"Approaching the target! Avenger Squadron: Clear the skies! Gamma Squadron! Prioritize anti-air defenses!"
"Acknowledged." Gamma 1 sounds almost bored. And why not? It's my squadron that will face the worst danger.
Proximity alerts warn of incoming fighters. A motley assortment of craft, ranging from old Z-95's and Y-wings to surplus Kimogilas and A-wings. The wealthy independent city-state clearly suspected a potential crackdown, and they bought up as many fighter craft as possible in recent weeks. But it won't be enough to save them.
"Split into pairs and light'em up!" I dive and roll, shaking an attempted target lock, and lasers begin to fill the sky. My wingman narrowly avoids a burst of fire from a Kimogila heavy fighter. "They've got decent equipment, but we have training and discipline!"
I wheel around, getting behind the large, armored Kimogila. As expected, it shows signs of poor maintenance and prior damage. Several panels are completely missing, other parts are the wrong color, and its overall structure is somewhat loose. It's rare for the Hutts to sell their more powerful hardware, but in this case I can see their willingness to part with it. I cut loose, blazing away with emerald lasers. The heavy fighter's shields are robust, and its hull more so. But right now, nothing matters except our extreme difference in maneuverability. It takes many shots to bring the target down… but scoring those hits is easy. Parts break away, the engines fail, and the Kimogila crashes into the ground far below. The pilot leaps clear as the ship rolls and breaks apart, and he shakes his fists at me in useless defiance.
For just a moment, I see the flickering phantom that has caused me to doubt my sanity for years. A huge, ghostly haze of movement too quick to follow. I shake my head, focusing on the battle, and the vast flickering image is gone.
My wingman fared less well. During the time it took for me to pound the Kimogila into submission, Avenger 2 managed to get into a turning battle with no less than three enemy fighters. He already shot down the Z-95, but I come around just in time to see him fall to coordinated fire. His left wing pops cleanly off, and he tumbles from the sky with no control.
"Eject!"
But he disobeys, foolishly hoping to regain control of his maimed starfighter. The crash is spectacular, his ship bursting into hundreds of pieces, which bounce and slide in every direction. I see the pilot in the wreck. His right arm lays a good distance from him, his flight helmet is missing, and his expression has switched from cool confidence to pure dismay.
I live up to my Squadron's name. With a storm of shots, I blast the A-wing that landed the killing blow. It flies apart in midair, the cockpit completely disintegrating into dozens of smaller components. The pilot is in five pieces before he hits the ground. His expression never had time to change from casual bravado.
I see another flicker of a vast, spectral shape. There's the hint of something too huge to be real, and moving too fast to make any sense. There's a chance that all these battles are starting to seriously stress my mind. I've lost so many comrades, shot down so many starfighters, and enabled the bombing of so many targets…
NO! I have a duty. I shouldn't care about such things. My training should be enough to overcome any amount of stress, to suppress any sense of guilt.
The last of the trio that battled my wingman is the most dangerous. A Fang Fighter of Mandalorian design, they're perfect for head to head engagements. Its blade-thin profile would already make it a difficult target, but when those wings start spinning randomly, I have little choice but to aim dead center. Lasers flash back and forth between us, and my right wing takes a glancing hit. One of my laser cannons is gone, tumbling toward the hard ground far below, but I don't falter. At the last moment, I execute a Talon Roll, pushing the one true advantage my Interceptor has over the Fang. The enemy pilot tries to come about, but for just a moment, I have a good view of the ship from above. Those spinning wings are far easier targets at this angle, and my target blasts apart. The pilot springs clear, and when he strikes the ground, his legs skid away in the opposite direction as the rest of him. His expression switches to rage, and I suspect I'll face him again one day.
I check my sensor board, and confirm that the skies are ours. Half of my Squadron is down, but no more enemy fighters remain to challenge Gamma Squadron.
Still, our task isn't done.
"Avenger Squadron! Move on the city! Transfer all possible power to engines and run interference! The fixed enemy defenses could seriously threaten the bombers, but we're far more likely to avoid hits! For the Empire!"
Joining my brave subordinates, I blast toward the city at full speed. Missiles streak toward us, and turbolasers start to fire, but we're in full evasion mode. We swarm and dance around the towering structures, disrupting enemy aim and line of sight. Some shots intended for us instead strike buildings, sending panels and blocks of durasteel flying. Avenger 12, the rookie of my squadron, takes a direct hit from a missile, and I wince at the loss. Every single piece of his fighter blasts free of every other, showering the city streets with bouncing black, gray, and white parts. In all that chaos, all I see of the pilot is his hands.
Then, missiles and torpedoes smash into the enemy weapon emplacements. Turbolasers and missile turrets blow apart, and the five survivors of Avenger Squadron can finally pull up and get clear.
I circle the city from a distance, watching as Gamma Squadron bombs the towers with impunity. Vast structures come apart, twisting, falling, toppling each other in cascades of showering parts in twenty colors. The devastation is on such a scale that I'm spared many sights of the city's inhabitants.
Then, the surreal, towering phantom fills my view. I can barely believe my eyes, for I've never gotten such a clear look at the specter that haunts my subconscious. Translucent, and far too fast to easily identify, I nevertheless know that this cannot just be my imagination. Either I am fully, truly, losing my mind… or reality cannot be as it seems.
The figure is a human child. He is many times as tall as the highest tower, and his movements are simply unreal. He'll stand in one place for perhaps a second or two, arms moving in a blur. Then, he will be on the other side of the city so fast it nearly breaks my mind. His arms seem to touch all things: the collapsing buildings, the Interceptors of my Squadron, the Bombers of Gamma Squadron. Even individual missiles and bombs seem to be touched many times per second. Existential horror begins to grip me, as I start to get the impression that this ghostly, godlike entity is moving all things…
I clamp my eyes shut, and when I look again the titanic apparition is gone. Bombs continue to fall. The city collapses into total ruin. Deliberate entropy on a grand scale, with not a block left upon a block.
Am I losing my mind? Should I submit myself to psychological evaluation, with the full expectation of my career ending in disgrace? After so much struggle, so much hardship, and so much death… have I broken on the most fundamental level?
Worse… far worse… What if I'm not losing my mind? What if that spectral mover of reality is real? What if my destiny, what if my very actions… are not my own?
And what if that cosmic child loses interest in his game? If the day comes that he no longer toils over this world, no longer brings life and movement and purpose… Will we be truly free?
Or will we never move again…?
Author's Note:
I didn't consciously make this story up. It's a dream that I had on the same night as the dream I entitled "Embrace the Bacon." I woke up from the nightmare of being ripped apart by vengeful ninja capybaras, confirmed that the horror was in fact ephemeral, and went back to sleep. Then I had this dream. It was clever of the dream to add an extra layer to the reality, preventing me from recognizing that I was dreaming twice in one night. As it became more and more clear that everything in the dream was Lego, the haunting visions of a child at play distracted me from the truth. Instead of guessing that I was dreaming, the focus of my paranoia became the question of whether everything was just the whim of a child. This was a good thing for everyone: The dream got to do its thing, presenting me with a fantasy world of its creation without me discovering the truth. And I avoided getting murdered by two different vengeful dreams in one night. Yay.
As with the dream entitled "Tail Gunner," I posted this story as only Star Wars rather than as a crossover fic. I apologize for the deception. In both cases, if I posted these dreams as crossover fics, it would have ruined the reveal that made the story unique. Imagine if the original "Planet of the Apes" had been forced to put the Statue of Liberty on the movie posters? Sometimes, keeping a secret from the audience is the best way for them to enjoy the experience.
Sometimes, it's the only thing stopping the experience from turning horrific and punishing you for breaking the fourth wall…
