Марта Уэллс - From a Certain Point of View

“Because I bailed out of the Death Star trench,” Wedge said. It was a memory that still made his insides knot with shame.

“Spare me. You had six kills above that battle station despite flying a T-65 the techs feared wouldn’t make orbit. You blew your hydraulics and couldn’t maneuver, so you got clear rather than endanger your fellow pilot. Once clear, you recharged your auxiliaries and tried to go back into that trench. Which would have killed you within seconds, but you did it anyway.”

“I was Luke’s wing and I left him. That’s the bottom line.”

“I doubt Skywalker sees it that way. We need your squadron, Antilles. And we need it now.”

Wedge thought about the faces he’d seen in the Hub and the duty rosters he’d scanned. There were enough experienced pilots for two flights of three T-65s each. But that was only half a squadron.

“If we’re staying put, why the urgency?” he asked. “Our capital ships can repel anything short of an Imperial task force.”

The Contessa tapped on her datapad, then passed it over.

“We’ve been using civilian cargo ships to resupply. Over the last thirty-six hours, two of them have failed to arrive. Turns out a pirate band’s stumbled onto our supply line.”

Wedge scanned the intel in dismay.

“I know we don’t have enough experienced pilots,” the Contessa said. “You’re going to create a few. You’re promoted to commander.”

“Luke is our—”

“We’ve covered that. I know you don’t think you’re ready, Antilles, but I need you to be. And the pilots you’re going to lead? They’ll need that a lot more. We can’t let a bunch of pirates starve us out or sell our location to the Empire. Before they can do either, you’re going to destroy them. As squadron leader.”

—

“Heck of a way to start a squadron,” Janson said.

The Hub was a little too public, so Wedge and Janson had retreated to one of the observation blisters that dotted Home One ’s hull. That gave them privacy, but at the expense of comfort—they kept knocking knees as they sat facing each other, datapads on their laps.

“Seriously, how do two Mon Cals even fit in here?” Janson asked.

“Schooling instinct. You’ve noticed the way they maneuver in tandem, right?”

“No, I’ve never…wait. You made that up.”

“Possibly,” Wedge said.

“Did Wedge Antilles just make a joke? Wedge Antilles, the Great Stone Face of the Spaceways?”

“I make jokes.”

“Every six months?”

“You’ve usually got it covered. Now come on. You go first, then I go. We alternate till we’ve got a squadron.”

Janson blew out his breath in frustration. “There aren’t many candidates, boss. Even with this Contessa of yours giving us all the personnel records. And why can’t she fly with us?”

“The chancellor needs her to coordinate our overall starfighter defenses. And she’s got her own squadron to put back together.”

“Well, that makes the pickings even slimmer. I’d take Aron Polstak in a heartbeat, but Double-M’s got him on special assignment. At least there’s Will Scotian. He’s flown with us, which makes him a definite.”

“Scotian was my first choice, too. Done. I want Bela Elar.”

“Twi’lek pilot, right? I didn’t know she was here.”

“She just got towed in. Her T-65 blew its alluvial dampers, and she had to go extravehicular to fix them in deep space.”

Janson whistled. “So with your first pick you’ve found us a competent pilot and an engineering department. Guess that’s why you’re squadron leader and I’m general skytrash.”

Squadron leader. It still sounded wrong to Wedge. But he supposed he better get used to it.

“You’re not general skytrash, you’re my newly appointed executive officer,” he said.

“You say Princess Lay-a, I say Princess Lee-a. And I say Keyser Salm. He’s Horton’s little brother. I’ve flown recon with him. Green but teachable.”

“Done.”

Janson smiled. “Well. This is gonna be easy. Your turn, Commander.”

“Barlon Hightower,” Wedge said.

“On my list, too. Though he’s so green he makes Keyser look like an ace. My turn: Cinda Tarheel.”

“She’s got a temper like a scalded rancor. General Rieekan grounded her on Hoth because we all feared she’d fly her T-47 into the side of a mountain. Remember?”

“All too well,” Janson said. “Still, she can fly. We can teach her anger isn’t a superpower.”

Wedge sighed. “If she lives long enough to listen. But you’re right, she can fly.”

“You’re up, Commander.”

“Sila Kott.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“That’s because she flies troop transports. Commander Narra found her back when he made every pilot do simulator runs. He tried to recruit her for a squadron but she refused.”

Janson frowned. “She can fly but she doesn’t want to. Isn’t that disqualifying?”

“Normally, yes. But this isn’t normally. I’ll ask again. And if her answer is no, I know someone who won’t ask.”

“Fair enough. Ix Ixstra.”

Wedge scanned his datapad. “She spent two weeks at Echo Base in the brig for fighting.”

“Admirable combat spirit,” Janson said.

“She hit a Pathfinder over the head with a meal tray.”

“Experienced at ambush tactics.”

“A Pathfinder twice her size.”

“So her threat recognition needs some work. But if we start passing on the Ix Ixstras of the fleet, we’re going to be asking Double-M herself to climb into a cockpit.”

“Not how I want to go down in Alliance history. All right, fine. Grizz Frix.”

Janson sighed. “Another hothead. Still, he never brained a fellow rebel with a tray. And with that ringing endorsement, he’s part of the squadron. That’s ten pilots. My final pick is Penn Zowlie.”

“I have no flight record for him,” Wedge said.

“That’s because he’s never even simmed. He’s a med-droid assistant who kept pestering me back on Hoth, from some asteroid cluster on the edge of Wild Space. Spent his childhood jumping hoversleds and vac-skims from rock to rock.”

Wedge raised an eyebrow.

Janson grinned. “Bush pilot from the back of beyond? Big dreams, runs off to join the Alliance? I just found the next Luke Skywalker.”

“Or the forty millionth kid to get vaped on his first mission. But fine, we’ll hope you’re right. Because you’re really not going to like my last pick. Tomer Darpen. Don’t give me that look—he can fly.”

“Yeah, he’ll fly off to sell his T-65 for a crate of spice. How many times did we spot him doing shady stuff back in the day?”

“Daily. He can fly.”

“Within five years he’ll be a spicerunner or a pirate.”

“Then he’ll be someone else’s problem. He can fly.”

“All right, all right. But when the moment we both know is coming arrives, I get to stun him.”

“Agreed. So we’re done?”

“We’re done, Commander. Rogue Group is reborn. Or at least the name is.”

Wedge shook his head. “I think we should ground that name for a while. Too many losses.”

Janson’s eyes turned flinty. “So the Empire gets to take that from us, too?”

“It’s not that,” Wedge said. “It’s that there are call signs I’m not sure I could say in battle right now.”

Janson’s face fell and he stared out at the stars surrounding the observation blister.

“We’ll go back to Red Squadron,” Wedge suggested. “Maybe that name will motivate our new pilots.”

“Or we could go with reverse psychology and call ourselves Reject Squadron.”

Wedge sighed. “When we’re heroes, let’s remember to pretty this story up for the Alliance historians.”