Blood.

Wedge Antilles drew his hand across his mouth and looked at the red streak left on his skin. The coppery taste of it mingled with the bile in his throat and he retched, hugging his sides in pain, hunched forward until his forehead brushed the sand. Every spasm brought fresh agony so acute that he couldn’t think clearly enough to identify its origin.

Shouts came from down the beach. A group of young people, probably out for a day of fun, pointed up at the sky and the continuing dogfight. He had to hide before anyone saw him.

His soaked flightsuit clung to his body, cooling rapidly now that he was on land. He shivered as a breeze chilled him further and another jolt of pain shot through his sides. Pushing it to the back of his mind, Wedge let his eyes focus on the low brush farther up the shore. Ten meters away at least; an easy walk any other day, but now... he tested his legs and found that his left ankle was badly twisted.

He had to do it. The TIEs would finish off the remaining X-Wing and do a flyby, looking for the wreckage of his fighter, looking for a body. A randomly functioning part of his brain reminded him that the orange of his flightsuit would stick out like a nerf on the Emperor’s throne.

Wedge spared a look toward the spectators and found that they’d gone, scared off by the falling debris, most likely. He took a deep breath and held it, hoping that by concentrating on his lack of oxygen, he could ignore the agony in his ribs. Carefully, he unhooked his life-support controls. Another breath, smaller than the first, let him unzip his flightsuit. He rested a minute, keeping as still as he could, before attempting to slide his arms out of their sleeves.

One of his ribs shifted; he could feel it, and he bit back a shout. Every breath hurt, Wedge supposed that he’d punctured a lung trying to twist his way out of the suit. He waited for his eyes to refocus, then mentally braced himself and yanked his arms out of the garment and laid back in the grass before attempting to shimmy his lower half free.

I can’t move. I’ve wasted all my energy on stripping. Wedge closed his eyes against the harsh sun and pondered what the Imperials would say when they found him there in his undershirt and shorts. A humming noise floated to his ears and grew steadily louder. Wedge was pretty sure that it was the sound of his brain shutting down, and wondered if he would see the white light he’d heard about.

"Oh, Sith!" His pain-soaked brain finally recognized the distinct whine of TIE-fighters. Three black dots punctured the blue sky, not yet near enough to assault his ears with their close-range shrieking.

Wedge rolled onto his stomach and viewed the terrain ahead. Mostly tall brown grass, a copse of trees maybe three hundred meters ahead. There was no way he could make it to the trees in time.

Slowly, painfully, he began to crawl in the direction of the wood, hoping the Imps would be distracted by his bright flightsuit still lying on the beach. He forced his arms to reach as far ahead as possible, figuring that he may as well get all the gain for his pain that he could. He reached the tall grass and paused before moving on. The trees grew larger as he pull himself along.

Wedge risked a glance behind him. The TIEs were almost to the shoreline. He managed another two meters before they roared over him, and he lay flat, hoping they wouldn’t see him. They circled, then opened fire.

The spot where the flightsuit lay burst into flames.

The sky was dark when Wedge awoke. The pilot breathed as deeply as possible, trying to identify which parts hurt and which were operational. He concluded that his ankle was still out of commission, his back hurt, and his arms were sore. The ache in his ribs throbbed bright as before.

So I can’t crawl anymore. If I can find a way to stand, I can maybe limp along and hope no one sees me. He remembered seeing a small city from the air, but he couldn’t recall if it was nearby, or even if it was on this land mass at all.

Wedge raised himself up on his hands and slid first one, then the other, knee under himself. Kneeling there, he rested for a moment, then slowly put his weight on his right leg and forced himself upright.

His gasp of pain broke the stillness of the night, and Wedge froze, fearing that someone wandering down the beach might have heard him. He heard no rustle in the dark, saw no movement, and so he moved deliberately on, ignoring the pain that shot through him with every step.

The wounded Corellian struggled on, through the small wood he’d seen earlier. He found a road that ran beside a field of tall grain. The field offered cover on two occasions when a skimmer approached. After the second skimmer passed, Wedge remained in the rows between the plants. Dawn was near and he could see that a city lay ahead. In his present state of undress, no one would fail to notice him. The safest plan was to lie hidden during the day and move again at night. The tilled ground was soft under him as he eased his battered body into a reclining position. Wedge gazed at the lightening sky, his view of the three neighboring planets partially obscured by the waving stalks of grain that loomed over him.

Noon. The sun beat down upon his face, and Wedge turned his face from the light. Sounds assailed his ears, harsh mechanical noises that he tried to block. Never heard a skimmer sound so damn loud in my life. Somebody ought to check its exhaust ports. His eyes popped open and he cursed in the sun’s glare. The sounds weren’t coming from a malfunctioning skimmer, weren’t coming from anything on the road but from something in the field.

There. To his left, a commercial tester-- narrow from front to back, but long enough across to cover several rows of grain. The machine hovered on repulsorlifts above the crop. A human driver sat in the small cockpit, guiding the device along as it randomly plucked plants from their rows to test their ripeness.

Damn damn damn. Wedge couldn’t lay there without being seen by the driver, and he couldn’t move without being seen from the road. The lesser of two evils...

He chose to stay put. With any luck, the driver would decide to investigate without calling for backup. Wedge gingerly rolled onto his stomach, the better to look completely helpless.

The tester drew closer, idled for a moment, then the driver shouted down, "Hey buddy? You OK? You need help?"

Wedge remained silent. Sure enough, boot-clad feet clambered down the ladder of the rumbling tester. The dirt crunched as the man slowly approached, then a shadow loomed over Wedge as the man reached down to touch his shoulder.

Letting himself go limp, Wedge allowed the man to roll him over. With his eyes shut, it was hard to tell when the his would-be rescuer was in the right position, but Wedge struck out anyway, raising his good leg on an attempt to smash the man’s crotch. He missed and struck a kneecap instead, but the popping sound and following shriek indicated grave injury anyway.

Wedge pushed himself into a sitting position and grabbed the man’s leg, striking down with his elbow to drive the knee even further out of joint. The poor farmer continued to howl, too overcome by the pain in his leg to fight back. A quick blow to the head knocked the man out completely. Wedge collapsed beside him, willing the re-awakened pain in his ribs to fade.

Aware that the unfortunate man would not stay unconscious for long, Wedge forced himself back into action. Kneeling beside his victim, he stripped the man of shirt, boots, and rough work trousers.

Filthy and exhausted, but fully dressed, Wedge limped along the roadside toward the city. The way he saw it, he had two options-- find someplace to hole up for a couple of days, or steal a transport and hope like hell that his reflexes were up to an escape attempt. The shooting pain in his ribs was killing him. If he tried to run and met any resistance, on the ground or in the air, he might not be quick enough to fight it off.

The shadows were long by the time he reached the outskirts of the city. Traffic roared past, people going to and from their jobs, none of them stopping for the bedraggled man on the side of the road. Wedge couldn’t blame them; they probably figured that he was looking for someone to rob. They were right, of course.

The side streets weren’t exactly bustling with nightlife. There were a few strip clubs that hadn’t kicked into high gear yet, a couple of seedy bars whose all-day patrons were just stumbling out, blinking in the sunlight. They glanced at Wedge, saw him as one of their own; he could practically hear their slow synapses categorize him as yet another man afflicted by bad luck, or woman troubles, or any of a host of other woes. They might sympathize, but they’d leave him alone; he wasn’t their business.

Wedge fought the soreness and hungry ache in his stomach and knew that he couldn’t make it any farther that night. He ducked into the alley behind the bar and leaned against a door in the side of the building opposite, wondering what to do. He doubted that an Imperial stronghold like Illandraa would be too keen on shelters.

As he pondered, the door behind him opened and he fell backwards. He saw a bright light and a flash of color before his head hit the floor and everything went black.

"Dekan will kill you for letting him in here." The low, hissing voice cut through the fog in Wedge’s brain.

"Oh, relax. This poor guy isn’t strong enough to hurt a meercat." Wedge struggled to identify the voices. Two females in the foreground, more women chattering further back, pulsing music from some other room. He was lying on something soft in a bright, warm room, apparently surrounded by females. If his entire being didn’t ache, he’d be thrilled. Janson would be jealous as hell.

"I think he’s coming around," the higher voice said, and Wedge opened his eyes to see a blonde human female hovering over him worriedly. Mid to late 20s, attractive in a harsh sort of way, she wore a skimpy piece of red lingerie and fishnet stockings. Her blue eyes held a anxious look as she waved her hand in front of his face.

"Um, hello? Are you alright?"

Wedge blinked.

"Of course he’s not, Cadie. He’s probably got a concussion." The owner of the lower voice was also blonde, but the inch of dark hair at her scalp suggested that she was long overdue for a touch-up. She held out her hand. "Can you sit up?"

Wedge took her hand and managed to pull himself up. His ribs complained fiercely, and a thin sheen of sweat broke out onto his face. The woman sat down, then frowned at something behind him.

"Don’t you people have a show to do?" Wedge looked over his shoulder and saw several young women in various stages of undress scoot away. The lady with the higher-pitched voice followed them and drew a curtain, shutting him away with the woman who still held his hand.

"What happened to you?"

He took a couple of short breaths and tried to steady his voice before answering. "Girlfriend kicked me out."

"She a big girl?" The woman raised an eyebrow. "Or did someone else beat the hell out of you?"

"Umm..."

"Do you have a name?"

"Umm..."

"Are you in trouble?"

"Umm... yes?"

"So, you’re homeless. You look like you’ve got a couple of cracked ribs, a twisted ankle, and," her fingers roamed over his scalp, "a nice big bump on the head. You need a bath, and you may or may not be in trouble."

Wedge blushed and the woman smiled slightly. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police."

His eyes widened in an expression of innocence. "I haven’t done anything to you."

"Would the police be glad to have you in custody?" Wedge looked away. The woman stood and walked to a small refrigeration unit. She held out a bottle of water and Wedge took it gratefully.

"You wouldn’t, by any chance, be the Rebel pilot who washed up on the beach yesterday, would you?"

Continued in Part Five