Wings over Ashes

4 ABY

Endor

They say the worst mistake the Imperial Academy ever made was teaching Wedge Antilles how to fly.

Up until I met the guy I would have argued there was an exhaust-port sized counterpoint in there somewhere. But then, I did meet him. And I realized all the sayings were true.

Wedge was a mistake. He was a mistake because he turned out to be the best damned pilot in the galaxy.

There's people out there that like to argue he only made it as far as he did on sheer dumb luck. That, unlike the Jedis and smugglers of the Alliance, there was nothing truly exceptional about the pilot.

Sometimes I like to think I was put in this galaxy specifically to correct those people. Even at four years-old Poe Dameron always managed to get a word in edge-wise.

Moments after the Battle of Endor was when things really started to click for me. I had stowed away on one of those beautiful Mon Cal spacecruisers the fleet had inherited, snuck away from the 'caretaker' droid my mom had explicitly left in charge of me. If you're wondering what a four year-old was doing snooping around the hangar of a war cruiser that day, you're probably asking the wrong question. Something, something, absentee pilots for parents, something, something, the greatest space battle in the history of warfare.

And if you have any qualms with giving it that title take it from the kid who watched the whole thing unfold from the vantage point of a cruiser hangar - Endor was every bit the spectacle the history holos made it out to be. I saw a Super Star Destroyer clap into the Death Star like it was yesterday's lunch, saw the Millennium Falcon fly its finest hour, saw Wedge - kriffing - Antilles land the killshot on the very last superweapon the Empire would ever have the gall to construct.

Point is, I was there. And I wouldn't have missed the resulting hangar celebration for the world. Corvettes and snubfighters, Correllian-makes and Incom models. No smell's ever made me more nostalgic than the reel of tibanna gas coming off an X-wing squadron as they cue their landing jets. That's the way life's supposed to be lived, with victory in hand and rocket fuel in your veins.

Sometimes you don't immediately realize when you're witnessing greatness. But that day I knew I was a part of something that didn't come along very often.

Albeit, most of my observation had come from the inside of an empty fuel canister. Like I said, four year-olds weren't exactly a welcome sight on the pristine hangar deck of an MC-frigate. It wasn't until a half-drunk technician's officer went about refueling said canister that my ruse got figured out.

"Gah! Watch it!" I hissed, rolling out of the pod before I could be drenched in hyperfuel-extract. I remember having half the mind to spit some Huttese expletives for good measure, but stopped myself just short. Had better judgement as a kid than I do now.

If the Twi'lek technician had any misgivings about his discovery of me, he wasn't showing it. "Bwahah, you been hiding in there this whole time, kid?"

"Long enough, yeah," I admitted with a bashful grin. "Ever since you guys made the jump."

As riddled in celebratory booze as the man's mind was, he still had to slap his knee at the thought. "Oh, this is rich. Wedge! Get over here! Look what I found."

If you hadn't guessed yet, that name meant something. Wiping my jumpsuit free of its canister-muck, I stood at attention, panned my gaze up to a dark-haired pilot that was every bit of six feet tall.

"How'd one of the Ewoks get in here?" Wedge asked in half-amusement.

"No Ewok, sir. Cadet Dameron reporting for duty, sir."

"Cadet?" He sputtered back with a giggle.

I was four. Cut me some slack.

The Twi'lek certainly had no intention of doing so. "What do you say we do about our little stowaway, Red Leader? Chuck him out the airlock?"

Now my eyes bulged in fear. "The what now?"

"No, no, no airlocks today. Let's let him stay," Wedge decided with a grin. "This night's one of celebration. Let me show the 'Cadet' here what he's got to look forward to."

So he did.

I can vaguely recall there being Jedi and Princesses aboard the cruiser that day, Smugglers and Wookiees. Warheroes of every name and species. But there was only one guy who could lay claim to both Death Stars. Only one man who was fit to stand amongst all the legends.

Wedge Antilles wasn't just any old warhero. He was my hero. And I was sure to soak up every lesson he was willing to teach me. Even if my little legs could hardly climb into the cockpit of his starfighter, even if his blast helmet was never gonna fit snug against my head, that was the moment I knew for certain. Knew one thing better than anything else -

I wanted to be a pilot.

. . .

Thirty Years Later

. . .

Dantooine

They say the worst decision the New Republic ever made was relieving Wedge Antilles from active duty.

Wasn't a decision that came easy. It took a collective, a committee, and several days of drawn out political procedure. But, ultimately, he had been ousted. Honorably discharged after one rogue mission too many. Politicians praised it as a necessary move. That unlike the Princess, the General, and the Jedi, the Ace wasn't necessary in today's climate. That he had done his part for the galaxy and it was time to move on. Time to rebuild a society that had so willingly lost one of its founding fathers.

Something was lost in the political shuffle that day. Something I intended to get back.

General Organa had said as much in a series of impassioned Senate meetings. Every day it was becoming more apparent that we needed it back.

What we didn't need, however, was more reasons to be fighting among each other.

The HoloNews reports coming out of Dantooine had been relentless the last couple of days. A rogue X-Wing pilot had torched an embassy of First Order 'political activists' down to the ground there, all but disintegrated their bodies. Five dead, a dozen injured. For a fledgling government it was the worst act of terrorism this side of... well, the Rebellion. And while we had glossed up the history holos to shine in our favor then, there was no changing what one of ours had done this time.

A retired Wedge Antilles being the closest known operative to lodge on Dantooine was as fortuitous a development as it was a suspicious one. Leia had called a favor in, tapped Wedge to investigate what had happened that night on the grassy plains.

In no uncertain terms, he told her to get foshed.

Now, on the one hand that was totally reasonable. Wedge was a retired warhero. He had done his time and then some. He didn't need to be running errands for General Organa. That was my job.

On the other... Well, like I said, it was pretty convenient that a former X-Wing pilot would be in the vicinity so recently after the attack.

Some people had already came to the unlikely conclusion. Suspected him of doing the unthinkable. Suspected was the key word. I didn't buy it, personally. Not yet. Not until I looked him square in the eye.

If you could have warned a young Poe Dameron about the means he'd go to cover up for Commander Antilles I probably wouldn't have been so willing to get into his starship all those years ago.

As it stood, I was left to drift through the amber skies of Dantooine in an X-Wing of my own. It was a wonder the planetary defenses hadn't set off any high alarms upon my ship's arrival. Guess the orange and black paint job had differentiated myself in more ways than one.

Even still, there was an eerie silence in the night as I readied the starcraft's final landing preparations. A chirrup of noise from my rear-mounted astro-companion seemed to solidify our feelings on the matter.

"You said it, BB-8. For a farmer's world this place sure gives me the creeps..."

Another string of whistles filled the ship's cabin.

"Oh come on. This worse than Malastare? Now that's a bit of a stretch."

But there was no swaying the astromech. As much as BB insisted on being called the 'brains' of our operation, he sure could get anxious.

By the time the ship touched down I had already removed my flight helm, gazed out at the empty plains that stretched as far as the eye could see. "Stay with the ship, BB. Keep 'er running in low power if... you know, worst comes to worst."

A pool of exhaust flushed over my flight jacket as I disembarked the craft. Would have preferred lighter garb but the nights got cold here.

One step after the next took me further from my ship's makeshift landing pad. By the time BB-8 panned his sights to meet me I had already disappeared into the dusk.

Other than the cold calls of the local wildlife's mating season there wasn't anything to distract me from my thoughts. Or, theories, more specifically.

Whoever this X-wing pilot was - and process of elimination had me pointing in a certain direction - theirs wasn't the work of a madman. It was the sign of someone that had snapped after flirting with the abyss. They say pilots can go mad from Hyperspace Rapture. You stare into that azure pool for too long and it starts to stare right back, opens your mind to a level of existential dread that rivals even the worst deathstick trip.

One look in Antilles' eyes and I figured I'd know for sure if that was the case. I was pretty perceptive like that.

My old mentor hadn't agreed to meet me. Not exactly. He wasn't hiding either, though. The locals had all mentioned that his presence was a nightly occurrence at the local bar - The Tantive IV.

If that name's not ringing any bells for you, it probably should be. The Tantive was a decommissioned Corellian cruiser, one of the last 'consular ships' the Alliance ever had the gall to hide under. A charity auction after the War had brought it to the business hub of the local Dantoonian village, far from the museum it belonged in.

Every step up its boarding ramp had me feeling a weird sense of nostalgia. Brought back memories of high speed chases and low-entry rescue missions.

By the time I entered the main chamber the cruiser was nearly unrecognizable. It was all glitz and glamor now, flashy lights and bouncy jazz music. A string of TVs lined the walls, streaming sports and races from far offworld. It wasn't the races I was focused on, however, but the man sitting at the bar at screen's end.

"Refuel," the man ordered the bartender, speaking in a tone far too familiar to be coincidence. He looked a little gruffer around the edges, the brown hair had gone gray and his scowl was now perpetually locked-in. But it was still Wedge, clear as day.

"Commander Antilles," I called out with a beam as I took the seat next to him. "What's it been, a decade?"

Wedge didn't so much as turn. He kept his gaze pinned straight ahead, slammed his empty cup against the countertop. "I said refuel!"

Alright, so that wasn't the reception I was expecting. "Service really that bad here, huh?"

"Droid bartender's been on the fritz for weeks," he murmured, watching as the machine jerked and jolted its way over to us.

It wasn't until the bot had jankily finished pouring his drink that I asked my follow-up question. "So, uh... how's retirement treating you?"

"How does it look?" He asked, downing his shot in one go. "Refuel!"

"Right..." I murmured back, having lost all appetite in ordering a glass of Parkellan Sling for myself. "Kind of crazy, huh? Building a bar inside a place like this."

"Tourist's trap," he answered with a shake of his head. "Disrespectful more than anything. This place used to be one of our bases back in the day. Our base before..."

"Before Yavin," I answered all-knowingly. Parents had been sure to teach me all there was to know about my homeworld.

"Shoot, before everything," he said with another tired sigh. "Back when we could hardly squeeze two rebel cells in the same room together. All we had then was big ideas and bigger personalities. It was a wonder we were able to keep everything together."

"Well," I implored, leaning against the counter. "How did you?"

"Got organized, fell in line with a new leader. Just like the good soldiers always have."

"You don't sound like you were particularly enthused about it."

He waved his glass around in a half-baked stupor. "Perceptive as always, Dameron. Though, I'm guessing you came here to hear more than old stories about my time in the Rebellion."

"Actually, it was General Organa who asked me to come here."

"Ah, so you're her new errand boy then? Figured as much when I told her off over the comm. Enjoy the gig while it lasts, kid. Won't be long until you're last year's model."

My lesser half was telling me this was a good way of butting in. "Speaking from experience?"

"Way, way too much. Knowing the way her mind works she probably asked you to drag me in for questioning."

Well, damn.

"I don't want to 'drag you in', Wedge. I just want to talk."

"Doesn't everyone," he said with a shake of his head. "What burning questions does Cadet Dameron have for me today?"

"Knowing where you stand on the state of the terrorist attack would be a good place to start."

"Ah, so you heard about that?" He asked with a touch of humor. "What a shame… Who could have guessed somebody would stage a hit on that evil space cult. Truly inconceivable."

"Good or evil, it didn't matter. It was a peaceful political gathering. The attack was wrong."

"'Peaceful'," he quoted with his free hand. "That's how all those activists start, don't they? Soon they'll be turning into another Republic or Empire. No, even if the Order never gets anywhere they'll still be the same in my book. Just another government that wants to slam its boot down on the throat of the galaxy."

"How can you say that? After all the years you put in for the Republic? You flew with Luke Skywalker, ran raids with Han Solo -"

"And where's Luke now? Where's Han?"

Maybe name dropping those two in particular hadn't been such a good idea. "Well, they're... they're-"

"One's in 'exile' and the other's so far gone that he might as well be."

"Actually, they're... out on very important missions for the Resistance."

"Oh they're on missions, alright," Wedge said with a scoff. "Self-serving ones. Let me ask you something, Poe. Who's the one person that's still left calling the shots there for the 'Resistance'? Who's the one person that never had the sanity to call it quits?"

I'd feel foolish acknowledging a rhetorical question, but the implication was undeniable. "If you're insinuating that General Organa is somehow the problem here..."

"Certainly not part of the solution. Not anymore, at least."

"Because you're doing so well in that department."

The shadow of a grin crossed his face for the briefest of moments. I had him going now. "Not my gig to come up with solutions anymore, is it? They didn't want me. Far as Organa goes, though... Take it from someone who knows her better than most. She ruins everything she touches. Every government, every treaty... Hell, just look at her son. Seems she's plenty fine with people rebelling against something, so long as it isn't her, eh?"

Now that was touching a nerve, getting too personal for my tastes. "You'll stop there if you know what's good for you."

"Is that anyway to talk to a 'warhero'?"

"No," I acknowledged with a shake of my head. "But it's exactly the way I'd talk to an old drunkard."

"It's a shame to hear you say that," Wedge answered with a sigh, paying for his tab. "I was hoping you'd turn out to be different from the rest, Dameron."

"Yeah," I called back, watching as he left. "Me too..."

. . .

Hours Later

If you hadn't guessed yet my mission here wasn't a simple meet-up.

It was a stakeout.

Wedge hadn't gone far from the bar after he left. He had booked a room in the Tantive for the night. While his hard feelings could have been spurred on by the liquor, I had my own set of theories. And the latest ones didn't have anything to do with Hyperspace Rapture.

It appeared that Wedge had no intentions of concealing his guilt. Of concealing... anything, really. I would be lying if I said the things he ranted off about the General hadn't gotten in my head. After my parents passed away Leia was the only one willing to take care of me, take me under her wing. To think there were those that could blame her for the way things turned out, after so much of what she personally sacrificed... Well, like a lot of things tonight, it just didn't set right. Like there was more than just hard feelings there.

And then, right on cue, I saw Wedge marching down the Tantive cruiser's exit ramp. There was haste in his steps, a knapsack slung over his shoulders. His midnight escape.

Having posted myself at a bench on the other end of the village square, I was going to have to run like hell just to keep up with him. The evening was covered in a blanket of shadow, the quad laden with drunken tourists returning home from a night of debauchery.

Before long though, it became clear exactly where Wedge was headed. The only thing resembling civilization in this direction was the private space lots, and if his ancient X-Wing suddenly lifting from its dock was anything to go by...

Let the guilty man run. The free man flies.

Now I was bolting back in the opposite direction as fast as the shadows would take me. By the time I had made it to my own makeshift landing pad BB-8 had revved the X-wing's thrusters up to a howl. Clambering over the side, it was everything I could do just to cruise through the ship's pre-flight measures.

"Get the shields raised to forward max, BB. I want everything we got."

That elicited a know-it-all sounding beep.

"No, I am not planning on getting shot at. I just like to be safe."

Another whistle, this one indignant in tone.

"You do worry too much."

And, as the craft kicked away from the plains, it was fair to ask whether I was worried enough. Whatever Wedge was planning here, there was a high chance it ended in violence.

By the time I had picked up speed and got into the air to greet him that had become all but evident. An X-Wing with its S-foils locked in attack position was no open invitation for peace. He had been waiting for me. The silhouettes of our two cruciform craft leveled out directly across from each other, stalled out in the empty air and moonlight.

A standoff among the stars.

Slowly, like it was a weapon unto itself, I reached my hand down for the radio comm. "Didn't realize you had a night gig with the security forces."

No response. Not even the sound of static to imply he was listening.

"You know that I don't want to fight you, Wedge. Neither one of us wants to see how that ends up."

"Humor me, anyways," he finally responded with a tired sigh. "If I fly away from here now, it'll be as an innocent man. If I don't, let my sins speak for themselves. Let all the galaxy know what a monster I was for lashing out against the Order when nobody else had the guts to."

For a guy who prided himself on getting the last word in I was fresh out of jabs. Every second that passed was one closer to the inevitable.

"What do you say, kid? One last ride. One last dogfight. Let's figure out who's really the best pilot in the galaxy."

Before I even knew what was happening Wedge went gunning through the midnight clouds, exhaust mixing with cirrus, adrenaline with tibanna. The attack pattern was undeniable, one of his favorites. BB-8 wailed as I hit the jets in pursuit, readouts churning, rocket fuel burning.

A second later and he was streaking back down, staccatos of plasma-fire knifing through the skies. My cannons erupted in turn, adding chunk after chunk to the display. I wasn't the little kid that could barely strap his flight helmet around his chin anymore. I knew how to fight. Knew better than most. The worst mistake Wedge ever made was teaching me how to fly.

Our wings turned end over end then, barreling against the influx of momentum. Round and round we spun, until the threat of nausea forced us to kick out of the corkscrew we had locked our craft's in.

Somewhere along our dance I realized that he had been baiting me this whole time, manning maneuvers he had already mastered in some simulation pod years before I was born.

Wedge wanted me to find him. Wanted to see if the navy was still in good hands. This had been his plan all along.

And yet, I knew that I could get him. Knew his craft just had to swing across my targeting sights long enough to line up a shot. All I had to do was stay patient, stay ready.

It was over before it even began, like a chess match that had been played four moves ahead. As soon as he had cut out of his last turn there was a proton torpedo waiting for him, gutting his craft right down the side, taking down his sublight engines with all the subtlety of a firecracker.

"Argh!"

I'd tell myself later that it had been a calculated hit. That it hadn't been dumb luck. Luck wasn't enough to take down the greatest pilot that ever lived.

All I could do was say a silent prayer, watch as his ship careened with the plains in a ball of flame.

. . .

Hours Later

Deep Space

Azures and violets filled the ship's canopy. I hadn't stared out into the void of hyperspace for all that long, but it sure was staring right back.

BB-8 elected to make the nav-calculations himself, left me to stew in auto-pilot about all that had come to pass. I spent most of the ride tracing the constellations Wedge had taught me as a kid up into the night's sky. The Burning Snake, the Jeweled Lizard, the Eye of the Pirate. Every star had a purpose, he had told me. A people worth fighting for.

"Poe," General Organa would finally call sometime later, voice filling the ship's cabin. "How did it go? Did you meet Commander Antilles?"

My hand hesitated over the radio comm, no more eager to speak than the last time. "... I did."

"Did you talk to him?"

"I did."

"... And?" She finally asked, tone indicating she wasn't interested in drawing out the results.

"He didn't make it. "

"That's... a shame. Wedge was one of the-"

"'Most talented pilots in the entire galaxy'. Yeah, I know."

"I suppose you would," she conceded softly. "I wish I could ask you to come back to base and debrief, but we've already got a new mission for you. An urgent one, at that. We need you to go out to the dunes of Jakku."

"Jakku?" I repeated, doing nothing to hide my skepticism. "What's so 'urgent' about that place?"

"A map. The map. The one we've been searching years for."

"Hopefully it's not another dead end," I intoned flatly.

"It won't be. Not this time. This could be the end of the First Order, Poe. The right end. A peaceful one."

I flicked the radio off after she gave me the coordinates. Orders came before questions. All she promised was that this would be the end of the war.

And yet there was still that nagging feeling all the same, like this was just the beginning.

End