The
Good of the Galaxy
Some people hear my name, Wes Janson, and immediately
groan, muttering something about stuffed Ewoks and crazy pranks. Some people think that I play jokes on others
as a way to hide some sort of deep insecurity.
Some people think I belong in a mental ward. The truth?
None of the above. I don't know
why I live the way I do. It's always
been a part of me.
I have my serious moments. Hell, the last time I was serious was only
about a week ago. But we're fighting a
war here. Folks are solemn too
often. What we need is a good long
break. Call the Imps, tell 'em we're just tired and want to
restart smashball tournaments. Maybe we can work a deal: they give us a
month of rest, we cordon off a section of the galaxy where they can stay and do
whatever they do for fun besides drinking and speeder racing. We'll stay on our side of the line, they'll
stay on their side of the line, and everybody'll be happy. Doesn't sound too bad, does it?
But then again, all it takes to turn the Galaxy
upside down is some errant warlord who's grown out of his pond and wants to
conquer New Republic space. One greedy
Imp and we're out there fighting again, losing people, seeing death and questioning the worth of shooting at an anonymous
pilot just to satisfy some big leader's grudge.
I wonder sometimes. I mean, here I am, twenty-seven - still a kid
by most galactic measures - and I've seen more carnage and brutality than most
people could ever imagine. Some nights I
wake up and tell myself that I'm leaving in the morning. Leaving, before I have to fit my
shorter-than-average build into an uncomfortable cockpit again, spending my day shooting at nameless fighters. But then I look around myself and I see the
family I've found here in this squadron.
They're hardened to the realities of war, all of them, but somehow
they've kept their wits about them long enough to realize that chaos only
breeds chaos. They understand, much more
deeply than any admin officer ever could, what it is to fight a war. They empathize with the other soldier even as
they're bracketing him and pulling the trigger.
It's a fine line we walk, between killing and liberating, between
slaughter and defense, between the smile of some tiny kid and the tears of one
more mother who realizes her son isn't coming home.
But listen to me.
I'm starting to sound like Hobbie.
One pessimist is enough for this squadron. I'm the optimist, the kid who never grew up,
the only one who can keep a straight face long enough to avoid trouble when
I've started it. Not that that makes
anyone less suspicious, especially not Wedge Antilles, my commanding
officer. Whenever something happens, he
looks at me first, as if it could not possibly have been Tycho or Hobbie or any
one of the rest of our squadronmates.
I pointed out Wedge's bias one day.
"Wes," he said, "I'd like to
believe that you aren't responsible for ninety percent of the pranks that
happen here. I'd like to believe that
you actually progressed beyond a mental age of ten and are now working through
your adolescence. I have not, however, seen
any evidence that supports either of these two arguments in your defense."
We were sitting across from one another, our dark
eyes locked over Wedge's crude metal desk.
The door to his office, closed behind me, glared bright pink, a color
out of place in the otherwise austere military setting. Even the fading natural light did little to
dampen the pervasiveness of the color. I
leaned back in my chair and locked my hands behind my head in a gesture that
served the dual purpose of both annoying the man before me and covering the
small patch of pink paint that had refused to come out of my brown hair. "Whatever happened to innocent until
proven guilty?" I asked. "Aren't you supposed to abide by the
same set of rules that our government is fighting to protect?"
"Aren't you?" Wedge
asked pointedly, his eyes staring straight through me. "For you, the rules don't seem to
apply. Hence, I hold that for you, it's
guilty until proven innocent. Proven
innocent, I might add, is not simply a matter of finding someone else on which
to pin blame." Tiredly, he shifted
his gaze down and ran one hand through his dark hair.
I grinned at my superior. "Just because someone painted your door
pink you think it's me? The fact that I
commented the other day that your office needed new décor is not exactly hard
evidence that I did the painting."
His sigh told me that the conversation was
rapidly progressing to the point where Wedge would agree not to punish me if I
just confessed who was responsible for the prank. Inwardly, I smiled. Outwardly, I slid my oft-used sabacc face
into play.
"Please tell me who did that," Wedge
said, throwing one hand in the direction of the gaudy door. "Wes, if it was you, and you've been
denying it for all this time just to frustrate me even further…"
"I would never do that, Wedge," I said,
mustering as much innocence as I could.
It was, I am afraid, not much.
"I would never play you along like that just to make a joke that
much more funny."
"You did it, didn't you." Wedge didn't bother making it a question.
I neither nodded nor shook my head.
"You did it and you're not going to admit
it."
Again, I remained motionless. When I caught Wedge's gaze, however, a spark
lit in its brown depths. I winced and
felt my stomach begin to curl. Nothing
good could come of such a devious gleam.
"Very well, Lieutenant," said Wedge
slowly, as if savoring each word.
"If you go to base supply, I'm sure the technicians there will be
happy to provide you with grey paint and brushes. I expect you to have finished painting my door
in two standard hours. In fact, I'll
make that an order. You will have
finished painting my door - painting my door grey
- within two standard hours or you will face a court-martial for
insubordination and failure to perform duty."
My mouth opened in shock. "But Wedge - "
"Commander Antilles."
"But Commander Antilles, I don't know who
did it! Is it fair to make me pay for a
crime you don't know I committed?"
"Lieutenant Janson," Wedge said,
leaning forward threateningly, "I don't really care who took it upon
himself to paint my door pink. All I
care is that it returns to its original color.
Its original color was grey. Here you are, a suspect, standing directly in
front of me. Who better to perform the
simple task?"
I glared at him.
Any number of possible answers to his rhetorical question scampered
through my head; I chose not to voice any one of them. Doing so would undoubtedly cause me even more
trouble. Lowering my eyes, I said,
"I'll do it now, sir."
Though I didn't look up to see, I'm sure Wedge
was smiling. "Good,
Lieutenant."
Standing, I saluted and executed a quarter-turn,
still concealing the pink paint that stained my hair. I took four sideways steps to the door and
keyed it open, intending to leave without another word. I simply couldn't resist a parting shot,
though. "Wedge, are you sure you
don't want to keep the color? I hear
pink is a great way to attract ladies, and you need all the help you can get - "
His growl of "Lieutenant…" was all it
took to cut me off and send me on my way, smiling at a job well done.
I turned the corner to supply, my emotions
wavering somewhere between annoyance and cheerfulness. On the one hand, I had succeeded in making Wedge
forget about the war, if only for a minute and if only by painting his door
such an outrageous color that he had no way to ignore it. On the other hand, I had been interrogated,
tried, and sentenced, all in the space of ten minutes.
But it had worked. Wedge had, for the space of a pinprick of
time in the grand stretch of the universe, focused all his attention on
something so trivial as to be almost invisible to the rest of the Galaxy.
So maybe that's why I live the way I do. I'm a warrior who hates war; a pacifist who
has never been quite comfortable with the bland tranquility of peace. I'm a kid who never grew up; an adult who
never really understood what childhood could be
Right now, though, I'm a subordinate officer with
a paint can in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, sweeping a grey coat over a pink door
under the watchful eye of my Commander.
What the hell.
It's for the good of the Galaxy.