Boys Will Be Boys
A Star Wars Fan Fiction
Chapter One
"You're out of your mind! There's no way you can do that in your ship!"
"I can do it, just watch me!"
"The odds are—" Wedge Antilles stopped, as if just realizing to whom he was speaking.
"Never tell me the odds!" The exclamation came out as a snarl as Han Solo glared at the other Corellian. Chewbacca towered behind him, hands on his hips. He snarled, too. No one insulted the Millennium Falcon or its pilot. Ever.
Wedge snarled back. Not that he was offended by the pair of smugglers—secretly he was amused—but snarling seemed to be the thing to do in this particular situation.
Surrounding the two combatants was a motley collection of Rogue squadron pilots and mechanics, assorted clerks and logistics personnel, and, of course, Luke Skywalker and Chewbacca. They were all gathered in what served as Yavin 4's officers' club. This was the one place on the base where intoxicating beverages flowed freely—and it certainly wasn't restricted to officers. What fun would that be?
"C'mon, Solo," Wedge continued in a more reasonable tone, "you know you can't pull off this kind of a maneuver in that clumsy freighter of yours." So much for behaving reasonably; Wedge couldn't resist taunting the other pilot. "In order to loop the tower, you need an agile ship like an X-wing."
A chorus of affirmatives, along with a few taunts, rose up from the Rogues in the crowd. A few of the non-flight personnel voiced their agreement, as well.
"All you need is a halfway decent pilot," Han responded, "which, unfortunately, you don't seem to have any of." He tossed back the remainder of his Corellian ale in one quick motion. Chewie, still standing behind him, rumbled like a reactor core reaching critical mass.
Luke, far back in the crowd, looked at his friends' faces. Uh oh, he thought, this could end badly.
"Wedge?" Wes Janson stepped forward. "Are you going to let that freighter jockey talk about the Rogues that way?"
"No one talks about the Rogues that way!" Wedge finished what was left of his Corellian ale. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Take that back, Solo," he demanded.
"Sure." Han slanted a smile in his direction. "l take it back. I shouldn't embarrass your squadron in public that way." Chewie pulled his lips back and coughed out a warbling Wookiee chuckle.
The room exploded in an unsavory mélange of shouts, insults and catcalls. Several of the more intoxicated Rogues started forward, ready to inflict grave bodily injury on Solo. In their rage, they seemed to have forgotten that Han's copilot was a two-meter tall Wookiee who was currently growling low in his throat. They were held back by their more sober companions.
Enough was enough, Luke thought. He stepped between Janson and Hobbie, both of whom were yelling incomprehensible insults in Han's direction, and pounded his fist on the bar.
"Okay!" he yelled. "That's enough! I'm your commander and I order you to knock it off!"
Unfortunately, only Han heard Luke's command. The Corellian paused halfway through his second ale to smile reassuringly at the younger man.
"Don't worry, kid," he said, his words slurring slightly. Maybe he was on his third ale? Han wasn't sure. "I won't let anything happen to one of your little playmates." His innocent, placating smile was neither.
The shouts and insults flying through the room grew louder and uglier.
"Hey!" Luke objected. "They're not playmates! They're pilots." The young man paused, not sure what to say next. Helpfully, Hobbie handed him a glass of…something. Luke didn't care what it was; he downed it in one gulp, coughed until his eyes watered, then pulled himself up to his full height in front of Han. "They're the best kriffing pilots in the known galaxy," he continued grandly, looking up into his friend's face, "maybe the unknown galaxy too. I don't know." Luke was pretty sure that hadn't come out right, but he didn't care. He reached out and took the bottle Hobbie now offered him and drank deeply. This time he didn't cough. "You couldn't beat the worst of them." He took another drink, just to wet his throat. The room tilted hard to port, then righted itself. "You're just a coward."
Suddenly the room was silent, except for Chewbacca's menacing howl. The beings nearest Luke pulled cautiously back.
"No, it's alright, Chewie." Han placed a hand firmly in the middle of the Wookiee's chest, holding him back. "I can handle this." He advanced on Luke. "You think I'm a coward?" His soft words cut through the silence like a vibroblade, with no trace of a slur. "Just 'cause I don't wear your fancy uniform or fly with your special pilots? No one calls me a coward." Han emphasized each of these last six words with sharp pokes in Luke's chest.
Luke swallowed. What in the nine hells had made him call Han Solo a coward? Luke knew that was the last thing his friend was. His friend! It had to have been whatever it was he'd been drinking. "Han," he began, groping wildly for way to take back what he'd said.
"Luke, you can't back down now!" Dak's young voice called from the back of the crowd.
"Maybe he should," Zev answered him quietly. "Solo's no coward; it was a stupid thing to say."
Wedge stepped forward, his dark eyes flicking back and forth between Luke and Han. "This has nothing to do with anything except flying," he told them. "Tempers just got a little hot, that's all."
There was no noise at all except for Han's rapid breathing and Chewbacca's soft snarls. Luke didn't appear to be breathing at all.
"Fine." The hard lines in Solo's face cracked to normalcy. His off-center grin reappeared. "Let the kid prove it. Looping the tower."
A cacophony of shouts—and laughter—filled the small room. Luke smiled in relief, and took a deep breath.
"I'm going to beat you, you know," he informed Han.
"Sure you are, kid."
"You bet I—" Luke's face suddenly turned ashy gray, he stumbled forward a few steps, and was violently—and messily—sick all over his own boots. He staggered to an empty chair and dropped down into it, his head in his hands.
"Or maybe you aren't going to beat me," Han said sagely. He looked at the gathered crowd of pilots. "So, do I win by forfeit?"
"No!"
"No way you can beat a Rogue!"
"Not in that hunk of junk!"
"Wedge, you aren't going to let him get away with this!"
Antilles raised his voice to a roar in order to be heard over the pandemonium. "No," he shouted, "no one insults the Rogues. I'll fly against him and that heap of rust he calls a ship." His broad grin was diabolical. "With one condition."
Solo's hazel eyes were hard. "Name it."
"You fly alone, no copilot."
Chewbacca roared in dissent.
"Wait a minute," Luke said weakly from his seat. Flying the Falcon, especially with the precision needed to loop the tower, was a two being job.
"Fine," Han said. "Just me and the Falcon."
An enthusiastic cheer rose from the watching crowd.
"Who wants to put credits down on it?" Janson shouted. He raised a fistful of his own money high over his head. Around him, people checked their pockets and credits were passed forward. Odds were quoted, differing outcomes were discussed. The droid bartender provided an empty bowl for the growing pile of credits and other tokens.
"I'll put up a hundred."
Janson's hand froze as the room grew suddenly silent. Carlist Rieekan stepped forward from a far corner of the club, a smile on his face.
"Sir?" Janson said nervously.
"Sir. We've just been discussing the relative merits of fighters versus larger ships, sir," Wedge spoke quickly, but with authority.
"Don't sweet talk me, Antilles," the general said amiably. "A wager was duly offered and accepted. I bet one hundred." He handed his credit chit to Janson.
"Thank you, sir." Janson took the token from Reiikan. "Uh, who should I put the money on, sir?"
"Put it all on the Corellian."
"But, sir, both of them are…" Janson stopped. Surely the general knew that both men were Corellian.
"I'm wagering it all on the Corellian." Reiikan's smile was sly.
"Yes, sir."
The general looked at the chrono over the bar. "Well, let's get this show going before it gets dark," he said.