The characters that have appeared in previous Star Wars novels are property of Lucasfilm, Ltd. Captain Amaryl Assay, Admiral Tesh Dorass, First Officer Azzeh, and the name of Tycho's droid belong to the author. Any other characters presented here that have never been seen in a Star Wars novel are property of Iris Bailey. Do not repost anywhere without the permission of the author!
Even though he’d been conscious for a while, Wedge kept his eyes closed and lay perfectly still. His hands were still bound tightly behind him and he was starting to lose the feeling in his fingers. He listened intently to the sounds around him, orienting himself to his surroundings as best he could.
He was also giving himself a thorough, and in his opinion, well deserved chewing out.
That was really stupid, Antilles, baiting them like that. What were you thinking? You’ve obviously spent too much time around Wes and Hobbie. You’re supposed to have a cooler head than that. Somebody should put you on report.
He opened his eyes slightly and cringed at the bright lights overhead. He shifted positions and all of the different pains that had coalesced into one mind-numbing ache separated again into scattered bits of misery. The stormtroopers had been pretty thorough. He took a deep breath and winced with the effort, then began mentally taking inventory.
I’ve definitely got some cracked ribs. Probably some pretty badly bruised ones, too. He ran his tongue gingerly across his split lip and tasted dried blood. The sore spots on my right hip and butt mean that I’ve been lying in this one spot for a while. Beyond that, I’ve still got one or two places that don’t hurt, so I guess I’ll live. For the moment, anyway.
He looked around, found his vision a bit blurred, and knew that his right eye was swollen from the blow he had taken to that side of his head. He hoped that he didn’t have a concussion. He could see and feel enough to know that he was lying on a very hard bunk in a small detention cell. Beneath him, he could feel the thrum of the Star Destroyer’s huge sublight engines.
The first order of business is to get more comfortable.
Swinging his legs off the side of the bunk, he struggled to sit up. When the nausea and the wave of dizziness that the movement caused hit him, he wondered why he’d been in such a hurry.
After a few painful deep breaths, his head cleared and he slowly got to his feet. He brought his hands down to the back of his knees, then sat again. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he worked his bound hands beneath him, and then up and over his feet and legs until they were in his lap. He had used this trick often as a child when some of the children at his school had decided he made a convincing prisoner and tied him up. He was pleased that he was still nimble enough to accomplish it. Comes from wriggling around in a cockpit trying to get comfortable on those long hyperspace flights.
He crossed his right ankle over his left knee and began to work on the heel of his boot. Specifically, he worked to free a thin sliver of metal, about five centimeters long, from the place where he’d concealed it. Finally it came free. In less than a minute, he had the binders unlocked, the "key" hidden again, and was rubbing feeling back into his bruised wrists.
Thanks for the lock-picking lesson, Booster. That’s another one I owe you. He smiled at the memory of the big Corellian smuggler’s "survival lessons" and of his parents' reaction the first time he’d unlocked a cabinet for his mother at the refueling depot when she’d misplaced her keys. As punishment, he’d been assigned to clean out the oil dump tank in the main repair bay. It was a job he had absolutely hated. It had taken him two days to clean the tank, and three days to wash the oil out of his hair and skin. Still, he’d give anything if his dad could give him the same chewing out and punishment again. He wouldn’t even grumble about it this time. But that had been a long time ago, and light-years away.
Watch it, Antilles, you’d better keep your mind on the here and now. You’ve probably got enough problems to keep you occupied for a while.
He could hear the approach of several people, their hollow steps falling on metal grating in the corridor. He leaned back on the bunk on one elbow, grimacing as he put pressure on his cracked and bruised ribs. But by the time they entered his cell, he was casually twirling the binders around on one finger. Two stormtroopers stopped in their tracks when they saw the binders, and the Lieutenant Wedge had seen in the hanger bay walked into them.
"You guys forgot these. I don’t think I need ’em anymore." Wedge gave them his most roguish of smiles, one that he knew to be extremely aggravating.
The Lieutenant stepped around the stormtroopers and snatched the binders from him. He motioned to the trooper on the right and he advanced, shoving Wedge back on the bunk. He pinned him there with a knee on his chest, putting pressure on Wedge's already cracked ribs, while his armored hand went around his throat. "Where’s the pick?"
Wedge’s breath left him, and getting it back wasn’t easy. "Right boot heel," he managed to wheeze.
Keeping Wedge pinned, the stormtrooper motioned to one of the other troopers. "Get it, seven seven five."
"Yessir." The man knelt and managed to remove the pick from the boot. "Got it, sir."
"Now, hotshot, you got any more little secrets hidden anywhere? ‘Cause if you make me search you, I promise that you won’t enjoy it at all."
The Lieutenant was watching him intently. Wedge was sure that he expected to see at least a little fear in his eyes. Most people would be terrified if an Imperial Stormtrooper was kneeling on their chest. What was that myth that Tycho repeated to our new recruits? ‘Wedge Antilles has enough ice water in his veins to replenish Coruscant’s polar caps.’ I wish that were true.
"No. That...that was it." He tried to take in a deeper breath and failed. "You got everything else the first time," he squeaked.
The Lieutenant had backed away from the bunk and was speaking quietly into a comlink. He finished speaking and returned to the bed, tucking the communications device into a small pouch on his belt. "Get up and behave. The Admiral wants to see you." Heblon nodded to the stormtrooper pinning Wedge, and he released the pilot. "You’ve got plenty of guts, I’ll give you that. You had to push, just to see what would happen."
"Wouldn’t you in my place?" Wedge slowly hauled himself to his feet, grimacing at the effort. Dizziness hit him again, and he had to sit back down on the bunk until it passed.
Wedge expected and braced for a blow, but it never came. He looked up to see the Lieutenant watching his every move with a mix of distrust and curiosity. "I suppose I would," he said quietly. "Bind his hands."
Wedge met the Lieutenant’s gaze unflinchingly and offered his hands to him to be bound. But he just stepped back to let one of his stormtroopers approach. The trooper twisted Wedge’s arm roughly behind him, but the Lieutenant stopped him. "Bind him in front."
"But sir, he’s already..."
"I said bind him in front. He’s probably got a concussion and he can barely stand, thanks to you. He’ll have more balance if his hands are in front. I don’t want to have to keep picking him up off of the deck."
"Yessir." He did as he was told, and then the two troopers took up positions on either side of their prisoner.
Heblon turned to Wedge. "But if you give us any trouble, you’ll get more of what you got in the hanger bay. Is that understood?"
"Understood." With a half smile, Wedge nodded and motioned to his bound hands. "And thanks." He could see that his smile made the Lieutenant uncomfortable. He was pretty sure that the Imperial had never been thanked by a prisoner before.
"Move it." The group left the detention cell at a quick march with two stormtroopers on either side of Wedge, the Lieutenant keeping pace behind them.
As they walked, Wedge noted over his shoulder that the Lieutenant was studying him from behind with a troubled look on his face.
* * * * * * *
"So this is the legendary General Antilles." Osiel Turpa circled the pilot, inspecting him as if he were an item up for sale. Although he had to look down at him since he stood at least thirty centimeters taller than Wedge. "I’d forgotten that Rebel fighter pilots tend to be on the small side. Why do you suppose that is, Heblon?"
"I really couldn’t say, sir." The two troopers stood near the door to Turpa’s office, watching. Heblon stood in front of them at attention.
Turpa continued walking around Wedge slowly, an arrogant smirk on his face. Raising the pilot’s chin, he studied the bruises on his face. "You really are disappointing, Antilles. I expected someone larger than life. You hardly seem worth the bounty that the Empire has on your head. You have been rather lucky for a great many years. That luck is about to run out." He continued his circling, like a predator with his prey.
"Tell me, General, how many confirmed kills do you have?" He brushed an imaginary bit of lint from the shoulder of Wedge’s orange flightsuit.
"At the moment, I believe it’s three hundred and eighty-nine. But that’s not counting the four of yours I got today, the two Death Stars, and twenty-two capital ships and transports of various sizes." Wedge looked Turpa in the eyes and kept his expression neutral whenever the Imperial Officer’s orbit brought him within view.
"Impressive. Though I believe Baron Fel of the 181st had a few more."
"Is that before or after you subtract the Imperials he shot down while with Rogue Squadron?" Wedge asked.
The Imperial officer stopped in front of him again, his smile replaced by a brief look of surprise. But it quickly became cold and ugly. "Oh, very good, General. You’re proud of your kills, aren’t you?
"Actually, I hate killing. But if the only way to free this galaxy from the remains of Palpatine’s evil is for me to keep vaping Imp pilots, then that’s what I’ll do. And I’m obviously good at it since I’ve survived all these years."
"A pity so many of your fellow pilots can’t say the same," Turpa said with a note of delight.
Wedge felt an invisible hand close around his heart as guilt over all of the pilots who had died under his command overwhelmed him. But he knew that he could not let it show on his face. Turpa would take that weakness and exploit it. "I may have lost a few pilots, but they at least died for a cause that they believed in. Not blindly following an Emperor on some quixotic crusade for control over the galaxy.
"A noble sentiment, General, but you’ve forgotten one thing..." Turpa turned and picked up a forty centimeter stone carving that sat on his desk. He shifted it in his hand, and it suddenly became a weapon. "You’ve forgotten that that same Empire owns you now."
The brutal blows to Wedge’s forehead and stomach came completely without warning. Then, before he could do anything more than double over, Turpa swung the carving high over his head and brought it down across the back of Wedge’s head.
As he headed for the floor, Turpa swung the carving up towards Wedge’s face. With the first impact, blood from his mouth and nose spattered all over Turpa’s uniform, the deck, and the white armor of the closest stormtrooper. The second one opened a deep gash over his already bruised right eye.
"And now you will be made to pay for your crimes against us. You will wish that you had not survived." Turpa’s face was red with rage, and spittle flecked the corners of his mouth. He raised the carving to strike again, but his hand was stayed and held in midair.
"How dare you? Remove your hands from me..." He turned and seemed to see Heblon for the first time. The Lieutenant held his Admiral’s arm by the wrist above his head. "I’ll have you executed for this!"
"That may be, sir. But remember that Moff Tchlinda is expecting the prisoner planet side tomorrow. If you kill him, the Moff may be...unhappy."
"Yes...yes, of course." A look of alarm crossed Turpa’s features. He backed away from the orange heap in the middle of the floor and began to regain his composure. He glanced briefly at Wedge, who lay convulsing on the deck. He set the bloodstained carving back down on his desk. He straightened his jacket and was once again the perfect picture of a composed officer. Except for his blood-covered uniform. "The Moff would be highly displeased. We can’t have that, can we. Take care of it, Heblon. And have my aide send someone in here to tidy up a bit."
"Yes, sir." Heblon turned and pointed at Wedge. "All, right men, let’s get him back to the detention block."
The two troopers grabbed Wedge by his arms and legs and carried him from the office.
* * * * * * *
By the time the group reached the detention cell, Wedge’s convulsions had increased, blood still pouring from his mouth and nose.
"Put him on the bunk and take the binders off of him."
Heblon watched as his men stripped the binders and dropped Wedge onto the bunk. Heblon stepped in to stop them. "No, lay him on his side so if he vomits he won’t choke on it."
One of the troopers stood to face Heblon as the other flipped Wedge rather violently onto his right side. "I don’t get it, sir. What are you so worried about him for? They’re gonna do a lot worse than this to him once he’s planet side."
"Maybe so. But if he dies here, or looks like this when he gets there, Tchlinda is going to be mad as a Sith. And who do you suppose will get the blame for it? Not Turpa, that’s for sure. Do you want to take his place?" He pointed at the bleeding and moaning figure on the bunk.
"Yeah. I’m beginning to see what you mean, sir."
"I thought you would. Go get some blankets, a couple of basins, and a bucket of ice and bring it back here. Now!"
"Yessir."
"Six eight two, you go to my quarters and go into the locker at the foot of my bunk. There are three bottles of Whyren’s Reserve in there. Bring me the two with the blue label. Under the bunk you’ll find a medpac. Bring that as well. Go to the medical bay and see if you can get some bandages out of the Emdee-One."
"Yessir." The second stormtrooper disappeared and the door closed behind him.
Heblon stripped off his uniform jacket and cap, then knelt by the bunk. His rugged face and close-cropped hair were reflected in the shiny metallic surface of the wall. He wore a look that was a mixture of anger and disgust, mostly at what Turpa had done. And somewhat at himself for not stopping his tantrum sooner.
He noted that Wedge had finally stopped convulsing, although blood was still flowing freely from him. Heblon bent down and put the palm of his left hand on Wedge’s forehead, then gently opened the pilot’s left eye with his thumb. He did the same with the swollen right eye, careful to avoid the long gash, and was relieved to find that they both dilated properly, although the right one was completely bloodshot. Wedge moaned with pain, coughed and spat up some blood, then drew in a gurgling breath.
It was a long fifteen minutes before the two stormtroopers clattered through the door with the items they’d gone after, and Heblon checked to see if they’d gotten everything. "All right. Now, you two get back out into the corridor and stand guard. I’ll handle this. If I need you, I’ll call."
"Yessir!" They hurried out of the cell, anxious to escape.
Heblon turned his attention back to the bunk. "Ok, let’s get a good look at the damage." He poked Wedge in the shoulder, then shook him gently. "Antilles? Antilles! Wake up!"
The only response was another moan. Heblon stood, picked up one of the plastine basins, and headed for the small refresher station, shaking his head as he went. He filled the container with warm water, then returned to the bunk and went to work.
First, he removed Wedge’s heavy flight boots. He swore when a small vibroblade clattered to the deck. "Got everything the first time, huh? I’m gettin’ old." He picked up the small blade and stuffed into the pouch on his belt.
Shaking his head again, Heblon eased his bloodied flightsuit off, leaving Wedge in just his undershirt and shorts. Rolling him onto his back, he placed one of the blankets under the man’s head and shoulders. Very carefully he ran his hands over the pilot’s rib cage and abdomen, pressing and releasing in different spots.
Wedge cried out in pain and opened his eyes, trying to focus on the man bending over him. "Oww! It hurts. I...I’m gonna be sick." He rolled to his side, trying to sit up, and Heblon helped him, holding another basin up just in time. When he was done, Wedge flopped back onto the bed. The vomit was blood red.
Heblon rolled his eyes. "I thought so. Damn it, this was uncalled for! Slapping him around would have been enough," he rasped under his breath.
He dipped one of the cloths in the warm water, and wiped Wedge’s face gently, removing some of the blood. Then he reached for the first Whyren’s Reserve bottle and raised the pilot up into a semi-sitting position.
"Here you go. Drink this." He put the bottle to Wedge’s lips and poured him a mouth full. Wedge obediently swallowed and Heblon repeated the action several times before he began to protest.
"Mmph." He coughed and opened his eyes, trying again to focus. He tried to push the bottle away.
"It’s bacta. Have some more."
"Argh! I think I’m gonna...throw up...again." And he did.
"That’s all right. I’ll just keep pouring it in you until you can keep it down, or you quit vomiting blood. Whichever comes first."
"O...Okay...Sure, B-Booster."
"I’m not Booster."
"Oh. S-sorry." Wedge looked dazedly at the older man. "I...I thought you were a f-friend of mine. Argh!" He doubled over, wrapping his arms around his belly and stayed that way, grunting with every breath. Finally, after several minutes, he straightened a little. "It...it’s Heblon, isn’t it?"
The older man started in surprise, then met Wedge’s unsteady gaze. "Yeah. Evidently your memory still works." He held the bottle up. "Here, drink some more of this. As much of it as you can get down."
"Alright. But it’d be a lot easier if it were really whiskey." Wedge took the bottle in one shaky hand and put it to his lips. He managed to down six or seven swallows, then stopped. Taking another shuddering breath, he turned the bottle up again and took another gulp. He clamped his free hand over his mouth, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head as he tried not to gag.
"Can you keep it down?"
He nodded slowly, not daring to remove his hand from his mouth.
"Can you keep it down?" Heblon asked more forcefully.
"If I don’t...think about it...too much." He was very pale and was beginning to shake uncontrollably. Heblon was not surprised that he was going into shock. The pain in his stomach combined with the blood he was throwing up were clear signs that he was suffering from internal bleeding and possibly other injuries as well.
"Good. Now lie back and try to relax." He helped him ease back on the bunk, and placed a blanket over him. He raised his feet up on the end of the bed, using the bed frame as a support. "You’ll have to keep warm. I’m sure that you know the signs of shock as well as I do. But the bacta should start to take care of your internal bleeding soon."
Taking a plastine bag out of the medpac, Heblon filled it with ice. "Here, hold this against your lip." Heblon handed him the ice pack, and he did as he was told.
Wedge gritted his teeth against the cold sensation, but after a moment, it seemed to help ease the pain and some of the swelling of his split lip. His eyes closed as if he had fallen asleep, but he still managed to ask a question. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because if we take you planet side in this shape, my men and I will get the blame. I don’t want that."
"Oh." He touched his belly tentatively and winced. "Is that the only reason?"
"Yeah. What else would it be?"
"You...you just seem pretty good at this. Were you a doctor?"
Heblon’s expression hardened. "Never mind what I was, flyboy. I’m doing this strictly to keep my own butt out of trouble. Now shut up and lie still. I’m going to take care of that eye " He took the bottle and poured some of the bacta into the bandages, soaking several of them. Wedge let Heblon work on him. By the time he’d finished, the bacta had started to ease some of the pain in his belly.
"How’re you doing?"
Wedge tried to laugh, but it turned out to be a disturbing wheezing noise. "Better, I think. I’ll be in good shape when they finally get around to executing me."
"Good. Now, one last thing..." He turned to the side reaching into the medpac.
"What?"
"This." He lifted Wedge’s arm and held it outstretched between his own left arm and his body. He managed to slip a needle into a vein despite Wedge’s feeble protests.
"Hey. No...." He tried to struggle, but the drug hit him like a speeder wreck. "Wait..." he offered weakly.
"Take it easy. It’s just something to ease the pain and let you get some rest."
"H-Heblon?" His voice became thick as the drug quickly overwhelmed him.
"What is it this time?"
"Th-thank you."
"Quit thanking me, Antilles. This just postpones the inevitable."
"Thanks...anyway..." His words slurred and in the next breath he had lost consciousness. His body relaxed and Heblon lay his outstretched arm across his chest.
"That’s it. You just sleep and get well. Soon Tchlinda will have you, and then you won’t be my problem any longer."
Copyright June 13, 2001 by Susan Hill.
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