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The New Alliance
Possibly the first Biggles/Star Wars crossover pastiche ever written!

By Joanna Chan

Note: The characters in this story were created by those brilliant authors W.E. Johns, Timothy Zahn, Michael A. Stackpole, and Aaron Allston. This story would not have been possible without the strong, unique personalities they created in the form of the two greatest teams of pilots that exist in fiction. By writing this story as a crossover, no disrespect at all was intended to the works of any of these authors or their characters. The story was written for my own enjoyment and hopefully others will find the concept entertaining too! Anyway, it was high time these two groups of flyers met, I thought :) I’ve always felt they’d get on very well. Besides, science fiction has been a major influence, from time to time, in W.E. Johns’ Biggles stories (eg Hits The Trail) and even in the 1986 movie (Biggles: Adventures in Time). Maybe setting a Biggles story in the Star Wars galaxy is not so much a totally new idea as simply the continuation of a long tradition of sci-fi in the Biggles stories!

Chapter One

It was one of the worst dogfights that Biggles had ever seen in his life. Even as he yanked the stick back in the beginnings of a steep upward climb in an attempt to dislodge the 109 clinging stubbornly to his tail, he caught out of the corner of his eye the spectacle of two planes plummeting to earth, locked in a deadly embrace of twisted metal and flame, their make impossible to detect. Around him, the leaden winter's sky was alive with the roar of aircraft engines taking unusual strain and the rattling of guns. Spitfire, Messerschmitt, Heinkel and Hurricane; they were flashing all round him. But his attention was focused on the steady stream of lead that he knew was pouring out of the guns of the enemy machine behind him.

Thud, thud - a few bullets were hitting his machine, splintering through the Spit; as always, he prayed they were hitting nothing vital. Time to try a trick or two. He kicked the rudder-bar and dragged the stick sideways, whirling the machine around; but his opponent, obviously an experienced pilot, had anticipated such a move, and was already moving in a tight circle to get behind him again. All the while, snapshots of the fight around him were imprinting themselves on his brain; a Spitfire, trailing smoke, being pursued by a 109; a Dornier going down in flames, two parachutes blossoming in its wake. Even as he throttled down, hard, an old trick to get the pilot on his tail to overshoot, a Spitfire flashed by right across his nose, at a proximity that made him gasp. The white letters on the fuselage told him it was Algy. Such was the unpredictability of war that if he had not throttled back as soon as he did, he would probably have flown straight into his old comrade.

The pilot of the 109 on his tail, startled by something else in the dogfight perhaps, failed to notice Biggles' sudden loss of speed and flew straight on overhead - only to explode, with a sickening crash that made itself heard inside Biggles' cockpit, as it collided with another machine directly in its path. Biggles' heart jumped. For a second he had thought it was Algy. But no - Algy's machine had flashed by seconds before the collision, and he could now see the insignia on the remains of both doomed machines as they spiraled downwards - Maltese crosses, the both of them. With a lurch in the pit of his stomach Biggles realised that his pursuer had actually crashed into a German machine that, moments ago, had been bent on destroying Algy. In a split-second, both machines, perhaps from the same enemy squadron, perhaps piloted by friends as close as Biggles and Algy themselves, had gotten rid of each other, wiping the pursuit off both British pilots. He had heard about such things before, but never actually experienced it. The coincidence made Biggles feel sick. He could imagine Algy's alarm as he twisted back in his seat to see the explosion; could almost hear his hysterical laugh as he, too, realised what had happened. Biggles was feeling a little hysterical himself as he sent his machine zooming back into the conflict.

***

Wedge Antilles put all power to his forward shields and sent his X-Wing skidding across the starfield that had suddenly become a killing ground. Over his headset the excited comm chatter of his pilots broke out; they had half-expected this ambush, but the exact coordinates from which two squadrons of TIE Interceptors now swept in among them had been a surprise. Above them was a Star Destroyer, the origin of the two Interceptor squads. Below them was the Interdictor which had dragged Rogue Squadron out of hyperspace en route to Commenor, its four gravity-well generators gleaming bulbous and obscene in the starry half-light. Beyond the Interdictor was an orange-coloured world swathed in clouds, the stripey pattern of white on the orange globe reminding Wedge, incongruously, of a favourite piece of confectionery he'd enjoyed as a child.

"Rogue Lead, break port!" He broke hard port, and the green lasers of a squint flashed past right where his starboard S-foils had been before. Behind it flashed the red-and-white body of an X-Wing, red light streaming out of its laser reflectors - and into the cockpit of the TIE. There was a blinding flash, and the red dot on Wedge's light display that represented the TIE winked out.

"Thanks for the save, Nine."

"No problem, Lead."

On his next pass at a TIE Interceptor, he winced as, among the green and red streaks of lethal light, he noticed a speck of New Republic starfighter pilot orange, garish against the black background. That meant that one of his pilots was extra-vehicular, and was rapidly using up the limited store of oxygen in his life-support system, and losing heat fast. He hoped the shuttle was on its way to whoever it was. As long as it hadn't been shot down itself, that is. His targeting brackets jittered around the TIE, and then he could hear his R2 unit protesting as the X-Wing slewed to starboard, missing the TIE by inches; he imagined the harsh scream of the squint's engines as its solar wing arrays swept past, the sound of the Empire.

***

The sky was clearing, patches of blue appearing. At the very foot of a massive pillar of cloud a lone Spitfire was wallowing, responding shallowly to the frantic efforts of its pilot to evade attack by a pair of Me-109s working together. The cloud stood by like an impassive giant who ignores a child drowning at his toes. It was the hopelessness of the situation that sent Biggles into a dive, rushing to rescue the cornered Spitfire. His hunch was right; it was Ginger. Often nowadays he caught himself wondering if he had been right to take Ginger under his wing - literally - instead of sending him back home to Smettleworth, to an abusive father - and to comparative safety. Then he would have been miserable - but he wouldn't have to face death every day.

Who am I kidding, though. Knowing the kid, he'd have wangled himself into the air force anyway, as soon as war broke out. And at least this way he'd gotten valuable flying experience before the war, which has probably done more to keep him alive than anything else.

***

Hobbie's voice, urgent, choppy: "I've been hit! Port en... engines in the red, in...ertial com...pensator malfun...ctioning..."

Hobbie!

***

Biggles was too late. He caught the Me-109 pilots by surprise, shooting one down with a well-placed stream of lead, but even as he watched, a plume of smoke blossomed from Ginger's engine. The Spitfire turned lazily on its back, and began a slow spiral down to earth. There was no parachute. If the pilot wasn't already dead, hanging limply from his straps, he would soon be if he didn't leave the plane and fast. Biggles didn't know of anyone who'd been able to get out of their plane under such circumstances, much less survive. He circled, following the doomed Spitfire down. The other 109 had disappeared into the cloud. The dogfight was over. But to make matters worse, one of the wings of the Spitfire tore away at the roots. Now the machine began tumbling, tumbling over and over... it would only be a few seconds before it smashed on the ground. 

***

"Eject, Six, eject! Punch out, now!"

"Can't... Lead."

Inside the cockpit of Hobbie's X-Wing, Hobbie was fighting with his controls. Inertial compensator shot. This meant that the extraordinarily high G-forces encountered by pilots of the high-performance X-Wing were no longer being absorbed by the machine. Hobbie was being buffeted; now crushed into his seat, now crushed against his restraining straps. He could not reach the eject button; the jerky rolls of his ship knocked his straining hand away from it, every time. He could picture his X-Wing tumbling in space, driven by only starboard engines; it was only with the utmost brute force that he was preventing his ship from launching into the deadly circle which would pin him in his seat and render him unable to reach his controls, or even breathe; from which no pilot with a dead inertial compensator ever recovered. As it was, he was going to black out soon anyway. Sithspawn! This was it. He was going to die at last. His only consolation was that the tractor beam exerted on him by the Interdictor would probably send his dying X-Wing on a collision course with a gravity well. Hopefully, it'd hit with enough force for him to go out with a bang, causing some worthwhile destruction so that his death wouldn't entirely be in vain.

***

Inside the cockpit of Ginger's Spitfire, G-forces, too, were rendering him unable to do anything. He knew he was a goner. The Spit turned over and over, compressing him in his seat - he could not even reach the latch of the cockpit, and did not dare to loosen the safety belt. His end would be in a matter of seconds now.

Biggles watched, helplessly. There was something terrible about being an observer of this awful tragedy, rather than a participant in trying to avert it. One of his friends was going to die. The one who looked to him as a father, for whom he was personally responsible. "HELP!" he yelled, though he knew it would not help. There was no one who could help. And he didn't even have radio.

***

There was a blinding flash of lightning - brighter than lightning - that lit up the wintry sky over the English Channel. The pilots of Biggles' squadron, breaking away after the dogfight, flung their gloved hands over their eyes. When they could see again, four Spitfires had gone.

***

"HELP!" jarred the strange cry through the ten headsets of Rogue Squadron. "Help, somebody." And four unidentified blips winked into existence on Wedge's light display. The blips were in the atmosphere of the orange giant beyond the Interdictor. Why ask me for help? Wedge shouted angrily in his mind, as he dodged turbolasers. It's us who need help. And one of my best friends is out of control and going to die.

***

Ginger suddenly noticed that the spin of his aircraft had slowed. The ground below him was no longer quilted in brown and green; it was orange. Orange? He was falling through long while tendrils of cloud now. Then the ground came up to meet him. He shut his eyes and braced himself for the impact. But there was none. He opened his eyes. The plane had stopped, or was drifting - he could not tell. All round him was orange. Even the air in his cockpit was orange; he held up a hand in front of his face and saw that it was partly obscured by an orange haze. Before he even had time to wonder, he was overcome by a choking sensation in his throat and lungs. He gasped, flailing, then went limp.

***

When the blinding lightning disappeared, Biggles saw Ginger hit the ground.. and go right through it. He could see the roundels of the aircraft drifting just below the surface. The ground was orange. He blinked in disbelief. No - it wasn't ground. It was gas. He himself was skimming over the surface of an orange gas giant. This wasn't Earth! How could it be? A few minutes ago he had been engaged in a dogfight over the English Channel. To his relief, he was not alone; two Spitfires came roaring down into formation beside him. The pilot on his right pushed up his goggles and gestured wildly. Algy. The one on his left was gesturing equally wildly. Light reflected off a mirror in his face - oh, it was Bertie wearing his monocle, the ass. Well, there was no time to waste. He was thankful for the miracle that had saved Ginger from being smashed all over the carpet, but if what he'd read about gas giants was true, they were full of noxious gases. He had to get Ginger out of there before he suffocated to death or was poisoned.

***

Standard protocol for attacking the Interdictor had worked so far. While a number of Rogue Squadron's X-Wings held off the TIEs at any given time, the few X-Wings which were momentarily free of antagonists divided themselves into two groups, synchronised proton torpedoes and fired at a specific gravity-well generator, one group firing slightly after the other. The first strike to take out the shield, the second to destroy the generator itself. In this way Rogue Squadron had destroyed two out of four generators - but two of its pilots were already extravehicular, and Hobbie's lurching ship was still headed on a collision course with the Interdictor. Then a slight lurch, a change in the tone of his engines, gave Wedge an inkling of what had happened. For confirmation he glanced at his sensor board. The Interdictor had shut down its remaining two gravity-well generators, and with the Star Destroyer was heading back out of system! That capital ship was in such a hurry to leave it did not even stop to pick up the TIE Interceptors. Wedge could not imagine why - and then he noticed the blue blips lighting up all over his light display, as General Salm's Aggressor Wing shot into the scene. The Y-Wings had recently taken a beating in the battle against Krennel's forces for Sate Pestage, but their numbers were still sufficient to impress. Though the threat was not large, if, as Wedge already suspected, the Star Destroyer and Interdictor belonged to a petty warlord, a renegade Imperial official acting for personal gain and not for the Empire, he would not risk his only capital ships being damaged, possibly captured, by the New Republic, hence his hasty retreat.

"This is General Salm of New Republic Starfighter Command. All TIE Interceptors, you know you don't stand a chance without hyperdrive transport. You are welcome to surrender."

"Rogues, it's Wishbones to the rescue again!"
"Yee-hah! X-jocks, behold the might of the Y-Wing!"
"Stuff it, Gold Squad! We had them distracted! Or you wouldn't have had a chance!"
"Drinks on you tonight, Rogues!"

Wedge switched to a private comm channel with General Salm. "General, there's something I need you to do, fast!"

And he knew that after he rescued Hobbie, he'd have to rescue the strangers in the atmosphere of the gas giant below. They had called for help, hadn't they? And he didn't think there were any other living creatures in the system in a position to help. He sighed.

***

Chapter Two

So this is what death is, thought Hobbie. The sickly sweet, pink, choking taste of.... BACTA? His eyes snapped open. He was floating upright in a bacta tank. Pilots from his squadron were standing around on the outside, cheering as they saw him regain consciousness. He couldn't hear them, but it must have been loud, for through the curved transparisteel he saw a nurse shoo them all out, despite Janson's eloquent hand gestures.

How? What? Where? Hadn't he been heading towards an Interdictor - and death - a moment ago? The bacta stung his eyes slightly, a familiar sensation, as he swiveled them around the room to look for a familiar face. The door opened again and Wedge came in and grinned at him. He held up his datapad against the bacta tank so that the words on the screen, slightly distorted by the curvature of the tank, scrolled across at Hobbie's eye level.

YOU'RE GOING TO BE FINE. DOCTOR SAYS YOU'RE DUE TO COME OUT OF BACTA IN TWO HOURS. WE'RE ALL AT OUR DESTINATION NOW. FOLOR BASE IN THE COMMENOR SYSTEM.

But... how?

As if in answer, the words scrolled past:

GENERAL SALM'S Y-WINGS SHOWED UP. HE SHOT YOUR SHIP WITH AN ION CANNON JUST AS YOU BLACKED OUT. SINCE YOU HADN'T LET YOUR X-WING GO INTO A SPIN, ONCE THE ENGINES DIED IT WENT ON A STRAIGHT COURSE OUT OF HARM'S WAY. ONE OF OUR CORVETTES SHOWED UP TO PICK UP THE PRISONERS AND WAS ABLE TO TRACTOR YOU IN.

Oh, right. Thank goodness for the Y-Wings. X-Wings didn't have ion cannons.

Hobbie looked around to see who else had been injured. His bacta tank was one of a series. On his left, he saw Avan Beruss floating in bacta, discolouration all down his right side - he still looked unconscious. The tank on his right was occupied by an unfamiliar human male, also unconscious. His head was thrown back, the face partially obscured by the breather, and his fair hair stirred slowly in the pink liquid. Probably one of General Salm's Y-jockeys. Hobbie decided to go to sleep, in what was increasingly becoming the most restful environment he knew.

***

After his visit to the hospital wing, Wedge arrived at his office to find Tycho already there, facing the three strangers in silence across the makeshift table. The datacard he held in his hand contained a report from the captain of the shuttle he had sent down to the gas giant to investigate the call for help. He had discovered four pilots in strange, outlandish, vacuum-incompatible atmospheric fighters, almost out of fuel, one of them actually beneath the surface of the gas giant. A localised gravitational anomaly had been the only reason that the skyfighter hadn't been sucked further into the planet, beyond retrieval range.

By amplifying the tractor beam that the shuttle was specially equipped with for tractoring in EV pilots, he'd been able to tractor the skyfighter out of the giant, and found the pilot unconscious. The four skyfighters and their occupants had been loaded onto the Corellian corvette that had followed soon after to collect the wounded and prisoners. The unconscious pilot was now in bacta. Medical tests had diagnosed inhalation of muthinium, a gas toxic to humans that was the main component of the gas giant. However, the poisoning would be easily reversed by bacta treatment. Meanwhile, in all the busy aftermath of the rescue, the identity and purpose of the other three strangers had not yet been determined. They had been made comfortable in such quarters as could be obtained in the corvette and then in Folor Base, but were kept under constant guard.

Wedge looked over the newcomers. They did not carry themselves like hostile enemies. Rather, they seemed alert and apprehensive, with a kind of wide-eyed wonder that implied they were seeing everything for the first time, even the standard-issue datapad that Wedge held in his hand. In fact, they reminded Wedge a little of tourists from some backwater world, seeing a built-up world like Coruscant or even Corellia for the first time. Wedge hid a smile. Two were about his height and build, one blond and with sharp features, the other dark-haired and less intense-looking. The third was tall and slim in a way that reminded Wedge of Hobbie; only, he wore a strange device over one eye; a vision enhancer, perhaps. Make that a really backwater world, then; vision enhancers were so out of date on the Core worlds that they could only be seen in museums.

Before he could address them, however, the first pilot, obviously the leader, spoke. "We thank you for coming to our aid, but we want to know how we got here, who you are and where we are being taken." His accent was clipped, Imperial. Wedge hurriedly did some revision of his idea of backwater worlds. This could be some sort of Imperial trick.

Wedge adopted a neutral tone. "I am Commander Wedge Antilles of the New Republic. Captain Celchu you have met already. I gave the order to send help to you. I regret we have not been able to meet till now. Who are you and what were you doing in the Sukressh system?"

***

Biggles looked attentively at the young commander questioning him, relieved that he had spoken in English. His age was hard to guess - he could have been as young as Ginger, but his face, like Biggles' own, bore traces of wartime stress and memories of death witnessed that made him seem older. His accent was hard to place, but Biggles thought it could be American. "We are British pilots," he said. "My name is Squadron Leader Bigglesworth. These are Flight Lieutenants Lacey and Lissie." He saw the commander look at his deputy, puzzled. "British? Is that your homeworld designation, or a squadron you come from, or..."

"The country we come from, of course. You know. Britain? England?" supplied Algy impatiently. He was tired of not knowing what was going on. Wedge Antilles frowned. The name was unfamiliar - but, then, one was not expected to know the names of individual countries on each world - there were countless countries on countless worlds. "What is your homeworld?"

"Homeworld?" The three airmen stared blankly for a second, then it sank in. "Planet," muttered Biggles. "He means planet." Of course, for some inexplicable reason, they were no longer on Earth; the orange gas giant must have been Jupiter, or Mars, or... He remembered vaguely something he had learnt in school - there were nine planets in the star system. Which were gaseous? He couldn't remember. And which planet were they on now? "We're from Earth," said Biggles. "Of course, you probably have a different name for it. We're the... the third planet from the sun. Where are we now? Are we on Venus, or Saturn, or... oh, you probably have different names for them too. The fourth from the sun? The fifth?" he offered, helpfully.

The aristocratic-looking captain, Celchu, exchanged glances with his leader, then tapped on a datapad and shook his head. Wedge and Tycho, in reality, couldn't tell if the strangers were trying to pull a gigantic bluff. If what they were hearing was true, they were inhabitants of a world that had never made contact with other worlds, that had never learnt of the existence of other star systems. No holocomm. No concept of hyperspace. Perhaps they were from the Unknown Regions, perhaps like the Ssi-ruuk they had come from beyond the galaxy - but that still did not explain how they had ended up in a system near the centre of the galaxy with only four unspaceworthy fighters. And yet, intuitively, perhaps through the bond he could feel with them as fellow pilots, Wedge felt they could not be lying.

Wedge took a deep breath. "Stop me if you hear something you recognise," he said. And he plunged into a brief description of everything that, up to this moment, he had taken for granted. Corellia. Coruscant. The Core worlds. The trade routes through the galaxy. The millions of light-years that seperated each world. World governments. Holocomm. Hyperspace....

He was stopped by the man who had called himself Bigglesworth. The strange pilots had gone white. "I think we understand, Commander," said Biggles, cautiously, although there was much Antilles had said that he did not understand. "Your galaxy is strange to us and your discoveries in science very much more advanced. We however have never heard of life beyond our planet, or known of other solar systems beside our own. Either we are from a part of the galaxy that your trade and traffic have not reached, or we are from another galaxy altogether; perhaps even another time...."

Just then, there was a piercing shriek from the direction of the medical wing, and the sound of rushing feet in the corridor. Antilles jumped up, his hand to the blaster pistol slung at his hip. "I'm afraid we'll have to resume this discussion some other time."

***

Chapter Three

Interested pilots and station crew who peeked into the doorway of the medical wing were treated to the unusual spectacle of a very active patient, a slender young man, in the center of the white tiled floor, dripping bacta and gasping for air. It was Ginger, and he was being helped to his feet and wrapped in a towel by a scolding, motherly Mon Calamari nurse. A shocked Wedge and Tycho were listening to the verbal and non-verbal expostulations of an indignant Nrin Vakil and a still more indignant MD droid. To one side stood the three British airmen, developing expressions of horror and amusement by turns as the explanation became more apparent.

Waking up in an alien environment in all senses of the word, in a tank of sour-sweet pink liquid, attached to, as Ginger later put it, a sort of umbilical cord (in reality the breathing apparatus that supplied bacta patients with oxygen), Ginger had been shocked and terrified. He felt a horrible feeling of being a captive animal on display. All the American horror movies that he had ever watched came back to him. Captured by aliens! He kicked and involuntarily took a large sip of the sickly liquid he was in. He felt like screaming - and if his mouth had been empty, he would have. As luck would have it, the first living being he set eyes on was Nrin Vakil, come to visit Hobbie in the neighbouring tank.

"I know I'm not pretty," Nrin was saying, "but I didn't know I looked that bad. When he saw me, his eyes opened wide - so wide, like this" - he gestured with his hands - "and then he took two great gulps of bacta, like this" - he made burbling noises - "and then he launched himself out of the tank!" The MD droid punctuated Nrin's explanation with disgruntled whirrs and expressions of mechanical indignation. The breathing apparatus now hung crippled out of the vacated tank; it looked like there was more bacta in the puddle now forming around the young pilot's feet than remaining in the tank. In the background Hobbie, an immobilised witness to the whole scene, could be seen in his own bacta tank, choking with laughter behind his breather and probably swallowing a fair amount of bacta himself.

Wedge was having a very hard time trying to keep his face sympathetic and make soothing noises as he ushered Nrin to the door. This was not helped by the sight of the silent spasms of laughter that were going through Tycho's frame. Wedge could only imagine what had been going through the stranger boy's mind as he saw the warlike Quarren for the first time - Quarren always looked ferocious to humans unused to their species. Algy, grasping the situation, had a better idea; when he'd first seen the squid-like Nrin on entering the medical wing, visions of decapods and octopuses had flashed through his own head. The thought of being held captive by a race of sinister decapods had probably been too much for Ginger. Biggles, Algy and Bertie were themselves just learning that there were numerous, non-human sapient species that existed side by side with humans in this unfamilar galaxy, just as people of different races did on the Earth they knew.

"Wow," said Wes Janson, who had just shouldered his way through the crowd. "I wish I had seen that." There was a broad grin on his face. "I've always wondered if it was possible to get out of a bacta tank without outside assistance. I guess it is. I wish I could have seen that. It must have taken some somersault."

Wedge packed Tycho off with Nrin to explain the situation, so that Nrin wouldn't get the idea that the four strange pilots were xenophobes, and then dismissed the crowd with a brief "Show's over, folks." He closed the double doors to the med wing, shutting out everyone but the medical staff, himself, Wes, and the British.

Biggles, meanwhile, was making some furious explanations for the bewildered Ginger's benefit. Ginger was beginning to feel rather foolish. "How was I to know I was with friends?" he pleaded helplessly. Biggles relented. "All right," he said, eyeing his dripping comrade sternly. "I think at this stage you need a dressing-up more than you need a dressing-down." Bertie chuckled. Wedge nodded. "Follow Lt. Janson," he said to the deflated young pilot. Streaks of pink were still running out of the boy's hair, revealing its natural colour, a nice coppery-red.

Janson led Ginger off to the showers, cheerfully. "Don't worry, kiddo," he said. "I'll get you some clean linen. Let me explain about the different types of people in the New Republic...."

"At least we know he's well and back to normal," whispered Bertie to Algy. "Absolutely, by Jove."

***

"I can't believe you thought I was the one who made that shriek," snorted Ginger, too indignant to be embarrassed. They were sitting at one of the tables in DownTime, the newly constructed pilots’ lounge. "It was the MD... robot."
"Droid," corrected Algy. He was picking up the new vocabulary easily.
"Probably horrified at the wastage of his precious bacta," said Wes Janson, who was at their table along with Wedge and Tycho. "Not on your account, certainly."

The three pilots were wearing clothes loaned them by Commander Antilles himself and his friends. They'd been grimy from the battle they'd had just before the mysterious transition into Wedge's galaxy, and at Wedge's suggestion, they had gone for a shower too. Biggles was now wearing one of Wedge's spare maroon turtlenecks, black pants, and a black jacket scrounged from Tycho's belongings. Algy and Ginger had opted for a look that was more foreign to them - two of Tycho's Alderaanian tunics and two old jackets from the squadron's quartermaster store. "You British can't have all my pants," Wedge had said, so he and Ginger were wearing slacks from Janson, who with Hobbie seemed to have slightly more civilian clothes than Wedge and Tycho. The slacks were slightly big for them and they had to keep them up with belts. Wes had filched a complete outfit from Hobbie's warddrobe for Bertie without asking his permission since he'd still been in bacta. "Hobbie won't mind, and you're his size," he'd said. Now in a light yellow shirt, grey jacket and brown pants, Bertie looked so much like Hobbie from behind that members of Rogue Squadron, walking past, assumed he was Hobbie and did a double-take every time they realised the face was not his.

Hobbie stopped at their table, smelling of a fresh shower overlaid with a faint sourish scent of residual bacta. He did a double-take himself. "Janson!" he said, reproachfully. "You replaced me with a clone while I was gone."
"Yeah," said Janson. "Meet Dereek. I've programmed him to be less moody and more charming." Bertie gave a chuckle.
"Traitor," said Hobbie, shooting Wes a dirty look. He leaned in for handshakes. "I'm Derek Klivian. But most people call me Hobbie."
"Bigglesworth, also known as Biggles."
"Algy Lacey."
"Ginger."
"Bertie."

***

The British pilots were already on first-name terms with Wedge and his pilots. As soon as Intelligence had screened the four airmen and cleared them, the Rogues had made them welcome, accepting their presence as a miracle beyond comprehension. They had an air of confidence and experience that impelled Wedge to treat them as equals and gave him a suspicion that, despite their ignorance of most galactic technology and events, he could actually learn a thing or two from them. The last hour or so had been spent bringing them up-to-date. Wedge, Tycho and Wes had explained to them about events precipitating the civil war in the galaxy, the death of the Emperor, the Rebel opposition, and Rogue Squadron's duties and missions, and watched them struggle with and eventually absorb concepts like the HoloNet, hypercomm and hyperspace. In return, the pilots told them about the situation in their own world and the war they were fighting. Wedge looked at them with newfound respect. They were impressed in turn when they learnt that Wedge and his friends had been flying and fighting in battle for nearly six years. They hoped their own war would not last so long. Wedge informed them that the New Republic would probably have to fight for its existence for decades.

Over the next few days, as the Rogues were free, the British pilots were given a crash course in homeworlds, species and the civil war, and learnt about the xenophobia that was the hallmark of the Empire, and the destruction of Alderaan. The two were not necessarily related - Alderaan had been a human-majority world - but`then xenophobia had been one of the main reasons Alderaan had fought against the Empire.

They were silent as they took in the enormity of the disaster.
"That.... that's - terrible," said Ginger, his voice high-pitched. He'd been about to use the word inhuman but realised that it would be offensive to non-humans. By now he'd made friends with Nrin and Xarcce, the current non-human members of Rogue Squadron, and was beginning to understand how he should modify his expressions.
"There's a madman in the world we come from - from one of the other countries," said Algy. "He's called Hitler and he's leader of the nation we're fighting against - we told you about that. He's xenophobic too - has something against a race of us humans called Jews."
"Let's pray his xenophobia doesn't precipitate anything like Alderaan," said Biggles darkly.
A pall had been cast over all their hearts and they realised with a flush of shame that their own world, at the moment, had largely ignored the plight of oppressed peoples like the Jews. Was not the British Empire, too, guilty of some of the actions they were hearing this Galactic Empire being accused of? Colonialism, exploitation, the unconscious perception of certain races as 'inferior'; in the past few days they were learning to look at things from a different perspective, and squirmed to think that the British Empire could be as similar to the Galactic Empire as the Nazis were. Surely not, though? Surely Britons had more basic decency and honor than that. Swettenham, Raffles; for every colonist who had committed wrongs - out of ignorance rather than brutality, surely - were two who had done things the right way. But Wedge had told them of Imperials who were genuinely decent and believed they were spreading literacy and order throughout the galaxy. The man who had trained Tycho and Hobbie to be the brilliant pilots they were, Baron Fel, was one such individual. Yet Tycho and Hobbie, themselves former Imperials, had defected to the Rebel Alliance once they realised the excesses of the Empire.

Did it always take an Alderaan to bring people to their senses?

And even after Alderaan, people remained loyal to the Empire.

***

Chapter Four

Biggles and his three friends were having a late night in their quarters - they'd tried caf for the first time that day and it was keeping them up. It was three days since the New Republic had rescued them. Biggles was poring over a rough map of the galaxy, a datapad and a pile of datacards on the table beside him; Algy and Ginger were testing each other on Aurebesh. Bertie was standing at a viewport looking out at the bare plains of Folor, illuminated for a little way by the light from their rooms.
Algy managed to catch Biggles' eye as he looked up. "Well, what do you make of all this?" he asked.
A growing noise at the end of the hallway which their rooms opened out into was gradually making itself heard through the closed door. The Rogues seemed to be dispersing after a few hours at DownTime. The sound of an old Rebel drinking song came floating down the hallway, its lyrics just distinguishable.

The Sith take all Tatooine kids, they're bad at playing rough,
They shoot womp rats back home and so they think they're really tough,
I once simmed with such a farmboy, I thought I'd vape him dead,
Didn't know that he could use the Force - he flamed my tail instead!

"What I can't figure out is how we got here in the first place," said Biggles. "The more I think about it, the more it defes logic. Wedge said that the Rogues heard my cry for help over their headsets, and he was shocked when I informed him that between the four of us we didn't even have a comlink. Or radio, for that matter. In fact, it's incredible that we arrived at just this time."

The others nodded. Wedge had informed them of the reason for the squadron's temporary inaction - recuperation and retraining. Ever since its commission, Rogue Squadron had always undergone heavy attrition; a series of personal losses in recent months had hit the Rogues deeply, and now that the cycle of combat had ended more than half of the remaining pilots were leaving for one reason or another. Xarcce Huwla, a Tunroth whose extreme strength Ginger had witnessed on the slingball court, had requested transfer some time ago and this was being granted; Avan Beruss, a fair-haired Illodian who had come out of bacta a day after Ginger and Hobbie, and his squadmate and fiancee Feylis Ardele, had requested leave to be married, and Wedge reluctantly acknowledged the importance of their subsequent transfer to squadrons with a better safety record. In a day or two, they would be gone.

"More importantly; do you think Angus can manage on his own?" asked Algy worriedly. "The three most senior officers are you, myself, and Bertie, and we're all here. For starters, they'll be worried that we've gone missing - I imagine Raymond will be tearing his hair out by now."
"No one left to do his dirty work," grinned Biggles. He grew serious. "You have a point there. I don't know what our squadron or our superiors are going to think - but there's nothing we can do about it, is there? It looks like the best thing we can do is wait and see if a chance develops for us to go back. If anyone has a better idea, please tell me."
The others shook their heads. Bertie shrugged, still staring out of the viewport, hands in his borrowed pockets. "Still, it's a bit of a bind, not knowing what's going on," he murmured. "Last I heard the beastly Huns were gearing up for another big show. Frightful not knowing what's happening to your own country, what? Jolly rotten in fact." Another thought seemed to strike him, and his gloom deepened. "I hope Henry remembers to feed Towser," he muttered darkly. "Poor little doggie."

Bertie turned round to see Ginger and Algy laughing. Even Biggles had a faint smile on his lips. "I say, chaps, that's a bit thick," protested Bertie. "It's no laughing matter, this business of Huns, London in danger of bombs, hounds going hungry..."

"It's not that," said Ginger. "We're all worried too, and for the same important reasons. But you're wearing Hobbie's clothes... and you're really beginning to sound a lot like him."

The Sith take Alderaanians, they always think they're right,
They're gallant, but like battle neks, they see in black and white -
I once knew an Alderaanian, she was so set in her stride,
That when rancors heard her coming they would always step aside!

Plourr Ilo was due to return to Eiattu, where as ruler by bloodright she had her own responsibilities to fulfil. Nrin Vakil, too, was leaving, the recent death of a pilot from his homeworld, Ibtisam, having made him sick of combat. In effect, Rogue Squadron was being disbanded with a view to reforming it in future with fresh recruits. These would have to undergo training and a rigorous selection process, however, which was expected to take a few months. It was during this period of change that the British had appeared on the scene. This was the reason they had been so easily accomodated - if they had arrived at any other time Rogue Squadron would have had no time to attend to them.

The song was getting louder as the Rogues drew nearer to their sleeping quarters. Among the voices raised in song they could distinguish Janson's mischievous.tones, riding on an undercurrent of laughter that threatened to bubble to the surface.

The Sith take little Ewoks, and their song-and-dance routines,
They look harmless, but they'll serve you up to eat with lum and beans,
I once knew a little Ewok, and I danced with him in town,
But they got it down on holos and I never lived it down!

"Well, at least we're among friends," laughed Ginger. The Rogues had proved to be a friendly lot. They treated the British airmen as fellow pilots with experience, though it was experience gained on vastly different sorts of machines, and as a result were much more casual with them than if they had been new recruits. While Biggles and his friends still didn't get all the in-jokes, they could appreciate the efferverscence and camaraderie of the squadron.

The four oldest Rogues had clicked naturally with the four British pilots. Although the latter were more formal and reserved - "lighten up, or everyone will think you're Alderaanians," Wes had pointed out, earning a friendly punch from Tycho - they soon found they had a lot in common. Initially, they found Hobbie's coreward Ralltiirian accent the easiest to catch, but soon got used to the other Rogues' versions of Basic.

The night before, in fact, the eight of them had stayed up late in Wedge's cramped quarters, matching flying anecdote for flying anecdote. They'd gasped at the account of the Death Star trench run, at the audacity with which the Rebels cheated death, time and again. They listened to Wes tell of Hoth, the bitter cold and the climatic battle in which Hobbie had so nearly died, all while successfully inserting a number of complaints about Wedge's cooking. They heard the fiery Tycho speak with bitterness of Alderaan and how some people refused to believe the Empire was responsible. Hobbie described the Rand Ecliptic and the Rebel disaster, Derra IV, which he and Wes had unaccountably survived. Wedge spoke of Endor and the Rogues' subsequent missions to Mrlsst, to Tatooine and elsewhere.

In return, Biggles, Algy and Ginger had described some of their military ventures in brief - Maltovia, Spain, the Baltic, even their recent hair-raising escapade in Norway; Bertie, who had not heard these tales yet, joined the Rogues in listening with interest. The Rogues were surprised to learn that Biggles and Algy had first flown in war at the age of seventeen; an even younger age than themselves when they had started. However, as Ginger already knew from experience, they never spoke about the Great War. Even Algy grew moody at any mention of the war that had first opened his eyes to death as a teenager. If Wedge could understand this better than the other three Rogues, he had held his silence. In the end, the pilots had discussed the X-Wing and the Spitfire till they had dispersed, yawning, towards dawn.

Biggles stretched and groaned as he felt his bones creak. Another late night? He felt old compared to Antilles and his friends.

The Sith take all Ralltiirians and their awful sense of fun,
They're quiet and they're cautious, but they're crazy every one,
I once knew a guy from Ralltiir, couldn't hold his lomin ale,
He backed his speeder in a wall and now he's gone to jail!

They heard Hobbie break off from the jaunty song to interject earnestly, "Shouldn't he be in bacta instead?" - to shouts of laughter.

"The hardest thing to get used to in this galaxy," mused Biggles, "is actually not the technology - a word we've just learnt, in fact. It's not the loose arrangement of everything - that's something that must be expected, considering the times. It's not even the presence of different sapient species. It's the... the..."

"The women," supplied Algy, with a grin. He winked at Bertie, who frowned.
"Well, you'll have noticed -" said Biggles, a rueful expression on his face,
"They're so independent," finished Ginger. "They do all the same jobs as men, they dress the same if they want to, they face all the same kinds of danger..."
"Absolutely, old boy," lamented Bertie. "Hobbie's been telling me about Plourr, and you wouldn't believe..."

The Sith take Commenoreans and their appetite for pain,
They all join the Academy and go jogging in the rain,
I once knew a girl from Commenor, I asked her to defect,
But she left me immediately and never once called back!

The voices grew louder and seemed to stop outside the door. All the pilots in the squadron raised their voices to sing the last verse extra-loud, as was the tradition in New Republic bases everywhere across the galaxy, drowning out the good-natured protests of Wedge.

The Sith take all Corellians, they have no use for odds,
They all play too much sabacc and they think themselves the gods,
I once knew a Corellian, wanted to go Rebel too,
I told him "Go away because we’ve got enough of you!"

The song ended in an uproar, and with one accord the Rogues piled into the room. A few days ago, the British might have resented such a noisy invasion of their privacy, but they were not ungrateful, and had come to accept the very un-British ways of their hosts.

"Great news," shouted Wes above the mock scrap that was developing. "We've already decided what to do with you. You get to stay with us until you can figure out a way to get home, and in the meantime we'll teach you how to really fly." Wes threw one of Biggles' cushions at Algy, who threw it back. It split. Wedge and Biggles watched in horror as durafoam and cluck feathers flew everywhere.

"With Wes and me to teach you," said Hobbie, with a wicked expression that belied his mournful tone, "you're doomed."

***

Chapter Five

Biggles lifted the ersatz cockpit of his simulator X-Wing, jumped lightly down, and removed the unfamiliar, hard Rebel helmet. He was in a good mood, having just successfully completed the last module of basic X-Wing training, which all pilots had to complete before being allowed onto actual X-Wings. He looked around the spacious simulator complex, across which mechanics and pilots dressed in New Republic orange were bustling. Their calls echoed around the bare walls of the austere compound. The cockpit of the simulator nearest the one he had just vacated rose also, with a tired whine, and the pilot hurried up to join him. It was Algy, his hair standing in an unruly mess as it always did after a show, but he was laughing.

"Never thought after all we've been through, we'd have to learn to fly again, eh? Squadron-Leader Bigglesworth, RAF, about to receive his beginner's certificate!" Algy ungloved one hand and ran his bare fingers through his hair in an effort to tame the mess. Biggles grinned. "And what about you, laddie?" he asked. "You're not such a hot shot in this new aircraft, either. I saw you clip one of Ginger's wings in the last spot of firing, just between the two big buildings."
"I did not!" declared Algy, indignantly. "I was firing at the lead TIE, and I got him."
"After making a few pretty scorch marks on Ginger's machine," replied Biggles. "Ah, here he comes! Now we shall see."

Ginger stalked up, Bertie in his wake, and stared belligerently in their direction. "Hey, what's the big idea?" he demanded coldly. "There I was, with a Hu- er, TIE - sitting lined up in my sights and just as I am about to fire, red lasers come flashing across my nose! Red, not green! I have to take evasive action, the shield scatter spoils my shot, and the next thing I know, Bertie has bagged the squint, and I end up with nothing but a dupe and some ground targets to my name in the last basic exercise!"
Biggles held up a hand. "Calm down, old boy, I'm sure Algy will get his hand in sooner or later," he said, with a glance at Algy. To his surprise, Ginger's expression of annoyance changed to astonishment and then amusement, and he pointed a finger at Biggles. "It wasn't Algy, it was you!" he exclaimed, in a tone that brooked no argument. Algy burst out laughing.
"Is that so?" inquired Biggles, taken aback. "But I was nowhere near you, between those two buildings..."
"Oh, not the buildings! That was Algy, all right. He's got to learn to shoot straight." Ginger grinned at the expression of chagrin that appeared on Algy's face; he knew no one would ever be able to fault Algy's shooting in a Spitfire, and he was making the most of the rare opportunity to tease him. "I'm talking about the trench! You definitely spoiled my shot there!"
A smile slowly spread across Biggles' face as he recalled the situation. "Why, who would have thought that," he murmured. "After so many years on top of my game, I do need reminding that, like everyone else, I still make mistakes."
"Hi, hi," pleaded Bertie, industriously polishing his eyeglass, which he insisted on wearing no matter that it got steamed up in the stuffy simulators. "Enough talk. Let's find a drink. I'm absolutely dried-up in fact. My head's still in a whirl from trying to toggle bally shields, torps, quad-fire and what-have-you. I don't know how the chappies here do it. Why, I can barely do an Immelmann turn without having to worry about whether my repulsorlifts will bounce me off something, or where to shunt power, or whether to link fire, yes, by Jove!"

His agitation was so familiar to the other three that they laughed and nodded. Flying the powerful X-Wing after decades of light piston-engine aircraft was difficult; there were so many more controls in the cockpit, so many more variables to watch out for in the air - or in space, and so many more pilot aids such as the light display, the comlink and the ability to manually redistribute power between the lasers, the engines and the shields that at first it had been hard to perform even simple maneuvers without having panic attacks. And of course, the X-Wing was vastly superior in terms of speed and power, and stood up much better under strain than the comparatively more fragile aircraft they were used to. The four British pilots could not help getting a kick out of the sensation of sheer power that the four Incom fusial thrust engines gave - the difference between this, and the single Merlin engine of the Spit, was enormous. In the first week of their training, all four had been too nervous to use full throttle on the X-Wings, even in simulation; used to speeds of five miles a minute, they could not bear the knowledge that they would be travelling at more than twice that speed. Wedge and the others had laughed at the white-knuckled way they clung to the controls, suggesting that they use only repulsorlifts for the rest of their training; it had been their good-natured jibes that had driven the British airmen to confidence, and even to brilliance. For now Hobbie and Wes rushed up to them, waving datapads wildly.

"That was nerfing brilliant," shouted Hobbie above the noise of the sim complex. "I have never seen such high scores for a basic training course."
"You haven't seen a lot of things, Hobbie," scoffed Janson. But anyone could tell that he, too, was pleased. Wes and Hobbie, true to their word, had made training the British airmen their personal responsibility, and were being rewarded by the unusually quick progress that their charges made. If formerly they had had no inkling of just how much the flyers were valued as pilots in their home country, they were now beginning to have a pretty good idea. The basic training course was meant to familiarise pilots with the controls of an X-Wing and to give them a taste of combat conditions, but trainees were not expected, at this level, to have learnt much skill in manipulating the controls to give optimum performance in battle, nor to be able to shoot down enemy fighters. Yet, despite the obvious initial difficulty the British had had getting used to handling the X-Wing, they had gained enough mastery - in a shorter time than it usually took candidates to complete the course - to actually engage the enemy in various simulations and survive. This was phenomenal; Wes attributed it to the existing combat skills of the veteran war flyers.

"Actually, I kind of miss the old Spit," remarked Biggles. The Spitfires were in storage in one of the smaler hangars of Folor Base; Ginger had repaired his damaged Spit and taught a Verpine mechanic how to help him with the maintenance of the four planes, but at the moment they were not in use, there being no need for them. Biggles missed the feeling of being 'in touch' with his environment that the Spit gave; she was flimsy in comparison with the X-Wing, but her jerks and shudders, and the way she responded to the controls at a light touch, gave him reassurance. Inside the cockpit of an X-Wing he felt boxed in, insulated from being able to 'feel' the way his machine responded to the outside world by inertial compensators which eliminated the sensation of gravity, and a lot of cold, heavy hardware that he could not maneuver with the same nuances of motion that he could a Spitfire. The X-Wing, being more hardy, could be flung about in a way the Spit could not, and it was nearly impossible to stall it, with all its built-in compensation mechanisms; but at the same time it could not perform the same acrobatics that he was used to in the smaller, lighter Spit - what it made up for in maneuverability in one department it lacked in another. Through discussions with the others, he knew that they felt the same way. On the one hand, it was an exhiliarating experience to shoot through the skies and even space in the powerful X-Wing; yet the X-Wing simply lacked the beauty of motion and the familiarity of the Spitfire. Wedge knew about this, and had laughed. "That's how we feel about our X-Wings compared to some of the newer snubfighters they came up with, like the A-Wing and the V-Wing," he'd said. "But to survive as a pilot in this galaxy, you've got to learn how to fly our machines. Besides, you haven't lived till you've flown an Incom T-65." And grudgingly, Biggles had to admit that he was right.

Clapping a hand on Ginger's shoulder and another on Algy's, Wes propelled the party towards DownTime. "Ah, well, you know the old saying, X-Wings rule, Spits are uncool..." He ducked, but did not quite succeed in avoiding the well-aimed jabs of Ginger and Algy. "Ow! Hey, look at this," he said, scrolling through his datapad as a light on its screen started flashing. "The Pulsar Skate's just in! Mirax has arrived! Let's hope she's brought some Whyren's Reserve."

***

They found the Pulsar Skate running on repulsorlifts in the transport hangar. The light smuggler's yacht with its organic curves was a graceful sight in comparison with the functional, military-style transports in the hangar as it taxied smoothly into a docking bay and settled down as its engines were powered off. A ramp opened in its underside, and the silhouette of a woman appeared against the lighted interior of the feminine craft.

"That's Mirax Terrik," sighed Janson. "Attractive, but untouchable. She hates me."
"Hates us, you mean," chimed in Hobbie. He, too, sighed. The British airmen watched curiously as the slender figure of Mirax, whom Wes and Hobbie, in a series of drinking sessions, had jokingly but sentimentally claimed to have broken both their hearts, descended the ramp. Whatever vague image of delicate, idealised Lilli-Marlene wartime beauty these half-sober ramblings had left on their British sensibilities, it was immediately overturned. They saw a petite young woman in a distinctive fur-lined flight jacket with a ladies' cut that was left unfastened to reveal her light blouse. She had long dark hair that framed an open, attractive face. Over her right shoulder was slung a bulky-looking carrier bag, while a pair of men's boots enhanced her businesslike air. A blaster holster, like the one that Wedge and the other pilots wore even in civilian outfit, was strapped to her right thigh. She walked with a light but confident step that was almost a Corellian man's swagger, and a vigorous energy that suggested she thought no less of her competence as a pilot and a Rebel for being a woman. Her tomboyish outfit and bearing seemed designed to let onlookers know that she considered herself as tough as any of the 'boys' and expected to be treated no differently, yet at the same time subtle cues - the fur that lined her throat and wrists, the close-fitting masculine garments - accentuated her feminity and marked her as all the tougher for being a woman in a rough smuggler's occupation. Her obvious youth was offset by her air of experience and self-assurance - which she now projected onto Janson with a grin that showed a row of very white teeth.

"Hey, Mirax," yelled Janson as she came within earshot. "I must admit I'm flattered, I didn't expect you to come all the way here just to see me!"
Mirax, reaching the foot of the ramp, gave Janson a sweet smile. "Nice try, Janson, but forget it. My life is complicated enough as it is without having to get romantically involved with one of the most notorious skirtchasers of Rogue Squadron. And, anyway, as I already told Wedge, I'll allow myself to be set up with someone the day he gets some cute pilots."
"Aww, Mirax! Have a heart."
"Go away, Janson. No, on second thoughts, I need you to take me to Wedge's office. Hi, Hobbie. No, please don't tell me that you love me, it still doesn't work." Ignoring Hobbie's stricken look, she tapped something into her datapad and continued her stride. Janson and Hobbie fell into step beside her. Suddenly, she looked up and took in the surroundings beyond Janson for the first time. Her eyes sparkled and she cast Janson a mischievous grin. "Say, Wes, you didn't tell me that Wedge had already got some cute recruits?"

Janson raised an eyebrow. "You mean them?" He cast a glance at the British party, whom he and Hobbie had so recently abandoned. They were drifting along in their direction, within earshot, having evidently been following Janson's progress - or lack of it - with interest; in the orange flightsuits they'd been simming in, they looked every inch trainee X-Wing pilots, which in fact they were. "They're outsiders-" but Mirax was already introducing herself.
"Hi, I'm Mirax," she said, holding out a hand. Biggles took it with some embarrassment; he was unused to dealing with women, especially women who wore trousers - a sight he was not yet used to - and radiated such an aura of confidence, even cockiness. Worrals, yes, he had met, with her ascerbic tongue to rival his own; but Mirax was another type altogether. At his accent, Mirax grew interested. "You lot from the Imperial Academy?" she asked.
"Not exactly," said Biggles. In a few words, with interjections from Ginger, Algy and Bertie, they explained their predicament.
"Ah," said Mirax. Curiously, she did not seem to be at all surprised, and Algy said so. "Smugglers hear a lot of strange stories," she said calmly. "I've heard rumours of this sort of thing before. But you're the first genuine off-Galaxy people I've actually met."
"Well, we're in a bit of a jam," explained Biggles. "We're trying to get home as fast as we can, because we're needed in our own country. Wedge tells me he's working on a solution, but we haven't been able to figure anything out."
"Perhaps I'll be able to help," said Mirax. "But first, I have urgent business to attend to. I need to talk to Wedge." She paused in her stride for a moment, as if considering whether or not to confide any more information to the pilots. Then she shook her head. "Need-to-know basis," she said apologetically.
"Wait," said Algy. "I need to know something, too." As she turned round, inquiring, her eyes met the infectious grin of the British pilot with the untidy hair. He was standing close enough for her to see the freckles that dotted the fair skin over his cheekbones. "I overheard what you said to Janson. Did you mention something about some 'cute pilots'?"
Mirax's amusement shone through her eyes, but her tone was deliberately flippant. "Why, so I did. I must be getting careless."
"Well... uh, it seems to me that you're in luck, because we're trapped here."
Mirax raised her eyebrows. Flyboys. They were the same all over, no matter what galaxy they came from.
"Your loss, my gain. I see."
"It's hardly a loss to be talking to such a charming lady. May I?" He made as if to take her bulky carrier from her - this last action was a natural one, not part of the flirtation - but she tightened her grip on the strap and declined with a smile.
Algy went on, undaunted, ignoring a snort from Bertie and the fact that Biggles had fixed him with a disapproving stare. "If you'll be here for some time, perhaps you could show us around. We'll be seeing you on base, I'm sure."
Mirax grimaced. "You obviously need no encouragement." In spite of herself, however, she had to acknowledge that there was a certain charm to the freckled stranger's methods, which held a certain old-world courtesy that Janson's definitely lacked. As she had told Wes, she had no intention of complicating her life by getting involved in any romantic entanglements, especially with a stranger from another galaxy. However, her eyes glinted as she realised what a marvellous opportunity this was to silence Janson and Hobbie, at least for the moment. The temptation overcame her usual reserve. She pulled out a scrap of flimsi and slipped it into Algy's hand. "My comm number," she said slightly louder than was necessary, and was rewarded by the sight, out of the corner of her eye, of Janson's jaw dropping. "In case you need me." Brown eyes met brown for a moment as she grinned conspiratorially up at Algy. Then she resumed her brisk walk, heading in the direction of the lifts to the hangar.

A babble of voices broke out as soon as Mirax turned the corner. Janson let out a low whistle, and looked Algy up and down as if he had never seen him before. He opened his mouth as if to say something, before remembering his task as guide and scurrying round the corner to catch Mirax up.
"Well, did you see that?" declared Ginger, staring coldly at Algy, who with a rather pleased look was stowing the flimsi carefully away in one of the pockets of his flight suit. "Cool as a cucumber."
Hobbie suppressed a groan. "Me and Wes, we've been trying to get that number for years!"
Biggles rounded on Algy accusingly. "Are you completely insane? This is neither the time nor place to start - anything -"
Bertie's mouth was open. "Blow me down!" he said.
"Just keeping my hand in," said Algy, apologetically. Anything else he might have said was drowned by the chorus of groans and whistles that went up from the other pilots.

***

Chapter Six

As luck would have it, Wedge was not in his office. He had gone to the darkened, empty briefing amphitheatre to be alone with his thoughts. The room had recently been whitewashed and fitted with env-control and briefing facilities, but the uneven hollows of its ceiling and the grooves in its walls hinted at its former purpose. Folor Base was a former mine complex which the Rebels had recently found abandoned and converted to a pilot training facility, with construction works still going on; the reason it had not yet been pounded by heavy Imperial bombardment was that it was still a secret from the Empire. Wedge wondered how long it would take for traitors, scouts or probe droids to compromise the base's security and force them to fight or flee; he was tired of both, for he could remember doing nothing else ever since he had started flying for the Rebellion. The years of pent-up fatigue seemed now to pool in his blood; he sank into one of the tiered rows of seats, letting his head sink wearily into his hands.

Now that he had a few weeks of rest before the selection procedure for new recruits began, Wedge actually found himself more tired than before. When planning and carrying out missions in various star systems across the galaxy, flying in combat, living in continual fear that his pilots would die, or high on the exhiliaration of a completed job, there was never any time to be tired. It was in between cycles that the loneliness and the fatigue caught up with him, as well as the perpetual sadness that always lingered in a small space under his heart - the remembrance of all the dead. It seemed as if people he knew had been dying all the time ever since the death of his parents when he had been seventeen. Not only that, it seemed as if he had never stopped killing since he had, at the same age, vaped the ship of the pirates who had caused that fire in the fuel station that his family ran. Among the images of Biggs and Jek and Ibtisam and Dllr and Herian which floated accusingly in his mind whenever he was by himself would always stand ranks of the anonymous TIE pilots whom he had killed; he did not dare to think of the civilians he might have killed as collateral damage, or he would go mad. How many more young boys had he orphaned since he had been orphaned? And how many more wives would he have to widow, parents to bereave, or friends to embitter before the war was over? As always, the complete senselessness of war baffled him.

As commanding officer of Rogue Squadron - a unit whose function was killing and destruction, no matter how you looked at it - whether the pilots killed in battle were Rebel or Imperial, their blood would be on his head. The only difference was that if they were Rebel, he would have to write the letter to their relatives. It had taken him a full day to write the condolence letter to Ibtisam's next-of-kin; no matter how many times it happened, it was always painful, always personal. To think he had once wanted to be an architect! Wedge let out a short bark of laughter. As a military man, he was more often than not involved in destuction rather than creation nowadays. Again the pain stabbed him, the responsibility for the deaths of others, the guilt at being alive. Folor Base was in the Commenor system, maddeningly close to Corellia; the closer he was to the Corellian sector, the deeper the old wounds reopened. It was a full ten years ago, almost to the day, but he still thought about it: if he had not been with Booster that day, he would have been on the Antilles fueling station when the fire had started. The thought led to another, very similar; if he had died at Yavin, perhaps Jek or Biggs or any of the dozen others would have lived in his place. If he had died at Hoth, perhaps Zev would still be alive. If he had died at Derra IV, perhaps others would have lived. If he had died at Bakura...

Then he smiled. He remembered what Luke had told him once, one wretched night long ago in his quarters on board Home One when tears had come and his emotions had been so raw that no Jedi could have walked past his room without feeling his pain like a punch in the gut. He had been trying to keep it to himself, but there was no fooling Luke. Luke, when he'd popped his head in, had not been in the best of moods, either. Wedge, will you stop blaming yourself? If you had died at Yavin, there'd have been no one to trip up the AT-AT at Hoth after Dak died. If you'd died at Hoth, there'd have been no one to escort Lando into the second Death Star. If you'd died at Endor, there'd have been no pilot brave or stupid enough to pop his hand into that drone ship once he'd activated the self-destruct mechanism. If you'd died at Bakura, there'd be no one else who could lead Rogue Squadron. So stop blaming yourself for what isn't your fault and get this: your survival hasn't been responsible for the deaths of Biggs and the others, but it has been responsible for the continued lives of many more who would have died if you'd died. Now please cheer up and let a Jedi get some sleep.

That was impeccable logic, and Wedge apologised silently to Luke for forgetting so often. He remembered something else Luke had added, a trifle testily, before withdrawing his head. Biggs was my friend too, you know. Long before he had been Wedge's friend, Biggs had been Luke's friend. He could only imagine how Luke must have felt when Biggs had died. Yes; he didn't have a monopoly on survivor's guilt. War had scarred them all, but it could not be helped, good had to defend itself against evil; and better to be fighting for truth than fighting for the lies of the Empire. Speaking of Biggs, he wondered what Luke would have thought of this British mystery, Bigglesworth. His mind began to tread a different path, one that was growing increasingly well-worn. It was the question of what to do with the British.

The recent arrival of the British was a continual puzzlement to Wedge. He was touched by their obvious agitation at being trapped in an unfamiliar galaxy at a time when their country was under siege and needed every pilot it could possibly produce. Used to witnessing battles for entire worlds, when individual countries could be captured in days or hours, Wedge listened to their account of the siege of Britain with more trepidation than he cared to let on. Knowing that every hour counted, he was doing his best to discover a way of getting them back. But thus far he had found no conceivable solution.

Hoping that the British would not have to stay long enough to fight and die in Rogue Squadron, Wedge had not seen fit to distance himself from Biggles and his friends as he often did with new recruits. He could sense the strong bonds of friendship, forged in the fire of war, between the four of them that made them a unit, as much an item as he, Tycho, Wes and Hobbie were. But after a few weeks together, the two tightly-knit groups were already merging, new friendships and alliances making themselves apparent. Wedge laughed and shook off the last traces of his fatigue. Wes and Algy had clicked naturally; they made a merry pair, roaring at each other's anecdotes and egging each other on, cracking the mess up with jokes and often utilising the milder, but equally nonconformist, Hobbie and Bertie as their straightmen. Wedge had made a mental note: a potentially explosive combination, something to keep an eye on. He only hoped Wes would not introduce Algy to Ewoks too soon.

A familiar voice interrupted him and the lights came on. "Credcoin for your thoughts, Commander." Wedge leapt up and turned, saluting, to see the piscine form of Admiral Ackbar descending the aisle of steps. Tycho followed the admiral, grinning; evidently, knowing Wedge's habits better than anyone else, he had guessed that Wedge would be here and had brought the admiral along.

"Sir!" said Wedge. "If I'd known you were here..." Ackbar held up a webbed hand. "At ease, Commander. Home One is at Folor Base for refuelling and repairs; I thought I'd surprise you." Ackbar always came straight to the point. "I wanted to hear from you what, exactly, is the basis of these rumours about off-Galaxy people in your squadron. Cracken's people haven't been very helpful; I don't think they know much either. Now, what's going on?"

Wedge explained from the beginning.

"You see, sir, when we realised that there was nothing we could do about the situation, we thought it would be a good idea to keep them on base and tap their combat expertise for the sake of the Rebellion. Where else could they have gone? They know no one in this galaxy, they arrived with no credits or possessions, and they're still as unfamiliar with our ways as a bunch of Agamarians. Even if we gave them transport to any world they wanted they'd still be lost, and miserable. It's our duty to help them, sir. They need guidance, and we can give it. We need manpower, and they can provide it. They're good pilots where they come from, the best. We thought, if we trained them to fly X-Wings -"

"Stop, stop," said Ackbar. "You're telling me you want to spend New Republic resources on training a quartet of pilots from beyond beyond the Outer Rim when they'll leave, and we'll help them leave, at the earliest opportunity? You've always been generous, Commander Antilles, but you'll have to explain your idea a bit more before it even begins to sound reasonable to me. Turn the humidifier up a little, would you, Captain? Thank you."

Wedge took a deep breath. "Perhaps I should make myself clear, sir. Firstly, we don't know how long they'll be here. Whatever brought them here is the only thing that can bring them back again, and it doesn't seem within our control. It could be weeks, months or even years before it acts again, hopefully to return them to their own time and place. It would be a pity if we had four pilots of Rogue Squadron standard under our noses and made no move to train them for months and months. In fact, it would be a crime, sir."

"How so?" Ackbar's barbels twitched, a sign that he was interested. Wedge continued. "We train pilots so that we can strike at the Empire. Every bit of the Empire that goes means a better life for more worlds, and a faster end to the war, or Imperial rule, for them. It brings forward the time when no more deaths, civilian or military, will have to be caused by war or atrocities. Whether they go to Rogue Squadron or to another X-Wing Squadron, the presence of four good pilots could mean the saving of a certain amount of lives in the long run, by the shortening of the reign of the Empire just a little bit more, maybe over even just one world. Conversely, their absence, when they could have been fighting for the Rebellion, could mean that those lives which could have been saved are lost. Knowing that those lives could be saved by a decision in our hands means that if we don't make the decision to save them, it's our fault. That's practically murder, sir."

Ackbar sighed. No one better than he knew the sufferings of worlds under Imperial reign. "Go on."

"My second point, sir, is that these British are willing to fly for us, or I would never have suggested the idea. They take a professional interest in learning to fly the X-Wings, and a personal interest in helping our cause. They say that they'd go crazy not being able to fight the enemy in their homeworld and not being able to help in the war here either. I think, sir, that they see flying against the Empire as a way of fighting their own war too even while absent in person." The similarities between Wedge's war and Biggles' were indeed compelling. Wedge was fighting to overcome a cruel Empire which controlled the entire galaxy; Biggles to defeat the powers which wanted to create such an Empire over his own world. Wedge remembered a heartfelt comment which Bertie had made with unusual seriousness the night they'd outlined their idea, which had been greeted by the British with acclaim. "Thanks, old war-horse," he'd said, his blue eyes unusually bright. "Even if we never get back in time to fight for jolly old England - yes, by Jove - or even if we get back tomorrow, we'd want to spend as much time as we can fighting the stinkers who spoil life for other people. We'd go off our rockers sitting here anyway, boiling with anxiety on account of the Nazis back home and the Imperials here. We're not just going to twiddle our thumbs while other chappies die for the cause, no bally fear. What's dark is dark, and fighting the dark is always right, no matter where it takes place, if you see what I mean?" Wedge hadn't been able to understand half of his expressions, but he did see what he meant, and he hoped Ackbar did too.

"Yes, I see," said Ackbar. "But how can you be so sure that they have what it takes to be good X-Wing pilots?"

Wedge breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, an opportunity to back up his logical theories with fact. "Begging your pardon, sir, I have already taken the liberty of allowing them to complete their primary course, monitoring how well they perform in simulators. I would have consulted you, but I wanted to see if the idea was feasible before presenting it to you. The simulators are free these few weeks while we wait for the applications to Rogue Squadron to be sorted, sir. Lt Janson and Lt Klivian volunteered to be in charge of the training in their own free time, so none of the resources of the new Republic have been wasted." Wedge brought the final scores of the four trainees up on his datapad and showed them to Ackbar.

"As you can see, sir, their performance, even in basic sims, is extraordinary - right off the scale." Ackbar nodded, and Wedge felt encouraged enough to volunteer more information. "Bigglesworth, Lacey and Lissie have on average more than twenty years' experience in skyfighters each, Hebbelthwaite more than five, many in combat situations, which perhaps explains their proficiency with the similar controls and an inherent situational awareness level which many new X-Wing pilots take years to acquire. They are adjusting to the high performance of the X-Wings well."

Ackbar made a noise. "Do you think they can be trusted? I know Intelligence has cleared them, but what do you think?"

Wedge stated firmly, "I have absolute faith in Bigglesworth, sir. He and his friends would no more betray us than Captain Celchu would." He noticed that behind Admiral Ackbar, Tycho had clapped a hand to his head in comic disbelief at Wedge's compliment, and stifled a smile.

Ackbar's lip fringe twitched in an approximation of a human smile and he waved a webbed hand. "All right, Antilles. I trust your judgement. Officially, I know nothing about these off-Galaxy people and they should be left off the records; no one in future besides those of us who have seen them will believe they existed anyway. Personally, I give you my backing. Perhaps it would be wise to keep this as secret as possible. Four crack pilots, appearing in the Rebel forces suddenly and without warning, could offer a serious blow to Imperial operations and morale."

Wedge let out a breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding. "My thoughts exactly, sir."

"You do understand that, for political reasons as well as practical reasons - say they disappear one day back to their homeworld - I would not give them places in Rogue Squadron or any other Squadron in fact. Four of them, you say? You'd do better to keep them as an independent flight that can be attached to a squadron for certain missions. I agree, they'd be a useful wild card to play against the Empire. I'll consult with General Cracken. He might find this useful for Intelligence work too." Ackbar turned towards the door. As he made his way out, he looked over his shoulder and winked - another human mannerism he had taught himself for better communication with his human subordinates. "Good job. Don't disappoint me, Wedge. Keep it quiet. It's my career as well as yours if the politicians find out we're supplying fuel and X-Wings to four pilots from outer space. We'd be a laughing stock and Borsk Feyl'ya would have a field day. Give my regards to the British pilots." He left.

Wedge sank into his seat and passed a hand over his brow. Tycho joined him at the next seat. "Have you seen their final scores, Wedge?" The blond Alderaanian was brimming with excitement. "I think we have some serious competition."

To Be Continued...

Despite trying to be as faithful to both canons as possible, I am bound to have made some errors and anachronisms (even within the premise of the story, I mean)! Corrections and criticism are always welcome - I've already made a correction or two on the recommendations of others, or when I've spotted them. :) I know I’m not that good a writer, so there are parts which could have been a lot better. 

© Joanna Chan (aka bantha_pudoo) 2004

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