Cy-Raxx Neirharmn records these things on 21st 2nd month judged by Yavin 4, 40th 5th month judged by Coruscant. This docreader is protected by a ScanCom security spike. Password

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A lot has happened to me.

I think if I looked back on me, no, forward, from before the war, I would be so amazed at who I am now, at what I have, at how everything--came. And is still coming. Nothing's perfect, no, the bruises mar the sea of my self. But how to read my life---well once upon a time I was a Rebel pilot. We had this one mission into a fleet of Star Destroyers--I tended to help with demolitions--

"Move, rebel scum." The Imperial pilot mumbled from behind his mechanical mask, and he poked his blaster muzzle into my back again. I wanted to turn around and angrily, senselessly tell him that it wasn't my fault he captured me instead of blowing me out of the sky.

My X-Wing behind us, the Lambdas, little droids, and turbolifts, the armored pilot, the stormtroopers who had surrounded me while the pilot unhooked himself from his ship in its rack--all seemed dead and lonely. That's why I fought, sometimes. The Empire with its metal wonders and faceless troops obeying a hooded emperor would desensitize the galaxy through crowded, casual cruelty. The Alliance and hope of a democratic future held love for me, life, and breath.

Metal whined and some lasers burst sparks from the wall between this TIE hanger and the next, a room separated from us by a blue energy seal and from space by nothing. The pilot gripped my shoulder. Two, three X-Wings slid on repulsors into that bay. After me? The closest pilot jumped out decked in bandoleers of thermal detonators--after the Star Destroyer then. The second one rushed to the high console for the energy fields, blasters in hand, and I recognized him--the only Pho Ph'eahian in our squadron. There were three stormtroopers across the bay, so I kicked my pilot under the arm and slapped the blaster out of his hand. My palm stung now but I picked up the gun, fast. Fellow grunt taught me that one, before I was a pilot and brave enough to realize that the Alliance didn't have any grunts at all. Funny how deep thought can be from one action or perception, and take seconds.

While I got the unfamiliar gun to stun and backpedaled, the last ally came to the Force field and waited, shifting his weight. I recognized him then, with the five hatch marks and gold star on his helmet, from the Yavin campaign. My Imp escort ran toward the stormtroopers, and I shot one of them while missing the pilot. I just wanted to get out of there, though my X-Wing was battered beyond battlefield repair. I didn't like not trusting my own mechanical skills.

I ducked behind a crate. Blasterbolts pattered like rain over the floor for a flurry. Stun shots? The blue field went down in a few flickers and Five, Skywalker, rushed in. Wonderful kid, this hero; loyal, not much longer a fighter than I, and he had welcomed me to Red group for this my second campaign. I backpedaled more. Luke ducked beside me.

'We're trying to take the ship from inside. Han Solo, one bay over," and he pointed, "is taking up evacs."

I nodded. Wild-eyed, Luke leaned out from the boxes as I stretched to the top and got off a few shots blind. Were they getting more troops, for two Rebels? I'd never been that important before. More shots around me, not stun rings. A different whine-shriek, and a bright blue tube of shine appeared low in Luke's hands. The next hail of laser went some wide, and he reached that blade out to rebound them.

I had had a picture book about Jedi Knights at home, which my parents would hide if company came over. The cartoonish holos had practiced their magic on my world, Antarion, not an enemy starcraft, but their stances had been Skywalker's.

I kicked my pilfered blaster to him, in case, and went to Solo's ship because more of our people were coming in all over, force shields winking on and off.