Part 15: Days 295-313: A Comedic Interlude: Vanden Gets Hurt.
Klaxons sounded. The attack was on.
The Diary of Commander Wedge Antilles
Captivity: Day 107
The 1MC was buzzing with orders. For the second time since I'd been captured, the Master was secured for General Quarters, then Battle Stations.
My cell in the brig was removed enough from the action; I was spared the clatter of boots hitting plasteel and cacophony of combat preparations. Human nature, however, kept me informed of what was going on. After all, rumors move faster than light, and my captors talk, fret, and wonder like anyone would.
We were nearing the system Umgul, held by the Alliance. The opposing force was small, and likely to jump to hyperspace soon. The planet itself was well shielded.
Admiral Zuggs was chasing his own tail again, hoping to find the base of our operations in the Sluis sector. He didn't realize the reality, that we were actually decentralized over several systems, protected by shields and always in flux.
I was heartened to hear the Master hadn't left the sector. While Commander Meteor had never spoken to me at length one way or another, and he seemed to have a blatant disregard for the welfare of his troops, I'd felt he would make an attempt to rescue me. I had numerous skills, beyond my piloting abilities, that would serve the Alliance well.
I knew the day of my escape would not be today, but the Master's location is now known to the rebels. It's a matter of time before Meteor narrows the search down, and either through cunning or power brings me freedom. My part in this war is far from over.
DAY 297: The End of Wedge
: What do you mean, RUNNING? Get back there and FIGHT you goddamn cowards!
: Sir, the odds of one Corellian Corvette surviving an attack on the forces currently arrayed against it are seventy-four million eight hundred forty-two thousand three hundred and twenty-nine to one. The most likely scenario for victory is deus ex machina.
: I can live with those odds.
: Plus, Commander Antilles is currently on the Star Destroyer Master. We must organize an escape for him!
: Commander Wedge Antilles! You had placed him as the commander of Rogue Squadron after sending Luke recruiting. He was going to be our chief starship researcher.
: Ohhh, him. Forgot about him. Still gonna want the Sad King Billy to take out the Master. Tough cookies for Wedge.
: I'm afraid it's too late sir.
: It's already jumped into hyperspace, after destroying several TIE fighters.
: Hrm. Guess so. Remind me Threepio, if we ever do rescue Wedge, I'm going to need to wipe your memory.
: My circuits buzz with anticipation, Master.
Days 297-312: Pushing the Dominos.
Sullust had to go. We'd studied it for months now, probing for weak points. We couldn't find any. I was out of patience. We would strike.
For the past three weeks I'd had Solo working black ops in Sullust. His work was largely in discrediting the Imperials through false rumors and staged accidents. His efforts led the populace to entertain the view of the garrisoning troops as incompetent boobs.
When a platoon of the Imperial's finest were engulfed by an explosion that leveled three city blocks, the people's ire was directed towards the Imps, and not us. 1600 dead were mourned across the sector. The backlash occured, exactly as predicted.
It pushed Orto right into our hands.
Control of Sluis was within grasp. Outside of the Imperial bastion at Sullust, only neutral Denab remained distant from the Alliance. The Empire was outnumbered in Sluis, eight to one.
: Got a plan, boss man?
: Hit 'em again.
: I was juuuust thinking that.
: Hee hee hee, I told you it would work. The people of this system, they hunger not for food, but for weakness in the Empire. The bomb I created for Solo executed perfectly, no? It expertly simulated an Imperial mishap.
: Shut it Bevel. I let you keep your thumbs in exchange for that bomb, but I never said I wouldn't cut out your tongue and make a star shape out of it with the Play-DohTM press.
: Bah. I'm already traumatized enough being locked in the cell with this gibbering buffoon so often.
: I suppose I'd be slightly put off after having been a quadruple amputee. And being forced to wear a necklace made of my fingers and toes would likely induce some form of dementia.
: Yet I'll politely ask you to move him, or me. I can't work in these conditions.
: Nah. I don't need you right now, so get comfy.
: I wish he'd just blaster you out of my misery.
Day 313: With Apologies to Blake Edwards.
: What eh day! I em so very tired! Yet, I know that dimwitted little man is waiting for me...
: Cato! This ees your employah speeking! You weel NOT attack me this night!
: I know I tell you to ignore whatever I em sayeeng, but that ees not true tonight!
: You weel cancel your attack! Cato!? Are you leesoning to me?
*zzz-zzz zzz-ZZZ ZZZ-ZZZ*
: What ees that noise?
*ZZZ-ZZZ-ZZZ* *crack* *CRACK*
: Oh no.
: You clumsee fool! You nearly killed me!
: Don't worry boss! You'll get better soon, I just called the local hospital! They'll be here shortly!
: Good. Althoogh, I wonder what evil your feverish yellow brain could concoct for me zee next time. Perhaps you intend to blow me UP, with a beumb!
: No boss! I promise!
: ...Cato, what hospeetal did you call?
: That one nearby, near the hideout.
: You meen zee Central Imperial Hospital?
: Yeah, that one!
: Curse you Cato, you have done eet again! We must fleeee!
: When I am healthee, I shall strike you again and again, Cato! Do you hear meee?!
: The Great Diplomat Willard will not be bothering us anymore.