Марта Уэллс - From a Certain Point of View

“Double-M have anything to say?” Janson asked. That was a nickname in the ranks for Mon Mothma, the Alliance leader.

“We’re waiting for more personnel to reach the rendezvous. But remaining on high alert.”

“Hurry up and wait, in other words. Any word from Skywalker? Or the princess?”

“No. But critical personnel often have to use the full scatter protocol. Ackbar probably has them making extra hyperspace jumps for security.”

Janson scowled and looked down at something in his hand.

“Sure, but then they’d be hours late. It’s been what, three days?”

Wedge had to think about that for a moment—time had become a smear of anxiety and waiting for news that didn’t come.

“I heard the princess told her transport to take off without her,” he said. “She was going to hitch a ride aboard the Falcon. ”

“So maybe Solo’s junk heap finally disintegrated in hyperspace,” Janson said, shaking his head. Wedge saw that the object he was holding was a small metal cylinder.

“What is that thing you keep playing with?”

His friend looked startled, then embarrassed.

“It’s a miniature aerosol dispenser. One of the techs back at Echo Base made it for me.”

“I’m not following.”

“Double-tap this little doohickey here and twist it to the right, it starts a timer. Two hours later, the contents disperse as a mist. Twist it back to the left, it shuts off. Pretty simple.”

“And the contents?”

“Tauntaun bull musk. Actually, it’s even worse than whatever you’re thinking, Lieutenant Commander. None of the stable hands would help me, so I had to express the scent glands myself. I used gloves, but my hands smelled so bad that I scrubbed them like thirty times. First with water, like a smart person. Then with solvent, like a stupid one. Took the top layer of skin right off.”

“You’re certifiable, Janson,” Wedge said. “You do know that, right? What in the name of every Corellian hell could you possibly need that for?”

“It was a surprise for Hobbie. He was next to pull recon duty—a three-day hop.”

Ah. Now Wedge could fill in the rest. Janson and Hobbie had been inseparable companions despite being apparent opposites: Janson could crack a joke during a hair-raising firefight, while Hobbie never failed to ponder the worst that could happen. How many of Janson’s pranks had Hobbie endured? A dozen? A hundred?

“I’m pretty sure that would have counted as a war crime,” Wedge said.

Janson laughed—but it wasn’t the easy laugh Wedge was used to. It was more of a harsh bark.

“I know, right?” Janson said. “He would have been so mad. I was going to make sure I was right there in the hangar when he got back—so I could see his face before I started running. Oh, it would have been amazing. ”

“He would have killed you. And the court-martial would have ruled it justifiable homicide.”

“Probably,” Janson said, still staring down at the little device. “I keep finding this dumb thing in my pocket. Hobbie’s gone, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. Isn’t that strange?”

It wasn’t strange at all, Wedge thought, groping for a way to reassure his friend.

Before he could find it, a protocol droid clanked up to their table. Its plating was a brilliant blue, and some bored rebel had taken an inordinate amount of time adorning its torso with a gold Alliance starbird.

“I have no idea how our undercover agents keep getting discovered,” Janson said.

“Espionage work is not part of my programming,” the droid said primly, then turned to Wedge. “Lieutenant Commander Antilles? Ess-fiveveethree, at your service. Your presence is requested in the chancellor’s office.”

Wedge looked quizzically from the droid to Janson, who shrugged.

“What does the chancellor want with me? I’m just a starfighter pilot.”

“I am not at liberty to disclose the purpose of the meeting,” S-5V3 said.

Wedge scooted his chair back. Janson was still gawking at the droid’s gaudy paint scheme.

“But if you were programmed for espionage…wouldn’t that same programming keep you from admitting it?” he asked, tapping his temple.

“Ignore Wes,” Wedge told the baffled droid. “It’s the only way to stay sane.”

“I will update my personnel-interaction database accordingly,” S-5V3 said.

—

To Wedge’s surprise, the person waiting for him in the chancellor’s office wasn’t Mon Mothma but a dark-eyed woman wearing a flight suit, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun.

“Lieutenant Commander Antilles,” she said briskly. “You can call me the Contessa.”

“What?”

The Contessa sighed. “I dislike when people say ‘what’ when it’s perfectly obvious they heard the words. What you actually mean is, ‘I don’t understand what you said, could you please explain it to me?’ ”

Wedge regarded her for a moment.

“I don’t understand what you said. Could you please explain it to me?”

“Eventually. Provided you’re still alive, and provided you’ve earned it. Sit.”

Wedge sat. The Contessa picked up a datapad and flicked her finger across its surface, her eyes moving rapidly. She scrolled down again, then a third time. Wedge couldn’t tell if she was reading quickly or had no interest in what she saw. Then she set the datapad down and regarded him above her steepled fingers.

“You were born on Corellia.”

“That’s right.”

“The Empire hasn’t been kind to your homeworld. And yet you joined them. Why?”

“Because I was young. I was flying bulk cargo out of Corellia—produce and spare parts, mostly—and it was boring. So when the Empire recruited me, I said yes.”

“And is that why you defected from Skystrike Academy? Because you got bored again?”

Wedge said nothing, his thoughts going back to the day he wished he could forget. The day he’d learned he’d lost people he loved, and that the Empire had been responsible. But he wasn’t going to tell this strange, rude person about that. If it wasn’t in his file, it wasn’t her business.

“No,” he said instead. “That’s not why.”

He remembered reaching for his TIE helmet and realizing his hands were shaking. The idea of flying an Imperial fighter suddenly struck him as obscene. The Empire kept order, but that order was a product of terror. And it was training him to become an agent of that terror. That was the moment Wedge had vowed—first only to himself, then later to Hobbie—not to let that happen.

The Contessa was waiting for an answer.

“I’ll explain it eventually,” Wedge said. “Provided you earn it.”

He folded his arms across his chest, wondering if she’d throw him out of the office and not particularly caring if she did.

Instead she smiled. “So there’s a little Corellian in you after all.”

“When I need it. What’s this about, Contessa?”

“Rebuilding your squadron.”

Hope flared in Wedge. “The fleet’s reuniting?”

“No,” the Contessa said, and that hope guttered out as quickly as it had kindled. “There are…complications. We’re maintaining our position for now.”

“We’re down too many pilots,” Wedge said. “Starting with our commander.”

“Skywalker hasn’t returned,” the Contessa said. “We have to accept that he may not.”

“He’s Luke Skywalker. He destroyed the Death Star and saved the Alliance.”

“Even heroes die, Lieutenant Commander. In fact, they die all the time. For whatever reason, we don’t have Skywalker. But we do have you. Wedge Antilles, who was first in his class at Skystrike. Who flew with Phoenix Squadron, and was one of two survivors of Red Squadron at Yavin.”