Star Wars - X-Wing 07 - Solo Command

by Aaron Allston

  In Mon Remonda's pilots's lounge, in stuffed chairs dragged against the viewports to suggest thrones, sat Wes Janson and Runt Ekwesh.

  Standing before them, Face said, "For intercepting great quantities of damage so the rest of us didn't have to, your crowns, o mighty ones." He took circlets made of flimsy mate­rial and placed one on each pilot's head. "For enduring medi­cal treatments without whining, for surviving days of bacta bath without crying, for emerging from your treatment with­out asking for extra cake and sweetening, your royal scepters." He placed a wooden dowel, its end decorated with tassels and ribbons, into the hand of each pilot. "And now, receive the ac­colades of your subjects."

  He stood aside, and the gathered Wraiths and Rogues hurled confetti upon them, a rain of color and rubbish.

  Janson blinked against the atmospheric assault and turned to Runt. "This is the last time, positively the last time, that I suggest to Face that the squad doesn't always show enough appreciation."

  Runt nodded. "We agree. Do all kings have to suffer this?"

  "Well, any king with Face Loran as his majordomo."

  "And now," Face said, "the two kings fight one another to the death, and we space the loser."

  "Whoa, there." Janson stood and shook confetti from his hair. "Try again."

  "We space the winner?"

  "One more."

  "We buy you a drink."

  "That's more like it."

  As the pilots drifted back to their seats, Shalla dropped gracefully in a chair beside Piggy's. "Tell me something," she said.

  "Yes?"

  "The other day, you said that you were relieved when Doctor Gast died. Why relieved?"

  Piggy took a few moments to answer. Shalla wondered whether he was considering his response, or debating whether to tell her to go to hell. Finally he said, "It takes pressure off me. Pressure of decisions."

  "I don't understand."

  "As far as I know, I am the only one of my kind. I am not fit to be among normal Gamorreans; I make them nervous and I am dismayed by their presence. Their violence, their sim­plicity. So I will never find a mate, a Gamorrean female, to my liking. I had sometimes wondered if Gast had created one . . . or if she might do so, if I compelled her. Even so, such a rela­tionship would endure in frustration and sadness. If I under­stand it correctly, the changes made to me are not genetic; I could not pass them on to offspring. So I could not have chil­dren with my mental and emotional characteristics." He raised his hand, studying the Churban brandy in the glass he held. "In that sense, I am alone . . . and should be alone. Doctor Cast's continued existence led me to hopes I should not have enter­tained. Now that she is dead, I can be more responsible."

  "I'm sorry." On impulse, she reached out and took his other hand. "But in one sense, you're wrong."

  He sipped at the brandy before replying. "How so?"

  "You're not just flesh and bone. You don't just pass along your genes. If you had children, you'd be giving them your ideas, the example of your courage and commitment, all the things that come from the way you relate to the culture you've chosen. And those things you can pass along to others who aren't your children. Intellectually, emotionally, your parents and children aren't related to you by blood at all. I know that may be small consolation."

  He downed the rest of the brandy, and after a moment his lips curled up in a near-human smile. "Well, it is some consolation."

  "Would you like to dance?"

  "Would you like to have your toes smashed flat?"

  "I have fast feet."

  "True. Well, the risk is all yours." He heaved himself up, then helped her to her feet.

  Other dancers were already in motion on the portion of the lounge the pilots had cleared of furniture. Face and Dia had center stage, moving to a classical theme of ancient Coruscant, and Donos and Lara were now moving to join them.

  "They're not really together," Dia said.

  Face glanced over at Donos and Lara. "How do you figure?"

  "She's tense. Keeping a little separation between them. Her expression keeps softening, she keeps smiling, as if she's really enjoying herself. Then she tenses and withdraws. It's a little cy­cle she keeps running through."

  "Oh, you're good at this game. But you missed when she gave him the opportunity for a kiss. A deliberate invitation."

  "No, she didn't."

  "She did." He gave her a superior little smile.

  "When?"

  "A moment ago. Did you see her lower her eyes, then raise them and make that little twirling motion with her finger?"

  "Yes. I assumed she was describing something. She was talking."

  "She was describing something. That's what makes it so subtle, the way she blended the cue in, the way you're sup-

  posed to. It's—" Then Face stiffened, nearly losing the rhythm of the dance, and looked back at the other couple.

  "It's what?"

  "Coruscant charm signing."

  "I don't know what that is."

  "It's something like the language of flowers. You know how on some worlds the precise flower you give someone, the number, the arrangement, all has specific meaning."

  Dia nodded. "It's a human custom. A new way to miscom­municate so you can find reason to kill one another."

  "That's an interesting interpretation . . . anyway, charm signing is sort of like that. It's confined to the social class of Im­perial officer trainees from wealthy families and their circles. It came out of Coruscant long before the rise of the Empire, but it's mostly confined to the Empire these days; most of the for­mer Imperial officers serving with the New Republic weren't of that social order. Anyway, she gave him the correct sign for 'I'd accept a kiss.' He just didn't know what it meant."

  "Is that a reason for you to be so startled?"

  "Well, yes. Lara keeps saying 'Coruscant' to me, without meaning to. When she's distracted, when she's upset . . . not when she's in control. Sometimes she'll walk like a native throneworlder—you know the sort of hunched-in, 'don't touch me' body language?"

  She nodded.

  Face thought back. "And then, things she knew about Cor­uscant commerce. Pretty elaborate for someone who'd been employed there only for a few weeks. And that incident at the Galactic Museum. The old man who thought she was—what was the name he called her?"

  "Edallia Monotheer."

  Face looked at her with real surprise. "How did you re­member that?"

  "A trick of the trade. When you're a slave dancer, you remember the name of everyone you are introduced to by your owner. If you fail, you're beaten ... or worse."

  "I'm sorry." He pulled her to him, an embrace of apology. "I always seem to do something to remind you of those times."

  "It's not your fault." Her voice was a whisper. "I can't seem to give up on it. Sometimes I think I say things like that to remind other people of what I used to be—when I'm the only one who needs to remember." She sighed, as if releasing some sorrow into the air. "What are you going to do about Lara? Ask her how she knows this charm signing?"

  He shook his head, brushing his cheek against hers. "I'm going to put in a request for information. To New Republic Intelligence."

  "But later," she said.

  "Later."

  A couple of hundred meters away, Wedge trotted up the access ramp to the YT-1300 freighter hidden away in one of Mon Re­monda's hangar bays. Crashing and clanking noises drifted down from the freighter's upper hull, accompanied by the deep rumbling of Chewbacca's complaints. But no human words ac­companied the rumbling.

  He found Han Solo in the vessel's cockpit. He dropped into the copilot's seat beside the general.

  "I thought you'd be at your pilots's welcome-back party," Solo said. He didn't turn his attention from the forward view­port. Across the floor of the hangar, cluttered with tools and re­pair carts, was the rectangle of lights outlining the hangar's magnetic containment field. Beyond that, dim because of the hangar's light, were stars.

  "I stopped in," W
edge said. "I didn't stay too long. It tends to make the children nervous."

  Solo managed a faint smile. "I know what you mean. I used to be one of the guys. Now I walk into a room and all con­versation stops. I didn't imagine, when I accepted this job, that I'd become some other thing. An outsider."

  "Sometimes that's what an officer is. Someone who's 'one of the guys' can't maintain discipline."

  "I suppose."

  A furious hail of metallic banging made conversation im­possible for a moment. It was followed by an unusually lengthy and articulate stretch of grumbling from Chewbacca.

  Solo said, "He hates this wreck almost as much as I do."

  "Why do you hate it more?"

  "Because, despite everything I said, it's just enough like the Falcon to make me homesick."

  "For the Falcon} Or for Leia?"

  Solo rubbed his face, easing away some of the lines of tiredness. "Yeah."

  "I never really understood why you left the Falcon on Rebel Dream when she went on her mission. You could have stored her on Mon Remonda."

  "It's just... I'm not sure." Solo stared off into the distance of space. "The Falcon is the thing I value most. Not the person I value most, but the thing. I think I left her with Leia so Leia would know."

  "That you trusted her with what you valued most."

  "Something like that. And I wanted her to remember me."

  "As if she'd forget."

  "Sometimes I think she should." Solo was silent a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "I don't deserve her. And someday she'll realize that. When she's away from me, I think, 'Maybe today's the day. Maybe today she'll figure if out and get on with her life.'"

  Wedge shook his head. "That's ridiculous."

  "No, it's not. She's the one with the goal, the plan for her life. She's a driving force in the New Republic. Without her, I don't have a place. I'm just a drifter with an irresistible dose of roguish charm. And someday she'll get tired of the charm and there won't be anything else for me to offer her."

  "You know," Wedge said, "I can't do it myself, because you're my superior officer. But I could call Chewie down here, and tell him what you've just said, and then he'd beat you nearly to death with a hydrospanner. Maybe then you'd figure out how wrong you are."

  Solo managed a smile. "I think maybe that's why 1 volun­teered for this Zsinj assignment. I thought it was because of how I felt when I heard about his bombardments. His assaults on defenseless worlds. I could just see myself as a child on the streets, looking up to see the turbolaser blasts coming down to destroy the little bit of world I could call my own. But, really, it might have been just to show Leia, 'Here I am, see, I

  can function in your world.' But after months of it, I just get tireder and crazier. I find myself wishing I could leave Zsinj be, and Leia could come home right now, with her mission unfin­ished, so things could go back to the way they were. And if she knew that, she'd be ashamed of me."

  "It's a natural human emotion. And I have a three-stage plan to let you get back to the way things used to be."

  That caught Solo's attention; he looked at Wedge for the first time since he'd boarded the freighter. "How?"

  "Stage One." Wedge opened a comm channel on the co­pilot's control board. "YT-1300 to bridge. This is Commander Antilles. Please cut all lights in Bay Gamma One."

  A few moments later, the overhead lights darkened. Chew­bacca made a noise of complaint.

  Wedge said, "Including the magcon shield indicator, please, bridge." -

  The rectangle of light around the magcon field faded. Now they sat in near-perfect darkness, illuminated only by the stars outside the field. They hung there, perfect, not blinking because there was insufficient atmosphere to make them twin­kle, a perfect space vista.

  Solo fell silent, just staring at the view for a long moment. "That's nice," he said. "I think you're right. I could use more of that. What's Stage Two?"

  "Well, you're not the only member of the crew who could benefit from some blissful irresponsibility right now. So I'm going to stage an insurrection and seize control of Mon Remonda."

  Solo gave a curt laugh. "Wedge Antilles, mutineer. That I have to see."

  "Bring your Wookiee and I'll show you."

  Donos and Lara walked into the officers's cafeteria and stopped short. It didn't look the way it was supposed to.

  Tables, normally arrayed in neat rows, had been dragged out of line into zigzags, into four-table rectangles. Though the chamber was sparsely occupied, even that was different; nor­mally the diners would be scattered across the chamber, but now they were concentrated at three or four tables.

  Donos and Lara approached the closest table. The one where their commander sat with General Solo and Chew­bacca. Sabacc cards were laid out on the table before them.

  "Excuse me, sir," Donos said, "I hate to interrupt—"

  Wedge looked up. "What did you call me?".

  "Uh, sir."

  "Who do you think I am?"

  Donos glanced at Lara, but she seemed as puzzled as he. "Commander Wedge Antilles, New Republic Starfighter—"

  Wedge shook his head. "No, no, no. I just look like him. If I were Antilles, wouldn't I be wearing appropriate rank insignia?"

  It was true; he wore none. For that matter, neither did General Solo.

  "In fact," Wedge said, "what's that you're wearing? Lieu­tenant's insignia ?"

  "Uh, yes—"

  "Off," Wedge said.

  "Off," Solo repeated.

  "Off off off off," Wedge said.

  Donos pulled the rank insignia from his jacket. Lara fol­lowed suit with hers.

  Wedge visibly calmed. "That's better," he said. "Wait. Where's your astromech?"

  Donos's mouth worked for a moment as he considered re­sponses. "I don't think I have an answer that will please you. Sir. Or Not-Sir. Whoever you are."

  "You certainly don't. The astromechs are the backbone of Starfighter Command. Hardest-working beings in the galaxy. They need some rest and recreation, too. Don't you agree?"

  "I, uh,I do."

  "Good. Get out. Don't come back without your astro­mechs." Wedge gathered up the sabacc cards. "New hand. Who's in?"

  When Face wandered in, his R2 unit Vape wheeling along be­hind him, the cafeteria was more than half-full. It was also loud; card games and conversations dominated most of the ta­bles. Some of the kitchen staff appeared to be on duty, bringing out drinks and various sorts of snacks, but they cheerfully ex­changed sharp words with the officers present in a way they'd never do under ordinary circumstances. Officers sat with en­listed men and women, and, though uniforms suggested which was which and the services being represented, there were no rank insignia to be seen.

  Chewbacca waved him over. Face and Vape moved up to his table.

  Over his hand of cards, Wedge gave him a cool appraisal. "It's the one who looks like Captain Loran. But he has his as­tromech and no rank. He'll pass."

  "Thank you, uh, one who looks like Commander Antilles."

  "He catches on quickly," Wedge said. "One second. Vape, cold one."

  A trapezoid-shaped plate at the top of Vape's ball head slid open. There was a chuff of compressed air, and a condensation-dewed bottle leaped up into the air. Wedge caught it with his free hand and set it down on the table before him. "Thanks, Vape. Thanks, one-who-looks-like-Face. That'll be all." He turned back to his game.

  Face said, "You weren't supposed to know about that. And it certainly shouldn't have worked for you."

  "I look just like the group leader. That gives me special privileges."

  "Besides, it was my last one."

  "Well, come back when you're fully stocked."

  The others at the table—men and women who looked like General Solo, Chewbacca, Captain Todra Mayn of Polearm Squadron, Gavin Darklighter and Asyr Sei'lar of Rogue Squad­ron, laughed.

  Face turned away. "Run along and play," he told Vape. "This is going to be an interesting evening
."

  Wedge's mutiny of anonymity spread through the ship with a sort of quiet persistence. No officers on duty abandoned their tasks to join it, but crewmen coming off duty gravitated to the officers's cafeterias and, when the mutiny became too popu­lous, into adjoining noncommissioned crew cafeterias, briefing halls, and auditoriums as well.

  And nowhere in the mutineers's sections of Mon Remonda were name tags or rank designations to be found. Donos, walk­ing the perimeter of the mutineers's sections with Lara in a state of baffled good humor, saw Rogue mechanic Koyi Komad win a week's wages from Captain Onoma in a card game as blood­thirsty as any TIE fighter vs. X-wing engagement. He saw Chewbacca simultaneously arm wrestle a naval lieutenant and a civilian hand-to-hand combat trainer so vigorously that both humans were thrown to the floor; they arose laughing and massaging wrenched arms.

  Astromechs huddled in corners, exchanging chirps and trills that few organisms could interpret but that apparently kept them highly amused. Donos and Lara had to stop short of a portion of floor bounded by lines of observers; a group of R2 and R5 units sped through a twisting, winding course marked by colored tape on the floor. Corran Horn's Whistler was in the lead, Wedge's Gate was in second place, and both units were tweetling in the excitement of the moment.

  Whistler and Gate maintained their one-two standings across the finish line and a crowd of bettors erupted in cheers and cat­calls. Donos heard Horn's voice rise above the crowd noise: "I told you, I told you. Next time, make it an obstacle course with security measures. Whistler will still smoke them all."

  "If I weren't sure I was only half-crazy," Donos said, "I'd be certain I was hallucinating."

  "Your logic is faulty," Lara said. "If you were zero percent crazy, you'd be certain you weren't hallucinating. If you were one hundred percent crazy, you'd be equally certain this was real. Only at your current state of fifty percent insane do you doubt what you see."

  "No fair. If I take you back to the pilots's lounge and dance with you again, will you stop picking at my flaws in logic?"

  "Sure," she said. "That was my motive in the first place."

  The mutiny endured from early evening to late evening of the next calendar date, with a pair of sabacc games the last to break up, and galley workers grumbling only halfheartedly as they swept up the trash left behind by a day of blissful, if inter­mittent, irresponsibility.