Final fic for the 2013 Rogues and Wraiths Ficathon
Just sneaking in under the wire before it turns midnight over here in Scotland!
Title: Identity Crisis
Rating: G
Setting: ABY35
Disclaimer: Lucas/Disney own everything Star Wars; I’m just having fun.
Notes: this is for ami_ven who wanted a fic with Tycho, Face and/or Syal; pairings of Tycho/Winter and Wedge/Iella; and definitely no unhappy ending! Her prompts were confidence, one more time and “You didn’t say that”. Thanks for making my first ficathon a great challenge! And many thanks to virusq for being an excellent last-minute beta reader. :D (One warning - the fic is 3,000 words long. Sorry for getting a bit carried away!)
Part One
She wrote her name one more time, perfecting the loop on the L, the curve of the final R. It had to be second nature; she couldn’t let herself be caught out by something as simple as a signature. Tomorrow, she would leave behind her old self and embrace a new phase of her life, with a new name to match.
The travel docket sat nearby, listing the day-long layover on Ralltiir which had prompted her decision to go ahead with the change for good. There was no point just calling herself by a new name, even though she had submitted her application with the best of intentions. If she was going to do this properly - if she really was going to be someone else, with everything that implied - then it had to be official. And the Ralltiir courts, though slow, were sound. Once she had lodged the affidavit, she really would be Lysa Dunter, cadet of the Galactic Alliance Starfighter Corps.
Smiling, she added another signature to her list: Ensign Lysa Dunter, which would be her rank as long as she passed the academy’s rigorous training - but why wouldn’t she? Flying had been a part of her life since the end of the Yuuzhan Vong war, when she and her sister had been reunited with their parents. She tapped the stylus against her chin, then added another title to the datapad: Captain Lysa Dunter, leader of - now what would be a good name? Ah, yes - Coronet Squadron. And then, just for fun: General Lysa Dunter, Supreme Commander of the Galactic Alliance Starfighter Corps. Not even Daddy had achieved that title!
Her smile faded. If she ever did get that far, she reflected soberly, she would probably hate the job as much as he would have. Flying really was in her blood. Anything that kept her out of a cockpit was to be avoided.
“Syal! Myri! Dinner’s ready!”
Syal jumped, unaware of the passage of time. “Coming!” she called, clearing the datapad with a hasty swipe of the screen. No-one in her family knew of her plans. She had set everything up carefully, from the court appointment on Ralltiir to the blind mailbox that would take any messages addressed to Syal Antilles and hold them till she could gain access. As far as her new classmates were concerned, she would simply be Lysa Dunter, cadet from Corellia, with absolutely no connection to the famous Antilles name other than being born on the same planet. And that was exactly how she wanted it to be - nobody would be able to claim she had earned her place at the academy, or her eventual rank, by trading on her father’s fame as a starfighter pilot.
She was proud of being Wedge Antilles’ daughter, of course she was, but she knew how parental rank could skew people’s perceptions. She’d seen it happen, time and again, while she and Myri were growing up. And now that she was finally leaving home, she wanted to be free from all the assumptions people made when they saw the surname ‘Antilles’. From tomorrow, Syal vowed as she hurried downstairs, she would stand or fall by her own actions. No - Lysa Dunter would stand or fall by her own actions!
Her eyes filled with tears as she opened the door into the large, light kitchen. Not because she was going to miss her family, but because of the acrid smell that the air conditioning had not yet been able to disperse. “Whew! Daddy’s been cooking again?” she murmured to her mother, Iella Wessiri Antilles, who was fanning her hand in front of her face.
“He has - and it tastes good; it really does!” Iella reassured her elder daughter. “He wanted to make a special meal for your last dinner. He just spilled some spicy sauce on the hotplate.”
“All that smoke, just from some of the sauce?” Syal shook her head. “If Uncle Wes and Uncle Hobbie were here, we’d be hearing that tauntaun stew story again …”
“Which, may I remind you, is a lie concocted by two notoriously unreliable pilots who between them couldn’t cook a meal to save their lives. Ask Wes about the time he ate ronk. He had a fifty-fifty chance of being poisoned.” Wedge Antilles, decorated hero of decades of campaigns, turned away from the stove, bearing a steaming dish between his gloved hands. “Just our luck he wasn’t!”
“And what’s our odds with this? Sixty-forty? Seventy-thirty?” Myri Antilles, spiky-haired and sharp-tongued, slid into her seat at the table. As Wedge drew breath to answer, she beamed him a smile. “I’m only joking, Daddy. Your cooking’s got a lot better. Really, it has.”
Disarmed more effectively than a blast from an ion cannon, Wedge turned his scowl into an answering grin. “Well, it’s my little girl’s last meal at home for a while and I wanted to make it a special one.” He set the dish down in front of Syal and gestured to her to begin.
“Amn’t I your wittle girl?” Myri put on a pretend pout to go with her fake childish voice. Iella shook her head at the irrepressible teenager.
“You’re his little little girl. Syal’s his big little girl,” she pointed out, reaching across to squeeze her husband’s hand and giving him a wink as she did so.
Syal looked up from serving herself. “Hey! I’m 19!”
“Almost 19. You still have a few months to go. You could be 49 and I’d still feel the same,” Wedge defended himself stoutly. As the sole male in the house, he had grown used to doing that over the years.
Iella smiled sweetly at Syal, who rolled her eyes in silent protest and passed the serving dish to Myri.
Wedge handed a bowl of leafy salad across the table to his wife. He could see through her façade of strength to the emotions she was carefully hiding; in truth, he was doing the same. Everything was about to change - not just for Syal, but also for those she would leave behind. At least this time they were not being torn apart by war. But the military had its own demands and how could he stop his daughter from heeding the call, when he had obeyed so many times in the past?
Wedge set the thoughts aside and reached for his glass of Corellian ale. “A toast. To Cadet Syal Antilles - may you fly high, fly safe and always walk away from your landings!” Four glasses clinked together, even as Syal was silently turning the name to Lysa Dunter in her head.
“Speech! Speech!” Myri held out an imaginary microphone to her sister.
Syal initially shook her head, then shrugged and accepted the inevitable. She took a quick breath. “Uh … listen. I’ll miss you all. You know that. But I’m doing what I want to do - what I’ve always wanted to do, ever since I sat in that training X-wing with you, Daddy.” She met Wedge’s eyes, remembering the sensation of being in control of a starfighter - the speed, the freedom. “I want to fly. I need to fly. And even though I’m going a long way away, don’t worry about me.” She looked from her father to her mother. “Because one thing I’ve learned from everything that’s happened to this family is that no matter what, pilots always find their way home.”
*****
The next day, at the spaceport, Syal embraced her little sister then flung her arms around her mother and held her close. Wedge stood by, feeling numb. So this was what it felt like, to be left behind. But when she came to him, face aglow with anticipation, he smiled and hugged her and wished her a safe journey, holding back all the pieces of advice - piloting or fatherly - that crowded into his mind. She was an adult now; she had to make her own mistakes and learn from them the hard way.
“I’m so very proud of you,” was all that he whispered, but he could tell by the way her arms tightened around him that she understood.
It was early morning and the sun was low in the Corellian sky, bright enough to bring tears to the eyes. Syal skipped away, pausing once to turn and wave before she entered the doorway that led to security and customs. Wedge blinked and waved back, his free arm tight around Iella’s waist.
“I’m going to miss her,” she murmured, leaning her head against Wedge’s shoulder.
“Me too.” Myri heaved a sigh and let her hand drop to her side. She shot a glance at her parents. “So when can I move into her room?”
Part Two
Syal jinked to port, her craft’s engines whining in protest at the sudden manoeuvre, but the laser bolts passed harmlessly to one side. With the single-minded sense of purpose taught to her by her father, she concentrated on tightening the loop, her gaze fixed on the screens which showed the target lock. The image jittered, unable to gain a firm link to one of the TIE Interceptors, but Syal closed them down second by second until the pure, sweet tone of a solid lock filled the cockpit and she could return fire.
An explosion blossomed outside her viewport; she flew through the outer edges of the cloud, smiling as she realised that her screens were clear. She had faced down the required number of enemy and won through. Even as she reported the end of the dogfight to Control, her screens went dark and the hatch overhead popped open, signifying the end of her simulator session. Still grinning with a combination of relief and adrenalin-induced excitement, she clambered out.
The Twi’lek instructor met her at the bottom of the ladder. “Not bad, Dunter.” Since he was well-known for picking on the tiniest flaw, the laconic comment was true praise. “Keep flying like that and you’ll sail through the first cut. Assuming you pass your math, of course.” He eyed her significantly as he held out the datapad for her thumbprint.
Syal managed not to grimace. “Yessir. I’m studying hard, sir.” She was, too, but it wasn’t her memory that was the problem.
“Good.” The instructor added his signature and pressed the button which would send her scores straight to the academy’s central computer. “Right, debriefing …”
“Lieutenant Shik! Let me introduce our new training officer.”
Syal swung around, stiffening to attention as she recognised the academy’s commanding officer. Colonel Jast was accompanied by a medium-tall figure with light blond hair, greying at the temples; a man who was already beginning to smile as he recognised the cadet standing next to the simulator.
She had only a couple of seconds to save her new identity. In a complete breach of protocol Syal stepped forwards, hands outstretched, and gushed, “General Celchu! It’s an honour to meet you, sir!” She grasped Tycho’s hand in both of hers and pumped it up and down enthusiastically. “Cadet Lysa Dunter, sir, from Corellia. I read about your exploits in school. I’ve got holopics of you … I - I never thought I’d actually get the chance to shake hands with you! This is amazing!”
Inwardly she winced, hating to sound so naïve, but she could only hope Uncle Tycho would take the hint. Colonel Jast was glaring at her and Lieutenant Shik’s lekku were twitching with distress at her actions but Tycho, at least, seemed unperturbed. He freed his hands with a deft twist and saluted, forcing Syal to return the gesture.
“Cadet … Dunter. It’s a pleasure to meet you too.” His tone was cool, with a slight hint of amusement. “Don’t let me drive a wedge between you and your lessons, Dunter. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir!” Syal stood back, taking care to maintain her ditzy smile as Colonel Jast introduced the Twi’lek instructor before leading Tycho away from the simulator room into another section of the academy. Lieutenant Shik eyed her in disbelief.
“What possessed you to behave like that, Dunter? You don’t shake a general’s hand!” And there was more, much more, ending with the imposition of extra duties as punishment for her impetuousness, but Syal was content. Uncle Tycho knew who she was and he would protect her secret. She was sure of it.
*****
“You didn’t say that!” Winter Celchu looked at her husband, who shrugged and popped a spoonful of yot beans into his mouth. Winter speared him with a glare. “Syal Antilles, at the academy under an assumed name, and the best you could do was to talk about ‘wedging’ into her lessons!”
“Well, more or less. I thought it wasn’t bad, given the circumstances. At least she knows I recognised her,” Tycho defended himself, finishing his mouthful. “But it might all be for nothing. She’s failing, Winter.”
“What?” Winter looked at him, stunned. “An Antilles, failing a piloting course? You’re joking!”
“I wish I was.” Tycho was unusually grave. “And she’s not failing on piloting; she’s top of the class there - as you’d expect, given her background.”
“So what is it, then?”
“Math.”
Winter shook her head, white-blonde hair falling over her shoulders like an icy waterfall. “Impossible. These girls were brought up to fly. I refuse to believe that Syal's mathematical abilities are being called into question!”
“Actually, it’s one particular assignment that’s the problem. The cadets have to solve an astronav equation in front of the entire class, then explain their reasoning to three instructors who question them on their calculations. That’s where she’s failing - the presentation. She gets nervous, stammers, forgets her place in the calculation … apparently she’s even developed a nervous twitch in one leg.”
A sigh escaped the former Intelligence agent as she reached her own conclusions. “She’s lost her confidence. It can happen, even to the best.”
“I agree. The other instructors are baffled; they can’t work out how to get her through this. They’re worried she’ll wash out ….” Tycho spread his hands, indicating he was stymied too. “I can’t tell Wedge his daughter flunked piloting academy, Winter!”
She was already on her feet and moving towards the comm. “Leave it to me. If this works, you won’t have to.”
Part Three
A small cluster of cadets milled around the closed door. Some were muttering to themselves, others huddled in small groups and whispered encouragement to their friends. Syal Antilles stood to one side, ignoring everyone around her, and tried to stop her right leg from twitching uncontrollably. She knew these calculations inside out, so why couldn’t she stand up in front of the class and tell everyone? Why did she get so flustered and flummoxed? Why couldn’t she just be calm?
“You’re thinking too hard, you know.”
Syal gasped, spinning round to see a man in an unfamiliar uniform leaning against the wall. He was watching her, a small smile on his scarred face. A mop of unruly brown hair - definitely non-regulation length - framed a pair of piercing green eyes. She frowned.
“I’m sorry, sir. I - I don’t know what you mean.”
He pushed himself upright and took a couple of steps towards her, indicating the door with one hand. “This is the room where cadets who’ve failed are making their final presentations, isn’t it?” His voice was soft, pitched just for her. “And you’re one of these cadets, yes?” At her tense nod, he repeated, “You’re thinking too hard. You’re overdoing it, like an actor learning lines. They may be word-perfect in the performance, but they’ll have lost the sense of who their character is - their motivation, why they’re there, who they are.”
“I don’t … understand …” Syal faltered to a halt. What did this have to do with her math presentation?
The man’s smile broadened. “Just be yourself, Cadet Lysa Dunter. That’s all. Be yourself.”
“Sir …” Syal began, intending to ask how he knew her name, but he held up one hand, interrupting her. “Am I wearing rank insignia?”
She scanned his uniform, up and down. “Uh - no, sir.”
“No insignia, no rank, no need to call me ‘sir’. Call me Post. It’s … kind of a nickname.”
Off to one side, the door opened and Lieutenant Shik beckoned the nervous cadets into the classroom. Syal looked back at the stranger, swallowing her questions. “I need to go.”
“I’ll be in the audience. Good luck, Lysa. Just remember - be yourself.”
*****
When she stood up to speak, he was there, sitting at the back of the room. She looked at him rather than watching Lieutenant Shik or Unc- ah, General Celchu. Lysa took a deep breath, stepped towards the datapad and started to input her calculations, introducing the problem in a voice that shook at first but strengthened as she continued. When she felt her treacherous leg start to twitch, she ignored it and tried to focus on who she was. Cadet Lysa Dunter. Would-be pilot, would-be member of the Galactic Alliance Starfighter Corps. Lysa, who would pass this exam!
And she did.
*****
She spotted Post talking briefly to General Celchu as the other instructors gave them quick feedback on their performance. As soon as she was released, she hurried to the door. Post had left less than a minute previously; surely she’d find him outside.
The corridor was empty. Lysa started to run. The hallway broadened out into the large atrium which led to the academy’s entrance. It was busy, but Post’s tousle of hair should have been easy to spot. Near the main doorway, a bald-headed man wearing a long coat was being saluted by one of the guards. He walked out as Lysa began a circuit of the atrium, seeking the man who had given her such good advice.
She never saw Post again.
*****
“Poster Boy?”
He kept walking as she fell into step beside him. “Hello, Targeter. Job done.”
“You did it?” Winter’s voice held a mixture of incredulity and joy.
“No.” Face Loran broke into a broad grin. “Lysa Dunter did it.”
Title: Identity Crisis
Rating: G
Setting: ABY35
Disclaimer: Lucas/Disney own everything Star Wars; I’m just having fun.
Notes: this is for ami_ven who wanted a fic with Tycho, Face and/or Syal; pairings of Tycho/Winter and Wedge/Iella; and definitely no unhappy ending! Her prompts were confidence, one more time and “You didn’t say that”. Thanks for making my first ficathon a great challenge! And many thanks to virusq for being an excellent last-minute beta reader. :D (One warning - the fic is 3,000 words long. Sorry for getting a bit carried away!)
Part One
She wrote her name one more time, perfecting the loop on the L, the curve of the final R. It had to be second nature; she couldn’t let herself be caught out by something as simple as a signature. Tomorrow, she would leave behind her old self and embrace a new phase of her life, with a new name to match.
The travel docket sat nearby, listing the day-long layover on Ralltiir which had prompted her decision to go ahead with the change for good. There was no point just calling herself by a new name, even though she had submitted her application with the best of intentions. If she was going to do this properly - if she really was going to be someone else, with everything that implied - then it had to be official. And the Ralltiir courts, though slow, were sound. Once she had lodged the affidavit, she really would be Lysa Dunter, cadet of the Galactic Alliance Starfighter Corps.
Smiling, she added another signature to her list: Ensign Lysa Dunter, which would be her rank as long as she passed the academy’s rigorous training - but why wouldn’t she? Flying had been a part of her life since the end of the Yuuzhan Vong war, when she and her sister had been reunited with their parents. She tapped the stylus against her chin, then added another title to the datapad: Captain Lysa Dunter, leader of - now what would be a good name? Ah, yes - Coronet Squadron. And then, just for fun: General Lysa Dunter, Supreme Commander of the Galactic Alliance Starfighter Corps. Not even Daddy had achieved that title!
Her smile faded. If she ever did get that far, she reflected soberly, she would probably hate the job as much as he would have. Flying really was in her blood. Anything that kept her out of a cockpit was to be avoided.
“Syal! Myri! Dinner’s ready!”
Syal jumped, unaware of the passage of time. “Coming!” she called, clearing the datapad with a hasty swipe of the screen. No-one in her family knew of her plans. She had set everything up carefully, from the court appointment on Ralltiir to the blind mailbox that would take any messages addressed to Syal Antilles and hold them till she could gain access. As far as her new classmates were concerned, she would simply be Lysa Dunter, cadet from Corellia, with absolutely no connection to the famous Antilles name other than being born on the same planet. And that was exactly how she wanted it to be - nobody would be able to claim she had earned her place at the academy, or her eventual rank, by trading on her father’s fame as a starfighter pilot.
She was proud of being Wedge Antilles’ daughter, of course she was, but she knew how parental rank could skew people’s perceptions. She’d seen it happen, time and again, while she and Myri were growing up. And now that she was finally leaving home, she wanted to be free from all the assumptions people made when they saw the surname ‘Antilles’. From tomorrow, Syal vowed as she hurried downstairs, she would stand or fall by her own actions. No - Lysa Dunter would stand or fall by her own actions!
Her eyes filled with tears as she opened the door into the large, light kitchen. Not because she was going to miss her family, but because of the acrid smell that the air conditioning had not yet been able to disperse. “Whew! Daddy’s been cooking again?” she murmured to her mother, Iella Wessiri Antilles, who was fanning her hand in front of her face.
“He has - and it tastes good; it really does!” Iella reassured her elder daughter. “He wanted to make a special meal for your last dinner. He just spilled some spicy sauce on the hotplate.”
“All that smoke, just from some of the sauce?” Syal shook her head. “If Uncle Wes and Uncle Hobbie were here, we’d be hearing that tauntaun stew story again …”
“Which, may I remind you, is a lie concocted by two notoriously unreliable pilots who between them couldn’t cook a meal to save their lives. Ask Wes about the time he ate ronk. He had a fifty-fifty chance of being poisoned.” Wedge Antilles, decorated hero of decades of campaigns, turned away from the stove, bearing a steaming dish between his gloved hands. “Just our luck he wasn’t!”
“And what’s our odds with this? Sixty-forty? Seventy-thirty?” Myri Antilles, spiky-haired and sharp-tongued, slid into her seat at the table. As Wedge drew breath to answer, she beamed him a smile. “I’m only joking, Daddy. Your cooking’s got a lot better. Really, it has.”
Disarmed more effectively than a blast from an ion cannon, Wedge turned his scowl into an answering grin. “Well, it’s my little girl’s last meal at home for a while and I wanted to make it a special one.” He set the dish down in front of Syal and gestured to her to begin.
“Amn’t I your wittle girl?” Myri put on a pretend pout to go with her fake childish voice. Iella shook her head at the irrepressible teenager.
“You’re his little little girl. Syal’s his big little girl,” she pointed out, reaching across to squeeze her husband’s hand and giving him a wink as she did so.
Syal looked up from serving herself. “Hey! I’m 19!”
“Almost 19. You still have a few months to go. You could be 49 and I’d still feel the same,” Wedge defended himself stoutly. As the sole male in the house, he had grown used to doing that over the years.
Iella smiled sweetly at Syal, who rolled her eyes in silent protest and passed the serving dish to Myri.
Wedge handed a bowl of leafy salad across the table to his wife. He could see through her façade of strength to the emotions she was carefully hiding; in truth, he was doing the same. Everything was about to change - not just for Syal, but also for those she would leave behind. At least this time they were not being torn apart by war. But the military had its own demands and how could he stop his daughter from heeding the call, when he had obeyed so many times in the past?
Wedge set the thoughts aside and reached for his glass of Corellian ale. “A toast. To Cadet Syal Antilles - may you fly high, fly safe and always walk away from your landings!” Four glasses clinked together, even as Syal was silently turning the name to Lysa Dunter in her head.
“Speech! Speech!” Myri held out an imaginary microphone to her sister.
Syal initially shook her head, then shrugged and accepted the inevitable. She took a quick breath. “Uh … listen. I’ll miss you all. You know that. But I’m doing what I want to do - what I’ve always wanted to do, ever since I sat in that training X-wing with you, Daddy.” She met Wedge’s eyes, remembering the sensation of being in control of a starfighter - the speed, the freedom. “I want to fly. I need to fly. And even though I’m going a long way away, don’t worry about me.” She looked from her father to her mother. “Because one thing I’ve learned from everything that’s happened to this family is that no matter what, pilots always find their way home.”
*****
The next day, at the spaceport, Syal embraced her little sister then flung her arms around her mother and held her close. Wedge stood by, feeling numb. So this was what it felt like, to be left behind. But when she came to him, face aglow with anticipation, he smiled and hugged her and wished her a safe journey, holding back all the pieces of advice - piloting or fatherly - that crowded into his mind. She was an adult now; she had to make her own mistakes and learn from them the hard way.
“I’m so very proud of you,” was all that he whispered, but he could tell by the way her arms tightened around him that she understood.
It was early morning and the sun was low in the Corellian sky, bright enough to bring tears to the eyes. Syal skipped away, pausing once to turn and wave before she entered the doorway that led to security and customs. Wedge blinked and waved back, his free arm tight around Iella’s waist.
“I’m going to miss her,” she murmured, leaning her head against Wedge’s shoulder.
“Me too.” Myri heaved a sigh and let her hand drop to her side. She shot a glance at her parents. “So when can I move into her room?”
Part Two
Syal jinked to port, her craft’s engines whining in protest at the sudden manoeuvre, but the laser bolts passed harmlessly to one side. With the single-minded sense of purpose taught to her by her father, she concentrated on tightening the loop, her gaze fixed on the screens which showed the target lock. The image jittered, unable to gain a firm link to one of the TIE Interceptors, but Syal closed them down second by second until the pure, sweet tone of a solid lock filled the cockpit and she could return fire.
An explosion blossomed outside her viewport; she flew through the outer edges of the cloud, smiling as she realised that her screens were clear. She had faced down the required number of enemy and won through. Even as she reported the end of the dogfight to Control, her screens went dark and the hatch overhead popped open, signifying the end of her simulator session. Still grinning with a combination of relief and adrenalin-induced excitement, she clambered out.
The Twi’lek instructor met her at the bottom of the ladder. “Not bad, Dunter.” Since he was well-known for picking on the tiniest flaw, the laconic comment was true praise. “Keep flying like that and you’ll sail through the first cut. Assuming you pass your math, of course.” He eyed her significantly as he held out the datapad for her thumbprint.
Syal managed not to grimace. “Yessir. I’m studying hard, sir.” She was, too, but it wasn’t her memory that was the problem.
“Good.” The instructor added his signature and pressed the button which would send her scores straight to the academy’s central computer. “Right, debriefing …”
“Lieutenant Shik! Let me introduce our new training officer.”
Syal swung around, stiffening to attention as she recognised the academy’s commanding officer. Colonel Jast was accompanied by a medium-tall figure with light blond hair, greying at the temples; a man who was already beginning to smile as he recognised the cadet standing next to the simulator.
She had only a couple of seconds to save her new identity. In a complete breach of protocol Syal stepped forwards, hands outstretched, and gushed, “General Celchu! It’s an honour to meet you, sir!” She grasped Tycho’s hand in both of hers and pumped it up and down enthusiastically. “Cadet Lysa Dunter, sir, from Corellia. I read about your exploits in school. I’ve got holopics of you … I - I never thought I’d actually get the chance to shake hands with you! This is amazing!”
Inwardly she winced, hating to sound so naïve, but she could only hope Uncle Tycho would take the hint. Colonel Jast was glaring at her and Lieutenant Shik’s lekku were twitching with distress at her actions but Tycho, at least, seemed unperturbed. He freed his hands with a deft twist and saluted, forcing Syal to return the gesture.
“Cadet … Dunter. It’s a pleasure to meet you too.” His tone was cool, with a slight hint of amusement. “Don’t let me drive a wedge between you and your lessons, Dunter. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir!” Syal stood back, taking care to maintain her ditzy smile as Colonel Jast introduced the Twi’lek instructor before leading Tycho away from the simulator room into another section of the academy. Lieutenant Shik eyed her in disbelief.
“What possessed you to behave like that, Dunter? You don’t shake a general’s hand!” And there was more, much more, ending with the imposition of extra duties as punishment for her impetuousness, but Syal was content. Uncle Tycho knew who she was and he would protect her secret. She was sure of it.
*****
“You didn’t say that!” Winter Celchu looked at her husband, who shrugged and popped a spoonful of yot beans into his mouth. Winter speared him with a glare. “Syal Antilles, at the academy under an assumed name, and the best you could do was to talk about ‘wedging’ into her lessons!”
“Well, more or less. I thought it wasn’t bad, given the circumstances. At least she knows I recognised her,” Tycho defended himself, finishing his mouthful. “But it might all be for nothing. She’s failing, Winter.”
“What?” Winter looked at him, stunned. “An Antilles, failing a piloting course? You’re joking!”
“I wish I was.” Tycho was unusually grave. “And she’s not failing on piloting; she’s top of the class there - as you’d expect, given her background.”
“So what is it, then?”
“Math.”
Winter shook her head, white-blonde hair falling over her shoulders like an icy waterfall. “Impossible. These girls were brought up to fly. I refuse to believe that Syal's mathematical abilities are being called into question!”
“Actually, it’s one particular assignment that’s the problem. The cadets have to solve an astronav equation in front of the entire class, then explain their reasoning to three instructors who question them on their calculations. That’s where she’s failing - the presentation. She gets nervous, stammers, forgets her place in the calculation … apparently she’s even developed a nervous twitch in one leg.”
A sigh escaped the former Intelligence agent as she reached her own conclusions. “She’s lost her confidence. It can happen, even to the best.”
“I agree. The other instructors are baffled; they can’t work out how to get her through this. They’re worried she’ll wash out ….” Tycho spread his hands, indicating he was stymied too. “I can’t tell Wedge his daughter flunked piloting academy, Winter!”
She was already on her feet and moving towards the comm. “Leave it to me. If this works, you won’t have to.”
Part Three
A small cluster of cadets milled around the closed door. Some were muttering to themselves, others huddled in small groups and whispered encouragement to their friends. Syal Antilles stood to one side, ignoring everyone around her, and tried to stop her right leg from twitching uncontrollably. She knew these calculations inside out, so why couldn’t she stand up in front of the class and tell everyone? Why did she get so flustered and flummoxed? Why couldn’t she just be calm?
“You’re thinking too hard, you know.”
Syal gasped, spinning round to see a man in an unfamiliar uniform leaning against the wall. He was watching her, a small smile on his scarred face. A mop of unruly brown hair - definitely non-regulation length - framed a pair of piercing green eyes. She frowned.
“I’m sorry, sir. I - I don’t know what you mean.”
He pushed himself upright and took a couple of steps towards her, indicating the door with one hand. “This is the room where cadets who’ve failed are making their final presentations, isn’t it?” His voice was soft, pitched just for her. “And you’re one of these cadets, yes?” At her tense nod, he repeated, “You’re thinking too hard. You’re overdoing it, like an actor learning lines. They may be word-perfect in the performance, but they’ll have lost the sense of who their character is - their motivation, why they’re there, who they are.”
“I don’t … understand …” Syal faltered to a halt. What did this have to do with her math presentation?
The man’s smile broadened. “Just be yourself, Cadet Lysa Dunter. That’s all. Be yourself.”
“Sir …” Syal began, intending to ask how he knew her name, but he held up one hand, interrupting her. “Am I wearing rank insignia?”
She scanned his uniform, up and down. “Uh - no, sir.”
“No insignia, no rank, no need to call me ‘sir’. Call me Post. It’s … kind of a nickname.”
Off to one side, the door opened and Lieutenant Shik beckoned the nervous cadets into the classroom. Syal looked back at the stranger, swallowing her questions. “I need to go.”
“I’ll be in the audience. Good luck, Lysa. Just remember - be yourself.”
*****
When she stood up to speak, he was there, sitting at the back of the room. She looked at him rather than watching Lieutenant Shik or Unc- ah, General Celchu. Lysa took a deep breath, stepped towards the datapad and started to input her calculations, introducing the problem in a voice that shook at first but strengthened as she continued. When she felt her treacherous leg start to twitch, she ignored it and tried to focus on who she was. Cadet Lysa Dunter. Would-be pilot, would-be member of the Galactic Alliance Starfighter Corps. Lysa, who would pass this exam!
And she did.
*****
She spotted Post talking briefly to General Celchu as the other instructors gave them quick feedback on their performance. As soon as she was released, she hurried to the door. Post had left less than a minute previously; surely she’d find him outside.
The corridor was empty. Lysa started to run. The hallway broadened out into the large atrium which led to the academy’s entrance. It was busy, but Post’s tousle of hair should have been easy to spot. Near the main doorway, a bald-headed man wearing a long coat was being saluted by one of the guards. He walked out as Lysa began a circuit of the atrium, seeking the man who had given her such good advice.
She never saw Post again.
*****
“Poster Boy?”
He kept walking as she fell into step beside him. “Hello, Targeter. Job done.”
“You did it?” Winter’s voice held a mixture of incredulity and joy.
“No.” Face Loran broke into a broad grin. “Lysa Dunter did it.”