Star Wars: Old Wounds (8)

Dak's eyes fluttered open, struggling against the oppressive brightness of his surroundings. While his vision acclimatized, he tried to move, with limited success. His limbs were heavy and stiff, each muscle groaning under the strain, but, he noted with slight relief, nothing seemed to be broken. He staggered to his feet, unsteady, weary, but without any particularly grievous pain. He found himself standing over a makeshift bed fashioned from old sheets and blankets, in what seemed to be a shed littered with dust, industrial tools and other detritus. On the opposite side of the room, he noticed a second figure also on a pile of cloth, Wedge! Dak rushed to his friend's side, checking his condition. Miraculously, Wedge was alive, and in reasonably good health, considering the crash they'd both endured. The worst of his injuries seemed to be a broken arm, which was bandaged in a bacta-cast. Dak stared for a few long moments as the healing liquid bubbled trough the network of narrow tubes encasing Wedge's left forearm, trying to recall how they'd ended up there.

He remembered nudging Wedge's X-Wing, trying to guide it with a tractor beam, and their eventual impact upon Andriss's surface. He and his droid, R3, emerged relatively unscathed, and he remembered racing towards the crater where Wedge had come down. Then, it got hazy. The acrid smell of leaking fuel, smoldering wreckage, ripping open the semi-shattered cockpit canopy, dragging Wedge out, a fireball, a cloaked figure emerging from the shadows, then darkness.

Dak creased his brow anxiously. He didn't like mysteries, or relying on the supposed kindness of strangers. He'd remained alive in the smuggling business because he kept his distance, looked out for himself. The idea that someone had just taken in two injured pilots was suspicious to a man like Dak. But he was also pragmatic enough to be grateful, nonetheless.

"We'll get out of this, Wedge." he said to his unconscious friend. "Just hang in there, okay buddy?"

A short time later, Wedge began to stir.

"What happened last night?" he said, voice cracking.

"You tried to drink Wes under the table." Dak replied, with forced mirth. "Of course, after the Eridian gin, it gets a bit fuzzy."

"My arm?" Wedge muttered, observing his cast for the first time.

"Okay, real talk. You were shot down by Imperials. Wes got out okay but I lost my ship trying to keep you from becoming a tiny streak of carbon burned into this lousy rock."

"No. Not possible. I don't get get shot down."

"Well, that's what happened, unless you want to claim it was falling with style?" said Dak. "The Empire's got some shiny new TIEs, impervious to conventional weapons fire. If we can't find out how they work and figure out a way of shutting down production soon, then we may as well kiss this rebellion goodbye."

"I think you've got bigger problems in your immediate future." boomed a deep gravelly voice from the shed's doorway. "Alone, injured, and trapped on an Imperial mining colony. Which by the way, currently has a Star Destroyer blockading the planet."

Wedge forced himself upwards using his elbows, to confront this new arrival, but the strain he applied to his injured arm caused him to slump downwards again. Dak swivelled around, eyes narrowing with caution as he observed the intruding figure. He was a tall, stocky man probably in his late forties, though the heavy lines scored across his face added a decade to his appearance. His eyes were old and harsh, sunk into a craggy face littered with wrinkles and scars. Rough, uneven stubble framed his weary face, extending up to meet his similarly cropped, fading hair. His hands were large, strong, and covered with thick calluses.

"You're the one who found us in the wreckage." Dak stated, with belated recognition. "I suppose a thank you is in order." His tone was neutral, bordering on friendly, yet he remained wary of this seemingly helpful ally.

"Sloane Fell, mining sub-subsupervisor, night shift. Just be glad I found you before any of the patrols." The man answered cheerily.

"And you just took us in, out of the kindness of your heart?" Dak asked, pointedly. "I'm sure the Imperials would reward anyone with information on two rebellious fugitives. Rare to find a person who values morality above credits." As he continued to probe their rescuer, Dak couldn't help but feel the lack of weight tugging at his waist, due to an empty holster.

"Being straight with ya, I value my freedom above either." replied the man as he met Dak's glare with one of his own. "Best way to avoid trouble is to avoid attention. Bringing down the wrath of that sniviling Moff sounds like attention to me."

"Yet you took us in. You could have just left us in the wreckage." added Wedge, with some effort.

"In which case I may as well have just shot you both. Death sentence either way." He sighed, before continuing: "Look, I happened to walking along the ridge when I saw you come down. I was close enough to help, so I did. I couldn't live with just doing nothing and letting you die, so I got you to my cabin before the Imps came knocking. I can't house you for more than a few days, without drawing suspicion, but that should be long enough for you both to heal up and arrange safe passage."

Dak was still unsure if he could trust the man, despite how sincere he appeared to be, so he tested the water again. "If the Empire is going to come looking for us though, perhaps we should be armed? Could you return my blaster, by any chance?"

Sloane shook his head in reply, but upon noticing Dak's deepening scowl, he added "Must have been lost in the crash, you weren't carrying anything when I found you.... but feel free to borrow one of those mining lasers. Limited charge, but should pack enough of a punch on the highest settings, if that'll make you feel better."

"And my droid? Where have you hidden R3?"

"Not hidden. He took off towards the condenser relay about half a klick that way." Slone said, pointing westward. "He's a loyal little machine. Refused to leave your side for hours, until my protocol droid convinced him to help with a recalibration. Your droid is as loyal as mine is... relentless."

In spite of his own suspicions, Dak laughed. While still unsure if they could fully trust Slone, he certainly made it difficult not to. Not that he and Wedge really had a choice anyway, there wasn't much of an alternative. After a little more convincing, they decided there was nothing to do but rest, wait until nightfall, then come up with a plan. Attempting anything else during daylight hours would be too easy to draw the attention of a passing patrol.

***

As the last remnants of the light faded away from outside the windows of the modest domicile, the three men had reconvened for a light meal. Slone's protocol droid was clearing away the remnants of supper. Designated A-1FN, or 'Al', its ancient casing was a mix of scavenged spare parts, with rust being the only unifying theme to its colour scheme. R3 followed along behind Al, warbling a series of unwanted suggestions, attempting to improve his fellow droid's efficiency, despite Al's continued protestations.

"So, what do you know about Andriss?" Sloane asked, while mopping up the few remaining crumbs from his plate.

"Not much, mining colony, moderate resources, fairly unimportant." Dak replied with a shrug.

"I think what my friend means to say is that..." started Wedge, before Solane shushed him.

"Spare me the platitudes, it's true." admitted Slone. "This colony was founded about 200 years ago, when some probes from the Mining Guild suggested it showed mild interest. Nobody's dug out anything other than mediocre quality ore since."

"If you'll excuse the question, why is it still here then? Surely there are more profitable planets you could have moved to?" Wedge asked, pleasantly.

"Stubbornness, plain and simple. We were born here, as were our fathers, and their fathers. We belong here, not that the powers that be ever saw it that way."

"What do you mean?" Dak asked.

"Andriss has never had a voice in the Senate. We're too small to be considered an official colony world. Same with the Guild. Our production isn't valuable enough to give us any say. No control over the regulations that bind us, or the rules which govern us." Sloane ranted, his face reddening with indignation. "But still we've clung on, dug in, and kept on working."

"Why not channel those frustrations against those who cause them? The Empire won't give you a say, why not help us?" urged Wedge. "The Alliance wants to help planets like yours."

Sloane scoffed, and clapped his hands suddenly. "It was the same under the Republic as the Empire, kid. Your Alliance won't be any different."

"But..." Wedge started, but was cut off.

"Don't even bother. You talk a good game, full of hope and wishes, but what about cold, hard, honest facts? If Andriss signed up to your little Rebellion, how would you ensure we continue to get contracts? What kind of tariffs will we face? If the Empire comes back looking for the resources you've denied them, will you defend us? I doubt you have the firepower to repel even a single Star Destroyer."

Wedge couldn't help but feel frustration of his own. "I'm not saying it'll be easy, but we want to help anyone subjugated by the Empire."

"Wedge." Dak said, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. He gave a quick look, urging caution against a pointless argument.

"Help? Don't make me laugh. Let me tell you what your help has done for us, shall I? You've been raiding transports coming to resupply the base, three or four times now. What do you think happens after each one? Sloane jeered. Wedge was silent, fearing he already knew the answer.

"They take food from us. Increase rationing, horde everything for themselves. If you liberate machinery, we're forced to dig regardless, with broken tools. Backbreaking labour, for little reward. Your attempts to disrupt their supply lines only affect us, not the Imperials."

"What would you have us do?" asked Wedge in response. "Stand by, not interfere, let the Empire expand until nowhere is safe, or free? If the gain any more control, there will be no resistance. No options, except subservience."

"Call this resisting? You say you want to help, but what you do only hurts the people like me. Citizens, trying to make a living. All the while the Empire continues without challenge. You haven't a hope of stopping them directly, so you raid their supply lines, winning little victories here and there, patting yourselves on the back while nothing changes. If you want to help, take out the Emperor, and leave us innocents out of it. All you're managing to do is bloody the Empire's nose, while innocent civilians pay the price." Sloane said, seething.

"Enough!" bellowed Dak, loud enough to silence the room. "Our actions have consequences, of course they do, but get some perspective man! Now, I'm sorry our efforts have inconvenienced you, truly I am, but look at the Empire. It bleeds worlds dry, enslaves entire populations, suppresses facts and instills fear into billions if not trillions. It is evil, and must be fought. Doing anything else is merely condoning their actions. Call us the enemy if you wish, if it helps you sleep at night. I'm stained by the blood of innocent lives, but don't pretend your hands are clean. Every crime of the Empire is one in which its citizens are complicit."

"But nobody can do it alone. We don't have the resources to face the Imps head on. Only by standing together, in defiance, can the Galaxy hope to free itself." continued Wedge.

"It's all too easy to sit on the sidelines, as long as you're able to ignore the harm the Empire causes. Surely taking a stand, resisting its evil, is worth some mild personal suffering? Compared against the plight of political prisoners, of the slave labour camps, the xenophobia, all rampant under Imperial rule?"

"I will not be berated, in my own home, by a pair of fanatical terrorists!" Sloane roared, his head now tinged apoplectically purple. The Rebel's words had cut him surprisingly deep, and even he was taken aback by the vitriol in his voice. "Get out now, leave me alone, and I might not alert the Stormtroopers!"

***

Star Wars: Old Wounds (7)

The crumpled remains of Wedge's X-Wing tumbled through the upper atmosphere of Andriss, blazing like a meteor. Thankfully, the damage had mostly affected the wings, engines and nosecone, leaving the cockpit relatively untouched. Dak stabbed at the communication panel of his fighter, in a futile attempt to reach his wingman. His droid warbled hurriedly in his ear.

"Thanks R3." he replied, breathing a small sigh of relief. R3 had managed to connect to the X-Wing's telemetry, and found that while Wedge was unconscious, his flight suit was reporting a steady pulse. Not that it would matter for long if they couldn't get the broken shell of a starfighter under control.

"Buddy, any chance you can remotely access his engines?" Dak asked while consulting the altimeter. R3 gave a negative chirp in response.

"How about repulsorlifts?" Another negative bleep. Dak cursed under his breath.

"Okay, think. Think." he said, urging himself.

"Ready the tractor beam, R3." It was a long shot, and Dak knew it. Tractor beams were almost utterly useless when fitted on small, one-man craft, useful only for deflecting slow-moving space debris too big to bounce off a deflector shield. Missiles moved too fast for the generators to get a lock-on, and also only works on objects significantly smaller than the operating craft. A tractor beam operates on a principle of equal and opposite reaction, thus, attempting to use it on anything larger than a droid would only pull a fighter towards its target. But it was the only thing Dak could think to try. With careful speed modulation, he intended to repeatedly grab and release Wedge, hoping to act as a brake by slowly leeching the falling fighter's velocity.

With a calming sigh, he activated the beam, to no effect. He had missed! Dak grunted, then tried again, also failing. Wedge was simply falling to rapidly to latch onto. R3 echoed a mournful melody.

"Less of that buddy." said Dak, determined. "Trust me."

With that, Dak increased his throttle and soared forwards until he was directly beneath the X-Wing. R3 began to screech in alarm, but Dak shushed the droid, saying, "Relax, I've got this." He almost believed himself. Almost. Then he began to fly upwards. With a sudden deafening thud and a wail of colliding metal, he made contact with Wedge's fighter. As long as he maintained his speed and trajectory, they we both fine, but one slip, one errant twitch could send either spiralling out of control. Dak tried not to think about that eventuality.

He risked a brief glance upwards, towards the jagged stump of the X-Wing's nose. Mentally, he followed the shape of the ship back, working out how the two ships were connected. Thanks to the particular shape of the Y-Wing, it's parallel engine cores acted like rails, holding the other ship by its wing structure, while the bulk of it nestled in the hollow area behind Dak's cockpit. The Y-Wing was a sturdy hunk of a ship, dating back to the early Clone Wars, where it had been the backbone of many successful campaigns. Here, it was serving the same purpose, in a far more literal sense. With the practised deftness of an ace pilot, Dak began to decrease his throttle, while banking the front of his craft slightly. He winced at the shuddering, shifting mound of mangled metal above him, as he slowly robbed it of its momentum. With each movement, the weight distribution upon the Y-Wing fluctuated, requiring Dak to constantly react just to maintain control. It was like trying to juggle while skiing down an icy peak, during an avalanche, an event which Dak had surprising experience of.

Slowly, both ships began to slow to a more measured pace. Below them, the craggy outcrops of Andriss still zoomed past, but we're no longer the chaotic blur they had appeared to be. Though Dak couldn't help but note that they were much closer to said ground, and he still had to work out a way to land safely.

"Not now!" growled Dak as several warning lights lit up simultaneously. R3 summarized the faults in a rapid flurry of beeps.

"Multiple structural weaknesses, aft fuel compressors offline, failing motivators..." he muttered, repeating the droid. As good as his ship was, it couldn't withstand much more punishment.

"We've got to set down, now!" he exclaimed. "Let's try the tractor beam again." Once again, Dak attempted to activate the tractor beam. Unsurprisingly, he managed to lock on this time.

"Now for the fun part." he said, as he drifted away from under Wedge. His entire ship began to shudder under the tractor's strain. Both ships struggled as they began to balance around a point midway between them, like two balls connected by a rope, each mass pulling the other. Sweat glistened on Dak's brow as he struggled to maintain event a semblance of control over the system. In a testament to his talent, he discovered a series of subtle inputs which helped to control both ships, but it was still a terrifyingly complex and chaotic system. More alarms and warning signalled the imminent failure of this own ship's critical system. He was losing control, and both ships began to circle each other, drifting in gyroscopic synchronicity like a pair of bolas. He checked his velocity one final time, with a short exhalation of breath. He wasn't going to be able to slow them down much more, and the ground was skimming past very close now. All he could do from here was trust in the Force and hope.

"Good luck Wedge." he said to his friend, as he braced for impact. "And may the Force be with....". His final words were cut off by the impact of both fighters with the Rocky terrain below.

Star Wars: Old Wounds (6)

Later that night, Dak wandered the narrow corridors of the Centurion alone, reminiscing on the long-lost glory days of his youth, remembering the ghosts of old friends. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden clattering coming from the boarding ramp. He turned and strode in the direction of the sound to find Lara attempting to sneak onboard, carrying armfuls of ration packs, her subtlety ruined by a few stray packets which had fallen to the floor. Bending to help her relieve her lost supplies, Dak asked,

"Felt like a midnight snack? I'd be careful if I were you. Wedge is in a bit of a court-marshaling mood today."

"No, I think it's just you he has an issue with. He wouldn't be the first, Gramps. Besides, if he wants to come after me for this, he'll have his hands full. Janson and Porkins are still in the mess, digging into the puddings." Lara replied. Dak chuckled in response.

"Well, then we can form an orderly queue to face his ire." he added, before trailing off. Lara was staring at him, a hard edge in her eyes. A look he'd received frequently of late. She spoke, her voice laced with concern.

"Enough jokes Dak. What's up? You not sleeping again?"

"It's nothing." Dak said, quickly. "I'm fine. Just missing the old girl." he added, gesturing at the ship.

"Don't try and flip a blast shield over my eyes. I know you too well. I know when you're not alright. You've been having those nightmares again. What is it this time?" Lara urged him to speak.

"Nothing. Just an old man's weariness. Don't fret about me." he sighed.

"Don't give me that. I've told you, you need to talk to someone. I understand not wanting to bring it up with the fly-guys, but I'm practically your daughter. You raised me for over ten years. You can talk to me." A silent pause hung in the air for a few moments. When it became clear that he wouldn't reply, Lara tried a different approach.

"So, what was it this time? That time on Rhyindar? The mines of Preet? The fortress of K'ddash?" Still, Dak remained silent. Lara's eyes widened with realisation.

"No, not Xantu... you haven't had those dreams in years."

"Well, having all the bones of your right arm ground to dust is just the kind of trauma that stays with you!" Dak snapped. He paused to compose himself, before continuing,

"That was the day I failed. The day I lost everyone I ever cared for, bar you, each one believing in me until their final breaths. The day the man I was died, leaving me in his place. A lingering shadow, a pale imitation."

"So stop trying to fill his shoes. Embrace who you are now, don't wallow in the past. The galaxy still needs you, it needs everyone who's willing and able to rise up, if the tyranny of the Empire is to be opposed. The Rebellion is full of broken people. Ex-criminals and scoundrels, slaves and the oppressed, and every single soldier here has lost someone they care about. We have to take that pain, hold it tight, let it be fuel for our struggle, rather than for our funeral pyres."

"I wish I shared your optimism, Smudges. But I lost that spark long ago." said Dak, with resignation.

"Really? Then why did you join the Rebellion? Was it just to keep an eye on me? Because I don't need your protection. If that's all that's keeping you here, go and leave the fighting to those who have the heart." Lara blazed with anger. She knew Dak better than he did at times. She knew he still cared, too much.  That was why he tried to close himself off, tried to erect walls to distance himself from suffering. She had to be harsh to force him to see himself.

"I..."  Dak started, before trailing off. He couldn't find the words he wanted to say. He half smiled to himself with pride in his surrogate daughter. She was stubborn enough to bring down the Empire single handed. He admired her determination, her endless, hopeful resolve. She never stopped believing in him, something he had always struggled with.

"You're right Lara." he said, finally. "We've got a battle to win in a few hours, so I'd better try and get at least a few minutes of shut eye." as he strode out of the ship, he called back, while waving two ration packs, "Oh, and I'm keeping this Bantha jerky. Consider it a bribe so I don't tell Wedge about your thievery."

***

Wedge had a bad feeling about the mission. If he was being honest, he always had a bad feeling, a flutter of nerves before every encounter he was involved in. But this felt different, somehow. Privately, he wondered if attacking the same convoy so soon was wise, surely the Imperials would be on the defensive, but who would expect such a blatantly audacious attack? Besides, he reasoned, it was necessary if they were to uncover the details of Project Indomitable. He kept his concerns to himself, no point in distracting his wingmates, instead he gazed out into the void of space, watching for the approach vector of the vessel.

With a silent pop, the Imperial cargo transport stretched into real-space. Moving with practiced elegance, the Rebel pilots began their assault, mirroring their previously successful tactics. Wes was the first to notice that something was amiss.

"Red Leader, do you see the TIEs it's carrying?"

"Affirmative Red Three. Are they painted gold?!"

"It's more of a dull bronze colour." Dak added, needlessly.

"Are we facing off against an agent of a particularly ostentatious Moff or something?" Wes asked, exasperatedly. "Is it too much to ask for the Empire to show some class?"

"Maybe it's a new trick to confuse and dazzle us?" said Dak. "Because if so, I have to admit it's having the desired effect."

"Whatever the reason, it can't be good. Form up and stay sharp. Those eyeballs are undocking, and we don't know what they're capable of." Wedge ordered.

Like Mynocks from a cave ceiling, the sheltered, shining TIEs dropped from the transport, preparing to engage the Rebels, though each moved slowly and deliberately, as if pushing against a massive resistance. They appeared as if they were attempting to force their way through a viscous liquid, rather than the empty vacuum of space.

"These things are ridiculously slow!" Dak laughed. "Whatever they're covered in, they've lost all maneuverability."

"Easy pickings then!" said Wes in agreement. "Going in!"

Wes' X-Wing banked towards the nearest fighter, easily locking onto its lazy listing trajectory. He squeezed his triggers, and his quad-cannons barked hot bolts of plasma at the gilded TIE. To no effect.

"Nothing! These eyeballs must have some high powered shields to tank that much firepower." Wes exclaimed, with frustration.

"I don't think so." Wedge replied, uncertainly. "Look at the wing's surface." The exterior of the TIE seemed to fizz as electrical energy sparked across it, slowly dissipating. Several isolated spots where Wes' attacks struck glowed a molten red, but still the surface was unbroken. "I think the hull absorbed your blasts somehow. You hit it, but nothing happened. How is that even possible?"

"No..." Dak muttered to himself, an old memory surfacing from his mind. "It can't be..."

Before Red Squadron could regroup, the bizarre, armoured TIEs began their counterattack. Each fighter spat harsh green energy at the Rebels, monstrously powerful blasts that were more akin to the turbolaser batteries of a capital ship than a one-man craft. For a while, both sides were locked into a stalemate. The nimble X-Wings able to weave between and evade the Imperial fire, but unable to inflict any damage of their own on the lumbering TIEs. As the battle lingered, weariness began to burrow into the resolve of the Rebels, until...

"I'm hit!" Wes cried out. As he tried to swerve left from the TIE on his rear, he drifted into the stray fire of a second fighter. Smoke and sparks trailed from two of his engines, and one of his S-Foil wings had sheared off entirely. "Port engines are fried, but I can hold it." he growled through gritted teeth.

"No you can't. Get out of here, while you still can!" Wedge demanded, narrowly avoiding more enemy fire.

"I've got this!" Wes pleaded.

"I said leave. That's an order!" Wedge yelled. "You're no good to us dead. And someone has to get word back to the base about these new fighters."

Reluctantly, Wes peeled off from the group and made a break for open space, and the safety of Lightspeed. One of the TIE Fighters followed, determined not to lose its prey, but even in his damaged state, Wes could outmanoeuvre a single ship. Instead, as he fled, all he could do was listen helplessly to his friends continuing a futile struggle.

"This is hopeless!" Dak said, finding a brief moment of calm before having to dodge fresh fire.

"Agreed." Wedge concurred. "We need more firepower. Prepare to..."

Wedge's voice cut off abruptly, as his X-Wing took a glancing blow from a TIE. The nose of the craft was blown clean off, and his engines flared with a quickly smothered conflagration. The remaining husk of his fighter drifted in the void, just inside the outer edges of Andriss' atmosphere, just within its gravity well. Slowly, the burning cockpit fell towards the planet below, its edges beginning to glow as it streaked through the atmosphere.

"Wedge!" Wes cried, in desperation.

"I've got a plan." Dak replied, gunning his Y-Wing towards the falling wreckage. "It's not much of a plan, but it's something. Wes, you have to tell High Command about these new fighters. In case we don't make it out..."

"Don't. Whatever it is, don't say it. The three of us can discuss it over an Alderaanian Ale when  it's over. Wes out."

Star Wars: Old Wounds (5)

In the hanger bay, surrounded by a motley assortment of Rebel fighters, Dak was tinkering with a a fried plasma oscillator, deep in the bowels of his craft. He lay on a mechanic's trolley, which hovered several inches above the ground, while he reached up towards one of the Y-Wing's service hatches. He still wore his orange flightsuit, though the helmet had long since been discarded, revealing a tousled mass of unevenly cut hair, distinctly greyed. It was late and he was alone in the hanger, with only the scurrying servomotors of the mouse droids for company. That and his lingering, unwanted thoughts. Mechanical, menial tasks helped him clear his mind, to distract him from himself, but it wasn't always successful. Sometimes he couldn't drown out his endlessly looping ruminations, no matter what. But even on such nights, keeping himself occupied was still preferable to lying awake in his bunk, or the fitful nightmares of his fractured sleep.

His left arm began to tremble, at first softly, almost imperceptibly, gradually increasing in severity. An old war wound, the kind that can never truly be healed, the kind of injury which marks more than just the physical self. It always flared up during periods of stress, Dak had learned to cope with it, adapt to it and mask the worst of his symptoms, though he was always left with the pain. He willed his appendage to behave, even as waves of resignation ate away at his resolve. As if to spite him, his arm spasmed, fingers stretching open involuntarily. The sound of his hydrospanner colliding with the concrete floor rang through the silent hanger. As the echo faded, Dak thought he could just make out the sound of faint footsteps. With a groan of effort, he pushed himself upright, his old bones creaking slightly under the strain.

"You're not getting any younger." Dak thought to himself. "You can't keep this up forever." He stopped to retrieve his dropped tool, before facing in the direction of the footsteps just in time to see Wedge approaching. The young pilot was dressed in casual clothing, consisting of a beige leather jacket with Rebel insignias embroidered on the shoulders and navy trousers featuring a vertical red marking, a Corellian Bloodstripe. Dak idly spun his hydrospanner through his fingers, seeming casually, to hide his lingering tremor.

"Dak, thought I'd find you here." Wedge announced, his voice clipped and authoritative. "We need to talk."

"Save your breath." replied Dak. He knew why Wedge had sought him out, and was in no mood to be disciplined. "Unless you're here to ground me, can we just assume you've said your piece and move on?"

"A perfect example of your troublesome attitude." Wedge sighed. "Look Dak, I hate to do this, but you're giving me little choice."

"You know as well as I do that I'm one of the best pilots you've got, if not the best. Besides, you can't even fill an entire squadron, you need all the pilots you can get. Including me."

"We also need trust, and discipline. Every mission puts our lives on the line. Each of us needs to be able to rely on the others. Loose cannons and wild cards only create chaos and confusion."

"And a synergized squadron is greater than the sum of its fighters. Any more saccharine platitudes?" Dak bit back, harsher than he intended. Wedge turned away, rubbing his forehead with frustrated contemplation. He spun back towards Dak, pointing a finger at the other pilot.

"Why are you even here, Dak?"

"Excuse me?"

"In the Rebellion. Why do you fight?"

"I told you when I signed up. There's a death mark on my head, I crossed the wrong Hutt when I 'lost' a shipment. My options were either spend the rest of my days fleeing from bounty hunters, or joining the Rebellion and letting the Empire take me out instead. Jabba found it most amusing, this way it saves him on paying out when I'm blown from the skies."

"Is that really your only reason? You joined the Rebellion out of convenience?" Wedge exclaimed, incredulously.

"More or less."

"The rest of us, we're risking everything we hold dear to bring down the Empire, its corrupt systems and its cruelty and malice. We fight to liberate the Galaxy from its terror." Wedge was shouting now. "But you, you treat this struggle like it's just a game, just some hobby to breathe some excitement into your life. If that's the case, you've better off joining a swoop racing circuit on some backwater Outer-Rim world and clearing off. Leave the fighting to those who actually care."

A stony silence sat between the two pilots for a few moments. Dak couldn't fail to see the passion in Wedge's eyes, and felt a pang of remorse deep within himself. He'd promised himself years ago, on the day that all his hopes had died, that  he wouldn't care anymore. He'd spent so long keeping himself at arm's length from all those around him, afraid of attachment, of hope, and of the inevitable loss that such bonds must bring. Despite himself, he couldn't help but see a spark of his younger self reflected in Wedge, a man who wanted to fix the Galaxy, a man who would let nothing get in his way. With a sigh, he finally spoke, repressed words tumbling forward like water held behind a dam.

"Okay then, you want to know the full story? I was your age, or a bit older, in the last years of the Republic. It was a fine time to be a smuggler then, so many Coruscanti elite who wanted to import exotic foods and exquisite goods from across the Galaxy, but were less keen on paying taxes and tariffs. The kind of people who have an excess of credits, who you don't feel bad for swindling. Then came the Clone Wars, the fall of democracy, a rise in military expansion, and the beginnings of the Empire. I lost a lot of friends and family in those early days, as did we all. But I was there, powerless, as the Dark Side flourished, as evil was invited to take control. All I could do was watch as decency was strangled and hope withered. So I kept my head down, only looking out for myself, and for Lara. Spent years trying to survive as a smuggler. Suddenly the elites were able to simply take what they desired, so that left me with few options. I refused to traffic slaves or spices, so that ruled out most of the pirates and cartels. The only other jobs available were smaller communities, desperate for food, or medicine. Vital supplies which the Empire hoards for itself. But even only charging for cost felt like fleecing such folk. I couldn't keep going, ignoring the problem, I had to do something."

"So, that's why you really joined. You want to make a difference after all."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Wedge. I'm not a naive romantic like you. I don't burn with the fire of resistance. In fact, we're unlikely to make even a dent in the Empire's fierce chokehold of the Galaxy. But at least we're doing something."

"I admire your optimism." Wedge said with a smirk. "Honestly though, thanks for sharing. I had a feeling you did care, no matter how deeply you try to bury it. You're a decent pilot, but please try and follow orders, or I will have to drop you."

"No promises." Dak added, with snark. "And what do you mean 'decent'? I'll have you know I'm..."

With a screeching whine, R3 came trundling into the hanger with some urgency, beeping and whistling hurriedly.

"Slow down, buddy." Dak said, soothingly. "What's gotten into you?"

"He was helping me go through the logs I ripped from the transport we boarded." Lara explained, breathing heavily as she followed the droid into the hanger. "He's found references tosomething called Project Indomitable."

"Some sort of Imperial scheme? Were there any other details?" Wedge asked, his jaw stiffened with concern.

"Only a partial copy of some encrypted files. We weren't expecting anything like this so I only pulled a basic transcript from the transport."

"Wonder if it's connected to the mining equipment we liberated?" Wedge wondered aloud.

"When's the next shipment scheduled for Andriss?" Dak queried. "If we can take the next transport, maybe we can access a completed file from the ship's database."

"In about 16 hours, give or take." Lara replied, consulting her datapad.

"Then we'd all best go get some rest. We're scrambling the fighters in the morning." Wedge announced. "Dismissed."

***

The Imperial Star Destroyer Escutcheon drifted through the endless dark void of space, it's motion presided over by Admiral Aegis Malefic. He was a tall, imposing figure, his naval uniform impeccably creased, his rank insignia perfectly polished. His face was aquiline, and set in a permanent scowl, though he would, very occasionally, allow a toothless smile to flash across it. His high, sharp cheekbones were a rival for even Grand Off Tarkin himself. His short dark hair was perfectly groomed, as was his precisely sculpted curling moustache. Given his stature, it constantly appeared as if he was looking down upon those around him, and moat of the time, he was. At this moment, the target of his ire was a grovelling Captain Atticus Wurmly.

"So you see, it wasn't my fault! The Rebels, they were sneaky, they surprised us. Caught us with our guard down. But I assure you, if I ever encounter them again, I'll be ready!"

"Indeed." Aegis said laconically. He was a man of few words, as he prized his time very highly. "See to it that you do. You shall be witness to the first practical demonstration of Project Indomitable."

"Oh, well, this is such an... an honour! Yes, I shall not let you down again." Atticus blathered.

"See to it that you do not. Or I shall consider your usefulness expired." Aegis said, his clipped tone implying a certain finality to his words.

Star Wars: Old Wounds (4)

With the TIE fighter formation in tatters, Wedge and Wes made short work of the stragglers. On the bridge of the transport, the captain seethed with barely contained fury. His complexion had transitioned through various shades of red, until reaching its current sickly purple hue. Thick, bulging veins pulsed across his damp brow while his left eye twitched incessantly, like some malfunctioning droid with a faulty processor. His crew had failed him, he reasoned inwardly. Ineptitude and incompetence amongst his feeble pilots, a pathetic bridge crew, he felt surrounded by the dregs of the Imperial war machine. How could he be expected to fight back against rebel scum and saboteurs in these conditions? While the assault continued, he turned his attention towards blame, beginning to piece together the report he would send to the admiral, and how best to absolve himself of recrimination.

Meanwhile, Dak's mission was not yet completed. With the freighter now unguarded, he could concentrate on disabling its shields. He readied his craft's ion bombs as he passed over the transport, before dropping his payload. Eight glowing balls of blue energy spewed forth from the underbelly of his Y-Wing, and arced towards the vessel below. The first pair of orbs collided with the forcefield projected by the freighter's shield generators. Upon impact, the bombs spread a large electrical discharge across the shield, causing it to flare brightly before flickering and fading momentarily. A moment just long enough for the remaining bombs to slip through and impact the hull. The freighter's surface sparked as ionized tendrils of electricity danced across it. The charge spread throughout the vessel, conducted through its metal frame. Throughout the ship, power conduits, energy couplers and electrical fuses blew out as the ship's systems were overloaded. Even the main reactor shut down, stranding the transport and rendering it as immobile and defenceless as a junked husk.

Aboard the bridge, the lighting dimmed before switching to the dull, red glow of the emergency illumination. The backup generators were used in such scenarios to provide essential systems such as lighting and life support. The captain scowled in the half light, disturbed by the scarlet tint surrounding him. He hated the colour, it always seemed to him as if the bridge was suddenly coated in blood, and he hated blood. He grew faint even when he cut himself shaving, for Sith's sake. 

"How long until full power is restored?" he asked his first officer, his voice quavering oddly with a mix of anger and anxiety.

"Ten minutes until the reactor is re-primed sir. Full operational capabilities will take longer, until the service crew patch the fried systems. It's over sir. The Rebels have us dead in space."

The captain thought of retorting, admonishing his officer for admitting defeat, until he caught himself. Such patriotic zeal was unlike him, all the excitement of the battle must have gone to his head. Instead, he resignedly said "Open a comms channel. We have no choice but to surrender."

Wedge smiled to himself as his comms board lit up, signalling an incoming transmission on an open frequency. 

"Okay, R5. Patch it through."

"Rebel pirates, this is Captain Atticus Wurmley of the Gozanti-Class Cruiser Exigious. Please state your intentions."

"Ah, Captain. What a pleasure it is to hear from you." fawned Wedge, exaggeratedly. "As you are painfully aware, we have disabled your vessel and have you at our mercy."

"Yes, but to what end, exactly? If you plan on destroying us, then I hope you don't expect me to beg."

"We have no desire to attack you further, provided you follow our instructions."

"Oh, and what is it that you demand of us?"

"Your entire cargo."

"And how exactly do three snubfighters  plan on hauling such a cargo?"

"We don't. That's her job."

There was a sudden shimmer of movement at the edge of the system, as a Corellian freighter entered realspace. A momentary blur appeared and contracted into a recognizable shape, as the craft emerged from lightspeed. It was a YT-1000 model, nearly a century old and practically a museum piece, the precursor to the more popular (if still outdated) YT-1300, of which the Millennium Falcon was the most infamous. The YT-1000 bore a lot of similarities with its successor, though in a more primordial implementation. Like the YT-1300, it was shaped like a saucer with two forward facing angled protrusions jutting outwards. The YT-1000 however, had much stubbier cargo mandibles. Its cockpit was nestled between these mandibles, along the centerline of the ship, unlike the side mounted cockpit of later models. Overall, this gave the craft the look of a paddling turtle when viewed from above. At the helm sat Rebel mechanic Lara Ashanto, and her co-pilot, a Sullustian male called Teebo-Neit. Lara was wearing a set of navy overalls, whose upper half was tied around her waist, allowing her greater movement of her upper body, along with a shirt which must have once been white, now stained by years of grease and carbon dust. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbow, revealing equally filthy arms scored with various nicks and scrapes from her duties. Over her shirt she wore a black waistcoat, its multitude of pockets and pouches bulging with an assortment of tools and instruments. Her hair was short, a brunette mop and unevenly cut.

"Right Red Leader, we can handle the transition from here." she announced to Wedge, her voice lightly accented. "Imperial transport, prepare to be boarded."

***

Some time later, the Rebel raiding party had returned to their moon base in the Grebb System. Tucked away in a nondescript cave nestled in the desolate, umber landscape of crumbling crystalline crags, the base was about as remote as feasibly possible. It was only a staging post, converted from an old smuggler's hideout, and used to coordinate raids and take stock of the bounties captured before shipping them to more significant Rebel locations. In the hanger bay, Wes and Dak leaned against a stack of crates observing Wedge and a loader droid remove the last of the liberated supplies from Lara's craft. Lara meanwhile was tapping on a datapad, generating a log of the supplies.

"So that's 2,500 ration packs, enough to keep a few Corvette crews flying for over a month at least." she said aloud, while continuing to type. "Plenty of bacta and other medical sundries..."

"And what's in this last one?" grunted Wedge, struggling to lift the final crate. "It's heavier than a Bantha!"

Wes and Dak struggled to contain their giggling as Wedge continued to strain against the crate, while the droid admonished him for his inefficient lifting techniques.

"Fine. You two have had enough fun at my expense." Wedge announced, with a smirk. Wes' face fell suddenly. He knew that look, and from experience, it never ended well for him. "Move this crate. That's an order."

"Is that all?" Dak asked, either oblivious to, or uncaring of, Wedge's tone.

"Yeah. That's all. The loader droid and I have both earned a break though, so don't count on his help." The two pilots groaned as Wedge stepped over to Lara.

"Good move. Those two were starting to grate on me." she said, with a grin.

"They're good guys, really. When they're quiet. So, what's in the mystery container, anyway?"

"Just mining equipment, according to the ship logs. Tool heads, saw blades, that sort of thing."

"Worth anything on the black market?"

"Ordinarily no, there's no big demand for industrial tools. But this is some high grade kit, doonium tipped. Just selling the metal will give us enough to cover months worth of fuel."

Wedge pondered for a moment, his brow furrowed quizzically. "Why would Andriss need such specialized gear?"

"Who knows? Maybe they found a new vein of a more difficult to mine mineral, or the local Moff just had to use his quarterly budget?"

"Or it's not actually doonium. Could be some Imperial bureaucrat hiding a credit swindle with a false manifest." Dak interjected as he rejoined the conversation, followed closely by a slightly panting Wes.

"Spoken... like a true.... scoundrel..." Wes wheezed.

"Takes a crook to spot one." Dak admitted, before turning towards Lara. "By the way Smudges, I noticed the door hydraulics could do with replacing. There's some shoddy patchwork on display. You better not be running my ship into ruin."

Lara jabbed a finger into his chest, causing him to recoil with surprise.

"Firstly, that's your darn patchwork. Secondly, the Centurion is mine now, shock-jock. You gave it to me, remember?"

Wes clapped his hands with smug glee, having caught his breath.

"Gramps, you gave her your ship? I mean, as grand romantic gestures go, it's not bad, but don't you think Smudges here is a little young for you?" Wes had faced down countless TIE fighters, and gazed at so many barrages of deadly laser fire, yet not of it felt quite so fatal or frightening as the look Lara was giving him in that moment.

"It wasn't a romantic gesture, fly-guy. If anything, Dak is like a father to me. I inherited the Centurion when he took to a Y-Wing. But don't go getting any ideas Wes, your time would be better spent trying to chat up my loader droid." With Wes suitably admonished, she made her exit, striding gracefully toward her quarters. As she passed Wes by, she whispered one final declaration.

"And if you ever call me Smudges again, I will personally feed your organs to a Sarlacc." with that, she gave him a wink and continued on her way.

Star Wars: Old Wounds (3)

"Bloody Rebels..." muttered the Imperial captain, as he adjusted his cloth cap, attempting to mop his damp brow with limited subtlety. "Draw our fighters in close. Form a protective screen around us." he declared, shouting to his nearest officer, who complied with a nervous squeak. Meanwhile, the captain fought to repress his anxiety: there had been no response from either the mining base, nor the Admiral's flagship. He had the terrible feeling he'd been abandoned, left to die having outlived what little usefulness he had once offered. Not today, he vowed. Today  he would emerge victorious. Perhaps it was time he earned that promotion after all.

"It's no use!" Wes exclaimed as he broke off from his latest attack. "The eyeballs are too densely packed. Can't get a lock on one without becoming a target for two more."

"So, you admit defeat, youngblood?" scoffed Dak, as he too spun off in a barrel roll to avoid enemy fire.

"I don't see you doing any better." Wes replied, struggling to dodge a flurry of green energy bolts.

"I'm in the bomber, not the dogfighter. What's your excuse?" said Dak, taking aim at the nearest TIE, though his shots missed his target by a wide margin.

"Enough!" declared Wedge, angrily. This was no time for bickering. Their window of opportunity was ever decreasing, and they needed to break this deadlock now. He considered their options, various coordinated formations that could mitigate the TIEs' collective advantage. Even if he could rely on his wingmen to pull together, which seemed unlikely, they would still lose out on numbers. But, he thought, there was one option that could work...

"I have a idea, but you're not going to like it Dak." stated Wedge, bristling in anticipation of the reply.

"Oh, this'll be good." Dak replied, cautiously.

"I want you to fly directly into the centre of their fighter group."

"And what might you two be up to while I'm flying into certain doom? Or is just an excuse to get rid of a troublemaker?"

"Wes and I will approach from the sides. As you draw near the fighter group, loose a couple of proton torpedoes into their centre. Either they hold position and get fried, or they bolt, allowing us to mop up while you get a crack at the freighter."

"Just like hunting swamp duck on Vindal." said Dak as he considered Wedge's proposal. He'd spent a few days on Vindal some years ago, while on a poorly judged job for one of the Hutt cartels, and had happened to witness a group of hunters in action. They ventured in groups of about two dozen, lead by a point-man. When they found a suitable location, the point-man would fire a warning shot, the sound of which would startle the resting flock and cause them to scatter, allowing the remaining hunters to pick off as many as they could in the confusion. Dak didn't like to dwell on that particular adventure however, as it had ended with him being chased by one such hunting party across half a continent.

"Fine." he said, after a few moments of contemplative silence. "Suicide missions are kind of my specialty."

"Just try not to get blown up on your approach." Wes added, displaying a brief flash of genuine concern before once again slipping behind his mask of flippancy. "It'd be far too boring without someone to constantly harass my abilities."

"Wes, even if I die, I'll make it my solemn duty to haunt you for the rest of your days. Someone has to keep your ego in check." Dak laughed, before saying, "Right, making my attack run now. Better get in position and prepare for fireworks boys."

From behind his cockpit, Dak's astromech droid, R3-T3, warbled an anxious beep.

"Don't worry, little guy." he said, reassuringly, "We've  been in worse situations."

R3 issued a deep, terse, tone of derision.

"Well that's not fair!" protested Dak, while he diverted all shield power to the forward generators. "Besides, I replaced your dome with a shiny new green one, didn't I?"

The droid replied with a cacophony of digitized profanity.

"I said I was sorry, alright? Look, when we get back to the base I'll book you in for an oil bath. How about that?"

R3 blooped quizzically.

"Yes, IF, we get back to base." Dak sighed, while R3 chirped with mirth. "Divert all excess power to the engines, and ready the torpedo launchers." he commanded, as he began his attack. The TIEs quickly spotted his lone approach, and turned to face this new assault. He'd barely begun before hearing several frantic beeping alarms blaring simultaneously: multiple missile locks on his Y-Wing.

Dak immediately instigated evasive maneuvers as several silvery projectiles streamed forth from the gathered TIEs. He had to maintain his trajectory if this plan was to succeed, which hampered his defensive options. Behind him, his droid screamed in alarm.

"Relax, buddy. I've got this." he said reassuringly, his hands dancing across the controls like a musical maestro mid-concerto. This was his element, one of the few places he could find respite from the dark dreams and remorseful regrets which preyed upon his weary mind. A lifetime of melancholic memories dulled only when he found himself in the heat of battle or at the bottom of a bottle. In such moments, he operated on instinct and adrenaline, where moments of time slowed and stretched before him. The missiles streaming toward him seemed to crawl forward, as easy to dodge and avoid as static objects. Dak let out an enthused cheer while closing in on the TIE group, until R3 chirped another warning.

"Yeah, that was too easy, even for me." he quipped, locking his jaw with mild frustration. On the sensor screen, he watched as the missiles began to turn and re-aim toward his Y-Wing.

"Homing missiles, I see it R3. Deploying countermeasures, you just make sure my torpedoes are ready."

Hundreds of shining metallic squares blossomed from the Y-Wings twin engine cores, forming a protective cloud of chaff in its wake. The reflective debris acted to break the missiles homing lock and provide an alternative target. Dak watched  his instrumentation light up as missile after missile detonated in the silvery cloud behind him. All but two of the rapidly approaching projectiles were destroyed, but two was still two too many. Dak's mind raced, trying to figure his next move, until his R3-unit uttered a determined series of squeals. On the craft's central body, directly behind the astromech droid slot, a creaky turbolaser cannon jerked into life. A relic of the Y-Wing's history as a two pilot craft, this cannon would typically be operated by the gunner, allowing 360 degree motion at the cost of reduced firepower. While Dak had long since modded out the second seated position, the cannon itself remained in place, operable by an astromech navigator, an opportunity R3 always relished.

"No pressure R3, but those missiles are gaining on us. Feel free to fire, anytime." Dak said with trepidation, as he tried to coax more speed from his screaming engines. The droid replied with a low toot that could have been considered condescending, before firing the turbolaser. His first shots struck true, destroying the leading missile in a burst of purple fire, though the second (and last missile) soon took it's place. The droid's second shot went wide, leaving the remaining missile unscathed.

"R3, you're a better shot than that. I should know, I programmed your combat modules.", chided Dak. The droid's response was enough to make Dak wince. "Unfortunately, I also removed your profanity filters. That hurt, by the way."

With a final determined burst of searing red laser fire, the last trailing missile vanished from the Y-Wing's tail. R3 beeped with relief and no small amount of smugness, which Dak failed to listen to as he was focused on the TIEs ahead.

"Nearing range. Switching to torpedoes now." he declared, as he sped into targeting range. "Here goes nothing, Wedge. Hope your plan works." With a strong, determined click of his joystick trigger, two glowing spheres lept from the nose of his fighter and arced towards the group of TIEs. The two fighters nearest the launched torpedoes immediately fled outwards, away from their position guarding the transport. The remaining three jittered in place, unsure whether to hold the line or evade the attack. One unfortunate pilot had a momentary, if fatal, lapse in judgement and belatedly tried to bank away from the projectile. In his confusion, he cut into the path of one of his remaining allies. In the ensuing collision, one craft lost its hexagonal wing, sheared off at the strut while the cockpit spun off to crash in The Narrow. The other mostly held together, though the cockpit window shattered, venting its pilot into the cold vacuum of space.

"Like a gundark in a womp rat nest!" Wes yelled, surveying the chaos unfolding before him.

"Gotta hand it to you Wedge, it worked." Dak admitted, begrudgingly.

"Don't celebrate yet. You still need to disable the freighter. Wes and I can handle the few remaining eyeballs."

Star Wars: Old Wounds (2)

The Imperial freighter most closely resembled a flying brick, with short, stubby wings at the rear of the craft,  tapering off towards the bridge located at its nose, giving it a thin, triangular profile from above. Each wing housed an embedded engine core, whose apertures were approximately the same diameter as the wingspan of an X-Wing. Extending vertically below each wing were three small tubes, each connecting to a docked TIE fighter, giving them the appearance of chicks protected by a mother bird. The entire design of the transport was purely functional. The engines seemed tacked on almost as an afterthought, while the fighters were protected from stellar winds and cosmic dust collisions only by the forcefield of their parent craft. Such vessels were not designed for military combat; as such they relied on a minimal fighter screen, a moderate shield generator and a thick hull to repel pirates and other attackers. It was a product of minimised costs and maximised profits, reflecting the economic heart of Imperial control. This vehicle was strictly utilitarian, far removed from the intimidating war machines built to instill fear in the denizens of the Galaxy and soothe the overcompensating egos of Imperial Moffs.

Wedge watched with mounting anxiety as the freighter drifted ever closer to his hidden vantage point. He had to wait for the optimal moment to launch the assault: too soon and the transport could turn tail, yet too late and the Imperial base below would have time to scramble reinforcements. With each passing moment, the chances of a rebel fighter being detected by passive scanners or even visually grew larger. As a Corellian, Wedge never much cared to hear the odds of a scenario, yet he could not escape the rising tension. He wiped a bead of sweat from his determined brow as the vessel drew in line with his position. It was now or never.
"Red Group, time to engage." he said, giving the signal to his two wingmen. He flicked several switches in quick succession; firing up the main power circuit, priming engines, disengaging maglocks, cycling shields. His X-Wing drifted lazily from the asteroid it had been perched on, until his engines burst into life. With a hard left pull of his flight stick, he spun himself around to face the incoming freighter.

"Lock S-foils in attack position." he ordered, toggling his own wings into their split, combat ready, form which gave an X-Wing its signature silhouette.

"I don't have S-foils. Please advise." Dak added, in a tone which put the smug into smuggler.

"Not the time, Gramps." Wes bit back, before asking, "What's our first target, Wedge?"

"First pass, we go for the docked TIEs, maybe get the Imps with their trousers unbelted." Wedge declared, as he led the attack run. Wes and Wedge were both approaching the vessel from the same side of The Narrow, with Wes trailing slightly, while Dak's Y-Wing was on the far side of the transport.

The freighter's bridge was a frenzied flurry of frantic energy. Multiple voices called out, speaking over each other, relaying status updates from various subsystems.

"Captain, enemy starships detected."
"Proximity alerts port and starboard, sir."
"Sensors indicate three snubfighters."

The captain of the vessel stood firmly at the fore of the bridge, surveying the vista beyond the transparisteel window. He shifted uncomfortably, trying vainly to redistribute his corpulent bulk within the confines of his overly constricting uniform. His bushy moustache twitched involuntarily, as he wondered whether the attackers were pirates or rebels. Not that it would matter, he supposed. Either way, the end result would be the same.

"What are you bloody waiting for, an invitation?!" he barked to his subordinates,  "Raise the shields, launch all TIEs. And somebody contact the admiral!" He continued to stare outwards at the planet Andriss, his sharp tone and steely gaze in sharp contrast to the fear growing in his core. This wasn't the life he wished to live. He wasn't built for combat, it's why he'd refused himself promotions, sabotaged his own results, maintaining a carefully curated level of mediocrity to ensure he never rose above his current rank. Captaining a transport afforded him all the benefits of authority, without the tedious politics of the Imperial Court, or the responsibility or risk of commanding a militarized vessel. He vowed that these rebels, or pirates, or whatevers, would pay dearly for ruining an otherwise agreeable morning.

"Making my attack run." Dak said, lining his crosshairs against the middle of the three docked TIEs on his side of the freighter. With a short squeeze of the trigger, he unleashed a burst of scarlet plasma bolts at the TIE, and waited for the satisfying cloud of a vaporised enemy.

"Karabast!" he exclaimed, angrily, as he pulled away from the transport. "Their shields are already up. I can't penetrate it."

"I've heard that before. Leave it to the young and virile." Wes quipped.

"Charming." replied Wedge. "OK, Wes, front TIE, on my mark. Synchronous fire." Given their guerilla tactics and limited resources, Rebel strategists had to be particularly inventive with methods of waging war against a vastly superior foe. Wedge  was more than just a skilled pilot, he had an instinctive tactical grasp and had a created a number of unique maneuvers, including a method of piercing the shield of a capital ship. Multiple fighters could synch their targeting computers, allowing them to focus all their firepower on a single point. Both X-Wings fired simultaneously, each laser striking the shield at the same exact location. Under such sustained fire, the shield flickered, momentarily. Just enough to allow a couple of blasts past the defences. Wes hollered with delight as the first TIE exploded in a shower of smoke and shrapnel.

"Nice move boys, but don't get cocky." Dak said, swinging his Y-Wing around for a second run. "You've just woken the hive." The remaining TIEs began to detach, entering the fray.

"We won't be able to focus on disabling  the freighter with eyeballs on our tail." Wes warned, as he looped away from the transport.

"Then choose your targets, fire at will. We have to clear this space before the freighter gets away." Wedge ordered, as he twisted his X-Wing towards the nearest enemy fighter.  This was the moment he lived for. All three of them did. The exhilarating thrill of combat, flying by instinct alone, free from life's distractions, pinning your life on the strength of your skill. Nothing gives a rush quite like a dogfight, which explains why the life expectancy of a pilot is one of the lowest in the entire Alliance.

Dak watched as a TIE came into his view, banking to the right across his cockpit canopy. He toggled his throttle, matching its speed, and fired in its direction. His plasma shots overshot by a large margin. The TIE turned suddenly, angling upwards to escape. The pilot was panicked, Dak thought, exactly as he'd planned. He cut his throttle and pulled his flight stick forward, killing his forward momentum and allowing him to maneuver tightly. He primed his trigger as he drifted on his axis, waiting to line up with the evasive TIE. Dak chose his moment, and loosed a single shot which tore through the hull of the unshielded TIE, shredding the cockpit as its wings spun off in opposing directions, propelled by the rapidly expanding cloud of gas and fire blooming from the destroyed cradt.

"One down, four to go!" laughed Dak, as he accelerated through the vaporised remains of his target. Never one to leave a pithy comment unsaid, Wes responded, "Good job with the straggler, fancy giving us a hand with the rest?"

"If you ask nicely, I'll consider it." Dak said, with a wry smile blossoming on his bearded face.

"So glad you two are getting along, but need I remind you that time's running short?" Wedge sighed, feeling like a substitute instructor trying to manage an unruly classroom.

Star Wars: Old Wounds (1)

Rebel pilot Wedge Antilles scanned the darkened cockpit of his T-65 X-Wing fighter, checking that its systems were operational for the third time. Even in the best maintained starships, a single overlooked error or minor mechanical fault could spell death, and the Alliance operated well below ideal conditions. The majority of their fleet was comprised of craft discarded by the rest of the galaxy as junk, held together with salvaged spares and wishful thinking. This wasn't the Imperial Academy, where pilots could jump into any homogenised TIE fighter and have it perform identically to the simulators. Rebel fighters were practically unique, each one handling subtly differently, each with its own particular quirks and weaknesses. The best pilots knew as much about their ships as the mechanics and droids who repaired them. And Wedge wasn't just one of the best. Through countless hours, he'd learned to become one with his X-Wing. He knew how and when to brace during rapid maneuvers, to account for the delay in its inertial dampers. He had learned to compensate for the slightly off centre firing pattern of its quad-cannons.

Finding that everything was exactly as he'd found it not five minutes prior, Wedge sighed as he glanced at the planet Andriss, suspended in the stellar backdrop above him. A minor mining world, one of thousands of similar backwater colonies scattered across the Outer Rim, though even among such planets, Andriss was unremarkable. Its mineral deposits were primarily comprised of common ores of middling quality, trapped in tough, unyielding rock. The planet was surrounded by a dense asteroid field, a natural barrier with a small gap through which the system's meager transport was funneled, known locally as "The Narrow". Wedge's fighter clung to the underside of one of the asteroids at the edge of The Narrow, like a Nuba bird awaiting its prey, along with a second X-Wing and an older Y-Wing bomber. The ships were in low-power mode, to minimize their profile from enemy sensors.

"Stand by, Red Group." Wedge announced into his local comlink to his wingmen. "Report in." Instantly, the bold voice of Wes Janson chimed back.

"Sir, yes sir! This is Red Six, standing by! Sir! Ready and willing to lay down my life for the cause, sir!"

"Cut the chatter, Red Six. We're on assignment." Wedge replied, exacerbated.

"Wedge, there's only three of us on this mission, loosen up. Besides, we've been waiting for over an hour for the Imps to show up. I've got to let off steam somehow." Retorted Wes.

"Which means the target cargo freighter is due any moment. Save your energy for the fight."

"Actually, I'm with Wes on this one." came a third, older voice. "We're Rebels who can't even keep an entire squadron flying simultaneously. We hardly deserve the formalities of an actual unit."

"Red Two, Gramps is agreeing with me and I don't like it. Permission to vaporize him?" Wes asked, feigning panic.

"Denied." Wedge replied, tersely.

"Permission to vent myself into the void then?"

"Also denied. Can you both just try and get along, at least until this mission is complete?"

"Wes started it." added the third voice, gruffly. "It's not my fault he's a hot headed jockey who doesn't know how to keep quiet for more than a few seconds." Wedge closed his eyes and counted to five, while wishing he was dealing with literal children instead. Or trying to herd gundarks. Anything other than trying to deal with these two would have been preferable. After finding a shred of inner calm, Wedge spoke.

"I said, that's enough. Wes can be a bit, talkative, but I expected a man like you to act your age, Dak."

"Ooh, boss called you old, Gramps." Wes cooed, before adding, "You sure you've still got the reactions for this? You are almost as decrepit as that rust bucket of a Y-Wing, after all."

"With me piloting, this rust bucket could fly rings around you anytime." boasted Dak, laughing. Before Wes could come back with another remark however, Wedge's astromech droid began a flurry of frenzied beeps over the comlink.

"Slow down, R4." Wedge said to his droid, as he scanned the translated output on his monitor. "R4 has detected a trace of Hyperspace activity at the edge of the system. Our target is on the way." he added, for the benefit of his comrades.

"When do we go hot, Red Two?" Wes asked, all traces of levity removed from his tone.

"Too busy talking through the briefing?" Dak commented, smugly, before being silenced by Wedge. Wedge sighed again, inwardly as he reflected on his wingmen. Janson had a way of needling his way underneath anyone's skin, true, but at least he knew when to stop. Dak on the other hand, was either to old to care or too old to change, possibly both, Wedge thought. That was the trouble with smugglers though, most of the ones Wedge had met were too independent and head-strong to work as team players. Sadly, the Alliance couldn't afford to turn away anyone who dared stand against the Empire.

"Just so we're ALL clear on the plan," Wedge stated, with particular emphasis, "Wait for the transport to approach The Narrow. As it does so, we detach and strike the cruiser. Delay it until orbital drift moves The Narrow out of the transport's trajectory, that'll also slow any reinforcements from the planet below. Wes and I will deal with the fighter escort..."

"Allowing me to swoop in and disable the transport. What these Y-Wings lose in maneuverability, they more than make up for with firepower." Dak interjected. Wedge coughed abruptly before speaking over the smuggler's comments.

"Then, I signal our support ship to jump in and board the Imperial transport, they relieve the Imps of precious supplies, and we jump away before they can retaliate."

After a moment, Wedge spoke again, his voice as cold as the void beyond his cockpit canopy. "And Dak? Any further insubordination and you will be facing a demotion at best. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal." Dak replied, lightly. If he was concerned by the ultimatum he'd received, he certainly didn't show it.

J&L: Emissary of the Eldritch (11)

PGL: "I've been wondering about these corridors we're racing through..."

HGJ: "Save your architectural admiration until we're all out of harms way."

PGL: "It's just... if Valgthoth is an entity embodying chaos and thus not a strictly physical presence, who built all this, and for what purpose?"

Guide: "These profane hallways were constructed by the acolytes, what you refer to as frogmen. Poor lost souls who succumbed to the dark forces of this realm. Twisted beyond recognition, they are little more than beasts. As for why they built these structures, who can say? Some think it to be in veneration of their supposed God. Others, that some vestigial memories of home call to them."

HGJ: "Poor devils."

Guide: "It is a tormented existence, bound to the will of Valgthoth. Indirectly, of course."

PGL: "Similar to the immune system then? They fight off infections and preserve the host, without the host directly controlling it?"

Guide: "Exactly. Now, enough chat. If I recall, the courtyard is through here... A-ha!"

PGL: "There's Professor Fenchurch!"

HGJ: "And he's holding Howie by the scruff of the neck. By jingo the kid is still kicking, that's the spirit."

PGL: "Who are those other two, they seem to be bound together and unconscious?"

Guide: "That would be the boy's mother and grandfather. Fenchurch is using them as insurance, holding their lives in his hand to force the boy to comply. An effective strategy."

PGL: "He intends to what, sacrifice Howard to Valgthoth?"

Guide: "In a manner of speaking. There's something in the boy's bloodline, some latent link that makes him sensitive to the arcane realms. Spilling that blood, in the sanctum of Valgthoth's realm, would be a large enough source of power to draw his attention towards Earth. No doubt Fenchurch believes his God will purify a corrupt world. Fool. Valgthoth cares not for our morals, he will only devour."

HGJ: "Then we've got to act now, to save Howie!"

PGL: "We can't just race in. He's got the boy in the centre of the courtyard, at least twenty yards away. But look around, skulking in the archways around the circumference, there must be dozens of the frogmen, all watching, waiting, and ready to strike."

HGJ: "We've got to do something. But how? There's no way we can take on that many foes, all at once."

Guide: "I have an idea. I can distract them, keep them from interfering, but you two must be ready to rush in."

PGL: "You can't seriously expect to hold off all of them?!"

Guide: "In fact, I do. I can cast a ward of protection around the courtyard, an impenetrable circle of fire, provided I'm not disturbed. It'll require my undivided attention to maintain the barrier, so you'll have to act alone."

HGJ: "If you're sure then. Thank you, and good luck."

Guide: "Be ready... Once I begin you'll lose the element of surprise... here goes nothing!"

PGL: "Quickly Henry!"

HGJ: "Right you are George!"

PAF: "What the...?! Acolytes, attack! What sorcery is this? I don't need their help anyway. Oh, very well, stop right there, both of you!"

HGJ: "Not blooming likely."

PAF: "Stop, or the child dies. That's it, much more civilized. Now then, Litefoot, I didn't take you for the conjuring sort. How did you create the barrier?"

PGL: "Funny, I didn't take you for the devil worshipping sort. You really never can tell, can you?"

PAF: "Droll, to the end, George. It doesn't matter, anyway. Nothing does. Not in the cruel cesspool which we all hail from: a world of violence, drugs, sins of pleasure and excess, disease and famine. Soon, the great cleanser will wipe away the scum of the Earth."

HGJ: "Then let him start with you. You disgust me. You dare to rave about cruelty while threatening the life of a child?"

PAF: "You're wrong. Absolutely. Because I don't threaten. Watch."

HGJ: "No!"

PGL: "Howard!"

HGJ: "You stabbed him!"

PAF: "And now I drop him. Right in the centre of this circle of power, where his blood can seep into the foundation stones of this paradise. It is done."

HGJ: "Rrrrrraghhhh!"

PAF: "Get off me, you ignorant oaf."

PGL: "Oh, Howard. Hold on, I've got you. Gently now, let me get a look at that wound. It's bad, but not as bad as I feared. The blade pierced the abdomen, but seems to have missed all major organs. Lots of blood though. Let's see if we can't staunch that flow, shall we?"

HGJ: "You vile cove! You brigand! How could you?!"

PAF: "Come now, all things die, it is the natural way. All I've done is accelerate the process. Unhand me before I am compelled to do something uncouth."

PGL: "*inwardly* Oh Henry. I wish I could help you in your struggle, but if I don't keep pressure on this wound, Howard will die. I'm not even sure if I can save him as is."

HGJ: "What's the matter, getting tired? Oh, my you're strong for a bookworm."

PAF: "Your ceaseless prattle won't save you from my blade. I've had enough of your tiresome interference. Be gone!"

HGJ: "Ugh!"

PGL: "No, Jago!"

HGJ: "Oof, that smarts. Slit me right across my palm. Aahhh, the pain. Bloody stings that."

PAF: "There's more where that came from, I assure you. But now, behold! The Absent Lord awakes from his slumber! Feel the quaking below, gaze upwards into the infinite majesty, see how the sky blazes with radiant light!"

HGJ: "Looks more like a tear to me. A great and terrible rending of the heavens."

PGL: "No, not a tear. Look closer, it's cracking open... it's an eyelid!"

HGJ: "Gracious! An enormous eye, filling the very sky itself."

PAF: "God gazes upon us! The reckoning cometh!"

HGJ: "I wouldn't count on it, Professor. You've made a fatal mistake, turning your blade on me."

PAF: "What are you playing at?"

HGJ: "I don't claim to understand much of what's going on here, but I'm willing to bet that the man upstairs won't take kindly to your offering if it's tainted."

PAF: "What? No, you don't know what you're doing! Stop!"

HGJ: "You cut my palm wide open, I'm just letting the blood fall... where it can mix with Howard's."

PGL: "Good show Henry, dilute Fenchurch's offering. I doubt Valgthoth will be best pleased if he feels cheated."

PAF: "My Lord, I am sorry! These heathens have spoiled the sacrifice I've laid before you, but I can redeem myself. I shall bring you a hundred more, nay, a thousand. I'll find others, with a lineage as powerful as the boy's. I... urk.... no.... please!"

HGJ: "How revolting."

PGL: "His skin is flaking, falling away like ash, revealing... are those scales?"

Guide: "Watch as his limbs twist and grow, his teeth lengthen and his body becomes... amphibious. I told you, the acolytes are the unfortunate who succumb to the powers of this realm."

HGJ: "Well, he deserves everything that comes to him. George, how's poor Howie?"

PGL: "He's in a bad way. A very bad way. I'm not sure what else I can do."

HGJ: "Then we've failed him."

Guide: "Not quite, gentlemen. Allow me to share a little more energy. Just enough of a healing force to knit the wound back together. We have a few moments before the acolytes attack. They feel compelled to venerate their God first."

PGL: "The marvels you can perform, whoever you are."

Guide: "Healing the boy is not difficult. It helps that our destinies are entwined, in a manner of speaking."

HGJ: "More riddles."

Guide: "It is done. He will need rest, but he will heal, in time. At least, his body will. The mind is a more fragile thing. I've left him in an amnesiac state, to spare him the exact trauma of the day. But his dreams will remain haunted by flashes of this nightmare. His guardians too will not retain their memories. The human brain has a propensity to filter out anything that does not conform to its expectations of reality. Most live in a blissful ignorance."

PGL: "How do we escape? And hasn't Valgthoth's attention been drawn to Earth? We have to stop him."

Guide: "We couldn't even if we wanted to. He is a foe beyond any of us. The best we can do is destroy the book. Break the link between both worlds, and cut off this avenue."

HGJ: "Will that really work?"

Guide: "To a point. It prevents him from crossing over using this gateway. But there will be others like Fenchurch. There always are. We have done all we can. What happens in other places and times, we cannot control."

PGL: "Did you say other times?"

Guide: "Yes. Time flows differently here, outside of the laws of relative causality. In this realm, moments are simultaneous, not concurrent. Now, we must act. Litefoot, fetch the book."

PGL: "Here it is. Now what?"

Guide: "Open it, and set it down by the mother."

HGJ: "It worked, the portal opened again."

PGL: "I trust it leads back to the bookshop, and not some other foul dimension?"

Guide: "No need to worry. It's quite safe. As safe as anything can be when dealing with incomprehensible forces. Let's start by sending the two adults through."

HGJ: "OK Litefoot. I've got Howie. His guardians have been safely sent away, so now we should follow before the frogmen come to their senses."

PGL: "A moment, Jago. I have to ask, one more time. Who is our mysterious guide? How does he know so much,and why is he so eager to help us?"

Guide: "Have you really not worked it out? I told you already, that time works differently here. I know what happens, because for me it's already happened. My name is Lovecraft. Howard Phillip Lovecraft."

HGJ: "*spluttering* But... what... how.... I don't follow."

Guide: "It's alright Henry. You don't need to. Just think of me as a guide."

HGJ: "But, I'm holding you as a lad. And you're standing before me..."

Guide: "Time travel has always been possible in dreams."

PGL: "Let's not fret over it Henry. A good stuff drink in the Red Tavern should help you collect your thoughts. Howard, I thank you."

Guide: "Don't thank me. You're the ones who found me, cared for me, and reunited me with my dear mother. All I've don't is aid myself."

PGL: "I suppose this is goodbye then? We travel through the gateway, then burn the book, and that's the end of Valgthoth?"

Guide: "The end? Oh no, definitely not. Chaos can only ever be postponed. But it's where our dealing with him ends, yes. But before you go, I have one final warning."

HGJ: "What is it?"

Guide: "There is something coming. Something evil stalks the astral planes. Unlike Valgthoth this force is malicious and intelligent. Beware the King of Worms, for he comes for you both. A reckoning long overdue awaits you. I'm sorry I cant be more specific that's all I can see."

PGL: "Most ominous."

HGJ: "Goodbye, Howard. Safe travels."

Guide: "You too, Henry. And to you, George."

*The portal hums with energy as the pair traverse it's threshold, with young Howard in Jago's arms."

HGJ: "We're back then. All present and accounted for?"

PGL: "Seems to be. Now, to burn that book, once and for all."

Grandfather: "My head... You there, can someone tell me what's going on? I... can't seem to remember..."

HGJ: "Ah, you're awake. Good."

Grandfather: "Who... why... Hold on. You'd better have a damn good reason as to why you're holding my grandson. And what the devil happened to him?"

HGJ: "I can explain. Oh corks, can I? You see, the thing is..."

PGL: "Ah, good to see you up and about. My name is Professor George Litefoot, a police pathologist. It seems you and your family were the victims of a rather violent mugger. There was an altercation which resulted in you, your daughter and grandson being rendered unconscious, which may account for any hazy memories."

Grandfather: "What?"

PGL: "You're undoubtedly confused by the whole ordeal. However, I can assure you that there will be no lasting damage to any of your family members. A flood nights rest should see you right as rain."

Grandfather: "What about compensation? We come to your country and get taken prisoner by some street thug?"

HGJ: "Allow me to help with that, sir. Inspector Quick, of Scotland Yard. This isn't exactly protocol, but given your status as tourists to our fine country, an exception can be made. The vagabond ran a bookshop, presumably as a front for his criminal dealings. Now, money in his safe is technically evidence, but I'm sure a few pounds could be overlooked. To cover your incurred expenses, travel and accommodation. Things of that nature."

Grandfather: "It'll do, I suppose. Now give me the child, I need to tend to my family."

HGJ: "Of course sir."

PGL: "*aside* That was some quick improvisation, Inspector."

HGJ: "*aside* First thing I could think of."

PGL: *aside* At least Howard is back where he belongs. They'll be OK. We know so, we've met his future self."

HGJ: "*aside* Still gives me a headache, trying to wrap my head around it."

PGL: "*aside* Never mind. Let's just see to it that these lot get on their way, then we can have a nice, relaxing drink at the Red Tavern."

HGJ: "And what of Howard's warning? This King of Worms?"

PGL: "A problem for another day, Henry."

J&L: Emissary of the Eldritch (10)

HGJ: "Where the devil are we?"

PGL: "I have no earthly idea, Henry. But then again, that is rather the point, I suppose. Wherever we are, it's not Earth."

HGJ: "This is no time for levity George! Those ichthyological invaders took poor Howie to this foul realm. I mean, look at it all... We're stood on this obsidian outcrop, surrounded by a sea of soupy slime. Bubbling away like the Devil's cauldron."

PGL: "Not to mention the sky! A haunting expanse of viridian gloom. Almost beautiful, in a bleak sort of way."

HGJ: "More like unsettling, if you ask me. The portal which brought us here has vanished, so where do we go now?"

PGL: "An excellent question, but one whose answer is elusive. There's a sort of structure over there, some kind of rocky protrusion. It's the only notable landmark I can spy, but dashed if I know how to get there."

HGJ: "I don't particularly fancy swimming that distance. Not in this odious ooze."

Guide: "Then perhaps a guide can assist."

HGJ: "What the blazes?!"

PGL: "Who are you and what do you want?  Speak plainly, we're in no mood for games."

Guide: "Both of you, please, be calm. I am here to help. I know you seek the boy, and I know there is still time to save him. Him, and the world at large."

HGJ: "How do you know? Eh? And how can we be sure you're trustworthy? For all we know, you could be in league with the frogmen. You could be behind all of this!"

PGL: "It is convenient to find another human in this evil place, especially one who claims to have such answers."

Guide: "Gentlemen. I understand your reticence, but we have little time to act if we are to prevail."

HGJ: "Then I suggest you explain quickly."

Guide: "Very well. I am a traveller, and a wanderer. I walk between worlds, inhabiting the spaces between, prowling the cracks and the voids woven among realities. I dance across the dimensions, observing and studying. There are a myriad of realms beyond the understanding of most men. Creatures and domains dreamed only by the most visionary of minds. To the humble flea, a dog is the entire universe. It cannot comprehend the expanse beyond its world."

PGL: "How very poetic. So, why do you appear human? Some disguise to put us at ease?"

Guide: "I am as human as you are."

HGJ: "Nonsense. How does a human travel as you claim to?"

Guide: "How did you come to be here? You found a gateway. In your case the gateway was tangible. Physical. You were transported here. It is an experience I long for, as I am only able to wander the realms in my dreams."

PGL: "You claim to be some kind of spirit walker?"

Guide: "I use astral projection to decouple my mind from my body, and let my essence drift on the tidal forces of the universe. It is an acquired talent, one practiced by several exotic monastic groups. Most practitioners barely manage an out of body experience, but I've always had a certain affinity with the wider world. I've always seen things differently to others, after all."

PGL: "I would find this a hard story to stomach, where it not for the fact that we've crossed paths with others who have demonstrated a similar talent. But it's still rather a coincidence that you've found us, here, now. And you happen to know about us."

Guide: "Something to which I have a valid explanation. But one I cannot share. Not yet. Not while things remain in flux."

HGJ: "Well, if you can't explain yourself to us, maybe you could explain who Valgthoth is, and why the child is so important."

Guide: "Very well, but I must remain brief. This is the heart of the dimension where the entity known as Valgthoth resides. Now, he has a reputation as an evil spirit, a force of malevolent destruction bent on invading our realm and annihilating all things. This is both factually incorrect, and rather a selfish line of thought. Valgthoth is a being beyond our understanding, he exists on a scale far in excess of our ability to rationalize. We are all of us insignificant insects to him, barely worthy of notice. To call him evil is to call a hurricane angry."

PGL: "So, he's more of an anthropomorphic force of nature than a living being?"

Guide: "Still a simplification, but about as accurate as we can be, yes. Consider him the embodiment of chaotic entropy. A universal law, the inescapable end state of all things."

HGJ: "But what about the cults? The insidious incantations and repulsive rites?  If Valgthoth is beyond humanity, why would he care for such token pageantry?"

Guide: "Another excellent question. The answer is energy. By themselves, the rituals are meaningless. But through iteration, and faith, the actions have been imbued with a certain energy. Powered by belief, a sort of potential energy. And sometimes, rarely, these actions are inherently powerful, by utter random chance. Certain energies when released, can tug at the stands of the higher dimensions. Cutting a single thread can cause the entire cloth to unravel. This energy, these ripples resonate across the cosmos, where creatures like Valgthoth can feed on the raw power."

HGJ: "This is a bit beyond me, I'm afraid. I'm not following."

PGL: "I think what our mysterious guide is attempting to explain, in simple terms, is that the cult's meddling is only serving to draw Valgthoth's attention to our otherwise unremarkable world, which will result in untold chaos. In much the same way unsafe blasting in a mine can bring about a cave-in, or earthquakes."

HGJ: "How are we supposed to stop an earthquake?"

Guide: "You can start by preventing the misguided Professor Fenchurch from doing any more damage. Allow me to clear the way."

HGJ: "My word! You made those rocks rise up out of the sea, with nothing more than a hand gesture."

Guide: "The perks of being attuned to this reality. I can call upon the unique forces of this dimension with ease. But don't go trying anything yourselves, it takes years of practice, and runs the risk of inviting other spirits into your forms."

PGL: "I wouldn't dream of it! I don't like messing with things I don't understand."

HGJ: "Magic is best left on the stage, in my view. In the hands of the professionals. And entirely in the purview of trickery and theatrics."

Guide: "I must say, you're both taking all of this very well. I've seen this kind of knowledge tear men's minds apart."

PGL: "We've seen our fair share of extraordinary phenomena in our time. Though I suspect in this case, our lack of full comprehension of our surroundings is keeping us from such raving madness."

Guide: "Indeed. Now, let us move onward. The boy does not have much time remaining. Run!"

J&L: Emissary of the Eldritch (9)

PGL: "I'll check the doors and windows, make sure we're secure. Jago, you find something to arm yourself with, and prepare for trouble."

HGJ: "A sterling plan, George. Ah... right... now... weapons. Oh, lummie. Need to find something useful, focus Henry. What have we here, a carving knife, lacks a decent range, no. A chair perhaps? I could fend off these fishy frogmen like a lion tamer... too awkward."

*The creatures thump and pound on the glass window. The frame creaks under the pressure.*

HGJ: "Corks! That perilous pane won't hold the coves for long... A-ha! That's just the ticket, a fire poker, perfect. I'm not exactly the swashbuckling type, but I'll have to make do. Engarde!"

*With a thunderous crash, the window gives way.*

HGJ: "Come on then, have at you! Yeah-hah! Stay back, I'm warning you...  I once toured the south of England, in my youth, in a production of Treasure Island. *ugh* It taught me everything I needed to know about swordplay. True, my character was stabbed in the first act, but you get the point..."

*One of the frogmen cries in pain*

HGJ: "Quite literally, in fact. But there are rather a lot of you, aren't there? Oh, where's Litefoot gotten to?"

PGL: "Right behind you, Jago!"

HGJ: "Thank heavens for that! About time you got back here, I... is that...?"

PGL: "My father's old hunting rifle? Indeed. Though it hasn't been used since we took care of the giant rat of Weng Chiang."

HGJ: "Let's hope it still fires then."

*A crack of gunfire*

HGJ: "You missed!"

PGL: "I wasn't aiming for the creatures. There's too many of them anyway. I'm just trying to distract them, make some noise."

HGJ: "It seems to be working!  The creatures aren't advancing."

PGL: "It's unlikely a noise like that will go unnoticed. Our assailants have lost the element of surprise now. Maybe it's enough to force a retreat?"

*Another crash of broken glass echoes through the house, from father away*

PGL: "That sounded like it came..."

HGJ: "From upstairs!"

Both: "Howard!"

HGJ: "They must have scaled the ivy to reach his room, while we were busy defending the dining room."

PGL: "How could we have been so blind?"

HP: "Jago, help!"

HGJ: "We're coming Howie, just hold on!"

PGL: "No! We're too late..."

HGJ: "Those brigands can move sharpish when they need to."

PGL: "They're carrying the boy like he's nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Come on, we've got to hurry, they've already reached the drive."

HGJ: "Hold on Howie, we're coming, don't you worry!"

***

PGL: "Oh, it's no use. We can barely see anything in this gloom, nor can I hear young Howard's cries any longer."

HGJ: "Damn it Litefoot, we can't just give up. A child's life hangs in the balance, and it's all our fault."

PGL: "Oh, Henry... I'm not suggesting we stop our search, merely that we alter our approach. We can't match the blighters in speed, but maybe we can outsmart them."

HGJ: "You have some cunning plan then?"

PGL: "Well, you did manage to stab one of the frogmen in it's torso. I happened to notice it didn't bleed, at least not like a human would. The wound oozed a dark, purple, viscous ichor. Ah, look here! Several droplets of just that substance, fresh upon the cobblestones."

HGJ: "And you think we could track it by following this trail left by the injury?"

PGL: "It depends on a number of factors, the coagulant rate of the fluid for one, and it assumes the injured one remained with the one who took Howard..."

HGJ: "It's still our only hope George. And if it doesn't lead us to Howard directly, I'm sure we'll be led straight to whomever is behind this entire ordeal."

***

HGJ: "This way, I think. Dash it all, the trail is thinning out. It seems to lead into that shop there."

PGL: "I was afraid we'd end up here."

HGJ: "You know the place?"

PGL: "Unfortunately. That establishment, my friend, is owned by none other than Quentin Renwick."

HGJ: "The bounder! What are we waiting for, let's go meet the cad."

PGL: "Henry, wait! It could be... dangerous. And he's already inside. So much for any chance of a stealth approach then."

HGJ: "Mr. Renwick? Come out you monster. Give us back the boy and maybe we won't inform the authorities about your little schemes. I... ugh... that stench... foul and fetid, thick and tangy. It's so thick I can hardly breathe, an odour that fills the throat."

PGL: "That is the cloying smell of death, I'm afraid. Blood and decay if I'm not mistaken, with a hint of incense or some other ritualistic tokens."

HGJ: "Blood? It can't be, surely not..."

PGL: "I don't think so, no. There's a hint of rot in the air. The blood that was spilled here must be a few hours old, I reckon, so it can't be Howard's. But going by the strength of the stench, I fear we shall find rather a lot of it."

HGJ: "Look here! Is that... oh corks! A body!"

PGL: "My word, Quentin?! That's Quentin Renwick, and he's most certainly dead."

HGJ: "So he's not behind all this then? Unless those fish faces turned on him for some reason."

PGL: "I don't know, Jago. I'll see what I can tell from his injuries... Yes, see here, his throat was slit."

HGJ: "I'd rather not, if I'm honest. I'll take your word for it."

PGL: "The flesh isn't torn, so a sharp blade was likely used. Possibly ritualistic in nature. No signs of struggle, or bruising. However it wasn't self inflicted."

HGJ: "Ah, because the knife is missing?"

PGL: "Something more glaring, Jago. There's also no blood. Barely a drop int his clothes or around the wound even."

HGJ: "But it must be around here somewhere. I can smell it."

PGL: "Then I suggest we follow our noses, though I fear what we may uncover."

HGJ: "It seems to be stronger towards that curtained off section at the rear of the shop."

PGL: "Quentin's private collection, where he kept the book pertaining to Valgthoth."

HGJ: "Well then, let's see what we find then. Ahem. You first. You have the stronger stomach when it comes to sickening sights."

PGL: "Very well then. My goodness!"

HGJ: "You were right about the ritual then. Are those..."

PGL: "Human skulls, yes. Arranged in a circle in the middle of the room, surrounded by dribbling candles."

HGJ: "Never mind the candles, I'm more concerned with the arcane symbols adorning the floor, painted in blood!"

PGL: "Someone definitely attempted to perform some dark ritual here."

HGJ: "Followers of Valgthoth? Those frogmen? And to what end? Are we too late to prevent whatever evil end this rite was supposed to cause?"

PGL: "I think the answers are contained in Quentin's book. The book on the lectern at the centre of the circle."

HGJ: "Careful Litefoot."

PGL: "It's just a book Henry. What could possibly..."

*A sudden hum of energy fills the room.*

HGJ: "George? What's going on? I can't see you through the glare!"

PGL: "It's the book Henry. Its emitting a sort of green glow. I can feel it, tugging at me."

HGJ: "Close the book! Close it!"

PGL: "I can't... move... some force is drawing me inwards..."

HGJ: "I feel it too! Oh, corks. I never expected my cause of death to read 'devoured by a dictionary'."

*both men cry out until the humming ends abruptly, and the book slams shut, leaving nothing but a lingering silence*