"What?" Wedge fought his legs, feeling as though they were
about to collapse.
"Commander Skywalker has failed to rendezvous. He was supposed to be here a week ago. Sir," the young man said again. "The High Command has stated that at this
point, with no communications suggesting where Commander Skywalker may be, and
no sign of him, he is probably dead. Or
in Imperial hands, which is essentially the same thing."
Wedge shook his head.
"No. No, that can't be. Luke's not dead. He's not."
******
Luke sighed dramatically, the effect spoiled by a slight
shiver. "Geez," he complained to Wedge
as they hustled down to the hangar.
"The second I get out of the medicenter, they've got me flying
interference."
"Oh come on," Wedge laughed at him. "You love it."
Luke snorted.
"When it's my X-wing, yeah. When
it's one of these piece-of-junk airspeeders…" he trailed off. "I just don't
trust them," he finished.
"Not nearly as good as a snubby," Wedge agreed
archly. "Not even close."
Luke seemed to stop, sober for an instant. "We'll still make it out, though, crappy
ships or no."
"Right. Ain't
nothing can stop us." Wedge was
taken for a moment by Luke's serious mood, those sudden pauses that
seemed to happen more and more often.
He took a step closer, trying to shake the mood, and pressed a kiss to
Luke's soft, waiting lips. "When you
hop out of that airspeeder at the rendezvous, I'll be waiting for you with the
rest of this." He pressed his body
against Luke's, as hard as he could, as a promise. They always did that before the flew into battle, then indeed
continued afterward; their way of affirming survival.
*****
But this time, there would be no continuation. Luke hadn't made the rendezvous. He hadn't contacted them. He was dead.
Wedge shook his head again.
No. No, that can't be. Luke's a better pilot than I am, better than
anyone. He didn't deserve to die. He can't have died. He can't!
The young man who had delivered the message seemed to
recognize that Wedge didn't want company, so he left quietly, leaving Antilles
to return to his barracks room alone.
"Why?" Wedge asked whatever gods might be listening as he
shut the door. "Why Luke? Why did this have to happen to him? Why did you have to take him, of all the
good men you could have chosen to die, why Luke? Was it because I loved him?
Was it because you couldn't stand to see us happy? Was that it?" He pounded his fists against the wall, a million memories of his
lover swirling through his brain.
Luke's face after the Death Star battle, that tired, overexcited sparkle
in brilliant blue eyes; a flashing smile and bright laughter during a snowball
fight on Hoth; rough, calloused farmboy hands against Wedge's skin as they made
love. Why Luke? he repeated
again silently, with no hope of an answer.
The gods were cruel to those who loved.
