Spilled Milk: Part 2 By: Lock, Silence, Gremlin, FLATTOP, and Dragon Day tHREE taUNGSDAY /Begin Imperial Transmission: Orders to ground team. ***Search and recovery mission*** Investigate last known position of missing Imperial Probe Droid. ROE for enemy presence? ***Extreme Prejudice*** /End Transmission. I. [ Planetside; Unknown System ] Standing on lookout duty, Marshal "Flattop" Westfolder let his mind replay the past days' events on autopilot. It would anyway, in spite of his attempts to stifle it, so he tried to use it as an opportunity to learn from his mistakes. The alternative was to simply drown in embarrassment at the recollections of past failures, and that wasn't helpful at all. Instead, he analyzed. He applied the mantra: look out, listen to, and learn from. That goofy stunt Silence pulled getting out of her cockpit sure was something, Flattop thought. He hadn't quite put his finger on what exactly, but it was something alright. Marshal knew all starfighter pilots were crazy to a certain extent, but having that on display in the canyon earlier was the sort of 'you are part of it now' experience that just kept coming every time he launched with the Renegades. Part of being a rookie, I reckon, he mused. I would've caught her on the first pass too, if that shear hadn't gusted just then. He hadn't brought it up in the midst of her post-pickup high, grateful just to see her safe, and also not wanting to come off as an excuse-maker. Nothing lamer than someone who's never at fault. He heard the tension and, dare he say, fear in her voice over the comms. Not that he blamed her. It took a lot of guts just to yank the ejection handles to be launched into a howling canyon while your wingmate tries not to crush you with several tons of U-wing. Maybe that's how he should think of it. He hadn't caught her, but he hadn't killed her either. He sighed, his eyes flickering across the canyon. Look out, listen to, learn from—those blasted asteroids he hadn't been able to get through quickly enough to save Dragon. Well, UN-blasted, heh. That hurt. Even with his limited experience, he knew there couldn't be any logical condemnation from anyone who'd flown through asteroids themselves, especially in a gunboat, but that didn't make the outcome any easier to accept. If he could have shaved enough time down, put enough of those rocks that much closer to his hull, enough power to lasers, enough power to engines . . . he suddenly recalled going down this line of thinking years ago. It was after the Coronet City Classic, a speeder race held only once every three years. He'd finished third, after a string of placements in earlier races ranging from second through fifth. His best year, if you took the scores in aggregate, although still not in the top three overall. Cienis Drumen, a young up-and-comer (so labeled by the sportscasts) had come around that last bend so hot that the only way to stop her would have been to just get in her way. Marshal had tried it too late, which gave Gavenk Donnel the opening he needed to edge Marshal out. The finish-line cam-snap showed Drumen first, Donnel second, and Westfolder third. It was the closest he ever came to winning a match on the professional circuit. Marshal always reviewed the footage after any of his races, but that race he pored over it. Different angles, different sources; he even reviewed fan cams from the stands. The conclusion he arrived at was devastating. Practically speaking, there was nothing he could have done differently to win. His position that last lap (or the last two laps, depending how you argued it—and he had, he'd argued every which way) was simply untenable. Unwinnable, if you prefer. The elements that would have needed to change to give him an actual shot at crossing the finish line in first place were outside of his control and influence. Sure, there were myriad things that could have happened to change the outcome, but none of them were anything he could have done, or refrained from doing. It wasn't his fault. For some folks, that conclusion would have been liberating, comforting. Not his fault! Who could blame him now? Looking back on it though (as one particularly insightful sportscast contributor did years later), that was the finish that broke Marshal Westfolder. He hadn't quit, in fact, he'd tried even harder, but in the back of his mind a gloomy sort of voice kept muttering things like: Why try if your efforts don't actually affect the outcome anyway? Things like: Your team's already given up on you. Things like: Even if you do win, will it have been because of your skill? Or because of uncontrollable elements? He'd hung up his helmet a couple years later. Take a breath, look out, listen to, learn from . . . what? How were the third-place finish at the Coronet City Classic and Dragon's death related, if at all? Was it worth to second, third, or even fourth guess the actions he took in the moments that had led up to it if the conclusion was going to be: "oh well, couldn't'a done nothin'?" But, if there was something he could have done differently, then not 'watching the tape' was tantamount to just letting it happen again someday. Marshal wondered if maybe he now had some insight into the amount of drinking some of the wing's pilots did—they had likely seen some things. A muffled crunch made Marshal spin around and one of the refugees showed his empty hands in response. "Just out on a walk, mind some company?" Marshal lowered his blaster rifle and told his heart to slow down. "Sure . . . I guess I'm too far into my head right now anyway." The other man grunted and stepped up beside him, staring roughly in the same direction—towards the canyon—apparently content to just be there. Marshal let the silence drag out as long as he could stand it, and then spoke. "I'm Flight Officer Westfolder," he said. "Marshal," he appended. "Roland," was the reply. "Just Roland. I am, was, a farmer," he explained, but what exactly this was supposed to explain eluded Marshal completely—so he waited. When no clarification seemed forthcoming, he turned towards Roland and drew breath, only to be interrupted. "Thank you for the rescue," Roland said. Marshal settled his features into his professional 'just doing my duty' bearing when Roland continued. "They say one of your number perished, what was his name?" Suddenly, the foliage on the opposite canyon wall needed a hard look, and Marshal obliged. "First Lieutenant Arcfire, they called him 'Dragon.' I . . . don't know his first name," he admitted, and wondered if he oughtn't feel more guilt about that. "Dragon . . ." Roland repeated. It seemed like he would say something else when a soft but persistent chime went off at Marshal's wrist. "Frak me, that stupid motion sensor is on the blink again." He sighed. "Would you like to come with?" The big farmer shrugged. "Better than waiting around, I suppose. Let's go." The brief hike was uneventful. The two men swapped stories and tried to imagine life as the other. The spooky canyon suppressed any ease or laughter—a gloaming dark enough to subdue a man regardless of how short-lived it was. Marshal realized he felt relieved the civilian had accepted his offer to come with. He had more reason to be thankful when Roland quickly diagnosed and jury-rigged a fix for the malfunctioning sensor. "You make it look easy," Marshal said. Roland stood, dusting his hands off. "Eh, you could've done it without me, it's nothing." "I'm just the guy holding the glowstick. You should join up and fix snubfighters for the New Republic," Marshal joked, and then bit his tongue when his companion's face turned even darker than his natural complexion. "Not happening," grunted the farmer. Then, a familiar rumble assaulted Marshal's chest. He'd barely begun to wonder why someone would be crazy enough to fly a starship in the canyon, when Roland yelled "Down!" and ducked behind some rocks. Both men flattened against the cliffside as an Imperial Lambda-class shuttle descended and disgorged two squads of stormtroopers which headed in both directions. The pilot side of Marshal admired the shuttle pilot's landing, the side of him that didn't want to die held very still, and the part of Marshal that awoke back when he saw a gap between two speeders widen just enough to get his own through was most interested in the fact that the shuttle was still there, ramp down, with a nervous-looking pilot standing guard at the bottom. The adrenaline high from surviving has nothing on betting big and winning. "O-kay," Marshal let out a breath as he strained to hear some trooper yell: What's that over there? Blast 'em! "Okay," he repeated, a little firmer this time, and turned to Roland, unsnapping his sidearm holster as he did. "Do you know how to use one of these?" Marshal whispered over the proffered blaster pistol. The other man's visage was stony, a storm flashing behind his eyes that rivaled any in the sky above. "Yes," Roland finally allowed—the word seemed to be dragged out of him as if under duress. "Alright," Marshal pressed on, "here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna run towards the ramp as fast and silent as we can until we're spotted, blast the guard, and get in the shuttle before the pilot can take off." His swarthy comrade had yet to take the sidearm. "Go on," Roland grunted. "We'll check comms, not that I expect we'll be hearing anything, fly back down the canyon, gun down the patrol that's headed towards the caves, and then tell Grem—Captain Gemilan what's up." Marshal motioned with the blaster's grip. "Come on, this thing's heavier than it looks, but that's good. Heavy is reliable!" A more sober Marshal Westfolder would have remarked that he was just snatching for things to say at this point, but adrenaline does funny things to a man. *** A hand puppet faces another hand puppet, unmoving. "I don't get it," an onlooker complains. "They're just staring at each other." Flattop shrugs. "That's what happened." *** The gears, wheels, and machinations of Roland's mind and will ground on. Hepped up on biological go-get-em juice as he was, Marshal was savvy enough not to say anything more. How could he know what was going on inside the man opposite him? Roland had been trying to flee the Empire, not strike back at it, and he certainly was under no obligation to risk his life. Was that close to his line of thinking? Or was it something else? Marshal's arm began to shake due to the strain when— "I will do this thing," the seismic whisper came back. "But set your '-280 to stun." "Uh, yeah, no problem." Marshal toggled his blaster rifle's mode selector and refocused his attention on the black-suited target that nervously looked back and forth at the foot of the ramp. A tap on his shoulder brought his eyes back to Roland, who motioned him to approach from the left. Then, with another sweep of the hand, Roland indicated that he himself would be going right. A finger flashed a three, two, one, countdown, and they set off, with Marshal only barely wondering why Roland had begun to call the shots. Their target didn't notice them right away, but it was still too early for Marshal's liking. The Imperial took a second to yell something up the ramp before bringing his weapon to bear, but it was too late by then: Marshal had posted up, sighted in, and the freaky blue energy of a stun bolt struck the hapless guard. Roland hadn't slowed, if anything he'd picked up the pace when he saw Marshal raise his blaster rifle, and used the ramp pylon closest to him as a pivot to fling himself up the ramp. Two more flashes of that same freaky blue light later, and then Marshal climbed aboard, his muzzle aimed towards the floor at Roland's soft-spoken "clear." Marshal cracked a shaky half-grin, some of the adrenaline already starting to drain off. "A farmer, huh?" "Not now," came the terse reply, and the boarding ramp began to close. Roland then motioned towards the pilot's seat. "Your turn." "Aye," Marshal passed his blaster rifle to the grim man. "That it is." A quick check showed quiet comms and a warm shuttle ready for flight. It was clear the crew didn't want to be here any longer than they had to. And who could blame them? thought Marshal as he spun the engines up. He could feel Roland's eyes on him as he familiarized himself with the various controls and readouts. "I trained on Lambdas as an extracurricular back at the academy, but they waived a whole lot of flight time," Marshal said. Roland grunted an acknowledgment as he stowed the blaster rifle and sat down at the copilot's station. Marshal didn't catch what interface he'd pulled up as the craft lifted off and slowly accelerated. He kept the ship's wings locked up in their landing configuration while he maneuvered through the canyon. Lambda-class shuttles sported two forward-firing twin laser cannons on top of the ones on the wings, but Marshal was confident those would be enough for six troopers. He was charging said lasers when he spotted the squad of white-armored stormtroopers in the rapidly closing distance. "Contact forward, engaging," Marshal stated. He made one last adjustment to the weapons' pitch, and then the gloom of the canyon burst into light as scintillating bolts of superheated plasma tore towards the six plastoid-encased meatbags. The explosion made the shuttle buck slightly as it flew through it. "Steady," Roland remonstrated as he stared intently at the panel in front of him, and then Marshal heard the report of the aft blaster cannons. "Good hits on target," Roland remarked calmly. Marshal's cheeks burned. Deployable rear-facing blaster cannons are standard on Lambda-class shuttles . . . . He could almost quote the written material verbatim, but that didn't mean the information came to his mind when he could have used it. He cleared his throat. "Copy that, proceeding to . . . Something flickered on the sensor readout, and the computer helpfully labeled the other 'friendly' Lambda-class shuttle appropriately. "Sithspawn!" Marshal swore, mind racing. It has to be close if the sensors are picking it up in all this muck. We're probably near enough the caves for comms, but without encryption, we'd have to transmit in the clear, and they'd pick that up too. There's also that other patrol still down the canyon . . . Marshal decelerated precipitously and put the shuttle on the stony floor none-too-gently. "You'll have to go get Captain Gemilan, Roland. Tell her about the other Lambda. Maybe they can catch it if it doesn't go too far. I'm going back down the canyon for the other stormies, but I'm staying low." The copilot chair creaked as Roland rose. "And hey, uh, thanks for the help back there." Marshal added. Roland skewered Marshal with a wordless gaze and offered him the blaster pistol back. Marshal shook his head. "Keep it, you might need it." "You trust easily, Flight Officer Westfolder." "Aye, well, you haven't given me a reason to doubt you yet. Now move!" Roland flinched into action, a wry twist of the lips gave away exactly what he thought about that ingrained reaction, and jogged down the ramp. Marshal waited until he was clear of the engine backblast and then lifted off. He hit the switch for the landing gear and brought the shuttle about. Flying a Lambda through a canyon on repulsors is not exactly what I thought I'd be doing six months ago, he mused. At least the wind isn't nearly as strong now . . . He caught the shuttle just as a gust assaulted her port side, narrowly missing the canyon face in her inebriated stagger. *** The farmer known as Roland weaved around the various outcroppings of humanity as he approached the U-wing the New Republic pilots used as an impromptu barracks. He'd been surprised at how swiftly the refugees had taken to the 'explore the caverns in order to survive' imperative, but a common goal was always effective at bringing individuals together, he concluded. Roland slapped the hatch door hard, twice, and then stood back. The blaster pistol dug into the small of his back, where he'd shoved it in lieu of an actual holster. It made him feel like a small-time crook. Soon, the hatch slid open and Roland had to look past the tall, white-haired pilot for the smaller, crimson-skinned alien he'd seen the rest of the pilots defer to. "Captain Gemilan?" He inquired. She was still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, and Roland noted that the white-haired one maintained a protective posture as she approached. He idly wondered if the pilot was attempting to be discreet. "That's me," she said. "My name is Roland. Flight Officer Westfolder sends his regards and begs leave to inform you that an Imperial Lambda-class shuttle has been detected in our immediate vicinity. "Red Three!" She snapped crisply, but Lock was already past Roland and sprinting for his X-wing, yelling at his astromech to 'Suspend MonTure and start the kriffing pre-flight.' "And where is Flattop? Flight Officer Westfolder, I mean." "Heading spinwards down the canyon in a captured Lambda. He intends to engage and destroy a stormtrooper infantry patrol while remaining low enough in the canyon to avoid detection by the other shuttle." Captain Gemilan turned to the human female behind her. "I'm launching with Lock. Help Flattop if you can, organize a defense here if you can't." Roland stood aside as the crimson-skinned Captain sped off towards her own craft, and then turned back to face the penetrating blue gaze of the remaining pilot. "I'm going to find Flight Officer Westfolder," Roland stated unequivocally. "Are you coming?" He could see the fatigue in her face, but also the hardness in her eyes. "You know?" She stated. "I think I will." *** Just like insertion drills, Marshal told himself, his lips set tight in concentration. The U-wing instructors at the academy were notorious for unannounced 'twists' in their insertion/extraction drills. They sought to prepare their pilots to expect the unexpected, and to be flexible enough to accomplish the mission objectives regardless of the situation. Bad weather (simulated or not) and sudden mechanical issues were long-standing favorites, and Marshal would not have put it past them to brief: 'Oh, by the way, you're flying a captured Lambda shuttle for this one, not your U-wing. Go get 'em, pilots!' This time, the stormtrooper squad noticed his approach and sent a message through the comms: "Shuttle One? What . . ." Marshal didn't answer, he just lit them up. One or two troopers brought their weapons to bear, but their shots went wild. Aiming steadily is difficult when the world is exploding at your feet. Marshal brought the shuttle about when he noticed movement among the charred white armor: one trooper, both legs gone above the knee, using one elbow to drag himself closer to the shuttle. He muttered a resigned oath and prepared to land, facing the boarding ramp towards the injured trooper for easier access. He found the medical kit (complete with bacta-patches that could be stretched over any stump) and jogged towards his limp patient. Marshal struggled to bring to mind the basic medical training he'd received at the academy. "Okay, check airway and breathing first." He reached down to roll the trooper over onto his back when he noticed the thermal detonator clenched in the man's right fist. Marshal froze, and the trooper pushed up with his left arm, hurling the device into the open shuttle. The trooper gasped out a self-satisfied "Heh!" and collapsed, unconscious. Marshal barely had time to curl around the man's head before the detonator went off. *** "Anything, Red Three?" "Nothing, Red Leader," Lock said. "Form up, then, we're heading back." "And then?" Gremlin didn't respond. Lock didn't ask anything else. *** The rain might have felt good against Marshal's back if it had been falling softer. He reckoned he should just be grateful no flying shrapnel had made his day even worse. The dawn would be here soon and the canyon would bake. It wasn't a long hike to the caves, but the sooner he started, the sooner he'd be done, and the sooner he'd recover from carrying a ground-pounder, so he set off. He heard Silence's "Flattop!" before he heard her approach. Looking up, he saw her and Roland approaching at a quick jog. "Who's this?" She asked as Roland relieved him of the unconscious stormtrooper. "I got the rest of the squad, but it wasn't a clean kill. This one's stable, or as close to it as it can be, but we should get him back as soon as we can." "We should get you back, is your back okay? Marshal's cocky smile faltered as he aborted a shrug halfway through the motion. "It's seen better days. Did we get that other shuttle?" Silence shook her head as they began a distance-eating lope back to the caves. "I don't know, haven't heard back yet." They saved their breath for running, Silence, then Marshal, then Roland, each deep within their own thoughts as the rain kept on falling. One recurring thought bothered Marshal with every step, like some sort of horrible academy running jodie: They know we're here, they know we're here . . . *** Day Four Zhellday /Begin Communication: From: CAPT. Kathoole, CO, INT. Platzhalter To: CDRE. Barand, CO, ISD. Conviction Contact lost with survey team ESK 5. Position of Rebels and Colonists narrowed down to Latitude: 33.02°S, Longitude: 100.27°E. Full invasion force authorized. Launch as soon as weather conditions improve. Interdictor Dolus Insidiae, you're drifting off station. Keep position opposite Platzhalter's orbit. /End Communication. I. [ Planetside; Unknown System ] The nights were short, just three hours of darkness, but despite her exhaustion Gremlin could only take brief naps. Not just because she had to stand watch; they couldn't trust the civilians to stay awake, after all. The military members—and she counted the "farmer" Roland among their number—at least understood the necessity of maintaining a careful watch for potential Imperial incursions. They all knew one was coming. They all knew they probably wouldn't leave the planet alive. But they'd keep trying, all the way, until there was nobody left, because that's what the Rebels—the New Republic—did. Nobody was left behind. Except, of course ... until they were. It was cold in the U-wing that the Renegades had made their unofficial headquarters. Flattop, sedated against the pain of his burns, was lying on his stomach on one of the emergency stretchers that were standard equipment in this configuration. With the help of a doctor who was among the colonists, they had placed bacta patches over the raw skin but Westfolder was clearly unable to fly, at least for now. He moaned gently in his sleep. Lock was on watch; Silence slept, curled around the long-cat which was itself wound into a ball atop her blanket. Gremlin was supposed to be sleeping but the nightmares that had plagued her for months had returned full force, supplemented by the horror of the Gergovia exploding, taking with it 200 lives. Men, women and children, dead by her decision. An A-wing crashing into an asteroid: Dragon, dead by her decision. It was hard to say which hurt more. Gremlin sat up, the blanket falling off one shoulder. She palmed her closed eyes, driving the heels of her hands into the sockets, sparking a jagged explosion of light that distracted her briefly from the images on a constant loop in her mind. The short moments of sleep she was granted allowed the memories to fade slightly before the nightmares roared back, shaking her awake again. After that, she was too on edge to sleep. At least during the planet's brief nights, she was protected from the constant demands that dogged her during the longer days: questions from colonists, seeking reassurance or complaining about her decisions; the angry gaze from Silence's friend or former subordinate, Captain Feldspar, who seemed always to be hanging around; the valid queries from her Red Flight colleagues who needed her answers and whose lives, again, depended on her decisions. She couldn't let them die. She couldn't let anyone else die! She had to lead, be the kind of person who could take split-second decisions that would save lives. Somehow, she'd have to remember everything she'd seen and experienced and done in the past, all the leadership choices others had made around her, and she'd have to channel that expertise to keep the colonists and her flight—or rather, what was left of her flight—alive. Red Leader. She'd been so proud of her cleverness. How hollow it sounded now. Shivering, not entirely with cold, Gremlin pushed herself off the chair and stumbled as quietly as possible towards the ship's entrance, pulling the blanket around her shoulders as she went. She was still wearing her familiar orange X-wing flightsuit, the top half unfastened to her navel and the flak jacket curled loosely around one arm, ready to be pulled on if the enemy arrived. Her helmet and chestbox were waiting on the seat of her X-wing with Li'l Leo, her trusted astromech, keeping a constant check on the systems to ensure they could be started as quickly as possible. The Imperials—former Imperials, now—were out there and closing in; Flattop's escapade that afternoon had shown all too clearly that the danger was growing. Somehow, within the next day or so, they'd have to run the gauntlet of the Imp ships or risk being killed in a ground attack. The only question was: who would be able to take to the skies? The fighters, albeit much depleted, would clearly have to carry out their role as protectors and attackers, though it was questionable what could be achieved with two X-wings and a battered U-wing against the might of the Imperial capital ships. The colonists would either have to escape on freighters that were no match for the Imperial capital ships, or stay hidden until the remains of Red Flight could bring relief. Those were the decisions facing her today: who would try to escape? When? And how many would survive? She found him near the entrance, sheltering behind a buttress of rock which they had adopted as a sentry-point. His MonTure game was sitting to one side, powered down, but the screen still showed some glowing numbers—a score which, to Gremlin's eyes, looked over-inflated, but then this was Lock and he'd been playing a version of that stupid game for as long as she'd known him. His white hair almost glowed green in the phosphorescent light from the mosses that crept down the cavern walls. She whispered his name, alerting him to her presence. He half-turned so she could see one hand on his blaster-hilt. "I heard you coming, you know." His voice was mild. "Maybe. Still don't want you shooting me." She edged towards him, peering out into the gloom. The sky was overcast, clouds swallowing the stars as they billowed towards the watchers. Gremlin sighed, watching the puffs of white from her breath dissipate into the cold air. "I hate this part. Knowing they're out there, knowing we'll be fighting them soon..." She trailed off, not quite able to find the words yet. Lock had known her for four years. Had seen her develop from a cadet, young and eager, into a seasoned fighter pilot with leadership potential. He knew what she was capable of; he'd seen her coolly vape enemy pilots, go up against Star Destroyers or punch a former friend who'd betrayed everything they held dear. But this situation—to make the choices she had, to be faced with the anger and even hatred of the colonists because of the decision she'd made—was very different. "You did the right thing," he said quietly. "I know. I know!" She didn't have to ask what he was talking about; there was only one decision which could have brought about such a statement. Gremlin hugged her arms around herself, as if trying to bring comfort. It didn't entirely work. "I know it was the right decision. Kriff, it was the only decision! Either we lose the Gergovia and save the other colonists, or we potentially lose everyone." She tried to push the image of the battered A-wing from her mind. He changed the subject. "How's things with the civilians?" "Awful." Against the phosphorescent light, her bitter half-smile looked like a gargoyle's deformed expression. "At least with the Flight, I can make a decision and know you'll all do it, even if we have a discussion about it beforehand … which I'd rather do in this situation, to be honest. Nobody's at their best after—how many..." she paused to calculate briefly, "four days on this hell planet? But the civilians, kriff me! I give them time to talk, I listen to them but when I tell them what we're going to do, they start arguing again!" She sighed explosively, a puff of warm air sending chill streamers into the night. "I don't think they even believe I've fought the Imps, you know." "You need to stand up for yourself. You're in charge." Lock shifted from one leg to another, re-settling his gunbelt on his hips. "It's not like you can't do this, Gremlin. You've been a flight leader. You're an XO. What's stopping you from getting them to listen to you?" "If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you!" Her irritation at his apparent lack of understanding emerged in an uncharacteristic angry outburst. He smiled. "Be more like that, Gemilan. You're trying too hard to bring them along with you. Just tell them and expect them to do what you say. We'll all back you up, you know that." His unexpected use of her proper name caught her by surprise. When she could speak again, she muttered, "Thanks. Yeah, I ... I know that." But when she thought about it, afterwards, back on the Vigilant, she realised she hadn't actually been sure about it until he'd told her. *** "What?" Two sock puppets dangled limply, clutched between red-skinned fingers. "You want me to what?!" "Use 'em to tell the others what happened!" Silence laughed. "We've all done it. Now you're back from sickbay, you can tell 'em too." The sock puppets flew through the air and hit a bulkhead, surprising a couple of Skull Squadron pilots having a quiet drink nearby. "Kriff that," Gremlin said, her voice loud. "Get me a drink, someone. And let's see if anyone wants a drinking game while they're at it!" *** Morning came and with it, more hell. Gremlin had returned to the U-wing and tried, unsuccessfully, to doze before the cat-creature woke and started to practise parkour by bobbing through the craft. It was chased erratically by Doc Jobber, threatening the alien life-form with dismemberment. Silence slept throughout the craziness, which just went to show how tired she was, Gremlin thought. Silence and the critter were practically inseparable during the day. Kriff knew how they'd manage to get the baby long-cat back aboard the Vigilant, but Gremlin knew it'd be there somehow. Even laconic Lock was quite enamoured by it, which was saying a lot. Flattop was still out for the count—she checked his vital signs, which seemed okay as far as her basic field medic training went, but made a mental note to look for the doctor who'd treated him the previous day. The woman had been in demand dealing with myriad injuries stemming from the flight through the asteroid field, the hasty landing and the colonists' adjustment to life on an uncertain planet. At least no-one had died from eating unfamiliar plant or animal life ... yet. Gremlin started to walk around the encampment, as she'd taken to calling it to herself. The colonists had, in the nature of their role, started to make the caverns their home: family and social groups had formed around campfires; small tents made from blankets had appeared within the first couple of days as people did whatever they could to provide some of the familiarity of home. Not many were awake at this time, which she preferred. Later in the day, when people were getting on with what passed for their lives, she was all too aware of the grumbles and murmurs which followed her as she walked through the centre of the encampment. It was easier to carry out her checks now, before she had to face the weight of the colonists' dislike and disapproval. She wanted to shout out to them, to cry that she hadn't had a choice, that it was better to sacrifice 200 lives than for them all to die ... but she didn't quite believe that herself, so she said nothing. As she was rounding the bulk of the cruiser Alesia, noting the greyish-green mosses already starting to colonise the ship's landing-struts, she almost bumped into someone she was trying more than most to avoid. "I—I'm sorry," she apologised reflexively, but he glared at her as if she'd done it deliberately. "Maybe you should keep a better lookout, Captain Gemilan!" His voice was low, so it didn't awake any sleepers, but he all but spat the words at her. There was also the subtext—imaginary, perhaps, on her part—that if she'd kept a better lookout on the first day, none of this would have happened. Gremlin stiffened instinctively, muscles tensing, ready to fight. Deliberately, she told herself to relax. Silence likes him. You trust Silence. Trust him, too. "Apologies, Captain Feldspar." She kept her tone even, polite, unwilling to let him see how much his attitude irritated her. "You're up early this morning." In fact, it looked like he'd hardly been to sleep—puffy-eyed, hair mussed, several days of stubble decorating his cheeks. She probably looked similar—minus the stubble, of course. He eyed her, then responded curtly, "As are you," unwilling or unable to unbend any further. They looked at each other for another couple of seconds. Gremlin was the first to speak. "I'll see you at the meeting later, Captain." He nodded abruptly and brushed past her, his disdain all too clear. Gremlin looked after him, her fragile peace disrupted. She toyed briefly with the idea of returning to her comrades aboard the U-wing, which was better than facing the cold hostility of people like Feldspar, but determination overtook her. This was her responsibility, the early-morning walk around the encampment to make sure that everything was as well as it could be, under the circumstances. It was her duty as the leader (such as she was) to ensure that everyone was being cared for, whether they wanted her to be involved or not. She straightened up, grimacing slightly from the tension in taut back and shoulder muscles, and continued her walk, carefully avoiding the glances from those other early risers who were also unable or unwilling to sleep. Kriff, I can't wait to get back into my X-wing again! When Gremlin returned to the U-wing, some time later, Flattop was just waking up. She helped him to the 'fresher and, once he was back on his makeshift bed, topped up his painkiller meds as the doctor had advised them to do. The baby long-cat bobbed towards her, butting her legs with its knobbly head. She bent to rub its smooth body, one hand following the other in a soothing rhythm. The creature vibrated as it .... purred? The waves of sound seemed to echo through her bones, setting her joints a-tingle. It was a pleasurable sensation, akin to having a lover's touch drifting across her skin—which only brought back thoughts of Angel, her wingmate, friend, secret lover. Their relationship was necessarily hidden from others; both knew that their involvement would be viewed negatively by the Wing's command, even though they also knew their attachment—conditional though it was on Gremlin's side—also reinforced their abilities and their determination to support each other, whether in combat or routine patrols. Gremlin didn't know she was crying until tears dropped onto the baby long-cat's fur. She set her jaw, blinking hard until the moisture was wicked away; only then did she wipe the fingers of one hand across her face, sniffing slightly. I'm sorry, love. I know you'll be worried. But I'll be back soon! she thought, wishing that she had the ability to let Angel know she was still alive—for now, at least. The infant, sensing her distraction, inflated slightly and eddied towards a new tribute: Silence, her dark hair mussed from sleep, who started to pat the creature with single-minded precision. Gremlin stood, waiting for a second until the brief wave of dizziness passed. She remembered the sensation from the time that she, Angel, Frosty and Junior had been trapped on a planet, hunted by Imperials driven mad by the aftermath of the Battle of Endor. A stim would help keep her reactions sharp, but she didn't want to go down that route yet. Turning slowly, she made her way back to where Silence sat cross-legged amid the nest of blankets on the floor. The other pilot started to stand; Gremlin waved her hand, indicating she should stay seated, and joined Silence on the floor. The baby creature deflated gently to snuggle between them. Automatically, they both began to pet whatever part of the infant they could reach. "She needs a name. If she's a she," Gremlin observed, keeping her voice low to let Lock and Flattop sleep. "We were talking about that yesterday—and wondering how long we can hide her inside Doc Jobber." "Just long enough to get aboard the Vigilant. Then there'll be plenty more hiding-places we can use." Gremlin tried not to think about the alternative: that they would never again see the Rebel cruiser they called home. Never see friends, wingmates, lovers past and present. She sniffed slightly, after-effects from her earlier tears. Silence didn't look at her—not really, but Gremlin sensed the other woman's attention sharpen. The A-wing pilot had the ability to look like she was doing one thing but actually observing another, which—if what they'd talked about earlier was true—was in keeping with her previous role in New Republic Intelligence. Gremlin kept her gaze fixed on the cat-creature. Silence cleared her throat, a characteristically quiet gesture, all the while watching her without seeming to. "If you don't mind me asking, ma'am ...." "No. No, please don't—" Silence's look of shock surprised her, then Gremlin realised what she'd said. "Kriff!" The swear word was said quietly, but with no less venom. "I'm sorry, that came out wrong. I didn't mean no, you can't ask me. I meant to say," she half-turned to look Silence full in the face, "please don't call me 'ma'am'. It's just not me, Silence. I'm not the kind of leader who ... who needs to be spoken to formally like that." She pushed back a lock of purple hair that kept detaching itself from her messy braid. "Just call me Gremlin, all right?" A small, slightly bitter smile graced her usually mobile mouth. "I don't think the New Republic is bothered about rank and all that shavit in circumstances like these. I know I'm not!" The other pilot watched her warily, before allowing her own smile to show. "If that's what you want, ma.... uh, Gremlin, then I'd better obey orders, shouldn't I?" "Like I said to Lock overnight—I trust you guys to do what I say. But the civilians ..." Gremlin shook her head, sighing heavily. "We have a meeting with them soon. Can't say I'm looking forward to it, but needs must." A small smile brightened her face as a thought struck her. "Maybe I could send Lock instead!" "You're in charge!" But Silence noticed that Gremlin's smile seemed forced, unlike her usual blithe response. She glanced at the baby long-cat which had rolled onto its back, belly tilted towards the roof of the U-wing. Silence frowned, tilting her head to one side. "Is that its belly-button? But it was in an egg! Surely it can't have a belly-button?" "Maybe that's how it manages to inflate and deflate?" Gremlin managed a more natural laugh, but it faded into a sigh. She gave a sideways glance towards Silence. "I, ah, bumped into Captain Feldspar earlier. Literally." "Oh." Silence compressed her lips, glancing away. "He's ... he's a good officer. Takes his responsibilities seriously." "And he thinks I don't. He thinks I let a ship of colonists get killed. I mean, I did let it happen—I can understand why he's so angry. It's just..." Her voice trailed away. Even though she'd deliberately broken the hierarchies of rank, she still couldn't articulate her true concerns. Kriff, she hadn't even been able to tell Lock how she felt. Sometimes being a leader was the loneliest job in the world. Zeltron pheromones worked in mysterious ways. Much of the time, they silently communicated emotions like lust and desire, but equally they could broadcast depression, doubt or despair. The blend of emotions swirling around the young flight leader was picked up by Silence, who shivered slightly, as if a gust of chill air had eddied into the U-wing's passenger cabin. "You did what you had to do, Gremlin. You know that. We all know that." "Yeah." Gremlin pasted a smile onto her face. "You all told me. And I know ... I really do know that we had to save as many people as possible. But ..." images of explosions blossoming around the Gergovia filled her mind, "but now we need to save the rest of 'em." She gave the baby long-cat's belly one last pat then stood, shaking her braid back behind her shoulders. "I may need you to fly my X-wing when the time comes, Si. Be ready, okay?" The lieutenant nodded as Gremlin navigated around the cargo hold and down the U-wing's ramp. The long-cat mrrewed, butting her hand with its nubby little head, and Silence resumed petting, but she was frowning as she watched the young Captain walk across the cavern's floor, apparently unaware of the hard glares and muttered words from the colonists who were just waking up to another day planetside. "She needs psychiatric help. Quickly." Doc Jobber floated into view from behind Flattop's bed, the droid's medic persona to the fore. "Shhh! Be careful, I don't want her to hear you." Doc Jobber gave an electronic snort. "Her species do not have any elevated aural characteristics. She cannot hear us now. I have been monitoring her biosigns and she is showing signs of ...." "I know. She's stressed. We all are." "You are. It is my medical judgement that you will all need psychiatric help, assuming you return to the Vigilant in good time. But she is already worse than you and the others." Doc Jobber's lights flashed in strange patterns as the droid bobbed above Silence and the long-cat. "I'll bear that in mind, Doc. Thanks." "There is no need to thank me. It is ingrained in my programming." *** The colonists had done two things since their unexpected settlement of the irregular planetoid: turn the caverns into a series of temporary homesteads and set up a form of government called, imaginatively, the Council. Its membership was composed of the captain of each ship and whoever had been elected lead colonist aboard the vessel because, of course, the colonists had followed democratic principles and voted on their choices after the first night spent planetside. As the military commander, Gremlin was effectively the group's leader; she was usually accompanied by whichever pilot or pilots were free to attend council meetings. Now, with Flattop injured, Lock and Silence had joined her on the walk through the encampment.. They met aboard the Alesia, in what had once been the crew mess. As Gremlin entered, the murmur of conversation stopped in that unique, unsettling way when people have been talking about someone who then appears. Trying to ignore the atmosphere in the room (why did her empathy always have to work at the most challenging of times?), Gremlin tilted her chin upwards in an impression of confidence and smiled at those who were already present: Feldspar, of course, as captain of the Alesia, and Es Vilirrik, the ship's lead colonist, a grey-haired, sharp-eyed Pantoran who reminded Gremlin of an older version of her former wingmate Ice but whose personality was completely different. The captain of the Britonii, a grizzled Bothan male, Ruur Trothali, contrasted with the relative youth of the female Togruta lead colonist Leri Jerbel. Barton Veleste, human commander of the Hispa, sat alongside her lead colonist, a striking Devaronian called Plak Hobbe. He bared his teeth at Gremlin; she hoped it was a welcome and not a call to fight. "Good morning," she greeted them in a determinedly cheerful tone, taking her seat at one end of the table. There was a mumble of responses—Feldspar just glared—that was only heightened by the warm greetings given to the Nautolan captain and Quarren lead colonist from the fourth cruiser Gaula, Dru Borra and Sebker Sqen, when they entered and took their seats. Gremlin pulled out her datapad, where she'd made some notes from previous meetings, and cleared her throat—to no avail; the conversation continued, drowning out her attempt to call the meeting to order. She set her jaw and rapped the plasteel table loudly with her knuckles, controlling a wince at the sting it evoked. But it worked, eventually. Gremlin tilted her chin, determined to sound confident despite her own qualms. "We need to come to a decision." She held up her datapad. "The Imperials are growing closer. Another day, two at most, and they'll find this cavern. We all know what that means." She steeled herself to make a statement she didn't fully believe herself, tensing her jaw. "I didn't sacrifice the Gergovia for all of us to die a few days later. You might not agree with what I did," she was matching glares with Feldspar now, daring him to contradict her, "but I've been fighting the Imperials since just after Alderaan was blown up by the first Death Star. I was on Hoth. I fought at the Battle of Endor and I'm fighting now to keep every last one of us alive and safe. But I can only do it if you—all of you here, around this table, work with me instead of against me." "And how are you going to manage that, Captain Gemilan?" asked Es Vilirrik, the Alesia's lead colonist. "Surely you remember that we do not have nearly enough fighters to protect us. Or, from what I hear, pilots as well—one of your men was injured yesterday, am I right?" "Flight Officer Westfolder, our U-wing specialist, is recovering. He will be fit to fly as needed." That was a lie; she had no idea if Flattop would be able to pilot his craft, but she knew him well enough from her short time as Spectre XO to be confident that he would push himself as far as possible to ensure he played his full part in the escape. They only had three surviving fighter craft and each one would be needed if they were to protect the colonists when they finally did flee. In the back of her mind, she remembered an explosion on the pitted surface of an asteroid, half-unnoticed as she duelled with a TIE pilot who took too long to die. Oh, Dragon ... I wish you were here! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... Gremlin pushed the thought aside and gave all her attention to the Pantoran woman. "We need to decide, all of us, how we are going to distract the Imperial forces when we eventually leave the planet. I've pulled together some options," she held up her datapad, "and I'd like to discuss them now, so we're ready when they do arrive ...." *** Over two hours had passed and the atmosphere in the room was, fittingly for this planet, stormy. Gremlin pushed back a lock of purple hair from her forehead, which was sticky with sweat. They all smelled: water for washing was hard to access as she had banned anyone from cleaning bodies or clothes in the lake, their only source of drinking water. That had been one of the early battles—only three days ago, but it felt like aeons. The Council had fought her edict, saying people needed to keep themselves clean or disease could spread, but she had insisted that the lake showed no sign of being fed by running water, therefore there was no indication of how contamination could be drained away. The compromise had been to allow colonists to haul washing water from the lake in buckets and bowls. The resulting dirty water had to be disposed of in another part of the cavern, to ensure the lake remained clean. It was additional work, Gremlin accepted that, but she was determined that nobody should fall sick from drinking contaminated water. In solidarity with the colonists, she had stuck to 'bathing' with a damp cloth but now, four days into their hiding, she was all too aware that she really wanted a shower. Fortunately, her own musk was competing with the odour of the other Council members, so she did not feel too out of place. Feldspar, however, had clearly taken time to tidy up. Compared to his appearance at their dawn meeting, he now looked as dapper as if he had just emerged from a 'fresher. She tried to avoid looking at him but every time she glanced in his direction, a little pang of annoyance she couldn't suppress shot through her heart. Silence was sitting close to him—Gremlin wasn't sure why. They had obviously known each other for a while, but there had been some interactions which made her think they were not as friendly as she had initially thought. The A-wing pilot still bore the bruises and scratches from her hair-raising escape; Gremlin was thankful Flattop had been nearby to save Silence after her crash. When she got back to the Vigilant, she'd put them both up for a commendation. You mean if you get back, she told herself, and was momentarily surprised by how calm she felt while contemplating her own death. Around her, arguments raged. Some members of the Council—mostly the colonists—wanted to stay hidden; others—mostly the captains—were counselling a surprise attack, a feint to draw the Imperials' attention while the remaining freighters and colony ships escaped. Tempers were running high. Gremlin had learned, throughout the previous few days, that trying to intervene in such bad-tempered discussions only caused the participants to band together against her, shouting down her comments in a momentary show of unity. As soon as they had made their points, though, the discussion would fracture again and the temporary unanimity would vanish. She had to try, though, or they'd be talking til the Imperials arrived! But as the arguments swirled around the table, with Gremlin trying to interject and being ignored, she began to feel more and more as if her role as Captain was itself being questioned. You let everyone on the Gergovia die, her treacherous mind reminded her—as if she could forget! You let them die so these colonists could live, yet none of them will even listen to you. You shouldn't be in charge. You're just an X-wing pilot. You're not a leader! But she was trying to be one, putting in place some of the skills she had seen others demonstrate over the last few years: Krayt's calmness; Lock's strength; Jalb's good humour, which overlaid a steely determination. Even Syntax, her OC for a few short weeks, brought something to the mix—although droids couldn't feel emotions, his logical approach to command was definitely worth trying. Captain Veleste of the Hispa and one of the colonists were arguing now, voices raised, fingers pointing across the pitted table as they each tried to overwhelm the other. Gremlin opened her mouth to intervene, but they kept talking; she felt Lock, who was sitting beside her, shift in his seat—but he said nothing. His gaze, when she glanced sideways at him, was as sharp as it had ever been. If he hadn't carried out that stupid prank with Bulldog's chilli, he'd still be aboard the Vigilant and Trip, the excitable Sullustan, would be with them instead. At least then Gremlin wouldn't have to worry about looking like a fool in front of her former OC from the days of Red Squadron. No, she'd just be making a fool of herself in front of her new wingmates instead. Concentrate, Gemi, concentrate! she told herself, clenching her fingers into fists beneath the table. It didn't help that the planet's crazy rotation had sent her circadian rhythm into a tailspin—the last time she'd felt as tired had been on the mission shortly after Frosty had returned, when they'd had to rely on tab after tab of stims to keep them alert and ahead of their Imperial pursuers. That unforgettable mission had contributed to her decision to avoid stims if possible—even though her Zeltron physiology had enabled her to overcome the dependence quickly, it had not been a pleasant experience. To help combat her current tiredness, she had taken to drinking kaf—not her favourite beverage but its gentle bite definitely helped her stay awake. The shaking hands and occasional fluttering heartbeat were short-lived side effects that she could live with, for now. Though maybe, when they were back aboard the Vigilant, she'd try a cup from one of Frosty's illicit stashes of caf beans. According to Silence, they were the "real deal" and much better than the supplies of kaf included in the U-wing's cargo. That should be IF you make it back to the Vigilant, her treacherous brain added. Isn't that why you're here, in this meeting? To talk about the 'if'? She deliberately unclenched her fingers, one by one, trying to draw in calming breaths of humid air. Gremlin had spent too much time in meetings since the ragtag bunch of colonist refugees and New Republic escort had taken up unwilling residence in the cave complex. While the others had been behaving like pilots, flying patrols and tracking potential Imperial threats—or exploring the caverns and rescuing orphaned alien life-forms—she had been forced to interact with the upper echelons of the colonists, those who had been elected representatives for each ship and, of course, the captains. Accustomed after four years to military protocols, where discussions were encouraged—up to a point—before an OC or higher rank took decisions about the mission at hand, Gremlin was unprepared for the sheer amount of debate which governing civilians seemed to involve. Had the ships' captains been willing, she might have found common ground with them, because at times they too seemed frustrated by the need to weigh the opinions of others and seek consensus—at least at this stage of the operation, while they were unable to escape. However, each of the remaining captains seemed to view her with distrust, although Gremlin had to admit she could understand why: she had given the order to abandon the Gergovia and all aboard to their doom. As far as they were concerned, she could do the same to any of them without compunction. Indeed, Feldspar practically radiated his dislike at being in the same room as her. Silence occasionally eyed him with what looked like concern. Captain Trothali from the Britonii half-stood, leaning across the table to point a sharp claw at the Devaronian colonist, Plak Hobbe, seated opposite. Gremlin noticed Lock shifting again in his seat. He was probably wondering why she didn't intervene ... he didn't realise that she'd been in this situation many times during the past few days. It was better to wait and let the colonists vent their anger and frustration—and, no doubt, fear—before she spoke up. That was sensible … wasn't it? Or maybe, the little niggling voice said, maybe you're not speaking up because you're scared. Because you know you're not a leader. Because to them you're just a pleasure-loving Zeltron femme—you're not a captain. If it was Lock who was speaking, or Silence, they'd listen then. But you're not really in charge, are you? Her skin flushed and unbidden, her pheromones spiked. She couldn't control them, but the impact of their undetectable scent could be seen in the flurry of activity that eddied around the table. Arguments grew louder, someone thumped the table-top for emphasis, and Gremlin finally found her voice. "Enough!" she roared, surprising the group into stunned silence. Gremlin herself was slightly shocked; she had occasionally heard Jalb use what she privately termed his "command voice" and had not expected to be so successful with her own attempt—especially among this company. She was aware that Lock had shot her an amused glance, probably because she had stood up for herself as he had advised her earlier that day. It hadn't been deliberate, though; she had been reacting to the voice which had been nibbling away at her confidence ever since the Gergovia had shattered into a thousand pieces. She realised abruptly that the meeting had fallen silent: everyone was looking at her, either surprised by her outburst or wondering what she was about to say. Gremlin swallowed and tried to channel Jalb's command voice in a way that wasn't shouting over people. "We know, thanks to the work of Flight Officer Westfolder and his copilot, Roland," she nodded to the colonist, who had been included in the meeting because Flattop was still undergoing treatment, "that the Imps—the enemy," she corrected herself, having endured a lecture the previous day on how their pursuers were no longer Imperial forces, strictly speaking, "are likely to attack within the next couple of days. Yesterday, I instructed you all to prepare your ships for takeoff at short notice. How prepared are you to leave?" She glanced around the table at the captains. Only one met her gaze with burning intensity. Gremlin gave an internal sigh and decided to deal with the most challenging person first. The situation couldn't get any worse after that, surely? "Captain Feldspar? Your report, please." She offered him a polite smile. Silence carefully did not look at her former colleague, but Gremlin thought her fellow pilot seemed on edge—though that could just be her own feelings preying on her. "The Alesia will be fit to fly once our chief engineer finishes their testing routine." Feldspar's tone was clipped. "We've experienced some issues with fungal growths on the hull plates and landing gear, but we've got parties of colonists working on removing them. It's unlikely they'll affect our spaceworthiness, but I'm not taking the risk." Gremlin reflected bitterly that for all his prickliness, the young captain was actually quite competent. She nodded, dredging up what she hoped was an encouraging smile. "Thank you, Captain. I noticed the growths when I met you this morning—I'm glad you're dealing with them. Has anyone else experienced similar issues?" Feldspar's response seemed to set the standard for the other captains, who were equally measured in their reports. Gremlin began to feel that, just perhaps, this meeting was going to be effective. Just perhaps, she was going to lead effectively! And then it all went belly-up. Gremlin had brought a portable holo-emitter from the U-wing, the better to explain the situation to the mixed crowd of captains, colonists and colleagues. She knew that her fellow members of Red Flight were broadly aware of her plans because they had discussed them the previous day—though not at the level of detail she was about to outline. She had a good idea that Lock and Silence, at least, would have their own views on what she was going to say but she was reasonably confident they would wait until they were in private to discuss their reactions. As she started to explain her plans, however, the arguments came—predictably enough—from the colonists. "This is insane!" screamed Vilirrik, who could always be relied upon to over-react. Gremlin tried not to show her annoyance, but then another colonist jumped in, followed by Captain Feldspar (of course). "You realise that you'll be leaving the entire fleet unprotected if you do this?" he snapped. Gremlin shook her head. "Hardly. Captain Callahan and Lieutenant Vikeron will be flying escort in X-wings and Flight Officer Westfolder has his U-wing, with Roland as co-pilot. With the diversion I've planned, you should be able to slip past the INT—the Interdictor cruiser," she corrected herself as the blank looks from the colonists told their own story, "and make it to hyperspace. We've discussed co-ordinates," she nodded to Silence and Lock, "and come up with a rendezvous point which should be safe from Imperial—enemy ships; we'll be able to put out a distress call from there and the Vigilant, our command ship, will be able to meet us there." "How do you know you'll be able to reach the Vigilant, though?" "What happens if the TIEs reach us first?" "What's going to happen to you if someone else is flying your ship?" "How can we get past the Star Destroyer and its fighters with just three of you in starfighters? Five of you couldn't protect the Gergovia and you lost one of your own pilots in the process!" She had to set her jaw against screaming, or crying, or both. "I'm aware of the challenges ...." But her muttered words were drowned out by the shouting coming now from both sides of the table. "How could you be 'aware'? You're barely older than my daughter!" "I've had enough of this. I'm not being treated like a child by some Zeltron ..." The words that followed were barely audible over the clamour, but Gremlin could guess at what they would be. "I'd like to ask a question. If you don't mind, Captain." The voice was all too familiar, its tone silky. She'd heard that warning note before, many times, and then—as now—it set her teeth on edge. Gremlin half-turned to confront the person who had spoken. "Of course ... Captain Callahan." The unexpected interjection from one of the New Republic pilots—a human man, no less, so obviously he was more favoured than a Zeltron woman—had captured the attention of the onlookers. They fell silent, which was more than they ever did for her. Lock's trademark irritating smile was no less frustrating in these circumstances. "Thank you. Can I ask, Captain, how you are intending to save yourself in these circumstances, when you are giving your X-wing to Lieutenant Vikeron?" Internally, Gremlin was fuming at Lock's question. She'd told him the bare bones of the plan earlier, before the meeting—well, maybe she hadn't told the members of Red Flight absolutely everything, as she had known they would probably balk at some of her ideas. But Lock had said the Renegades would support her. And he surely knew that they had to display a common front at these meetings. If the civilians felt there was a chink in the resolve of the pilots, they might try to exploit it ... and she couldn't let that happen. They had to go along with her plan! "If you remember, I will be piloting the Alesia, Captain." She kept her voice light, a smile on her face, but inside she was silently cursing Lock. Shavit, man, just go with this! That's all I need now—a bit of support! "And the Alesia will be acting as decoy, yes. You have explained that part clearly. But if you intend to crash it into the Interdictor, as you explained, how will you manage to escape the cruiser before the impact? Or," his eyes sharpened, "is this a suicide mission to atone for the loss of the Gergovia?" Blood drained from her face, leaving her skin as pale as Lock's, then surged back with a crimson roar. Anger eddied through her, darkening her skin to a ruddy red, and her pheromones swirled out of control, making those who were susceptible shiver with a sudden chill. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Silence glancing from herself to Lock and back again, as if not quite believing what she had just heard. Beside her, Evan Feldspar leaned forwards slightly, his sharp gaze seemingly fixed on her profile. Gremlin had to concentrate on keeping herself under control. How dare Lock confront her like this! Why wasn't he supporting her, like she'd supported him when he was Red Leader? Surely he knew that the time to bring up concerns was when they were away from the civilians, in private? For seconds, nobody spoke. The tableau held: colonists and captains waiting to hear what happened next; Silence watching her comrades as if unsure who was going to explode first; Lock holding her gaze, testing her, pushing her as he'd used to push when she had been a cadet and he was an irritating Lieutenant who could lord his petty power over her. Those days were gone. This time, she was in control. Violet eyes like chips of amethyst, voice as chill as one of the planet's night-time snowstorms, Gremlin held Lock's gaze and spoke, each word as clear and hard as pack ice. "I assure you, Captain, I have no intention of dying. Nothing I do can atone for the Gergovia—her destruction and the lives lost will be on my conscience forever. But the best I can do now is lead the fightback and save as many lives as possible, which is exactly what I'm going to do here." Gremlin rose to her feet, fingertips lightly resting on the table-top—more to ensure her hands did not tremble than to cut an imposing figure. Her posture and expression, though, were eloquent. "All of you," her gaze swept round the table, "will carry out the orders I sent to your datapads. All of you." She did not need to look at Lock; hopefully he would know the emphasis was especially for him. "Colonists, choose your people carefully. Captains, have your ships ready. Red Flight," she turned deliberately to Silence, avoiding Lock for as long as possible," you have your orders. I expect you all to obey them." At that, she looked at Lock, though she wanted to smack the cocky smile he wore right off his arrogant, sneering face. He was still smiling, but there was a slightly puzzled look in his eyes which she couldn't quite place. "Of course, Captain." She gave him a spare nod. "You are dismissed." The words were aimed at everyone in the room; with a range of grumbles and mutters, they stood and started to file out. Silence hung back with Feldspar as her ever-present shadow. Lock waited until the room was almost empty before getting to his feet. She watched him, hating him. Wishing he'd kept his big mouth shut. He kept his voice low. "Well done, Gremlin. I knew you'd stand up for yourself eventually." She controlled herself with an effort. "Lock, you kriffer. Why'd you do that?" The Corellian grinned. "Because it got you to take control of the situation." "You humiliated me. Made me look like a mynock in front of all these people who hate me already!" She dimly noticed that Silence and Feldspar were leaving the room, which was now empty apart from herself and Lock. Gremlin's fury was now unabated by witnesses. Lock, on the other hand, looked confused. "I didn't! I was pushing you so you'd stand up for yourself—and it worked. That last speech—perfection! They did what you wanted, didn't they?" "They should have done it anyway because I'm in command, not because they think you pushed me into it!" Lock frowned now. "It wasn't like that, Gremlin. That's not how I saw it." "Well, it's how I saw it!" She thumped her right hand against her flak vest, where her chestbox would normally hang if it hadn't been hanging by its straps from the arm of her chair, and her voice swooped in a mocking tone as she went on, "Big brave Corellian man swoops in to save the flighty Zeltron female who can't get people to do what she wants!" "Gremlin—" All at once she was exhausted. If she'd been an X-wing, her ELS would have been at zero. "Just go, Lock. I'll see you back at the U-wing soon." Gremlin stayed in her seat, pretend-typing on her datapad, in reality waiting for the captains and colonists—and Lock—to leave the ship so she could find her way off the Alesia without being subject to their hatred or disdain. That was the hardest part, really—knowing that she was universally disliked by so many people. Gremlin wasn't used to that. Normally, the Zeltron would either be the fun-lover at the centre of the party or the empathic listener on the verge of the crowd—she was happy with either but at least she knew that whichever role she fulfilled, she was making people happy. Being the subject of glares or, worse, overhearing the epithets muttered as she walked past, was an unwelcome experience that scratched away at her self-confidence. Gremlin laid her datapad on the scratched table-top as gently as if it were a precious antique. With a sigh, she pillowed her head on her arms, purple braid falling forward over her shoulder to trail on the metallic surface. It had been a brutal discussion, the worst yet. Lock's intervention at the end had sapped every last bit of her mental and emotional strength. A tear spattered onto the table, forming a small bead of water that reflected, upside-down, a tiny image of the curve of her cheek. Gremlin sniffed, dragging the back of her hand across her face. She'd have to face the encampment soon enough; she couldn't do it with red eyes. Slowly, she pushed herself back into a sitting position ... and froze as she realised she was being watched. An Aqualish was standing in the doorway, fathomless eyes fixed on her. He burbled something in his own language. Gremlin's empathy kicked into high gear; even if she hadn't possessed the extra sensory enhancement, she would have been cautious. Something about him screamed trouble. "I'm sorry." She stood, tucking her datapad into the thigh pocket of her flightsuit, and tossed her head to settle her braid down her back. "I don't speak Aqualish and there's no protocol droids handy." She offered him a wintry smile as she stepped forwards, intending to walk past him even if she had to shoulder him out of the way. As she started to move, though, a second being filled the doorway: a human, also male, his gaze malevolent. "You're the pilot in charge?" he asked, his voice rasping, as if it hurt him to speak. "Yes. Captain Gemilan, New Republic Starfighter Command." Gremlin kept her hand conspicuously clear of her blaster—no point provoking the situation—but her nervous system was on high alert. It was clear that the pair were targeting her, but she did not know why. She realised, though, that she would have to get herself out of this mess. There were colonists living aboard the Alesia; they must have seen the others leave and known she was in the mess hall alone. Someone had tipped off this pair and, whatever mischief they planned, it was extremely unlikely that they would be interrupted during it. Gremlin let her consciousness slip into the muscle memory which had served her so well during countless dogfights: the heightened awareness that helped her react so quickly to keep her, and her wingmates, alive. "What can I do for you?" she asked, keeping up appearances for now. "You let the Gergovia die." The raw pain in his words assaulted her empathic senses. It felt like her mind was being flayed, lashed with grief and anger and hatred, all directed at her. "I ..." she faltered, then gathered her strength. "Sir, please believe me, that was ... was not a decision I took lightly. I had ... I had to save as many people as possible. The G-Gergovia," Kriff, Gremlin, don't stammer! she told herself angrily, and repeated with more force this time, "the Gergovia was badly damaged. Repairs were going to take several hours. We had minutes until the TIEs were on us and the Star Destroyer wasn't far behind." It struck her that this was perhaps the first time the man and his Aqualish friend had heard what had really happened. Many of the colonists would be going on rumour and hearsay. Maybe she could tell him what really happened and he could tell others? It was worth trying, surely? "You left them behind!" he repeated, louder than before. "If I hadn't, likely we'd ALL have died!" Despite her best attempts, her voice rose. She took a deep breath and tried again, doing her best to sound calm. "I'm sorry. I'm ... this hasn't been an easy time. None of it has. I wish I could have done something different, but ....." "My wife and children were on that ship!" he screamed and Gremlin realised, too late, that he wasn't going to hear her or understand. "Sir—I'm sorry, really I am ....." She took a step back, battered both by the realisation of what had happened and her empathic senses picking up on the emotional nuances of his words. Her right hand dropped to her blaster hilt, a reflex action, but it may have been the catalyst he needed to act. "YOU KILLED THEM!" He grabbed for his blaster, but she shot first: a stun bolt radiated out, catching him square in the abdomen and he collapsed, leaving room for the Aqualish to fire his weapon. Pain seared Gremlin's upper arm and she screamed, firing instinctively. The training she had received from the Red Rancors held; despite the agony of the blaster bolt burning across her upper arm, her shot was true. The Aqualish folded to the floor, his blaster dropping from a nerveless hand. Gremlin cursed—both herself and her assailants—as she grappled with her uninjured hand for the medkit filled with bacta patches that she kept in the lower pocket of her right leg. Her flightsuit would be useless for EV with the hole burned by the blaster bolt, but she didn't plan on going extravehicular—not given her plans, at least the ones she had hoped to carry out. She was fumbling with the pocket when the doorway was filled by another person and she swung her blaster up to cover the new arrival. "Stop or I'll shoot!" "All right, all right!" The newcomer held up both hands. It was her nemesis, Feldspar. The young captain looked at the two crumpled bodies on the floor, then gazed at the injured Zeltron. "What the foito happened?" Hearing the familiar expletive felt somehow comforting, even through the pain radiating from her left arm, but it wasn't enough to stop her from reacting angrily to his question. "They happened!" she spat, nodding towards the stunned would-be assailants. "He said his family was aboard the Gergovia, then he tried to kill me. His friend there acted as backup. Aren't you meant to be responsible for security aboard your ship, Captain?" It wasn't the most diplomatic way to manage the situation, but shavit, she was in pain and he was behaving like the NRI officer he so clearly still was, no matter that he was acting as the Alesia's captain, and he kriffing well deserved to be held to account, as far as she was concerned! Even through her pain, she could see Feldspar stiffen as she impugned his role. "I am the Captain, but I can't be responsible for ... wait, are you hurt?" She choked back a bitter laugh. "No, no, I always wear my flightsuit like this! Of course I'm kriffing hurt, you moof-milker! Your Aqualish friend there shot me. Shavit, at last..." Her voice trailed off as she managed to wrestle the medkit one-handed from her pocket and fumbled to open it. "I'll do it. If you'll let me." Feldspar approached, hands held outwards in a non-threatening gesture. "I take it you stunned them both?" "Well, I wasn't going to kill 'em. I've done enough of that, clearly," she muttered, channeling the anger and pain and pushing them into her words. Gremlin laid her blaster on the table and pointed with her uninjured hand to the pocket. "There's a medkit in there. Slap a bacta patch on my arm and I'll get on with the rest of my day." She knew she was being high-handed but she didn't care. She had enough to worry about. Feldspar knelt, withdrew the medkit from the pouch and straightened up before placing it on the table. "Shouldn't you see a medic?" "She's busy, I'm sure. All I need is a bacta patch. Medium size will do—you see them, there?" Gremlin really wanted to clasp her hand over the wound, exert some pressure, even though it would hurt—the pain would hopefully take her mind off the pain, which was a contradictory thought, but it was all she could hold on to. If she touched the blaster burn, though, she could introduce an infection and that would not be good—even though it was unlikely that she'd live long enough for any infection to kill her. The thought made her grin, then giggle. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Just ..." Gremlin shook her head, unable to put the words into place. "I'm fine," she repeated, hoping he'd get the message that she didn't want to say anything else. "Look—let me get my arm out of my flightsuit. Can you open that buckle - the one under my arm—now if you grab the flak vest—yes, that bit there ... let me just ... ow, shavit!" The edge of the flak vest had dragged along the burned part of her flightsuit, grinding it against the wound; Feldspar hadn't lifted it high enough. "I'm sorry!" He pulled the flak vest away again, more effectively this time. Gremlin gritted her teeth and eased her injured arm out of the flightsuit, exposing the area where the blaster bolt had grazed her flesh. It wasn't a bad wound but it stung like a rathtar's kiss and would hurt more tomorrow, when the muscles had stiffened up. If I'm still alive tomorrow, she thought and bit down another giggle. Unaccustomed to Rebel pilot gear he may be, but Feldspar was deft when it came to applying a bacta patch on injured skin. Gremin hissed between her teeth as the cool gel touched the burn, but it was a productive kind of pain. She hesitated before muttering, "thank you." One kind gesture wasn't going to overturn her feelings towards him, but he had helped her, at least. The young captain indicated the medkit. "Is there any pain relief in there?" "There should be, but I'm fine. Save it for someone who needs it." "That'll be you, then—if you're still going to carry out this nerf-brained plan of yours." "Nerf-brained!" Gremlin glared at him, any fellow feeling ebbing away. "You didn't say that during our meeting!" He spread his hands wide as he shrugged. "What good would it have done? You're determined to go ahead with it." "Yeah. I am." She set her jaw in a stubborn gesture that was familiar to a number of colleagues in Renegade Wing and beyond. "And you know why. If you have any better ideas, you should've said them at the meeting, Captain." "I would have, if you'd been in the mood to listen to them. That's why I left—partly to talk to the others, partly to give you time to calm down." "Me, calm down!" He said nothing, just raised his eyebrows. Gremlin swore under her breath and started to rummage one-handed in the medkit so she didn't have to look at him. Feldspar, the sleemo, had a smug smile on his face as he held up the injector she'd been looking for. "Shall I?" She was tempted, oh so tempted, to tell him what to do with it—preferably involving a very sensitive part of his anatomy—but her arm gave a particularly painful throb and she couldn't quite suppress a hiss of pain. When it passed, she muttered, "Go ahead." The injection was bliss: the pain meds took effect almost immediately and Gremlin was able to pull her flightsuit on again without any problems. Feldspar, his face bland, helped her re-settle her flak vest, but she waved away his offer to help clip the buckle together. X-wing pilots had plenty of practice in getting kitted up, after all. While she was getting settled, Feldspar checked on the two colonists she'd stunned. "They'll be out for a while yet. Under normal circumstances, I'd put 'em in the brig for attacking a New Republic officer, but ..." "These aren't normal circumstances," she finished for him, a corner of her mouth quirking up in a grim smile. "Yeah, we can't have anyone locked up. All the colonists need to be ready to move when we know the Imps are coming." Gremlin slipped the medkit back into her pocket. "So," she straightened up and eyed Feldspar, "what were you coming back to say to me—now that I'm calm?" She skewered him with her violet gaze, unwilling to let him away with that comment even though he'd helped treat her injury. "I came to say there's no way the plan will work with just you involved." "I knew it. I knew that's what you were here for!" She barked a bitter laugh. "And why do you think I can't do it by myself? Yeah, it's a bigger ship than I'm used to, but I'll have droids—plus, I need the other members of Red Flight to protect us when the colony ships escape. Silence's A-wing is destroyed. At least this way she has a better chance of surviving—I thought you'd appreciate that, Captain, at least!" She hurled the last insult at him, anger adding fuel to her words. He stiffened. "I don't prioritise Maj—Lieutenant Vikeron's safety over anyone else, Captain. Ideally I'd like to get everyone out safely, but as you've pointed out in relation to the Gergovia, that's not always an option." She tried not to show it, but his words cut. Gremlin leaned back against the table, feeling its metal edge hard against her thighs. She took a couple of deep breaths before she could speak clearly. "Lock—Captain Callahan—told me four years ago that there comes a time when you forget what you're fighting for. You just keep fighting because ... because it's all you know." The Zeltron kept her eyes downcast, not wanting to see the look on the human's face as she spoke. "Well, I'm at that stage. I've fought and won and fought and lost and ... and if this is the last time, I'm ready for that too. Just as long as the ships get away." And my friends, she thought to herself. It'll all be worth it then, even if everything goes wrong. Feldspar's voice was stern. "But they won't get away—not if it's only you at the controls. I've flown the Alesia—she needs a crew of more than droids." Then, before she could say anything, he added, "I'm coming with you. Whether you like it or not, I'm coming with you." "No! You ... you could die!" She pushed herself away from the table to confront him, the pain meds making movement easy. He shrugged, seeming unconcerned. "Then we'll die together. But my friend—and yours—have a better chance of surviving." He looked at her, a direct gaze that brooked no denial. "Isn't that the case?" "But ..." It wasn't like Gremlin to be out of words. She sagged back against the table. "You're ... " She tried a third time. "Do you know the odds against us succeeding? Oh, and if you're Corellian, don't bother with that 'never tell me the odds' poodoo." She waved her uninjured arm. "Whatever you think, I'm not making this a suicide mission. Or at least, I'm going to try kriffing hard not to let it happen—but it'll be easier with just one person to save instead of two." "Just as it'll be easier to fly the ship with one person instead of two?" he pointed out. Gremlin scowled. "Is that why Silence left New Republic Intelligence—to get away from you?" His smile was imperturbable, his blond hair impossibly tidy. "Ma'am, that's classified. But I'm glad it's settled. When the Imps arrive, I'm coming with you." She was almost back at the U-wing when the full enormity of Feldspar's decision hit home. She hadn't intended to go into this as a suicide mission, that was true, but at the same time the knowledge that she was the only person risking her life to distract the Interdictor Cruiser had been a comfort to her. Lock, Silence and Flattop would be safe; worst case scenario, Roland, the colonist who definitely had some kind of military background, might be able to pilot the U-wing if Flattop was still too injured to fly. She knew intellectually that the odds against them were still enormous: it would take a miracle several orders bigger than the Battle of Yavin to win them all a path to freedom, but she had determined that if she had to sacrifice herself to let the colonists and her friends escape, it was a price she would willingly pay—the more so because it would help expunge her guilt over the loss of the Gergovia and all aboard. But … she thought back to the moment after that first fateful battle in which she had fought, where Bantha Squadron had been cut to pieces. Lock had found her, alone with her droid, mourning those they had lost. He had not offered her comfort or condolence; that wasn't Lock's way. Pragmatic as always, he had simply reminded her of why he fought: to continue the fight of friends and comrades, those already lost and those to come. It was a lesson she had internalised since then and put into play on many occasions when the long fight against the Empire had almost driven her to the edge. More recently, the events of the Battle of Endor had traumatised her again, reminding her of past losses and adding new grief to the lives she had already lost. She knew, yet again, that she would continue to feel this until the day when she finally did lose her life fighting. Every now and again, when this happened, she would start to feel herself spiralling downwards, her normal ebullience leaking away until she felt as empty as a Tibanna siphoning balloon. Events which would normally bring her happiness, even joy, would be dark and one-dimensional; she would hide in her office, pleading pressure of work to stay away from the hectic humour of the SSD. During briefings, she would be more succinct, avoiding the jokes and humour which would normally pepper her presentations. Her fellow Renegades might put it down to the responsibility of being an XO and the pressure of working closely with Krayt, whose leadership style was careful, duty-oriented and organised. She could push the darkness aside whenever duty called. Pilots who could not do that tended not to survive very long. Only a handful of people in the Wing were likely to recognise what was happening. Those who had been in Red Squadron would have some awareness of Gremlin's occasional tendency to slump into something approaching depression. However, Lock and Frosty were in other squadrons now, less likely to engage with Gremlin on a daily basis. Shadow and Rogue, both Spectres, both self-contained and stoic, might be more likely to spot Gremlin's slump but she could always rely on one person to identify the situation and, no matter how low she felt, start to winkle her out of her low mood. Gremlin smiled at the thought of Angel. She almost wished that her lover had been part of the mission; if she had, Gremlin was sure that she would not have started to feel her world turn grey and hard. But if Angel had been there, she would have had to endure the horrors of the loss of the Gergovia, the flight through the asteroid field, the death of Dragon and now three days—no, four—trapped on this lump of rock while waiting for the Imperials to track them down and launch an attack which they would never be able to withstand. And Gremlin loved her too much to wish to put Angel in that position. Better that Jeni stay aboard the Vigilant, as safe as it was possible to be for a member of New Republic Starfighter Command, and remember her with fondness and perhaps a little regret. Oh love, I wish you were here—you'd know what to do to make me feel better. But I'm glad you're not, because I wouldn't want you to be going through this as well. Aboard the U-wing, Doc Jobber was floating above Flattop as the former racer complained, his voice muffled by the stretcher, that the droid was useless as a medic. Doc's eye was blinking erratically as the droid answered Flattop's complaints with a stream of sarcastic comments. Silence was nowhere to be seen; Lock was still asleep, soft snores issuing from his lips. Gremlin walked through the cargo hold as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb anyone, and carefully climbed the ladder to the two pilots' seats in the U-wing's cockpit. She leaned back, cradled in the comfortable seat, and tipped her head upwards so she could look out of the transparisteel panels in the roof. In flight, this was one of her favourite things to do in hyperspace; the long streaks of starlight reminded her of the nightlight she'd once had as a child when she had gone through a phase of being afraid of the dark. Her Granfer had brought home a device which broadcast thin streaks of light that would not disturb sleep, but would leave a nervous child feeling comforted. When she had first jumped into hyperspace aboard the Dropkick Murphy, leaving Zeltros for a career as an apprentice engineer—as she had thought at the time—she had been fascinated by the light of hyperspace, linking back to an atavistic memory of a time when she had been safe, supported and loved. Now, of course, those memories were long gone and hyperspace was both a conduit to danger and a refuge from it—unless an Imperial Interdictor was nearby, of course. And, for the remnants of Red Flight, hyperspace was the barrier between them and the wingmates who would normally be beside them but who, for now, were separated. She had just finished her meal—half a ration bar from their rapidly dwindling stock—when her datapad chimed. Another meeting. Gremlin checked Flattop one last time; Doc Jobber floated protectively overhead, lights flashing in strange patterns on its astromech dome. From inside, a faint meowing could be heard. The baby long-cat was still adjusting to its temporary "home". "Look after them, please. Flattop—and the cat." Doc Jobber did not reply verbally, but its lights rippled in a pattern that was almost a response. Gremlin descended the U-wing's ramp. Her injured arm was aching but she tried to ignore it. The less attention she called to her injury, the better. The cavern was much busier now: small groups of colonists surged and eddied around campfires as children played endless games of tag, squealing as they ran. The air inside the cavern was heavy with the smoke from campfires and the cooking smells from whatever food the colonists had managed to rescue from their ships or catch in the depths of the cave system. Gremlin wove through the groups, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead. She had no time or desire to see what was written on people's faces when they looked at her. She had a job to do. They were waiting for her at the entrance to the depths of the cavern. Briefly she wondered if she should have brought another pilot as backup, but after the disaster of the morning's meeting she had figured it was better to be alone. At least Lock had been asleep when she left the U-wing, so he wasn't able to ask her where she was going. To be truthful, it was easier without him there. Whatever he'd been trying to do earlier, it hadn't helped her at all. Now she'd have to overcome the impression he had left on the watching colonists. As she neared the little group, she raised her uninjured arm in a gesture of greeting. "Thank you for meeting here. How are your plans coming?" They had, as promised, completed the evacuation schedule. A handful of people on the Gaula to deal with the demands of keeping the elderly freighter flightworthy, plus some tweaks to the sensors which would make the Imps think the ship had a full complement of crew and passengers. The same on the Britonni. She nodded and thanked them for a job well done. This was going to work. Somehow, against the odds, it was going to work—she was sure of it! "And where are the other colonists going to be?" Leri Jerbel, the Togrutan lead colonist aboard the Britonii, asked pointedly. They hadn't been able to discuss that minor detail amid the chaos of the earlier meeting. The main point of the plan had been accepted: the colony ships Britonni and Gaula would be decoys. Protected by the two remaining X-wings and single U-wing, they would distract the TIEs while the Alesia, piloted by Gremlin—and Feldspar, shavit—would try to get as close as possible to the Interdictor, hopefully setting it on a collision course that would cause enough damage to deter further activity. There were escape pods aboard the Alesia. Gremlin hoped to be inside one, making a safe return to the planetoid and the hidden colonists while the remains of Red Flight would attempt a hyperspace jump, seeking clear space where they could broadcast their call for help. As for Feldspar … well, there were other escape pods, surely. She really didn't want to share the tiny space with him. Sebker Sqen, lead colonist of the Gaula, twitched her mouth-tentacles at Jerbel and raised a three-pronged hand to point at a map of the cave system on her datapad. "We have determined that there are more caverns in this area—near where the pilots discovered the first of these creatures." The Quarren indicated several areas which were, to Gremlin's eyes, new. "Some of my colonists were miners on our previous planet. I have assigned them to survey the area and see which parts of the cave system are safe for further residency." "At the same time, there are other teams investigating deeper into the caverns. It is hard to track their explorations with the technology we have, but we are growing more confident that we may be able to find another route out of the caverns." Plak Hobbe was the imposing Devaronian who had been elected as leader by the colonists on the Hispa. He stabbed at the map, indicating a point off to one side. "If they are right, we will have an escape should the enemy attack." "As long as the Imps—the enemy don't surround the entire cave complex." That was Feldspar. Gremlin didn't react to his slip of the tongue, but inwardly she smirked. "When we find a way out, we'll post guards round the clock to ensure they can't sneak up on us. Also, I have some of our technicians rigging early warning systems from the equipment we brought on the Gaula. They won't catch us drifting on the tides." The Quarren's mouth tentacles twitched in a smile. "If this works, we'll be able to blow the roof," she pointed upwards, "and catch as many attackers as possible in the blast." Gremlin grinned, a broad smile—what felt like her first in days—at the thought of the Imps being squashed beneath tons of rocks. Saving as many of the colonists as possible was the whole aim of the plan she had first presented to the council two days ago. "Thank you, Sebker. It sounds like we're finally getting somewhere." She looked from the Quarren around the small group, taking care to include everyone. "Thank you all for your efforts to find a safe place where as many people as possible can hide for as long as it takes to get the New Republic back here." It had taken a long time to convince them, but now they all seemed to be on the same page, Gremlin felt a strange sense of camaraderie with the fellow members of the council. It wasn't like the bond she felt with the Spectres or, even more strongly, with Red Squadron—or, now, Red Flight. But after so many days of feeling alone, beset by troubles and struggling to stay in control of the whole situation, she finally began to feel the faint stirrings of hope. *** Later that day, as the sun outside started to dip towards the horizon and dusk brought gales which drove in torrential rain, a meeting was called in the space between the ships. Campfires sent plumes of smoke towards the rock overhead; a couple of young children quarrelled, voices raised, before being shushed by nearby adults. A pervasive scent of cooked creature-meat hung over the crowds that had gathered to hear the latest news. Previously the information had been passed on by the colonists on the Council or, once, by the captains. Now a slim, purple-haired figure stood again on the S-foils of her starfighter, her orange flightsuit making a vivid splash of colour against the rocks. Gremlin tilted her chin upwards, determined not to show how nervous she felt. Her pheromones, chancy as always, told a different story for those sensitive enough to be affected by them. On the ground, clustered around the nacelle of her X-wing, stood the other pilots: Silence, her dark hair—defiantly streaked with bright colours—still sleek despite her crumpled flightsuit and tired expression; Lock, sombre and contained, the violence at his core locked up for now; Flattop, trying to hide his physical discomfort, determined to show he would be able to play his part in the battle to come. Doc Jobber floated somewhere behind Silence, faint meowing sounds emerging from its dome-shaped head. The other members of the Council stood nearby in a symbolic show of strength. They had decided that, no matter their earlier reservations, the colonists would stand a better chance if they believed that the Council was united in its plan. Many of them felt that the scheme was fragile, with too many weak points and unexpected challenges; they would have been surprised to know that Gremlin agreed with their viewpoint. But expressing open discontent now, at this meeting, would jeopardize the colonists' confidence in their ability to survive what was about to come; they had all agreed on that, at least. "Thank you for coming," Gremlin began in her own version of Jalb's "command voice". "I'm many aaware this has been a difficult time and, on behalf of the Council," she indicated the members standing nearby, "and the members of Red Flight, I'd like to thank you for everything you've done since we came here to keep everyone as safe as possible." She paused, took a deep breath, and continued, "It's important you all know what we're going to do next. This plan has been discussed and agreed by all the members of the Council—that's why everyone is here today, to answer your questions and help you understand what's coming next." "The Imperials are coming, aren't they?" shouted a woman, her voice high and hard-edged. "How are you going to get us out of here? We can't be trapped!" A murmur of voices arose as colonists started nodding and talking among themselves. "LISTEN UP!" Gremlin's shout echoed from the farthest reaches of the cavern. A baby began to cry and was hushed quickly. The Zeltron spoke quickly to take advantage of the relative silence. "We have a plan to keep as many of you as possible safe. Because yes, you're right, the Imperials probably are coming, but I'll guarantee you these two things!" Her voice rose to overtop the mutterings from the crowd. "They will not catch us napping and they will not trap us in this cavern!" "Why'd you say 'as many as possible' will be safe? Why not everyone?" A tall, rangy man stepped forwards, jaw jutting pugnaciously as he confronted Gremlin. "We saw what you did with the Gergovia! How do we know you won't do the same again?" She was ready for the allusion to her darkest moment and had a response prepared. "Because we're keeping as many of you as possible here, safe underground. The ships that go up," she pointed overhead, beyond the looming rock ceiling, "will be flying with skeleton crews. Their job is to take news of our escape to the New Republic and return with a fleet to rescue everyone. Our meteorology reports indicate there'll be a short window this evening when the weather will be calm enough for a launch—but only a few people will be aboard. "I can't guarantee the safety of everyone onboard, for obvious reasons—nor can I say that my fellow pilots will be safe, because they'll be protecting the Gaula and the Britonni against large numbers of enemy fighters and bombers. But I know one thing," she held up a slim red forefinger, "I trust each and every one of my fellow pilots in Red Flight to fight to the end, if that's what it takes. We ... we've already lost Dragon—First Lieutenant Arcfire. None of you knew him, but he was…" she paused, remembering the moment when they had been tricked into walking in on a gathering of senior officers and been chewed out by that Bothan bastard Shen'ryu, "he was a fierce fighter, someone who gave his all every time he got into his A-wing, and he made his mark wherever and whenever he flew." A small movement to her right attracted her attention: Silence had ducked her head, as if hiding her expression from onlookers. Doc Jobber floated behind her, a watchful presence. Gremlin looked back at the crowd. "What I can promise you is that we will all do whatever we can to ensure the colony ships jump to hyperspace and bring back our rescuers. I've tasked Lieutenant Vikeron and Flight Officer Westfolder with escorting the ships; Captain Callahan will return here once they have left." And take over command, she added to herself, but squashed the thought before any reaction showed on her face. "In the meantime, as soon as we have finished this meeting, we will be starting to move everyone to the new cavern which will become our hiding-place until the rescue ships arrive. It's not a trap—our scouts have found two separate entrances, some distance apart, which we are now watching to ensure the ... the enemy don't land there, instead of where we want them to come—right through here," she pointed back towards the cavern's entrance, where thin streams of sunset light were beginning to pierce the clouds. "Because what they don't know is that when they arrive, we're going to have some surprises waiting for them ... some very unpleasant surprises," she added with a grin, feeling an unaccustomed sense of pleasure as answering chuckles rippled out among the crowd. "What sort of surprises?" she heard a child's voice asking, leading to some laughter from the nearby adults. Gremlin's grin deepened, but her expression hardened when someone shouted, "But what's going to happen to the rest of us? The ones who won't be on the ships?" "Sebker Sqen, lead colonist on the Gaula, is going to explain. Her colonists have been inspecting the cave system and they're the ones who have found the locations where you will be sheltering until the rescuers arrive." Gremlin waved to the Quarren, who raised her surprisingly loud voice and began to speak. As the lead colonist outlined the steps of the next stage, Gremlin looked around the groups of people listening intently. She was searching for anyone who looked angry—or who resembled either of the colonists who had attacked her earlier that day. Her arm gave a painful throb at the reminder of her wound and she made a mental note to take another painkiller once the meeting was over. Fortunately, she couldn't see her attackers; she was both relieved and slightly disappointed. Relieved because she really did not want an open confrontation, not when the colonists seemed to be going along with the plan she was outlining, and slightly disappointed because she wanted to confront them both in front of a large group of witnesses and accuse them both of attempting to kill a New Republic officer. It was a crazy idea. Gremlin struggled to stop a giggle rising to the surface. She realised at that moment that she was actually ridiculously tired and probably not thinking straight. She was briefly glad that she had decided to open the plan to input from the entire Council; she doubted that she would have done a good job if she had tried to hold everything to herself. A small disturbance to the left of the group made her glance sharply in that direction, but the Quarren seemed to be handling the hecklers well. Quickly she explained the situation again, ensuring that they understood why they were being told to hide in the cave system. "You can, of course, join us in the ships," she added, "but I caution you, the waves will be rougher in space than on this planet." "How do we know you'll get past the Imperials, though?" someone called, their gruff voice rising above the general hum of conversation. Gremlin's voice, strong and confident, rang out over the slight buzz of conversation initiated by the question. "As I said, there's no guarantee we'll succeed. But life isn't a guarantee! And I've flown with each of these pilots in so many battles that I've lost count overall - and we're still here." She ignored the look that Lock threw over his shoulder. She was still furious with him for pulling the attempted trick at the meeting, so she pretended she didn't see his glance of approval. As far as she was concerned, he was a typical Corellian: an ego the size of a small space station and about as much use in a situation like this as a Hutt on a trapeze. "All I need you to do, when the time comes, is obey the orders of your Council members. Do as they instruct and you should be safe in the caverns until we can get the New Republic rescue ships to take you off-planet." There were a few more questions after that, calmly answered either by Gremlin or the other Council members. As she wrapped up the discussion and thanked everyone for their patience so far, she became aware of a strange noise. They were clapping. Slowly at first, then picking up strength and volume, the noise rippled outwards, away from the gaggle of New Republic ships and pilots. She didn't know what to do. It was so unexpected—pilots didn't tend to applaud motivational speeches from their OCs. Even when Jalb had produced a particularly rousing example on Mukani, the listeners had whooped or cheered, then jumped into their snubfighters and kicked the enemy's ass. Being treated like a successful actor at the end of a play ... that wasn't in the pilot's operating manual. She tried to look appreciative, anyway, smiling and waving and indicating her squadmates so they could share in the applause. When she sat down on her X-wing's S-foils and slid off the edge onto the rocky floor of the cavern, the applause started to peter out. Lock reached out to steady her as she landed, stumbling slightly on the uneven ground. Gremlin shot him a quick glance, but he seemed to be genuinely concerned. She gave him a slightly guilty, "Thanks..." He responded with that cocky Corellian grin that made her want to knee him in the gonads. "Knew you had it in you, Gremlin!" Before she could formulate a reply, he had turned to Silence with an inquiry about what she was going to call the long-cat creature and Gremlin was left to make her own way back to the U-wing, which she did with some relief. She climbed into the cockpit, relishing the blessed peace, and tilted her head upwards to look out of the overhead viewport. She could imagine the cool blue of hyperspace surrounding them, enveloping them. Even the memory of the Interdictor wrenching them out of hyperspace and into this week of hell didn't taint the peace she felt slowly stealing over her. Slowly, gradually, she relaxed, one muscle at a time. After all the confrontations, the arguments and the misjudgements, the failures of leadership on her behalf, the nightmares and the deaths, she could finally feel a measure of calm. Gradually she drifted into sleep. But the calm only lasted as long as it took events in space to overtake what was happening on the ground. To be concluded...     Copyright © 1995 - 2022 Renegade Wing