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The first night of celebrating the Peace Treaty had been, so far, going down in history as splendid. That was what Grand-Admiral Pellaeon had been told by different sides’ representatives on numerous occasions. In his own opinion, the event wasn’t worth the headache organizing it gave him.
One idiot with a blaster – scratch that, with a banner – and they could wave the hard-won peace a gentle goodbye. One idiot with a bruised ego, or with aspirations bigger than his neighbor’s.
But sure. He’d take splendid over disastrous, anytime.
But there was only so much tittering Gilad Pellaeon could take before he ordered his flagship to ram the planet. When he felt perilously close to that limit, he made his premeditated, very practiced excuses, and slipped out of the ballroom through the least frequented doors he’d spotted by then.
He stepped out from the stifling, glittering air of the reception, and was hit with a wave of cold, and the sight that could impress even someone as well-traveled as the Grand-Admiral of the Empire. The Suarbi system wasn’t chosen for its sights, only for its Caamasi presence, the biggest currently in the galaxy and symbolic for the celebration of peace between the New Republic and the Imperial Remnant.
When that symbolism had been pointed out to him the first time, Pellaeon was sorely tempted to offer the Graveyard instead. But he put too much effort into the creation of the Treaty to shoot himself in the leg so spectacularly, so he nodded, smiled, and thanked Senator A’Kla for the offer.
And here he was now, on a balcony of A’Kla’s senatorial complex that looked too much like an Imperial-style castle, staring as Suarbi 7 with its moons and spectacular rings drowned slowly in the restless sea. Susevfi, he admitted reluctantly, was a beautiful place.
A movement to his left did not make him jump. Maybe his mustache twitched. Maybe. He turned slowly, noticing for the first time a set of chairs around a small table, and a human male sitting in one of them.
He appeared on the younger side of middle-aged; his dress uniform, adorned with a sash of bright red silk, boasted perhaps the greatest number of medals and battle patches that he had ever seen one person wearing. Dark hair threaded with moderate silver; dark, solemn eyes; and a light frown he addressed to Pellaeon; all of that he recognized in a single heart-stopping instance.
“General Antilles.”
“Grand-Admiral. Taken with the view?”
His voice, quiet and cold, brought Pellaeon for a fleeting moment back to the last days of war. Antilles had been there at the end. He had been there for a long time, really. It stood to reason that the Rebellion’s most decorated officer, the man who had defied the Emperor, Darth Vader, Ysanne Isard, Moffs, Grand-Admirals, and various self-appointed warlords, would come here to look Pellaeon in the eye, smiling.
“This sky is something,” he acknowledged. “My apologies, I did not pay attention to everything else.”
“Quite understandable,” Antilles said. He nodded at the other chair. “Truce? I left politics in the hall.”
“You are smarter than most, then.”
Sitting down finally took the weight off his legs, and he stifled a sigh of relief, masking it as he took off his cap. The night was long. And promised to be longer yet.
“Take heart, Grand-Admiral, it’s only for a week.”
“I fought in campaigns that lasted longer, and felt better.”
Antilles laughed, looking startled at his own reaction. “There are benefits that I’ve gotten with promotion, but I do recall days spent in the cockpit with fondness, yes. And this function summons a lot of those memories to the forefront.”
“I’ve already organized my half of this thing,” Pellaeon said. “One could think it’s enough.”
“Security alone is a beast,” Antilles agreed, but his tone changed to something sharper. “Do not take me wrong, Grand-Admiral, but I hope you are only joking. Your predecessor’s ineptitude in the political side of the war was our only saving grace, perhaps, but now, with the Treaty in effect, I would prefer not to wonder as to what the hell were they thinking.”
Pellaeon considered him for a moment. On one hand, he was honestly amused. There was no question as to whom Antilles derided, and yes, Thrawn’s nearsightedness, when it came to governing a state, had been, in hindsight, startling to realise, and he was still the best commander Pellaeon had ever known. On the other, who was this man to try and admonish Pellaeon himself?
“You are, I suppose, right in the spirit, Antilles,” he said eventually, tone mild. “But it doesn’t mean I appreciate the attitude.”
Antilles, to his credit, took the reproach in stride. He even smiled, if that cold, unkind expression could be called a smile. It did, for a number of reasons, remind Pellaeon more of Thrawn than Antilles probably would have liked.
“Attitude and altitude,” the General said, eyes glinting with humor, “are the making of a pilot.”
“We are rather low right now.”
“I’ve flown lower. It wasn’t, of course, preferable, but it won me the results.”
“Ah, hence the higher percentage of attitude in that equation?”
Finally, the unnerving cold in Antilles’ eyes melted, and he grinned at Pellaeon with genuine mirth. “That,” he said, “is a take I am loaning, Pellaeon, just so I can throw it at Admiral Ackbar the next time he tries to get at me for something Wraith Squadron did.”
“Best of luck to both of you, I guess.”
They relaxed in the silence that turned out surprisingly companionable. This, Pellaeon decided, was the sort of politics that he could come to enjoy. It almost felt like a war game, flagship against a flagship. He wondered what would Antilles say if he were to present him with an offer to set up one.
The sound of steps distracted him from that dangerous idea. Another Rebel officer walked out onto the balcony, not blinking an eye at the sight; this one, too, Pellaeon recognised instantly. Colonel Tycho Celchu, Antilles’ right-hand man, nodded at them respectfully; he carried a small tray with a glass of water and two delicate looking cups.
“Sirs,” he greeted calmly, depositing the tray on the table, and finally saluted, sharp and concise. “Grand-Admiral, would you care for caf?”
The possibility of this being a poisoning attempt, Pellaeon decided, was negligible. “Thank you, Colonel,” he said.
Antilles already held one of the cups, breathing in the steam before taking a sip. He made a small, almost indecent sound, and closed his eyes. “Bless you, Celchu. How?”
“A compliment from the host, sir,” Celchu said. “Perhaps, prompted on by Nine.”
“Meddlesome…” the rest of the epithet was swallowed with another sip. Celchu’s mouth twitched in a smile; Pellaeon, meanwhile, eyed the General, concerned. The caf was good, but not that good.
“Are you addicted?” he asked, confused. There was a lot of things in the Galaxy to get addicted to, but a mildly energizing drink prone to give you disproportional dehydration?..
Antilles gave him an equally confused look before asking, “To what, survival?”
“Instant caf and centennial rations,” Celchu muttered, “were not survival. It was the foundation of life as we knew it.” Antilles toasted him with his cup. When he finished it, Celchu pointed at the glass and produced a thin blister to go with it. “Only heavy duty,” he said with remorse. Antilles shrugged; he popped out a tiny blue pill that made Pellaeon wince at the sight of, and swallowed it dry before reaching for the glass.
“At this point, I’d take a stun blast to the head,” he said bluntly. “I swear, this function’s been giving me worse headache than training Wraiths. That’s saying something.” He relaxed into his chair, waiting for the medication to take effect. “How is it inside? We aren’t missed yet?”
“No, but you really should go back soon, sir.”
“My condolences,” Pellaeon said. “My politicians would be happy to never see me again.”
“Look at him, Celchu,” Antilles said, drawling. “He thinks, only his politicians matter. He thinks, Fey’lya isn’t going to make himself his problem, from now on, too.”
The Colonel sent Pellaeon a look that managed to convey both his apologies for and a total agreement with his commanding officer’s words. It was, in a way, impressive. It also sent a shiver down Pellaeon back. “I would say, let’s allow our respective politicians deal with each other, but that would be counterproductive to this entire enterprise.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Antilles sighed. He looked better, the frown he’d greeted Pellaeon with was now just a shadow in his expression, the lines less prominent. He had been squinting in pain all throughout their conversation, Pellaeon realised with a pang of genuine sympathy. Now, he straightened and rose to his feet, and no one would have said he was anything less than polished to near perfection. “Well, Grand-Admiral, it was a pleasure.”
“Mine as well, General.” He offered his hand, and received a firm handshake. What a pity it was, he thought, that this officer belonged to the Rebels from the start.
As if having read his mind, Antilles smiled. His dark eyes laughing at Pellaeon, he inclined his head and turned to leave, Celchu falling in step with him as if it was the most natural thing, easy like breathing. They paused in the doorway, watching like one would measure up a battlefield, and the golden light spilling from the hall illuminated them, allowing Pellaeon to see clearly a brief touch of hands.
“Once more unto the breach,” Antilles said. Celchu leaned to him, his answer a mere whisper, too quiet to hear.
Wedge blinked tiredly. Gray fog seemed to have seeped from his mind and into the interior of the shuttle; blinking had done nothing but irritated his eyes. He heard Tycho’s warm chuckle.
“C’mon, General. Just a short walk, and you can sleep for real.”
“I’m fine sleepin’ here,” he mumbled.
“In your full regalia, strapped in a passenger’s chair?” To drive the point home, Tycho snapped the safety net free, and Wedge immediately slipped further down in his seat. “Get up, get up.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.” Smiling, Tycho dragged him up and out of the hold. “Wedge, walk.”
“I’m trying to.”
At least, he thought he was. Everything was gray; the walls were swimming in and out of sight; and if he actually could feel his legs and feet, it would have been, probably, nice. Waiting for the turbolift, he gave up and leaned into Tycho’s side; after that, he wasn’t sure. His quarters weren’t that far from the hangar, were they?
“...should have stayed planetside. I’m sure Elegos had a nice room ready.”
“What?” he asked blearily.
“I’ll get back to you tomorrow,” Tycho said. He was on the comm, Wedge realised. As he watched, Tycho logged out and walked into the bedroom, smiling at Wedge in earnest, not that bland, polite thing from the reception.
He had changed out of his dress uniform. Wedge himself had been freed from his jacket, boots, and miscellaneous, he discovered when he stretched and sat up. He didn’t remember even getting to the room. “How long was I out?” he asked, watching Tycho get under the covers.
“A couple of hours. How do you feel?”
“Better, thanks.” He rubbed his face, yawned. “Force, I’m tired.”
“You need help with the rest?”
“Nah, I got it.”
In the ‘fresher, wincing and holding back curses, he stripped down and stepped under the warm water. Painkillers Tycho’d gotten for him were really kicking in now, after the long nap, and he felt a bit too floaty for his liking. He would have still been able to fly, of course, but it would have been a close call.
Good thing the war was over.
Suddenly, his legs refused to hold his weight. He slid down to sit on the floor; his breathing grew labored.
The war was over.
There was no need to get into command chair. He could be floaty all he wanted. He could take as many naps as he felt like. He could get those anti-anxiety meds that medics kept prescribing him the last few years. He could go on an actual vacation.
He could leave the Lusankya behind. Transfer command. Go live planetside again.
He could make plans.
“Wedge? You fine in there?”
“No,” he admitted. A moment later, Tycho shuffled inside, took one look at him, and nodded in understanding.
“Finally hit you, did it?”
“Like a stun blast to the head.”
Stifling a yawn behind a hand, Tycho sat down on the stool they kept there for that specific purpose of holding awkward conversations. Despite working as hard as Wedge had been, he looked much less exhausted, just sleepy. How he managed the stress and overload so well, Wedge couldn’t fathom.
He reached blindly and switched the water to warm air. Despite the temperature, his skin broke in goosebumps. “It’s just. Doesn’t seem real.”
Tycho nodded severely. “I don’t think this feeling would ever go away,” he agreed. “I remember, back when I was held in contempt, I believed that even if I don’t manage to prove myself innocent, that everybody would still realise the truth once the Empire fell. And now,” he shook his head, incredulous. “So much has changed, and now here we are, and the Empire is just the Remnant, and we are here to see it.” He laughed. “What gives? Seriously, what the kriff, right?”
Wedge rubbed the tears away, but they just kept falling.
“Yeah. What the kriff,” he said hoarsely.
Mostly dry, he climbed out of the stall and tugged on his sleep pants, forgoing the top resolutely. His hands shook; the gray kept encroaching.
“Wedge,” Tycho said softly.
“I don’t – I can’t.”
“C’mon. It’s alright.”
“No, it’s not!” Rage exploded out of him with no warning. Turning, he hit the nearest wall, anger and probably the meds keeping the inevitable pain at bay; he tried to hit again, but Tycho was already there, restraining him, mumbling consolations that Wedge didn’t want to, couldn’t accept. “Let go of me, Tych, let go, let go!”
Tycho tripped him suddenly; they went down in a heap of flailing limbs and angry tears. Everything swam, distant and surreal, the soft hum of the Lusankya’s engines overlapping with Tycho’s voice, with the screams in Wedge’s head, stay on target, stay on target, the lights overhead growing blindingly bright until it was the Death Star exploding, the X-Wing shaking apart around him, two green moons looking so similar he couldn’t say which one he crashed on the surface of, it didn’t even hurt, he wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t dead but everyone else was, everyone else but him, and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair that the war was over and he still was there to see it, when Porkins and Biggs weren’t, Ibtisam and Dak weren’t, Dreis and Narra and Crix, Asyr and Lujayne and Cesi –
He could still hear them screaming, could still remember them smiling and wishing luck to each other, may the Force be with you, touches stolen in the night, small knickknacks left to remember them by, stay on target, but the target was so small and so far in the future, could you say survival was a target, could you say you hit it if, meanwhile, you lost your whole squadron? He could hear Keyan’s voice, distant on the barely functioning comms, guiding him into safe landing far away from the temple, if the last engine dies on me, I won’t take anyone else with me, at the least –
Crushing hard through the treetops, the brilliant explosion illuminating the night like a short-lived sun, the Death Star, look at the size of that thing, stay on target, and he did, he blew that cursed thing up to all the nine hells, he survived, he survived and the war was over, the Empire or us, it was over, what gives, seriously, what the kriff, Keyan hauling him out of the cockpit, dragging him to the temple step after an excruciating step, why is there a celebration, what is there to celebrate, they are all dead, Keyan holding him upright, Tycho holding him down –
Tych, they are dead, they are all dead, why am I still alive, why am I still here?
“It’s over, Wedge. It’s over, it’s over.”
He tried to believe it. For his dead’s sake, he tried.
The incessant buzz of the comm finally drove him awake enough to haul himself over to the office space of the quarters. Tycho was still out, sprawled amid pillows and blissfully unconscious. Wedge, feeling slighted, stole his dressing robe and was still busy figuring out the collar thing when the call went through.
“General,” Ackbar greeted him. The initial spark of amusement in his expression toned down the longer the Admiral stared at him. “I was going to ask when can we expect you to join us, but I take it you are unable to.”
A quick glance at the chronometer told Wedge that he was truly horrendously late for the second day of the festivities’ opening. “My apologies, sir,” he said, and coughed to try and ease the dry rasp in his voice. Crying certainly took its toll. He thought about cooking up an excuse for his absence, then decided against it. Ackbar knew him too well, after all.
“None needed, Wedge,” Ackbar answered slowly. Oh, sithspawn, no. Not the first name. “Do you want to take a sick leave?”
He honestly considered it. He could, technically, swindle it, right? He could also get a grip, make himself presentable, and report in at the reception. He had flown feeling much worse than he was currently. He knew it. Ackbar knew it. Taking the exit offered meant getting a lot of Concerned Superior-shaped trouble heading his way.
But. He could do so much now.
“Last night was a success, right?” he asked. A plastic cup of stale caf appeared in his peripheral view; further investigation revealed one Tycho Celchu, eyes shut closed, a cover trailing after him like a cloak, holding the cup for Wedge’s consideration. With a sigh, he took it and shooed Tycho away, shaking his head when the man wordlessly stumbled back to the bedroom. “Please, Admiral, tell me it was a success.”
Ackbar was laughing soundlessly. “Yes, Wedge. It was, in part thanks to your encounter with Grand-Admiral Pellaeon. The rest is a mere formality. You and Colonel Celchu have every right to sit it out.”
“Tempting,” he groaned.
Bringing the cup up, though, allowed him a look at the ring Tycho gave him a few hours earlier. It was a simple golden band with a tiniest spark of vividly green Corusca gem embedded in the metal, nothing pretentious, nothing as meaningful as the ring welded from the Lusankya’s hull Mirax commissioned for her own union. Maybe it meant something for Tycho; for Wedge, it was the declaration that mattered, even if the colors reminded him of something dear from the past.
“Admiral,” he said slowly, then amended, drawing a sharp look from his friend, “Gial. I don’t think I’ll be taking leave. I think…” He took a long, deep breath, that he was very careful in releasing. “It was the honor, sir, and if I am ever needed, I will come back, just say the word. But now, with the war behind us, I would like to tender my resignation, effective immediately.”
Ackbar did not look surprised. If anything, he looked consoled.
“It is long overdue, Wedge, however, I do not accept it now. I order you to take the Lusankya back to Coruscant, where you will assume the command of our forces until my return. From there, we will organize things properly.”
“Why?” he asked desperately. Ackbar smiled at him.
“I support your decision to retire wholeheartedly,” he said. “Speaking from experience, though, a transitional period is a must. You should not be losing the whole support structure we can offer you as the New Republic’s most accomplished commander in the Navy. You should not,” he paused, thinking, “cut yourself loose in space. Please, accept my judgment in the matter.”
Wedge blew an explosive sigh. “Alright. I trusted you with more, I suppose.”
Ackbar didn’t even pretend to take offense.
Ending the call, he sat behind the desk for a few long, silent minutes. Then, powering up once more, hailed the bridge to give them their new orders.
The reception had been planned to take a week whole. He could survive wearing the uniform that much longer. He survived worse, after all.
Back in the bedroom, feeling that subtle hum of the ship grow and reverberate as the crew worked on warming up the hyperdrive, he fell on the bed and reached for Tycho’s hand. “We are going to Coruscant,” he updated, once a questioning noise was emitted in his direction. “And then, well.” He hesitated. “I wanted to say we’re going home, but.”
“Retirement?” Tycho asked, muffled.
“Uh huh.”
“Paperwork – somewhere there,” Tycho said. He rolled, pressing his face fuller into the mattress, and waved his free hand ambiguously. “Needs us signing and, uh, dates?” He yawned. “If we get married first, that too.”
“How fast we can marry?” Wedge wondered aloud. “How fast we want to?”
“Today?” Tycho offered, then mumbled something completely unintelligible. “Commanding the ship… Already have a precedent…”
“I can’t marry off myself.”
Giving up, Tycho sat up on his hunches, groaning, rubbed his face and stared at Wedge, blinking. Smiling, Wedge pulled him closer; Tycho toppled over and landed on him heavily with a swear, while Wedge wheezed, a victim of his own plan.
“What’s stopping you?”
“I dunno, elopement?” The memory of all the stress Myra’s second, official, wedding had been still gave him nightmares. He rolled them over and lay on Tycho’s chest, arms crossed and chin digging in Tycho’s sternum. “I love you, but I refuse to marry twice. Once already sounds like a disaster in waiting.”
“Wedge, you are the strategist in this family.”
“What are you, then, a kitchen appliance?”
Tycho grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled up for a long, fierce kiss. “I am the tactician. I’ll be there with the last-minute changes and a couple of flash grenades. I’ll wrangle Janson into behaving and supply Hobbie with a box of tissues. I’ll shoot Horn if he tries to give us a blessing…”
Shaking with laughter, Wedge shut him with another kiss. “I got the holo, Force, stop. I’ll plan everything, you just marry me.”
“Straightforward works too,” Tycho deadpanned.
Antilles’ silent departure from the Suarbi system hadn’t gone unnoticed. Reactions were mixed – indifference from the Rebel officers, bristling dismissal from the Rebel politicians, smiles from Caamasi, indignation from the Imperial politicians, and a nauseating, headache-inducing bout of paranoia from Pellaeon’s own subordinates. The fact that Antilles had taken off aboard his flagship, the Emperor-damned Lusankya that was currently the only fully functioning ship of her class, added so much fuel to the fire that the fact literally every other recognizable Rebel commander stayed behind went ignored.
Of course, Wedge Antilles was second only to Ackbar, Pellaeon admitted, and on the Empire’s bad day, second to none. And, well, the Lusankya.
Still, the impression he had gotten from the man the night before was that there was literally nothing Antilles wanted other than quiet and peace. Instant caf and centennial rations, Emperor have mercy; if the Rebels survived on that, it was little wonder they survived the war, and that they celebrated peace with such enthusiasm.
“Admiral,” he asked quietly once he managed to corner the Mon Calamari sometime later in the day. “I don’t care for the truth, but give me an abridged version I can sell to my people.”
Ackbar blinked at him. The picture of innocence, he was not.
“The General has a private matter to take care of, back on Coruscant,” he said breezily.
“And he needs the Lusankya to do that? There is an expression about shooting mynocks down using superweapons, you’ve heard it?”
“Grand-Admiral, I have heard them all. Quite a few of them was invented by Corellians, and rest assured, General Antilles has done his best to familiarize myself with the lot.” Admittedly, that confession came across pained. All the same, Pellaeon did not rise to his position by accepting misdirection and jokes. He gave the Admiral a hard stare, and his opponent nodded with a sigh. “Here is the truth, and you may abridge it to your heart’s content: Wedge is retiring.”
A startled laugh escaped him. “He’s what?! Please, Admiral, he is, what, forty-three? Forty-five? Isn’t it a bit early? I don’t believe you.”
“Thirty-eight, actually,” Ackbar said. “Over two decades of active duty. There is maybe a dozen of battles he hadn’t participated in, simply on the account of fighting elsewhere. You must understand, Grand-Admiral, that he is the only surviving snubfighter pilot that has been with the Alliance since before the use of X-Wings who is still flying, even when he has the command of the Lusankya. Everyone else is on ground assignment, or retired for medical reasons, or dead.”
It was a compelling argument, Pellaeon was forced to admit. Still, he shook his head. “Thirty-eight and resigning commission. Ridiculous.” Then, a memory from the last night flashed in his mind, and he squinted suspiciously. “I take it, Celchu is going with him?”
Ackbar snorted.
“Unsubtle, were they?”
“A lot has been said about Rogue Squadron, but no, I don’t think that anyone ever credited them for subtlety.” They both laughed. “Two Rogue Leaders stepping down simultaneously. You must feel comprehensive.”
“Darklighter is the Fleet’s finest and ready to carry the torch,” Ackbar dismissed. “No; if anything, I am relieved.”
“Good for you, then, Admiral.” He stared out of their corner, watching their people mingle uncertainly, the ballroom hung in precarious balance for the moment. “And still, I doubt that the explanation that Wedge Antilles hightailed it out of here to get some quality family time is going to fly all that well.”
Ackbar shrugged; humor and satisfaction were bright in his bulbous eyes, and Pellaeon felt, not for the first time, glad that they were not fighting each other anymore.
“Quite honestly, Gilad, this is your problem. Mine is to get them fitting wedding presents.”