"When do you think he’ll get out?" Soral asked as she and Wes strolled toward the medcenter. Derek ‘Hobbie’ Klivian, a Rogue Squadron pilot, had been severely injured while attacking AT-AT walkers on Hoth. He was brought on board in a stasis box, almost dead, and the doctors had gotten him into the healing bacta in time to save him. He’d been in the bacta tank for ten days now, drifting in and out of consciousness. His fellow pilots, Soral and Wes among them, tried to visit him at least once a day so he could see a familiar face during his rare wakeful moments.

Wes smiled hopefully. "They said maybe a couple more days. He’s doing really well."

Soral nodded, feeling strangely glad. She’d only spoken to Hobbie a couple of times, when she’d absolutely had to, and she felt guilty for it now. He hadn’t been a bad sort.

Hobbie wasn’t alone in the medcenter. Cardeb Qos, his old bunkmate, and Nien Nunb, the Sullustan Soral rescued from Emtrey, were already there. Cardeb smiled at the newcomers, his trio of facial tentacles waggling.

"He’s kind of floating in and out right now. He was awake a minute ago," the young Quarren told them. "I think he recognized us." They watched the unconscious body bob up and down in the tank for a moment, then Wes turned toward the alien pilots.

"I need your opinion. Some people," he looked pointedly at Soral, "think a couple of lighthearted jokes are out of place here. I think it’s just what we need." Nien was already shaking his head, chittering unhappily. Cardeb’s tentacles spread, revealing two very sharp fangs.

"Janson," he said in a a low, threatening voice, "if anything shows up in my bunk--or on my clothes--animal organs or otherwise, all the bacta on Thyferra won’t save you."

Soral snickered, remembering Wedge’s description of the tauntaun guts prank, and the Quarren whirled to face her. "Were you in on that? Because if you were..."

He seemed truly angry, ready to strike, and she crossed her arms over her chest defensively. "No," she replied shortly. Irrational anger bubbled up in her chest at the perceived challenge. Her vision blurred suddenly, a prelude to rage that she knew well and fought hard against. She counted backward rapidly, trying to focus on the figure in front of her.

Slowly she became aware of a light, rhythmic pressure on her foot and looked down. Wes was gently tapping his foot against the side of her boot, unobtrusively telling her to calm down. His face was merry as he talked to their companions; no annoyance, no bullishness. Cardeb, as far as she could read him, appeared the same, his previous anger only a show--part of an act, she sensed, that had been played before.

She schooled her features into calmer lines and and saw Wes glance sideways at her, decide that she wasn’t going to explode, and turn back to his conversation.

Feeling foolish and irritated, Soral counted the minutes until she could gracefully escape.

@ ~~~~ * ~~~~ @

No sign of the Millennium Falcon. Wedge laid his head back against his pilot’s yoke. He and the rest of Red Flight had spent nearly three days bouncing signals across the dangerous asteroid field the ship had disappeared into. Nothing. They could have escaped the asteroid field, sure, and there were a couple of places they could have fled to. Wedge remembered Solo mentioning that the Falcon’s hyperdrive was failing, and relayed that information to the group leader, Fadi Emsul.

Without a hyperdrive, the Falcon’s best bet would have been either Bespin or Illandraa. The Illandraa system had four inhabitable planets orbiting a gas giant, but they were loyal to the Empire.

Bespin was closer than Illandraa. If he had his way, Wedge would have headed straight there. Even a Corellian would take the odds on unaligned Bespin over Imperial held Illandraa. But he wasn’t leading this mission.

His astromech chirped and Wedge shot back an annoyed reply. "Of course we’re going to Illandraa. Major Emsul’s orders." He watched the coordinates scroll across the computer screen and forced himself to relax. He trusted Emsul; had trusted him with his life before and would do it now. Force willing, he’d live to do it many more times.

Wedge felt the familiar lurching of hyperspace entry and closed his eyes.

@ ~~~~ * ~~~~ @

Four days after she’d nearly capped Cardeb, Soral sat beside him in the medcenter, watching the entertainment.

"You looked like you’d been sat on by a Star Destroyer!" Wes Janson’s eyes were wide, but a cheery grin marred his carefully practiced look of horror. "They," he threw a scornful look around the room, "thought you were a goner, but I knew you could make it."

He stood, revving up for his stunning soliloquy. The corner of Soral’s mouth quirked up as she wondered how many times he’d practiced it.

"Risking life and limb... and handsome face..."--groans from the crowd--"I rushed back into the fray. I knew you didn’t have much time, so I gallantly-"

He was cut off by a flying pillow. Hobbie leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Put me back in the tank until he shuts up."

Wes good-naturedly joined in his friends’ laughter. The medcenter room was packed with people--nearly every pilot not on duty, several mechanics, and others who worked in the belly of the Alliance--all there to welcome Hobbie back to the land of the living. A male med-tech stood near the bed, keeping a careful eye on the patient.

The tech was already unhappy with the group. He’d told Wes that Lt. Klivian could have a few visitors when he got out of the bacta tank--only a few, mind you. The trouble was that, for all his quiet, pessimistic manner, Hobbie was a kind man and well-liked. Once his friends and acquaintances heard he was well, they’d flocked to see him.

Soral stood at the back, near the door. She felt decidedly uncomfortable, surrounded by near-strangers, and eyed the exit with longing. But she’d promised herself she would stay long enough to say a word or two to Hobbie.

Not that he’ll remember who I am. That’s Ok. If I were in his place, I think I’d just like to see a friendly face. She snorted at the idea of herself as a friendly face.

Nien Nunb wandered over to her side and made the Sullustan approximation of a smile. "He feels better; his sardonic engine is at full power."

Soral nodded, foolishly happy that the other pilot spoke to her. She grinned widely, remembering that a week ago, this being was terrified of her. Now, hopefully, he might consider her a friend. Or at least not an enemy.

"Big crowd," he commented. "Must be fifty, sixty people here."

Soral agreed. "It’s nice to see a hero come back from the brink of death. For once."

"Yeah. It’ll take a lot to kill Hobs; he’s pretty tough."

Soral looked at the slender, gentle-faced blonde at the center of everyone’s attention. She guessed there was some truth to Nien’s words, though Hobbie certainly didn’t look tough. He looked, she mused, like a literature professor or a poet, and she wondered where he’d come from and how he’d become a Rebel; what reserves of strength he’d drawn on to survive his ordeal.

She was vaguely aware that the Sullustan was still speaking, and she quickly tuned in.

"...few new pilots, and we’ll be back up to strength."

"Another motley crew of recruits?" Soral shuddered. "There’s not much strength in those numbers."

Nien solemnly acknowledged the truth of that. They both knew that the first few battles were the hardest, and if a new pilot were going to bite lasers, it would be then. The truth was that the longer you survived, the longer you were likely to keep surviving.

"I was worried about that--other units are getting raw recruits. Ours have been working for us a while now, unofficially. They’ve been diverting SoroSuub supplies to our procurement agents. My sister is one of them."

"You have a sister?" She asked, meaning only to be polite, but finding herself oddly interested. It was a new feeling; this interest in someone else; one she’d tried to suppress and only recently began to feel again. It startled her--this intensity of longing, of needing to be a part of someone else--and a part of her balked.

I don’t want to know. If I know, he’ll be a person, not just a bloody flightsuit or pieces of same. But some newly awakened part clamped down on the frightened voice.

"Her name’s Aril," Nien was saying. "She’s been flying anger than me. I’d say that she’s better than me, but that would violate the Pilot’s Ego Law." His ruby eyes sparkled and invited her to laugh with him.

"You’ll get a month’s kitchen duty for that."

The sound of their laughter drew the attention of the people around them. Soral’s roommate, Ayran, leaned over and exclaimed, "Hey! You guys can’t plot against poor Hobbie yet... Not without me, anyway." Ayran grinned, then felt surprise ripple through her as Soral turned luminous, happy eyes toward her, reflecting the other woman’s smile.

Soral’s never looked this happy before. She’s... gods, she’s almost pretty. I wonder what’s going on...

"Alright, everyone!" The medtech clapped his hands. "People! Listen to me!"

No one noticed him. Wes grinned, grabbed a bedpan, and whaled it against the wall. The loud RIIINGG!! grabbed everyone’s attention, and they swung around and glared at the noisy little pilot.

"Thank you, Lt. Janson," the tech said, then raised his voice. "Lt. Klivian needs his rest now, people, so if you could all disperse, I would appreciate it. I imagine you have things to do."

They stared at him for a moment, then turned back to their conversations. The unfortunate tech tried another tactic.

"I am authorized to assign all stragglers to a week scrubbing out the hold!"

Soral jumped out of the way as the mass of people pushed toward the door, most stopping by Hobbie’s bed to wish him a speedy recovery. Soral slipped in behind Nien, one of the last to leave.

Hobbie sat up, pillows behind his back, wearing green med pajamas and the smirking expression that was his version of a smile. He looks like a king receiving the homage of his subjects. Soral nearly laughed aloud as she reached forward and shook his pale hand.

"Glad you’re better, Hobbie," she said quietly.

He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow. "You, too," he replied enigmatically.

Her forehead creased, then she backed away and followed the crowd out the door. Wes watched her go, then leaned over his friend.

"You confused her, Hobbie."

"Good question. Hey, I heard a joke..."

Down the corridor, Ayran turned to Soral and Nien. "I’ll see you two later. I’ve got to meet someone."

The Sullustan laughed. "Say hello to Tycho for me."

She stopped, her mouth open slightly, then blushed and turned down another hallway. Soral raised an eyebrow. "I don’t get it. She’s all over him, and we’re not supposed to know about it?"

"No, we’re just not supposed to acknowledge it. Lovers, I have heard, were once normal people who have lost their minds," he sagely replied.

The girl smiled slightly as they walked in silence.

"What about your family?" The question came out of nowhere, and she turned to her companion in surprise. He looked up at her, his mouse-like ears swiveling as he explained.

"It seems that many humans within the Rebellion are without family ties; Tycho, for instance, lost his people when Alderaan was destroyed. It seems that this is the haven of choice for those who have lost their loved ones." He watched her face pale, then flush as if in anger.

"I have no family," she said shortly, then, "I have an early patrol tomorrow, so if you don’t mind..."

"Of course. I believe I’m on the same schedule, and I too need sleep." Nien nodded and stopped walking. "Good night, then."

@ ~~~~ * ~~~~ @

"Four, dive!"

"Two, you’ve got three eyes on you!"

Too late. Too late.

His starboard S-foil gone, Wedge spun, ballistic toward the blue world of Illandraa II. Water surged toward him-fresh water seas-odd what one remembers in the midst of crises.

"Two! Punch out! Wedge!!!"

The hatch popped and Wedge felt the momentary panic of free fall, then his decention device opened and he was jerked upward, then his pain-wracked body floated slowly toward the wreckage of his X-Wing sinking slowly beneath the waves.

@ ~~~~ * ~~~~ @

looming grey hulking monster raining death. Impstar Deuce--know it well, the name, the captain--three tractor beams twenty ion cannons twenty turbolasers and worse, much worse

Wedge! rawness in my throat watch him burst and fade

hate you... Wedge... Wes... Eighen... should have killed you then and the docking bay looming ahead...

Soral jerked and sat bolt upright, chest heaving. The room was dark, silent but for her breathing, painfully forcing air in and out of her lungs. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, resting her forehead on her bony kneecaps.

She hadn’t had those dreams--not like that, not so real--in almost three weeks. The last time she’d had such a real, horrific nightmare was the night she’d fled Hoth. It was that dream that prompted her to go walking, to wander into the hangar, to fall into Wedge’s arms.

A tiny smile spread unbidden across her face and her cheeks warmed. Her dreams had calmed considerably after that night; she still had nightmares, but no longer woke screaming and shaking.

Until tonight.

She rose and dressed. The base was never still, not even during what they arbitrarily called 'night.' She headed toward the mess for a cup of caf, wondering if anyone she knew was up and about. If she were being really honest, she’d admit that she was hoping to see someone she could chat with.

A few half-slumbering pilots and mechanics sat slumped in the mess hall, nursing caf and picking at some substance that might be described as food. Soral persuaded the caf machine to spit out a thick, almost indigestible liquid and found a table along the aft wall where she could observe the rest of the room.

Sipping cautiously at her caf, she tried to arrange her mental abstractions into some coherent form. She’d changed so much since she’d met Wedge that she almost didn’t recognize her own thoughts. She remembered Nien’s words, that ‘Lovers were once normal people,' and knew that he was wrong. She felt that she was only now experiencing normalcy; that in finding love, she’d found, not lost, her mind.

But he’s been gone so long. Fifteen days now... no wonder the dreams are returning. I don’t have a warm body to cling to when I’m afraid.

Across the room, the door slid open and a disheveled Wes Janson staggered in. At first glance, Soral thought he was drunk and hoped no superior officer might see him in that state, but Hobbie followed, looking shell-shocked and sickened and she knew something was terribly wrong.

A chair skidded across the floor, hurting her ears with its sharp biting sound, and Soral watched in a daze as its occupant stood and addressed the two despondent pilots. She couldn’t hear his words, a humming in her ears drowned out all but her own thoughts, her own frantic certainty. She half-rose as Wes looked her way, then sat back, sure as if she’d heard the words.

Then she did hear them, as if they were shouted directly into her head, painful and grating. "...Over Illandraa II, one of them made it back; he’s in the medcenter now. They’re all gone. Gods, even Wedge..."

Continued in Part Four