This story began as a silly little serial story to entertain a friend while she was travelling for business. Over the course of its life, it was put aside, remembered and forgotten again, surprised the author several times with its twists and turns, and finally came into its own. I've enjoyed this one; I hope you do too.
Apologies to the Beatles for borrowing their title; at first it was simply handy, and then it stuck. Please consider it an homage!
The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. Do not replicate or post elsewhere without expressed written consent from the author.
A Hard Day's Night
Part 1
Wes pushed his unruly hair back off his forehead, let out a gusty sigh, and moped. What was I thinking? he berated himself. Why did I ever take Sharps up on such a sucker bet as that?
The gloomy major knew why, of course. He also knew it could have been a lot worse. The Rogues were between assignments at the moment, in the middle of a transfer from one carrier group to another. The cruiser they had been stationed on, the Mon Kalandra, had returned to Coruscant for refitting and resupply. The ship they were transferring to, however, was not yet ready for their arrival. Several squadrons were being shuffled on and off, and for the time being all berths were full. Which meant the Rogues had a couple of easy weeks at Sivantlie Base on Coruscant. Wedge was taking advantage of the opportunity to put the squadron back in real fighting trim, having the base techs and mechanics go over everything with a fine-toothed comb, while the Rogues flew a few easy patrols and enjoyed some downtime while they could.
Wes didn't have a lot of acquaintances among the permanent ground-based staff at Sivantlie, but one of them was an old friend from Rebellion days. Major Eran "Sharps" Rivlantaar had been one of the best procurement officers the Rogues had ever worked with. His career stretched back to the lean days of Hoth and Derra IV, when the tired and harried Rebels had scrounged for every bolt and blaster charge and roll of space tape they could get their hands on. Eran's nickname, Sharps, was well earned. He was sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and sharp-dealing with the shady characters the Rebels had depended on in order to fill the gaps in their supply chain. He was even sharp at shooting, Wes thought with a rueful grin. Sharps' skill with a blaster had once rivaled his own, he would readily admit. But Wes had thought that he was just a little bit better.
He and the other old hands from the squadron had been delighted to run across Sharps again, now permanently stationed at Sivantlie as part of their Logistics staff. They had all gone out to have a few rounds and reminisce about old times, and somehow the topic of marksmanship had come up. Wes had ingested a dangerous number of drinks -- enough to impair his hand-eye coordination, but not to make him drunk enough to recognize he was not at his best. On the contrary, it seemed to have been just enough to convince him that there was no way a planet-based, non-combat data-hustler could possibly beat him in a shooting match.
Hah.
Wes sighed again, then had to chuckle at himself. Sharps had kept up his skill with a blaster, and Wes had been soundly defeated (though he had still hit 7 out of 10 targets dead-center, his wounded pride piped up to remind him). As a result, he found himself sitting at a tiny desk in a shabby security booth on the unglamorous back side of the base, many levels down from the hangars and ready-rooms where pilots normally prowled. This was the real working side of the complex, where all of the most basic, vital activities went on: where foodstuffs and supplies came in, where garbage went out, where all of the behind-the-scenes things that made his own work possible found their source. And for tonight, he was solidly in the middle of it.
As the consequence for losing his bet, Sharps had arranged for Wes to take an overnight shift at one of the base personnel entrances. It was, Wes considered, one of the dullest jobs imaginable on the entire planet -- which was, he was sure, why Sharps had picked it. There was more activity at the loading docks, as the flow of supplies into the huge facility continued around the clock, but there were very few people entering and leaving from this remote little door, far away from all crew quarters, opening into an industrial sector of the city that had seen better days. Usually this post would be covered by a very junior officer, a lieutenant or captain at most. But tonight, the dashing and handsome (his wounded pride was working overtime now) Major Wes Janson was on call, waiting to check ID's of any staff that somehow wandered their way back to this forlorn little hole-in-the-wall on the ugly rear end of Sivantlie Base.
Wes propped his feet on the desk, tucked both hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. It was going to be a long night.
Continued in Part 2...