I've long toyed with the idea of writing a Star Wars fanfic, but I could never think of a good idea. One thing I knew I wanted to do was to avoid the use of established characters.
The warble of the intercom system drew Thatch's attention away from the book he was reading. A young human with green eyes and brown hair, Thatch was one of two dozen men and women crowded into the compartment aboard the Gladewisp that served as Theta Squadron's ready room.
"Attention, attention," the voice of the ship's captain proclaimed from the bulkhead mounted speaker, "All hands prepare for action: target has entered the system."
A sort of muted cheer went up from the assembled members of Theta Squadron, Thatch's own voice adding to the sound. The eager smile on his face was unfeigned, but contrasted sharply with the cold tendrils of dread that fluttered at the edges of his enthusiasm.
At twenty standard years of age, Den Thatch should have been back home on Anobis, starting his second year at university, helping out at his father's shop in his spare time, and chasing girls. Instead, he was halfway across the galaxy, riding in an ancient freighter that had been converted (and none too skillfully, in his opinion) into a carrier, getting ready to fly into battle for the first time against an opponent that only a fool would take lightly. As Captain Zekk, the commander of Theta Squadron, headed to the front of the compartment to begin the mission briefing, Thatch slid his hand into one of the numerous pockets on his orange flight suit, fingers probing for the good luck charm his sister had given him. He found the coin and rubbed it, feeling the patterns embossed on it. The coin had been a bit on the tarnished side when Alani had handed it over, but in the intervening months Thatch had worn it back to a gleaming finish through constant handling.
"Okay, folks," Captain Zekk began, his voice low and rumbling, "This is the day you've been training for, the day you've been waiting for." He paused and let his eyes wander over the attentive faces of his subordinates. "I know some of you are here because you're looking for revenge. Well, don't let your hatred for the Empire cloud your judgment. You won't do yourself or the Alliance any favors if you lose your head, and then your life. Besides," Zekk added wryly, "Those fighters in the hanger cost money. Right now, they're worth more than any of our lives. So bring them back!" Zekk's face went stern as his said the last, and a chuckle ran through the group of pilots.
"Now, on to important matters," Zekk said, and launched into the meat of the briefing. Thatch listened attentively as Zekk described their target and its likely defenses and tactics. Theta Squadron, composed of a hodge-podge of ships, from ancient relics like the Subpro Z-95 Headhunter, to cutting edge craft like the Incom T-65 X-Wing, would fly escort for a dozen attack craft armed with proton torpedoes. Their target was an Imperial patrol ship, small and weak enough that snub ships attacking by themselves would have a chance against it. Thatch shifted uncomfortably. It was an unavoidable fact of space combat that size mattered. Power was in direct proportion to volume, and the patrol ship was at least one, if not two, orders of magnitude larger that the fighters that would be attacking it. Its shields would be all but impervious to anything the fighters could bring to bear, and its guns would be able to obliterate even shielded fighters with single hits. Add to that the squadron of fighters the patrol ship carried, and things only got more complicated.
Of course, the target wasn't without its weaknesses. The nature of sublight engines made ray shielding the after portion of any ship difficult, and particle shielding it impossible. Therefore, Thatch and his fellow Rebels were going to approach and attack from behind, staying as close to the stream of relativistic particles from the target's engines as they safely could, in the hopes that it would hide them from the target's sensors, at least for a while.
And (it was to be hoped) the Imperial fighters would be out of practice and complacent. It was to be hoped. If they weren't, Thatch and his squadron mates would be in for a fight. It was a fight they thought they could win, though. Captain Zekk had trained them himself, sometimes using a TIE fighter that their Alliance patron had 'acquired' from somewhere. For all that Thatch and the great majority of his fellows lacked combat experience, they were intimately familiar with the performance profile of the TIE, having been 'waxed' by Captain Zekk many times during maneuvers. In the hands of a skilled pilot the TIE was very formidable. But then, Thatch mused, in the hands of a skilled pilot even a Headhunter was formidable.
At last, Zekk wound down the briefing. "Remember, we aren't here to dogfight. Stick with the strike group. Keep the TIE fighters off them. They're the important ones on this trip because they have the ship killers." Zekk hesitated. In the time Thatch had know him, Zekk had shown himself to be a skilled pilot, an excellent instructor, and finally a very level-headed and pragmatic man, not given to sentiment or superstition. So it was with some surprise that Thatch heard Zekk say, his voice trembling ever so slightly, "Stay safe, and may the Force be with us."
Launching was accomplished with no more than the usual difficulties. Taking off from a purpose built carrier would have been easier, but only slightly so. There was, after all, no need for catapults, like there would have been on one of the semi-mythical ocean going carriers that Zekk liked to talk about. A network of tractor and presser beams picked each ship up and nudged it out of the hanger bay into the void. When momentum had carried each fighter far enough away, it brought its engines on line and moved to the assembly position to await its comrades. When all craft were in position they moved off in formation, the B-Wings and Y-wings of Strike Squadron bunched together in the center, Theta Squadron spread out ahead and to the sides.
Thatch checked his sensors. They were in passive mode, listening instead of broadcasting, as active emissions would have given his position away and ruined any chance of achieving surprise. There were several contacts. Most were stationary, and belonged to the thin scattering of settlements in this particular system. Others were moving, marking them as ships. Again, most were local craft, but one blip, moving much faster than the others, wasn't.
Thatch grinned to himself as the distance between him and his chosen enemy decreased. There were two hundred billion stars in the Galactic Empire. Most were barren systems, lacking planets capable of supporting life. Of course, that didn't mean they were valueless or uninhabited, and many made excellent hiding places for criminals and insurgents. As a result, the Imperial Navy did a lot of patrolling. Usually the patrols didn't find anything, but even infrequent patrols made people who didn't want to be found nervous, and could frighten them into moving. That knowledge figured into the reason Thatch and his companions were in this particular system. Attacking an Imperial patrol would draw attention here, and possibly away from other, more important places. Making several such attacks, as was the plan, might lead the Empire to believe that this system was considered vital to the nascent Rebellion against its iron grip on the galaxy, and result in a significant Imperial presence being established here. That was the hope of the high command, anyway.
Thatch could understand and appreciate such thinking, but now, as he got closer to the target, more immediate concerns took the forefront in his mind. Namely, living through the impending battle. Unlike some in the squadron, Thatch wasn't consumed with hatred for the Empire. He was a political idealist who longed for a return to democracy. He was passionate, but it was a cooler passion, one that allowed for patience, and which didn't enjoy taking unnecessary risks. Survival was definitely a high priority.
As the range dropped, smaller icons popped into existence around the patrol ship. Thatch swore silently. They had hoped, unlikely as it might be, that the Imperial's would neglect to deploy their fighter screen. Thatch sighed resignedly. It had been a long shot anyway, and...
Suddenly the dots that represented the Imperial fighters altered course and headed straight for the approaching Rebel fighters.
"They've seen us," Zekk announced, breaking comm silence. "Set S-foils in attack position and switch you deflectors on." Thatch was already doing so, along with the rest of his squadron mates. Since their presence had been discovered, Thatch switched to active sensors and turned on his jammers. At least one of the Imperial's had an itchy trigger finger, as a handful of blaster bolts flashed harmlessly through the Rebel formation. Then, all at once, the TIE's were on them, and battle was joined.
Thatch, despite his lack of actual combat experience, had more flying time than most of his squadron mates. As such, Zekk had made him an element leader, and given him one of the X-Wings as a ride. Now Thatch addressed his wingman, a Falleen woman named Vasan, "Stick close, Vas, and follow me!"
"Right behind you, Leader," Vasan's calm, cool voice assured him.
Thatch's brain whirled madly as he fought to stay calm. He had to remember to juke wildly as he closed with the enemy, to make himself as difficult a target as possible. His heart began to pound in his chest as adrenaline surged into his bloodstream.
His chosen target was almost in range. Almost...
Thatch fired. Wingtip mounted laser cannons sent shafts of hard light hurtling through the void.
He missed, as did Vasan, then the TIE's were flashing past them and Thatch was grunting as his flight suit squeezed his legs while he pulled his fighter into a sharp turn. Even with an inertial compensator, a fighter pilot experienced high g loads during radical maneuvers. Blackness appeared on the fringes of his vision. Thatch held it as long as he could, then eased up on the stick. The pair of TIE's that included his target were ahead, racing toward Strike Squadron.
Thatch watched as his targeting scope settled onto the TIE. When it locked, he squeezed the trigger again.
He still almost missed. The Imperial began a turn just as Thatch fired, and as a consequence avoided all but one of the laser bolts Thatch had sent his way. The Imp's portside radiator wing blew apart, along with a good bit of its support strut. The fighter went careening off, out of control.
Calls of "Nice shot!" came over the comm-net, and Thatch grinned beneath his faceplate. It wasn't a kill, exactly, but it would do. Strangely, his anxiety had faded as well. That would be...
A brilliant white flash dazzled him, and Thatch cursed. An Imperial laser bolt had detonated on his shields. Stop paying attention for one lousy second...
It was a lesson other members of Theta Squadron were learning too, some at the ultimate price. They had evenly matched the Imperials in fighters going in (not counting strike craft) and the Imps were putting up a hard fight. There were stories that Imperial pilots received special conditioning to minimize their fear responses. Thatch didn't know if that was true, but it might have been, given the coolness with which the TIE pilots flew and fought. Thatch bagged another TIE, a sure kill this time, as the whole fighter flashed into a brightly glowing, rapidly fading ball of gas, a transient tombstone for its pilot. Vasan culled another, but overall the exchange rate was even, and that just wouldn't do.
"We're starting our attack run," the commander of Strike Squadron's voice crackled over the comm. Thatch looked to see the craft of Strike Squadron string out into a long line of pairs of ships, racing up behind the patrol craft, which was zigzagging as it ran, allowing its some of its broadside weapons to bear. Turbolaser fire was bracketing Strike Squadron. Every now and then a flare of light would mark a hit. Surviving TIE's broke off their engagements with Theta Squadron and took off after Strike Squadron, Theta's remaining fighters in pursuit.
The patrol boat began firing at Theta Squadron as well, even as a huge explosion erupted from its stern. At least one torpedo had scored. Thatch's sensors showed air and water vapor spilling into space, indicating a hull breach. One of the ship's engines seemed to be damaged as well. Two more blasts followed, then Strike Squadron (what was left of it) was running for the exits, Theta Squadron screening it from behind, though the surviving TIE's declined to follow.
Thatch took inventory as they closed on the Gladewisp. A third of Strike Squadron had gone, and Theta had lost half its ships, along with their pilots. Not surprisingly, most of the losses were in the older ships. Only one X-Wing was missing, that of Thatch's wingman, who had simply vanished. Someone thought she'd been potted by the patrol ship, but nobody knew for sure.
"Thirty-six go out, twenty come back, and all we have to show for it is a damaged patrol ship," Thatch thought, a bit numbly. He knew it was shock. Vasan's death would hit him later, a fact that he wasn't looking forward to. "If it's like this every time..." No. The survivors had learned, and would get better. Attrition, painful as it might be, would ruthlessly cull inferior pilots. With time, Theta Squadron might become an elite unit.
Might.
Because the Imperials would get better, too. And there were a lot more of them.
Thatch swallowed. He'd known the odds when he'd joined up. He could only hope that any success the Rebellion enjoyed would encourage more planets and beings to join the fight. If not, his career as a Rebel fighter pilot would be a short one.