker of anger. Had he really survived two Death Star runs, only to be killed by an old ship’s faulty hyperdrive? The galaxy has a funny sense of irony sometimes, he thought, holding the controls steady with all his strength.
The Blastboat slowed ever so slightly, then a little more, and a little more — Come on, come on, come on, Wedge thought, willing it slower. Bay 15-A loomed closer and closer — “Lock in the landing struts!” he called to Tycho as the altimeter scrolled down towards zero. Tycho did, just in time: the jolt of impact crushed Wedge down in his seat, and he heard clanging and clattering from the common area behind him. The sudden stop left him gasping for breath.
Tycho quickly flipped down a row of switches, turning off the flight systems and leaving only life support running. Silence descended on the ship, and Wedge just sat there for a minute, grateful to still be alive and in one piece.
“Well, that was quite a landing,” came Janson’s voice from behind him. Wedge swiveled in his chair to see him standing in the doorway, looking a little bit singed. Behind him, Hobbie was holding onto his arm with a pained expression on his face. “Now what?”
———
Hobbie hissed in discomfort as Wedge pressed a bacta patch into the burn on his arm. “Sithspawn, Wedge, be a little gentler, will you?”
“I know for a fact you’ve had worse,” Wedge said unsympathetically, sitting back on his heels to give his handiwork an appraising eye. “There we go, all set. I’d give you painkillers, but—“
“I just took some. I know.” Hobbie stretched out his arm experimentally, flexing his fingers and exploring the range of motion the patch had left for his elbow. “Seems good. Thanks.”
“No problem,” Wedge replied, rising to his feet and clapping Hobbie on the back. “Good work getting the fire under control, by the way, if I haven’t mentioned it.”
“Nothing like a metal fire when you already feel like there’s a spike driven through your temple,” Hobbie said, grimacing. Wedge winced sympathetically. “Anyway, Wes managed most of it.”
The sound of footsteps on the landing ramp echoed in the chamber, and Tycho’s blond head emerged from below. “Hobbie giving you any trouble, boss?”
“Whining just as much as ever,” Wedge called back over Hobbie’s protest. “How’re things looking out there?”
“Not as bad as I would’ve thought,” Tycho said, coming up the last few steps and settling into a seat. “I think we’re still spaceworthy, actually. The landing struts took the brunt of the impact — some big fractures there, we’re going to need to do a belly landing next time we put her down — but as far as getting off the ground and into hard vacuum, she should be fine. Whether or not we’ll be able to get anywhere once we get up—“
“Sithspit!” came Janson’s frustrated voice from the engine room, followed by the clang of a thrown hydrospanner.
“—well. I don’t think I could put it any more succinctly than that.” Tycho’s mouth quirked in a wry smile, and despite the stress building in his temples, Wedge couldn’t help letting out an amused chuckle.
Janson appeared in the doorway to the engine room, panting with exertion. His face was a mottled study in oils, and he had a long streak of ash down one cheek. What parts of his face weren’t covered with grease were bright red, and as he wiped his hands on the civilian trousers he wore, they left long streaks of oil behind. “I give up, boss. Time to give the hyperdrive its last rites, do our mourning, and move on — not that we’re liable to do much moving in the near future, or possibly ever. Nothing short of a bonafide miracle is gonna get this crate back into hyperspace unless we can wrangle a new drive, and even then, I wouldn’t bank on it. Plus we lost long-range communications when the hyperdrive went. Shrapnel from the shattered casing.” He flopped down beside Tycho and spread his arms dramatically. “Four heroes of the Rebel Alliance stranded without hope in enemy territory! They’re gonna tell this story someday, boys, if we ever make it off this godforsaken rock.” He put his head back and groaned at the ceiling.
“Hey,” Wedge said mildly, “I have a lot of fondness for this particular godforsaken rock. I spent a couple of years running supplies for an Alliance base in my youth.” He reached over and flicked Janson’s ear, provoking a startled yelp. “Have some respect.”
Tycho sat forward in his chair and gave Wedge an intent look. “Alliance base? Still active? I hadn’t heard anything about—“
“No,” Wedge said shortly, regretting bringing it up. Some memories were still too painful to touch on, even with the benefit of six years’ hindsight. “Empire blew it up as soon as it was discovered. It was a big loss, actually, some good people were stationed there.”
Tycho winced. “Sorry to hear that.”
Wedge shook off the memory. “You’ve got the right idea, though, time for a strategy session.” He clapped twice, and Hobbie and Janson straightened up to attention. “Five minute break: freshen up, get a bite to eat, wash your hands — Janson, that means you, you’re leaving oil on everything you touch — and come up with an idea. Let’s go, people.”
The other pilots nodded and stood, heading for various sections of the ship. Wedge ducked quickly into the sleeping chamber he’d woken up in, only to find it in total disarray. The crash landing hadn’t been kind to the assortment of loose objects scattered about the room. Swearing under his breath, he hunted through the mess, hoping beyond hope that he — or Janson, or someone — had thought to put his travel bag on board before they left. It took a quick but thorough sifting of all the assorted odds and ends, but finally he found what he was looking for: a little case with a change of clothes, a change pouch, and a datapad. Wedge grabbed the whole package and emerged to find his pilots sitting around the small table, waiting.
Janson had taken Wedge’s advice and cleaned up, looking freshly scrubbed, and Hobbie was munching on a ration bar. Tycho scribbled notes on a piece of flimsi. He looked up at the sound of Wedge’s footstep in the entryway. “My datapad shattered,” he explained shortly.
Wedge nodded in understanding as he took the remaining seat, setting the datapad from his bag before him on the table. “So, what have we got?”
“Assets: one old, rickety ship with false credentials and a broken hyperdrive,” said Hobbie dourly. “Not much to go on.”
“The way I see it, we got a couple options here,” said Janson, tracing a pattern absently on the table’s surface. “We get a new hyperdrive and someone to install it, or we sell this ship for parts and buy a different one.”
Tycho hummed contemplatively. “Neither of those sound particularly viable to me.”
Janson shrugged. “You got anything better?”
“Unfortunately, I do not.” Tycho gave a long sigh and stared down at the piece of flimsi. “I’ve been trying to think of any contacts I might have in the area — you know, intelligence agents, old friends, distant acquaintances, nemeses — but nobody springs to mind. It occurred to me, though,” he said, looking up at Wedge, “that our resident Corellian might know a few people.”
Wedge shook his head. “Not anymore. All the people I used to know are either dead or long gone — or who I’d only want to contact under the most dire of circumstances.”
“Doesn’t this count?” Hobbie asked.
Wedge snorted. “Not by a long shot. Unless you want to owe the smuggler baron Jorj Car’das and his people a favor…”
“Yikes. No thanks.”
“However,” Wedge continued, holding up his datapad and the change pouch, “I do have 500 credits in hard cash and access to one of the Rebellion’s credit lines.”
Janson gave a low wolf whistle of appreciation. “Nice.”
“I think switching out the hyperdrive is the better option — and we should keep the old one; I don’t want to risk anyone getting any kind of data about the Alliance fleet off of it. Selling the ship also leaves us open to data leaks.” Wedge looked around the table, catching each pilot’s eyes in turn. “Objections? Thoughts?”
“Sounds good, boss,” Janson said, stretching. The other two nodded their agreement. “Get more cash, find hyperdrive, find mechanic, get outta here. Let’s get moving.”
———
Gus Talon’s spaceport and surrounding town was a fine old establishment in the best tradition of second-rate spaceports throughout the galaxy: seedy, in need of a good scrubbing, and not somewhere Wedge wanted to be any longer than absolutely necessary. The couple of hours they’d already spent trying to find a finance terminal were already more than enough by his standards. It wasn’t just the place itself, either: Wedge had the distinct sensation eyes on the back of his neck. He hadn’t mentioned it to the others, but he could tell Tycho felt the same way from the glances the other pilot kept shooting at the beings — humans and aliens alike — around them. The uneasiness was enough to keep Wedge walking at a brisk pace, the others close behind him as they navigated their way through the crowded streets.
“It’s getting darker, boss,” Hobbie said warningly. “I don’t love the idea of being out and about after nightfall.”
Janson laughed, poking Hobbie in the side. “Fierce, battle-hardened pilot, afraid of the dark,” he said teasingly as Hobbie swatted at his hand.
“No, he’s right — we shouldn’t linger,” Tycho put in, scanning the crowd for the umpteenth time. Janson quieted, his expression sobering. The tan-grey buildings sprawled along the dusty streets were starting to redden in the evening’s shadows, and the furtive movements always present in the shadows were becoming more and more common. “Wedge,” Tycho continued, “don’t let this go to your head, but you’re pretty recognizable. All those wanted posters? It’s not out of the realm of possibility that someone’s thinking your face looks familiar, and after that it’s only a matter of time until the Imps are on our tail.”
“Right,” Wedge said shortly, finally spotting the terminal he was after in the distance. He made a beeline toward it. The feeling of eyes on him intensified, and he noted a couple of the shadows detaching themselves from their respective walls and moving along side him. A few beings — a couple of older human men with battle-weary expressions, a Rodian with an eyepatch, a silver-furred Bothan — slid their gazes quickly away from his as they passed. “Tych,” he said in a low voice, gesturing for his second-in-command to fall into step with him. “I’m pretty sure we’ve been made.”
“Yeah,” Tycho replied immediately, in the same low tone, “me too. Rodian, veterans, Bothan. Couple of unknowns. What do you want to do?”
Wedge considered the question. “I don’t think the Bothan would be selling us to the Imps — they hate the Empire as much as we do. And I get the impression those four are working together. Look at how they’re scattered to cover the whole street.” They’d reached the terminal, and Janson and Hobbie turned to face the crowd, shielding Wedge and Tycho from view as the former keyed the account information into the access panel. “My guess is a local gang who just sees us as an easy target. Janson could probably take them — oh no.”
“What?”
Wedge stared at the error message blinking red on the terminal’s screen: [THIS ACCOUNT IS NOT ACCESSIBLE FROM THIS TERMINAL DUE TO SUSPECTED SEDITIOUS ACTIVITY]. “Bigger problem than locals.”
Tycho peered over his shoulder and froze. “Oh no,” he agreed. “Do you think the Imps monitor…?”
“They absolutely do,” Wedge replied, standing up straight to peer over Janson and Hobbie. “Trouble, boys. Watch for stormies.” They tensed and nodded, not bothering to ask questions.
“Hang on — let me try my personal,” Tycho said. “I have a bit of a nest egg from my parents’ offplanet accounts that I haven’t unloaded yet.” He and Wedge switched places.
A familiar sensation of dread sunk into Wedge’s stomach. A few hours ago, he’d been optimistic — even hopeful — about their chances of getting off Gus Talon alive and in one piece. Four resourceful, capable pilots with creativity and determination on their side: a wide range of possibilities, right? Things were starting to look grimmer and grimmer. “Any joy, Tycho?”
Tycho swore under his breath as his face lit up with the blinking red of another error message. “No Alderaanian accounts accessible at this time. Sithspawn.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this possibility,” Wedge said, mentally kicking himself. “Of course they’re going to flag potential Rebel accounts and monitor them on Imperial-controlled worlds. I thought this one was still secure, but I guess not. Dammit. Now what?”
Hobbie, standing on tiptoes and craning his neck to see over the heads of passersby, suddenly blanched. “Now we run,” he hissed, pushing the others towards the nearest alley. “Stormtroopers incoming!” Sure enough, the familiar sound of a phalanx of armored troopers marching together sounded in Wedge’s ears, getting closer and closer with every passing second.
Wedge didn’t even look back, breaking into an immediate low sprint and praying that the stormtroopers hadn’t spotted them yet. He and the others ducked quickly into a back alleyway. Thankful now for the gathering darkness, they wove their way through an ever more twisting and turning network of streets. The sound of booted feet marching in lockstep receded, and after a time Wedge paused, panting, to take stock of his surroundings. It was nearly full dark now — he could barely make out the others’ faces in the absence of efficient street lighting — and not only was this not a part of town he recognized, but also he wasn’t sure of the turnings he’d made to get to this point.
“I don’t know about you,” said Janson, bending over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, “but I’m not too clear on where we are.”
Tycho slumped against a nearby wall and then quickly straightened up again, scowling over his shoulder at the patch of damp spreading on his shirt. “There’s no way they can connect the account to the ship, so that’s safe enough for now.”
“Sure, unless they got a look at our faces,” Wedge countered. “Either way, we’re lost, out of money, and out of options.”
“Is it a good time to suggest calling your smuggler friend?” Hobbie said, peering down the street. “Because I think that might be our only hope.”
Wedge frowned, disliking the idea. Being in anyone’s debt sat wrong with him, much less that of a conniver like Car’das. Looking at the bleak expressions on his pilots’ faces, though, he knew he had no choice: his people’s safety came before personal considerations, every time. He sighed. “I think you’re right,” he said reluctantly. “There’s no way it’ll end well, but there are about ten ways this whole situation could end worse. I’ll do it.”
“We passed a bar a few streets back that way,” Hobbie said, pointing into the gloom. In the distance, Wedge could see the glow of neon spilling into the dusty street. “Spaceport bars usually have coin-operated long-distance comm terminals, and we still have your cash.”
“Plus the bar owner could probably give us directions back to the landing bays.” Wedge nodded in agreement. “Lead the way, Hobbie.”
As Hobbie and Tycho started out, leading the little group, Wedge hung back to fall into step with Janson. “Hey, Wes,” he said, nudging the other pilot’s shoulder with his own. “You’ve been quieter than usual for a while. Everything fine?”
Janson gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Aside from the fact that we’ve got stormtroopers actively on our trail right now, you mean?” he said, giving Wedge a brief grin. Wedge snorted. They walked in companionable silence for a minute before Janson spoke again, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. “I was just thinking, if I hadn’t decided to take off from base—“
Wedge grimaced. “We wouldn’t be in this mess?” Janson nodded, his expression sober. “Forget it, Wes. There were four of us on that ship, and I don’t know about Tycho or Hobbie, but I’m pretty confident in my ability to avoid going somewhere I don’t want to go, even if I’m three sheets to the wind. It’s on all of us. Ruminating on it isn’t going to do you or anyone else any good. It was a stupid decision, sure, but we’ve all made stupid decisions in the past, me as much as anyone else. And,” he added, elbowing Janson hard in the side, “don’t get stuck in your own head, either. I need you right here, right now. Let it go.”
Letting out a long, slow breath, Janson nodded in agreement. “Thanks, boss,” he said, sounding relieved. Then he grinned. “Been working on that speech a while, have you?”
Wedge laughed. “Couple of minutes,” he admitted, quickening his step to follow the others more closely.
———
“When I mentioned that bar, I wasn’t expecting the town’s hot spot,” Hobbie muttered in Wedge’s ear. “Pretty packed, isn’t it?”
“Makes it easier to blend in,” Wedge replied, keeping his own voice low. Sure enough, the early evening crowd at the bar — the Silver Goblet, as it turned out — was a large and eclectic group. From swanky-looking humans surveying the scene with a lofty and judgmental eye, to the table of Ithorians in the corner muttering among themselves, to the Twi’leks and Togrutans moving and shaking on the dance floor, to the myriad other species and beings moving among the tables, all bathed in the neon accents of the bar’s otherwise dim lighting, the diversity was nearly enough to ease Wedge’s worries about immediate discovery. Nearly, but not quite; he still felt like he and his pilots stuck out like a sore thumb. They leaned uneasily against the wall by the entrance, earning suspicious looks from the Gamorrean bouncer and scanning the space.
Tycho tugged on Wedge’s sleeve to get his attention and pointed. “There — in the corner. A comm booth. Looks unoccupied to me.”
Wedge headed for it, trusting the others to follow in his wake. As they passed the door, the bouncer let in yet another crowd: two young and giggling human women, a man with a large hat that obscured his face, and a Rodian — this one, thankfully, sans eyepatch. Wedge stood aside to let them through. “How big is this place, anyway?” he heard Janson say behind him. He didn’t catch Hobbie’s reply, but Janson laughed, and Wedge smiled for a brief instant. No matter the danger, trust us to enjoy ourselves anyway.
The comm booth was covered in grime and protected from prying eyes by only a tattered velveteen curtain. Wedge wrinkled his nose at the stickiness of the keys as he selected the options he wanted: HoloNet, long-range, two minutes. He didn’t really want a long, drawn-out conversation with Car’das, he reasoned, thinking of the smuggler’s penchant for elaborate verbal traps. The enforced time limit would give him an easy way to make his excuses and go, should the encounter take an unfavorable turn. Wedge dropped the requisite thirty credits into the coin slot — highway robbery, but needs must — and took a deep breath. “Wish me luck, boys,” he said, taking a deep breath as he keyed in the frequency he’d memorized long ago, “and pray he’s in a good mood.” Then he waited, letting the others assume their customary protective shield around him.
The call connected and then hung for a long minute, unanswered. Wedge tapped a finger absently against the side of the machine, concentrating hard and willing Car’das to pick up. Finally, a voice answered — a robotic female voice. “You have reached Jorj Car’das,” it said. “Unfortunately, Mr. Car’das is unavailable at this time. Please leave a message with a reliable HoloNet frequency and he will return your call as soon as possible.”
“Damn it,” Wedge said under his breath as a long tone sounded from the other end of the call. He took a deep breath and tried to order his thoughts. “Car’das. This is Wedge Antilles of the Rebel Alliance, formerly an associate of Booster Terrik’s. I hope this reaches you in time. Due to a series of unfortunate circumstances, my friends and I have found ourselves stranded on Gus Talon, with few funds and no safe way offworld. If your organization’s Corellian arm could provide us with assistance, I would be very much in your debt. We cannot be contacted through any reliable means, but you know my face, and I have faith in your resourcefulness.” The comm center beeped at him, displaying a countdown till the end of the call — thirty seconds. Wedge took another deep breath and continued. “Time is of the essence, as is your discretion. I hope you are well, and look forward to speaking with you and your associates soon.” He terminated the connection and wiped his brow, surprised to find nervous sweat there.
“Nice,” said Janson appreciatively as Wedge turned to the other pilots. “Very professional-sounding. How do you know this character, anyway?”
They drifted towards a nearby empty table as Wedge answered. “He offered me a job when I was a teenager, right after my parents— well. He and Booster Terrik’s knew each other and I impressed him with my piloting skills. I turned him down — at the time I hadn’t heard of his organization, and didn’t fancy getting involved with an unknown.”
Hobbie whistled. “Did you mention that to his face?”
“I did, as a matter of fact.” Wedge shook his head regretfully. “Well, I was eighteen and stupid. Hopefully that’s a mitigating factor in his opinion of me.”
“Boss,” Tycho cut in, “potential trouble.” He pointed to a serving droid — a 3PO model by the look of it — weaving its way toward them with pointed determination and balancing a tray with four foaming tankards.
“I don’t think we ordered anything,” Wedge said, frowning.
“We didn’t,” Hobbie said, keeping his voice low as the droid drew alongside their table.
“Good evening, masters, and allow me to welcome you to the Silver Goblet,” said the droid in the prissy tones of protocol droids across the galaxy, its voice cutting easily across the hubbub and chatter of the bar. “Here are your four lomin-ales. Please let me know if you need anything further.” It set its tray down on the table and turned stiffly to make its way back towards the counter.
“Wait,” called Wedge, “we didn’t order—“
“Oh, yes! I nearly forgot.” Its head swiveled back to direct its bright round optic sensors directly at Wedge. The effect was a little unsettling. “The bartender asked me to tell you that your drinks are on the house tonight — a bonus for using our comm center.”
The pilots looked at each other warily. “We don’t need any drinks, thank you,” Janson spoke up. “Give our thanks to the bartender, but we prefer to just observe.”
The droid’s expressionless face shifted to direct its optics at Janson. “Are you saying you’re refusing the hospitality of the Silver Goblet?” it asked, modulating its vocal pitch in a lower — and louder — register. “My master’s culture takes hospitality very seriously, sirs, I assure you.”
“People are starting to stare,” said Tycho warningly in Wedge’s ear. Wedge nodded and kicked Janson under the table, then pointed his chin at the room, where heads were turning towards the droid’s strident voice.
“Of course not,” said Janson hastily. “My mistake. Thank you for the drinks—and the hospitality.”
The droid didn’t move, staring at them inscrutably. “I think it wants us to take a drink to make sure we’re sincere about the hospitality thing,” murmured Tycho. “Probably just a programming tick.”
Hobbie shrugged and reached for a tankard, sniffing appreciably at the ale within. “Well, why not. Cheers,” he said, tapping his glass against the others’.
“To getting off this rock in one piece,” added Janson, taking a long swig. The droid unfroze and nodded to itself, shuffling away into the crowd.
Wedge lifted his glass, looking around for the bartender and finally spotting the four-armed Besalisk behind the counter. Catching the being’s eye, he raised his glass slightly in an acknowledging toast. The Besalisk nodded back curtly as Wedge put the glass to his mouth and swallowed a sweet mouthful ale. As he lowered the tankard back down to the table, however, something caught his eye: the man with the hat who had entered just after they had, sitting close by the bartender. Wedge looked, incredulous, as the hat slipped aside to reveal the face of one of the veterans who had been watching them in the street earlier.
“Sithspit,” Wedge hissed, the pieces slotting together in his mind. “Everyone, glasses down. Stop drinking. I think we’ve been—“ he cut off as the words blurred together in his mind, the room around him growing fuzzy and out of focus. Beside him, Hobbie gave a low moan and put his head down on the table, and he saw Janson’s eyes roll back into his head as he slumped forward. Drugged, Wedge finished hazily, unable to get his mouth to form the word. Tycho’s shoulder slumped against his, the other pilot’s head lolling into unconsciousness. The bar dissolved into a multicolor swirl of colors as Wedge struggled to keep his grip on consciousness; then, slowly, slipped into blackness and oblivion.