Why good dreams are bad.
I walk into the office wearing my pilot uniform, mainly because I've just been called out of bed to see General Ackbar about my last mission.
"Yes sir?" I say, sticking my head into his office. He turns his chair to face me, motions me in and I enter, standing at ease.
"I wanted to congratulate you on your mission."
"Thank you sir."
"In fact," he interrupts to say. "it's high time you were promoted to the rank of red leader and given your own squadron."
I stand, shocked by his statement.
"Come again, sir?" I say at last. he gives as good a smile as his fishy face can manage.
"You're being given your own squadron. Let's see how you handle them."
"Thank you, sir." I say, the color rising to my face. "I'm sure I won't let you down."
"Good, see that you don't."
Four hours later, after what passes for a decent night's rest, my new squadron and I are being briefed on the new mission by General Antilles.
"We have recently been informed of an imperial outpost not too far from here. Your mission is to infiltrate and steal a squad of ties, so that we may know their defenses."
I look at my buddy and he raises an eyebrow.
"Questions."
"Sir what's the survival rate of this mission?" I ask. Antilles favors me with a glare that was his trademark.
"So far, we have detected zero activity, and it is likely that this facility was abandoned. That doesn't mean get careless. That is all. Dismissed."
We all rise from our seats and make our way to the fighter planes.
"So, what do you think?" asks my friend, who, even though is my inferior, doesn't really treat me like a boss. I shake my head and don my helmet.
"I think it's a bullshit assignment. But that's just me. You?"
"Oh," he says, a rogue glint in his eye. "I'm just following orders, I don't have an opinion other than what they force-feed me, sir." he replies. I laugh, climbing into my X-wing. Two of the ships are imperial cargo shuttles that had been "misplaced". We will use them as camouflage to get into the facility.
"So far so good," I say, to the co-pilot. "You boys ready back there?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Let's go to work."
We have no trouble landing the X-wings, something that makes me cautious, and the other boys less tense.
"All right, let's get these babies loaded into the cargo ships." I say.
A laser bolt whizzes past my head, nearly taking it clear off my shoulders. I duck, leap and roll, landing behind a Tie fighter.
"Take cover!!" I yell, and they all retreat behind something, avoiding the storm-trooper fire. They aren't too smart, and we make short work of them, loading the Ties in an orderly fashion.
Back at the base, there is a decent sized party in my favor, as I had single handedly saved my squad from danger. My pal, Scott Logan, hands me a drink.
"Good job - BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP"
I jolt upright in my flannel pajama bottoms and squint at my alarm clock as it beep harshly and insistently at me. With feeling, I bring my closed hand down upon it, knocking it from the bedside table.
"Piece of junk." I say, standing on the too cold ground of my one room apartment on Coruscant. What a dream. Same one I've been having for weeks. Good dreams make the real life seem like hell. I've been hoping for a promotion for months now. This dream keeps making my life worse.
Good dreams are bad for the psyche.
I walk into the office wearing my pilot uniform, mainly because I've just been called out of bed to see General Ackbar about my last mission.
"Yes sir?" I say, sticking my head into his office. He turns his chair to face me, motions me in and I enter, standing at ease.
"I wanted to congratulate you on your mission."
"Thank you sir."
"In fact," he interrupts to say. "it's high time you were promoted to the rank of red leader and given your own squadron."
I stand, shocked by his statement.
"Come again, sir?" I say at last. he gives as good a smile as his fishy face can manage.
"You're being given your own squadron. Let's see how you handle them."
"Thank you, sir." I say, the color rising to my face. "I'm sure I won't let you down."
"Good, see that you don't."
Four hours later, after what passes for a decent night's rest, my new squadron and I are being briefed on the new mission by General Antilles.
"We have recently been informed of an imperial outpost not too far from here. Your mission is to infiltrate and steal a squad of ties, so that we may know their defenses."
I look at my buddy and he raises an eyebrow.
"Questions."
"Sir what's the survival rate of this mission?" I ask. Antilles favors me with a glare that was his trademark.
"So far, we have detected zero activity, and it is likely that this facility was abandoned. That doesn't mean get careless. That is all. Dismissed."
We all rise from our seats and make our way to the fighter planes.
"So, what do you think?" asks my friend, who, even though is my inferior, doesn't really treat me like a boss. I shake my head and don my helmet.
"I think it's a bullshit assignment. But that's just me. You?"
"Oh," he says, a rogue glint in his eye. "I'm just following orders, I don't have an opinion other than what they force-feed me, sir." he replies. I laugh, climbing into my X-wing. Two of the ships are imperial cargo shuttles that had been "misplaced". We will use them as camouflage to get into the facility.
"So far so good," I say, to the co-pilot. "You boys ready back there?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Let's go to work."
We have no trouble landing the X-wings, something that makes me cautious, and the other boys less tense.
"All right, let's get these babies loaded into the cargo ships." I say.
A laser bolt whizzes past my head, nearly taking it clear off my shoulders. I duck, leap and roll, landing behind a Tie fighter.
"Take cover!!" I yell, and they all retreat behind something, avoiding the storm-trooper fire. They aren't too smart, and we make short work of them, loading the Ties in an orderly fashion.
Back at the base, there is a decent sized party in my favor, as I had single handedly saved my squad from danger. My pal, Scott Logan, hands me a drink.
"Good job - BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP"
I jolt upright in my flannel pajama bottoms and squint at my alarm clock as it beep harshly and insistently at me. With feeling, I bring my closed hand down upon it, knocking it from the bedside table.
"Piece of junk." I say, standing on the too cold ground of my one room apartment on Coruscant. What a dream. Same one I've been having for weeks. Good dreams make the real life seem like hell. I've been hoping for a promotion for months now. This dream keeps making my life worse.
Good dreams are bad for the psyche.