Chapter One
The Greenhorn
"Five, break to port!" Wedge yelled into his comlink. He looked up and to his left, watching as the sleek outline of a legendary Incom T-65 X-Wing slipped out of his view, followed closely by a TIE Defender.
"He's got me good, can't outmaneuver him!" Five's voice came back over the comlink, an almost panicked tone. Wedge grimaced as he saw Five's X-Wing throttle forward. Sithspit! He's trying to outrun that Defender! The X-Wing was essentially flying in a straight line, making small jukes and jinks to avoid the emerald green bursts of laser fire coming at his six.
"Five, calm down and start moving! You can't outrun a Defender!" Wedge side slipped to his left and brought up the Defender on his targeting computer, but his X-Wing couldn't keep up with Five and his pursuer. As he glanced down at his targeting computer, he saw the enemy snubfighter slowly increasing the gap between them. Wedge swore to himself as he glanced up at his power distribution panel, shunting power away from his laser cannons to his engines. If he was going to get rid of this target, he'd be doing it with his secondary weapons.
"Transferring power from weapons and shields to engines, that should keep him off my six!" Wedge could hear both fear and misplaced determination in the young pilot's voice.
"Negative Five, take evasive action, do not lower your shields!" Wedge switched over to Proton Torpedoes, centering his targeting brackets over the TIE Defender. "Move, Five! You're going to be space debris if you keep this up!"
"Negative lead, I can outrun him." Five ducked under a few more shots, but the next few hit right on, tearing away at the already diminishing shields of the X-Wing. The target lock flashed red on his heads-up-display, and Wedge let loose with a Proton Torpedo, but just as the blue streak left Wedge's X-Wing, a dual linked shot from the Defender punched into Five's aft, setting off a chain reaction. Wedge watched in horror as Five burst into a ball of flame and Durasteel. Soon after the torpedo hit the Defender, whose pilot obviously was too busy enjoying his latest kill. Within moments, the debris of two snubfighters littered the vacuum of space.
Wedge slammed his fist against the flight console and leaned back into the pilot's seat. Another pilot lost, another young one at that. For the life of a snubfighter commander, each one of his pilots was like a child. Seeing any of them in trouble was painful. Loosing any of them was devastating. There were times Wedge found himself ironically amused at the fact that he still felt those pangs of guilt and despair when he lost one of his subordinates. One part of his mind recognized that those feelings could reassure him that he was still human and hadn't become a complete military machine. The other part of him wished that he could jam an electrode into his brain to remove whichever part was responsible for registering emotion. Some days, he felt too old for this job, and sadly, this was one of them.
"That's it boys. Pack it up and head back for Mon Remonda."
"You did everything you could, Boss." That was Tycho's voice over the comm.
Wedge sighed, "I know, One. Still, this is the sixth family I have to write home to this campaign…that's unacceptable."
"You know that's well within the bounds of armed combat, General," Tycho chided.
"Well it doesn't make it any easier to swallow."
Wedge sighed to himself as he lifted up the yellow blast visor on his helmet. As he tried in vain to rub the exhaustion out of his tired eyes, his astromech began plotting a hyperspace route back home. The droid's mournful whistle told Wedge it was time to make the jump. After making one last check to his vital systems, Wedge took hold of the hyperdrive control lever. Stars gave way to streaks of white light. Streaks of white light gave way to the molten black and blue of hyperspace. Any other day, and this sight might have been beautiful.
~*~
Wedge shut off the power to his datapad. These letters often made him question his drive to being a squad commander. The message was being sent to the deceased pilot's next of kin as he sat there at his desk. He had done this so many times that he had almost a formula to writing. He'd address the kin, write something trite like "it is with deep regret that I inform you of your loved one's passing." He would always say that the deceased were heroes. Wedge knew that they really were heroes, but to him, writing these formulaic letters seemed to devalue what it was they had done for the Republic. He'd close the letter, then reach into his desk drawer and pull out that flask of brandy he kept with him.
He was woken from his reverie by his door chime, "Enter."
Wedge stood upright, composing himself and trying to hide the stress that no doubt was visible on his face. Lieutenant Nawara Ven his Twi'lek executive officer, stepped into his office.
"How can I help you, Ven?" Wedge asked as he looked up from his desk, setting his datapad on the tabletop.
"New transfer orders came through," Nawara said, taking a seat in front of Wedge's desk. The Corellian pilot nodded and punched a few commands into his terminal. Nawara watched as Wedge's eyes scanned over the documents. The Twi'lek wasn't surprised in the least to see Wedge frown.
"They've given us another greenhorn," Wedge muttered aloud. "More fodder for the TIE pilots."
Greenhorn pilots were just what they sounded like. Rookie, wet-behind-the-ears kids with no idea of what they were getting into. In the last year, Wedge had lost six greenhorns in combat. Another four transferred out, never to return to active service again. They just weren't up to the task of serving in the military, let alone the fabled Rogue Squadron, where the impossible was written in the job description.
"He graduated top in his class," Nawara replied "Wes hasn't seen anything like him come through before."
Wedge couldn't help but smile faintly at the mention of his old friend. After the Adumar situation, Wes and Hobbie were transferred to the Academy to train new recruits. To say they were less than thrilled was an understatement. Still, they were good at what they did. Wedge could count on regular status reports from them, allowing him to keep an eye on any students he might have interest in recruiting.
"Seeing Hobbie try to do cartwheels impresses Wes," Wedge smirked.
There was a moment of silence. Nawara smiled slightly and looked back to Wedge "About Hobbie and Wes…"
A look of fear suddenly came over Wedge "No. Absolutely not. For the sake of my sanity and everyone else within a five klick radius, no. For the sake of the known Galaxy, for the sake of all civilization, they must never be allowed to return."
"Their documents are after the new cadet's."
Wedge shook his head. They squirmed their way back into the squadron again "How, Nawara, how?"
"I told you to stop coming on to General Salm's daughters."
Wedge shot the Twi'lek a sharp look, which was met with a toothy grin. "Oh I'll get back at you for that comment."
"Yub-Yub, Wedge," Nawara said. "If that will be all-"
"No, hold on…I'm not very thrilled about having another green pilot. I want Starfighter Command to send me someone, anyone, with combat experience. I don't care who, just send me someone. I'm not putting this kid into active duty until I know he's ready."
Another greenhorn. Wedge could only stare at the ceiling in frustration. How many more times could he do this? How many more times could Starfighter Command do this? Putting a Greenhorn in Rogue Squadron was all but a death sentence. The Rogues got the jobs no sane Squadron commander would ever accept. When the impossible was in order, the Rogues were first on the call list. It was a dangerous calling that only the best (or arguably the craziest) could handle. Some said that the average lifespan of a pilot was two years. Wedge knew the average lifespan of a Rogue was far, far less.
Wedge would sooner turn in his wings than sentence another Greenhorn to death. This kid would not be seeing active service anytime soon, not if Wedge had anything to say about it.
Flight Cadet Darvix Zorvan yawned into the back of his gloved hand. These long hyperspace jumps could bore a pilot to tears, and this was an exceptionally lengthy jump. He had heard horror stories from veterans of pilots who became so distressed by hyperspace they committed suicide in the cockpit. Hardly the way to go, but it was becoming more and more of an appealing option to him. He glanced idly at his chronometer and shook his head. "Still two more hours…"
The R2 unit behind him warbled softly, causing Darvix to smile slightly "Oh, no, you're great company, Zone. This cockpit is just a little bit cramped." And that's an understatement. Despite the fact that Darvix was a little shorter than average (apparently making him perfect for starfighter piloting), the flight cockpit of an X-Wing was a claustrophobe's worst nightmare. Darvix leaned back in his flight seat, trying to get a little more comfortable, only to ram his helmeted head into one of the seat's support struts.
"Hey, Dap, question for you," That was Major Janson over the comlink. Odd character, often times Darvix wondered who cleared him for service. Then again, he realized that this was the military. If you were breathing, you were qualified for service…well, in some cases even if you weren't breathing, you were qualified for active duty.
"Yes, sir?" Darvix asked.
"Should I change into my blue suit or go with the more traditional black?" Darvix rolled his eyes "Personally I think the blue suit accentuates my eyes a little more, but the black one-"
"Aw, not going to wear that lovely fuchsia number?" Darvix responded, grinning slightly to himself "I so enjoy seeing you in it, just sends shivers down my spine."
"Complemented perfectly by a lampshade, I might add," Major Klivian added. By far, these were two of the strangest instructors that he would ever meet.
"Ah yes, the celebration in honor of Councilor Feyla's visit," Darvix said "Major Janson, might I say that your drunken singing that night was actually on key? Though I will say your dance numbers need some work. It's a good thing I'm a man, because if I had to dance with you, I'm pretty sure you'd crush my feet."
"Quiet, you," Janson grumbled. "One more remark and you'll be taking my mess hall duty for a week."
"As I recall, Major, I'm no longer your student. Or in your squadron Or for that matter, under your control."
"Details, details, Dap," Darvix could almost hear Wes grinning through the comlink. "Don't bother me with technicalities.
As he leaned back into his ejector seat, his R2 unit trilled a message at him. "Assignment orders?" He stood upright again and lifted up the orange visor on his helmet. "About time, route it through monitor one."
He scrolled through the introductory data for a few moments. Official orders from command, forward this message illegally and you will be subject to court martial. Legal disclaimer here, legal loophole there. Darvix stopped scrolling as the orders finally appeared on his screen.
NOTICE TO MAJ. WES JANSON, MAJ DEREK KLIVIAN, FL. CDT. DARVIX ZORVAN
TRANSFER ORDERS PROCESSED. PROCEED TO RENDEVOUZ, JOIN WITH CAPITOL CRUISER MON REMONDA.
DETAILS OF ASSIGNMENT:
COMMANDING OFFICER: GENERAL WEDGE ANTILLES
ASSIGNED UNIT: ROGUE SQUADRON
"Hey, hey, Wes," Major Klivian said, mischief cutting through his normally dour tone. "Look who's been assigned to Rogue Squadron with us."
"As I was saying, Cadet," Janson said. Darvix could even hear the smirk on his face "That'll be a week worth of mess hall duty."
"Would now be an appropriate time to say that Major Janson is the greatest starfighter pilot, ladies man, and gentleman ever to walk the face of the Galaxy?" Darvix asked.
"Nice try, Dap."
"I thought so, sir."
~*~
Deep in the Outer Rim
A flight of Y-Wings slowly lumbered through the vacuum of space. It was another routine patrol, the kind that gave pilots a chance to lean back in their seats and read from their datapads while their astromech droids flew for them. A pilot knew he wasn't going anywhere fast when he received an assignment like this. Careers came to die in the outer-rim. Out here, the Republic knew they didn't have to spring for many supply. That was why Grey Flight were piloting clumsy, aging Y-Wing bombers. They were cheap, they were expendable.
"Omega Post to Grey Flight, report in."
Lieutenant Winree yawned, sitting up and keying on his communicator "Same as usual Omega, nothing but space debris. I thought I saw a chunk of asteroid, but it turned out to be a charred piece of durasteel."
He realized idly that he probably jinxed himself. Out of the blue, his forward sensors went on the fritz. Klaxon alarms sounded in his cockpit, registering what appeared to be target locks on his ship. Something wasn't right. His Friend versus Foe readout only showed green blips. The only people nearby were Republic ships, why were his sensors picking up target locks? "Which one of you blockheads turned on your targeting system? Whoever it is, taking your damn brackets off me!"
"Lead it isn't me!" his wingman said. "My sensors are going crazy, I don't know what's going on!"
Winree swore to himself, "Grey post we've got equipment malfunctions out here. Our sensors are picking up enemy locks, and there isn't anything out there. Grey Four, this is lead, you seeing anything out there?"
"Negative lead, I don't pick up anything visua-" Static suddenly filled the comlink. Just before the hissing took over Four's communicator, Winree could have sworn he heard laser fire. "Sithspit, we're being shot at! Omega this is Grey Flight, we've got a serious problem out here!"
Winree ran his fingers over various buttons and pulled a few levers, powering up his shield generators. Before he could get a charge into his deflectors, a pair of green laser bolts flew past the nose of his snubfighter, and a nearby explosion rocked his ship.
"Lead we lost three! Diverting power to weapons-" Static filled Winree's helmet mounted speaker once more. Quickly, he grabbed the stick and began to juke out of the war of oncoming fire.
"Omega post I've lost two and three!" Green suddenly filled Winree's vision "Taking fire! Can't pinpoint attackers! I'm pulling—"
Just then a bolt hit his port thruster, setting off a chain reaction. Winree cried out as flames engulfed his cockpit. The snubfighter exploded into fragments, joining the rest of the debris that was Grey Flight. It wouldn't be long until Omega Outpost joined the graveyard.
