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The Corellian pilot exhaled slowly as he sank back into the chair. “Thrawn, dead. That pretty much breaks the back of the Empire’s remnants, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly hurts them, yes. There are still warlords out there—Teradoc, Harssk, Krennel—and some ex-Imperials who have gone feral and are leading pirate bands. There are also clusters of loyal Imperial systems that are fairly self-sufficient, but they don’t seem to be much of a threat to the New Republic. We will have to continue battling the warlords, and I have no doubt there are more Imperial weapons of mass destruction lurking out there to catch us like a riptide, but we have gotten past a stretch of rough water.”

Wedge blinked, then shook his head. “It’s been eight or nine years now that I’ve been fighting against the Empire. There were times I didn’t think I was going to live another moment. I don’t think I ever let myself dream I might survive this long, to see this sort of victory. This was always a goal, but now that it’s here …”

He fell silent as a host of emotions exploded in his chest. An incredible sensation of relief washed over him. I’m alive, actually alive. Pleasure at the number of his comrades who had also survived followed quickly on its heels, chased by the melancholy of remembering those who had died. Biggs, Dack, Ibtisam, Riv, the Admiral’s niece Jesmin, Grinder, Castin Donn, Peshk, Jek Porkins—too many, far too many.

Yet even as memories of the dead tried to weigh him down, his spirits soared. The Rebellion had actually done it, had actually defeated the Empire and liberated trillions of subjugated people. Oppression had been exchanged for hope, misery for freedom. It had been an act of sheer will by so many that allowed for the Rebellion’s success, and Wedge took great joy in his contribution to that effort.

He looked up at Ackbar. “I never really dared let myself look beyond the next battle, and now, it seems, there might truly be an end to the warfare. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.”

Ackbar’s lip-fringes twitched. “Said like a man contemplating retirement.”

“Retirement? I’m not even thirty.”

“Warfare is an occupation from which one can never retire too young, Commander.”

“Good point, Admiral.” Wedge smiled. “Maybe I could retire—not immediately, mind you. I literally don’t know what I would do with myself if I did. Maybe write my memoirs or get some education. I always wanted to be an architect, and peace could mean a lot of building.”

Ackbar nodded. “Find yourself a mate, raise a small school of children?”

Wedge wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know about a school of children, but a couple, sure. However, that’s further down the line, I think.”

“True.” Ackbar turned to face him and rested his forearms on his desk. “There is a more immediate problem I need you to deal with.”

“Yes?”

“I want you to accept immediate promotion to the rank of General.”

Wedge shook his head. “Hey, I won that Wraith Squadron bet.”

“Yes, you did, and very adroitly.” Ackbar pressed his hands together. “Commander, we have played this shell game, you and I, for years. You don’t want a promotion because you don’t want to move out of an X-wing cockpit. I certainly can appreciate your desires. I can sympathize with them, but I also know you are capable of handling greater responsibilities than you have been. This promotion would address those responsibilities.”

“Address how? I’m at my best planning small-unit tactical operations.”

“Ah, so the conquest of Thyferra was a small-unit tactical operation?”

Wedge hesitated. “Well, yes, sort of.”

Ackbar shook his head. “I allowed you to deflect me with the whole Wraith Squadron concept, and I value you enough to seriously consider letting you remain in command of a fighter unit.”

“Rogue Squadron? Or am I going to have to command a full wing the way General Salm does?”

“Rogue Squadron will be sufficient for now.”

The Corellian arched an eyebrow at his superior. “If you’re willing to leave me in charge of Rogue Squadron, I guess I don’t need a promotion, then.”

The Mon Calamari