Featherhead - pt. 1

Maedune made it back to the MC80 Liberty-type Star Cruiser, *Intrepid*, sometime after local midnight. As the ground crew began to taxi his bird to the maintenance hangar, Maedune peered past the blue magnetic shield to see three specks orbiting the planet of Crondre. Three *Dreadnought*-class Heavy Cruisers sporting Imperial markings, with all the compliments that came with a ship of the line such as those three. He had just finished running past the three cruisers to drop off troops on the planet below, trying to reinforce ground troops that had been bogged down and left deadlocked by the sudden appearance of Imperial forces over the planet. Maedune would sleep safe and secure aboard the *Intrepid*, but the Alliance marines wouldn’t be so lucky. A few of them will probably be dead by dawn, their bodies waiting for him to come get them at first light.

Maedune went to the supply module and pulled out some rags, a bucket and cleaning solution. He returned to his ship, an Alliance marked, and yellow striped UT-60D U-wing with the callsign *‘Nomad Four’* scrawled across the side, near the pilot’s cupola. Alongside the Aurebesh text was a cartoon of an attractive alien woman of some kind, dressed as though she did not belong in a combat zone. Already the techs were patching the blaster holes, scrubbing the carbon scoring, and cannibalizing whatever they could for spare parts. All ships had to be ready again by dawn.

“You better work on fixing the thrust ailerons and yaw stabilizers first,” Maedune called out to the techs, “They went bad halfway through the run.”

When the maintenance chief saw Captain Maedune with a bucket in one hand,  rags and solution in the other, he efficiently stepped in the way to cut Maedune off before he could climb into the cockpit.

“No, sir,” he said, “That’s our job. We’ll take care of it.”

Maedune stopped, staring hard at the man. “No, it was my job,” he said. “I was supposed to take care of him. I’ll... Clean up his blood… And brains...”

There had been scattered splotches of brains all across that side of cockpit glass. Maedune hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of it. “And everything else, too,” he finished.

The chief nodded once, but wouldn’t let the Captain pass. “I know that, sir. We’ll… Take care of him, sir, it’s our job. It’s what we do. Let us do our job, sir.”

And so Maedune surrendered, too tired to fight. The truth was, he never was a fighter. How he ended up in the Alliance marines by not being a fighter was a mystery he could never quite figure out. It was never really up to him anyways. Personnel knew best, and they made him a U-wing pilot, transporting Alliance marines to and from the fight. Just like that. As if Personnel were guided by infinite wisdom that guided it through a galaxy that made less and less sense as the days went by.

Back to his office, he sat down on his cot and pulled out the Tevraki whiskey that he and Delste, who’s brains decorated the U-wing’s windows, always kept for post-mission debriefs. Something for just between the two of them. He splashed some into each of their canteen cups, picked up his own cup, and drank.  Then he poured some more.

In the night, Maedune awoke, sniffed, and assessed the room. They had already come and taken Delste’s belongings away. There was just an empty cot, a tiny bare desk, the cup, and his friend’s half of the whiskey. He then went back to sleep.