Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(36)

The slicer chews on that. “Yes. Indeed you did, at that.” He’s angry, now. Good. Be mad, you fool. Don’t be so daft as to fall for a villain such as me. “I’ll help you. I assume you mean now?”

“I mean yesterday, but it’s too late for that, so now will have to do.”

—

“You’re mad,” Wedge says.

“And you’re doing busywork,” Temmin snaps.

Captain Antilles looks down at the datapad in his hand. It’s true. He is doing busywork. But what else is he supposed to do at this point? Behind the two of them, the hangar bustles with activity. Though they have not yet gotten the call to battle, they were told to be ready when it came. That means fueling up. That means loading munitions. Cross-checks abound. Some of these starfighters—X-wings, Y-wings, A-wings, and even that prototype T-70 in the back—will end up on various capital ships before the New Republic fleet flings itself through hyperspace into the theater of war, where the Empire’s own malevolent forces gather.

Of course, Wedge thinks, I won’t be going along. None of Phantom Squadron will. The pilots in his nascent squadron are washouts and weirdos to the last: his favorite kind of crew. Reminds him of the days—not that long ago!—in the Rebel Alliance when you took whatever bush pilots and womp rat hunters you could find, and you stuck them in battle-scarred fighters. You went to war with the pilots you had. Now things are more formalized—more training, more boxes to check, more politics.

And he fizzled on that last part.

Going out to Kashyyyk with Leia and Ackbar was the first outing of Phantom Squadron— And the last.

But what was the choice? Abandon Han and Leia? Let Kashyyyk fall to the bombs dropped by those Star Destroyers? Sometimes doing the right thing didn’t mean following orders. Following orders would’ve meant never betraying the Empire in the first place. Never joining the Rebel Alliance. But that’s tricky, isn’t it? That transition from a ragtag bunch of dissidents and mutineers to a proper government is a hard one. Many of them still have rebel hearts beating in their chests—it’s in them to question orders, to fight back when something doesn’t seem right. Even if it’s coming from someone you trust. People trusted Palpatine, once.

Doesn’t matter now. In public, Wedge got a medal. In private, he got reamed out. And Phantom Squadron was shut down.

His crewmates have gone on. None of them are pilots now. They’re all support crew. Koko runs fueling lines. Jethpur is an engine mechanic. Last he heard, Yarra gave it all up and she’s out somewhere on a fishing rig—one of the organic-led ones that cleave to the old Chandrilan ways of hauling fish up one at a time on lines of braided dyan-thread.

And here he is. Doing busywork. Managing a hangar.

“It’s necessary work, Snap,” he tells the young man.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Oh. Sorry. I…I thought you liked the nickname.”

“I did but now I don’t.” Temmin steps in front of him, arms crossed. “You like her.”

“What?”

“My mother. You like her.”

“I…” Wedge feels nervous, suddenly, thinking about her. His mouth dry as a new shirt, but the back of his neck goes suddenly slick with sweat. Norra. “Snap—sorry, Temmin—I was close with your mother, we were friends—”

“You were more than friends.” With every word, Temmin thrusts an accusing finger. Then he throws up his hands, exasperated. “And fine. I don’t care about that. But you care about her. So, she’s out there, Wedge. She needs our help. She’s trapped on a planet and we can go, right now, to save her. You have clearances. I know you do.”

Wedge barks an uneasy laugh. “I don’t have those clearances anymore, not after Kashyyyk. And your mother…” He sighs and sets the datapad down. “I do care about her. A lot. And part of why I care about her is that I know she’s tough as a handful of hexabolts. That planet won’t break her. The Empire won’t break her. And we’ll get her out.”

“So you’re just abandoning her.”

“I’m not. I swear. But I’m just one guy without a whole lot to say about any of it. What I can do is what I have to do. This isn’t just busywork. It’s making sure our ships and our pilots are ready to fly, because they need to hit that fleet like a fist. That’s how we get your mother back. We don’t just send you or me or the Falcon. We send the whole New Republic.”

Temmin sneers. “Glad to hear you’ve made yourself feel better about not doing a damn thing. I’ll see you, Wedge.”

“Snap—” Damnit. “Temmin! Wait.”

But the boy is already hard-charging away in long, angry strides.

—

Sinjir watches Conder through the window. The slicer asked them all to stay outside while he does his scan of Leia’s domicile. From the center of Conder’s palm rises a small, hand-machined probe droid—like a little wobbly ball with a nest of needled antennas coming off it at all angles. It hums and thrums and bobbles around the room, a green beam of light sweeping across every corner, every counter, every bit of bric-a-brac.

It’s not the probe droid that Sinjir is watching, though.

It’s Conder.

Conder is comfortable in his skin, and even more comfortable in his role. There’s just something enticing about seeing someone so capable, so confident. The hinge of Sinjir’s jaw tightens, like a trap eager to spring.