STAR WARS: RED EAGLE

Chapter 2

ONE

It's him...

I don't know how... but it is!

The man from my dreams...

Bryston was dumbfounded. It was a complete impossibility, and yet he couldn't deny what he was seeing right now in the moonlight. The man now laying across the nose of the destroyed starfighter was the spitting image of the one in his dreams—the valiant warrior from the stars that rescued him and his family from the oppression of the Empire. He had the same swath of light brown hair, the same rounded nose... Just seeing him was enough to make Bryston break out in gooseflesh. The man seemed to notice his shock, because his eyes narrowed against the light of Malastare's twin moons. However, before he could say anything, the man's face scrunched up in pain. Having seen this, Bryston's father leapt into action.

"Help me get him to the hut," the older man commanded.

Bryston was momentarily rendered unable to speak. Then: "B-but, Pop! We don't have anything to help him with at the hut! We've no medicine, no room, and no—"

"So, what do you suggest we do, leave him here for the Empire?!"

Bryston shrunk away at the sound of his father's angry tone—he was completely taken aback. He had never seen his father this way. Sure the old man was against the Empire, but enough to harbor what amounted to a fugitive? He felt the gaze of the gathered villagers on him. Perhaps they thought he would side with them and leave the rebel pilot there to die, or worse—to be found by the Empire. But something inside of him prevented him from doing so. He knew at once what it was.

This is definitely the man from my dreams, Bryston thought to himself. I can't just do nothing... I can't.

Perhaps it was that small part of him that was still a teenager. Still hopeful. Still willing to believe the impossible. Whatever the case, he stopped resisting his father and knelt down to help hoist the rebel pilot up off the hull of the ship. Despite stares from the villagers, Bryston and his father carried the wounded man through the cold night towards their hut. The door was still wide open—evidently Bryston's father hadn't thought to shut it when the starfighter crashed into the neighboring shed. They carried him until they reached the sofa—the only other furniture, other than their beds and a small wooden table, that they owned—and carefully set him down again.

In the dim light of the small hut, Bryston was able to get a good long look at the pilot's features. If there was ever any doubt in his mind before, it was gone now. The pilot had a pale complexion and, despite the pain he was obviously feeling, had one brown eye open to survey his new surroundings. For a moment, the man seemed disoriented, as if they pain was finally beginning to win out over his curiosity and fear. Then his open eye rolled up into the back of his head and he fell limp.

Bryston felt his breath hitch. "Is... Is he—?"

"He passed out," his father replied matter-of-factly. "I don't blame him. I don't imagine crashing a starfighter is a very pleasant experience."

"What're we going to do?"

His father paused and ran a hand through his silver hair; he made his lips flat and his eyes became distant in an instance of momentary thought. Then he said, "He can stay here for now. We have nothing in the way of medicine, but I won't allow a man to die just because the others are uncertain."

Bryston sighed. On the one hand, he wanted to agree with his father—and the shrieking voice inside of him that was still proclaiming this to be the man from his dreams—however, on the other hand...