Star Wars_ X-Wing 01_ Rogue Squadron - Michael A. Stackpole [76]
He shook his head. “That makes no sense, of course.”
Ackbar patted him on the shoulder. “It does make sense. We know war is barbaric, but we try not to be barbaric in waging war. We hold ourselves to a high standard that demands we only attack legitimate military targets—not civilians, not medical frigates. We would like to see this honor we demand of ourselves reflected in the actions of our enemies.”
“But if they were as honorable as we are, we’d not be fighting this war.”
“And in that, Commander Antilles, you have the core of the whole problem.” The Mon Calamari paced away from the viewport. “When will your people be out of the tanks?”
Wedge glanced down at his chronometer. “Twelve hours more for Horn and Darklighter, another twenty-four to forty-eight for Andoorni Hui. I’ve been told it has something to do with her metabolism, but she was hurt worse than they were, too. I want to hold a memorial for Lujayne fairly soon.” He rubbed his eyes. “Gavin will be crushed—she’s been helping him sharpen his astronavigation skills.”
“It seems, then, nothing can be done until at least twelve hours from now.”
Wedge shook his head. “Nope, we just have to wait.”
“No, you just have to sleep.”
The Corellian turned and looked at Ackbar. “I can rest later.”
“But you will rest now. Consider that an order, Commander, or I will order a Too-Onebee droid to sedate you.” Ackbar’s chin came up as he spoke and Wedge knew he’d carry out his threat. “In fourteen hours I want to see you and your XO on Home One. General Salm will have arrived by then.”
“If I’d known I could look forward to a dressing down by him, I’d have let the stormtroopers shoot me.”
“Yes, he can have that effect, can’t he?” Ackbar’s mouth hung open in a silent laugh at his joke. “The purpose of this meeting is not a reprimand, however.”
“No?”
“No.” Ackbar’s voice became calmer, yet more intense. “Someone in the Empire struck at one of my forward bases. If we don’t strike back, and strike back hard, they might feel emboldened to continue such activity. I don’t want this to happen. General Salm’s bomber wing should be sufficient for exacting retribution.”
“If you want Rogue Squadron to fly cover for such a mission, you have us.”
“That was the reaction I expected from you, Commander. Now, go get some sleep.”
“Yes, sir.” Wedge saluted. Sleep it is, and dreams of retribution will be very pleasant indeed.
Corran wasn’t certain what was worse: the sour taste of bacta in the back of his throat or feeling like he was still bobbing up and down in the tank. To him bacta tasted like lum that had gone flat, gotten stale, and been stored in the sort of plastic barrel that lent it an oiliness that slicked his tongue. Because the blaster bolt had punctured his right lung and collapsed it, a little bacta had been circulated through the lung, bringing the fluid’s cloying bouquet to his nose every time he exhaled.
Other than that, he felt pretty good. He still had a reddish spot on his chest where he had been shot. The mark on him was about half the size of the mark on Gavin. Corran realized that armor had saved his life by absorbing some of the power of the bolt—how Gavin survived taking a shot to the naked abdomen he hadn’t a clue.
Gavin rolled onto his side on the next bed over. “Never done that before.”
“Blunder into a lightfight or spend time in a bacta tank?”
“Neither.” The youth frowned. “I didn’t think I was blundering …”
“You weren’t.” Corran shook his head and swung his feet around so he could sit up. “I should have realized