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January 1 - January 7, 2021
but the New Republic higher-ups were terrified Cerberon could be used as a shortcut between Core Worlds, and it turned out being on the winning side of a war meant fighting for stupid things.
“Still not getting on with the new droid?” Chass asked. “It’s fine,” Quell said. “CB-9 just wanted to offer input, but as I was saying: Now we go after their supplier.”
In the hands of a skilled pilot, a TIE fighter was a knife—swift and slender and deadly against a lumbering beast like the B-wing. In lesser hands a TIE was a garbage pail strapped with guns. Clumsy and defenseless.
Centuries earlier, Troithe had rivaled Coruscant as the Republic’s cosmopolitan jewel, its city encompassing half a globe and teeming with billions of residents—more than a few belonging to the Republic’s most respected aristo-mercantile families.
Quell was a liar, a hypocrite, and a war criminal. But on her best days, the woman had style.
As the tractor beam urged the sled closer, the sled’s cargo came into view: Attached to nine clamps was the wreckage of nine TIE/ln starfighters.
Everything he’d said was true. It galled him to stage an operation solely as a diversion—solely so he could claim ships that the Empire would have incinerated rather than repaired. That even the New Republic had deemed unworthy of use. It pained him to put his pilots into action when they were barely a cohesive unit.
The memories that came were often of unimportant things—of Shadow Wing pilots who had died a year into her tour of duty, or of the astringent aftertaste of Imperial rations stamped by Aldraig manufactories.
“Back door have something to do with that last mission, running down the cargo shuttle in the debris field?” Chass na Chadic asked. She was slouched forward, elbows on the tabletop and chin on her folded hands. “Right now the details are need-to-know,” Adan told Chadic. “But you’ll be briefed when the time approaches. Suffice it to say that we’ll be able to predict exactly when and where Shadow Wing will appear. I wouldn’t worry about the final battle.”
“But Vanguard’s on a mission to try to ameliorate the shortage of starships going around. Special mission, from Syndulla’s special consultant Lindon Javes.”
After looking at the details of the latter, Quell asked to see a list of known surviving Imperial aces to cross-check. “Not today,” Adan replied, and that was the abrupt end of the topic.
Quell tapped a finger against her shirt, feeling the bulge where a memory chip hung from a chain around her neck—the last scrap of D6-L, the droid that had been destroyed at Pandem Nai after dedicating its existence to Quell and her mission.
As she stepped through the doors Quell said, “Adan trusts me more than you do.” She waited for a reaction. She hoped to see some glimmer in Gravas’s eyes—some sign that Adan had shared Quell’s crimes with her, or not. Something to tell Quell how boldly she wore her shame. Gravas only smiled darkly. “It’s not about trust. Adan likes you more than I do.” Quell began laughing as the turbolift doors shut.
Our engineering crews report that no fewer than seven of the TIEs we retrieved can be restored to working order, while the remaining two can be disassembled for parts. That brings us significantly closer to a full fighter complement—a necessity for any further action.” Even to Soran’s ears, it didn’t sound like much of a victory. No one applauded. He thought back to when Devon had rallied the citizens of Tinker-Town, teaching them to defend themselves against the local gangs. Life had been considerably simpler then.
He waited until a good fifteen minutes into the discussion before asking why she’d gone out of her way to damage the colony’s hazard vaults. “We had all the distractions we needed,” Soran said. “By the time you irradiated the colony, the act itself was unnecessary.” “Setting Pandem Nai on fire seemed unnecessary, too,” Seedia answered. “Yet the rebels did so without hesitation. Wouldn’t you agree?” “Lieutenant,” Gablerone growled. “The concern is Jarbanov,” Soran said, “not Pandem Nai.” But he let the jab go. He almost smiled.
“The New Republic propaganda broadcasts are not to be trusted,” he told them, “but as supporting evidence they have been useful. It appears Moff Pandion has indeed been killed, and that his forces have allied with Admiral Rae Sloane. Sloane’s fleet is clearly growing, and she appears to be operating primarily within the Outer Rim.
Meteor Squadron was twenty minutes away in case of emergency, but recon suggested the district would fall without serious opposition and Alphabet’s mixture of fighters and bombers—along with the U-wing transport—made it a surprisingly effective complement to midsized ground detachments. “We’ve found your calling,” General Syndulla had joked before takeoff.
It was a panicked minute before anyone located the attackers. The energy blast that had melted a Juggernaut and incinerated fifty-nine passengers had come from below—not from a bomber or a gargantuan AT-AT walker but from something below the surface of the water.
What do you think a soldier is for, Wyl Lark? He found nothing else to say. Nothing more he wanted to confess, even knowing that the message would never leave his recorder. He squeezed a button with his thumb and erased the data, as he had every time he’d prepared to contact Blink, his friend and enemy. Blink, the anonymous pilot of the 204th Fighter Wing; Blink, who had killed Riot Squadron in the Oridol Cluster and helped save a planet at Pandem Nai. Even in his imagination, the Shadow Wing pilot would offer no escape from the ocean of blood Wyl swam through. Blink wouldn’t listen; and the
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He strode through the hangar, testing the tug of artificial gravity and passing a dozen other TIEs as Rassus spoke to someone aboard the cruiser-carrier. Soran studied the vessels in the gloom, noting the red-painted cockpit hatches and the bulky machinery half visible through their viewports. Drone fighters, every one.
The crew emerged slowly, like feral animals approaching a potential source of food and warmth. They crawled out of maintenance shafts and supply closets, wearing scuffed and grease-stained uniforms along with rebreathers and oxygen packs. Most wore cadet insignia and had an air of youthful uncertainty; three were noticeably older, white-haired or entirely bald. Twenty in total surrounded Soran, blocking the corridor in both directions. “You hid from the New Republic?” Soran asked. He directed his question to a bejowled captain who fingered a blaster pistol. He did not raise his voice.
“We can’t let them keep winning,” Creet said. She was a veteran of the 204th but no older than twenty-one. She spoke with a thick Twi’lek accent that Soran imagined had earned considerable mockery during her training among the ground crews. “You’ve seen what is out there, Major. They think they’ve already won. Do they not?” “They do,” Soran admitted. Are they wrong?
He wasn’t keen to discuss his time as Devon. But it was better than promising vengeance and bloodshed, and he gave his audience the truth: that the New Republic was a government that did not know how to govern; and that while scattered worlds might revel in their newfound freedom, more were suffering from food shortages and societal breakdown and criminal activity. He told them about Mrinzebon and Tinker-Town, where he had met an Imperial who’d fallen prey to the same corruption afflicting the rebels—a
Soran found himself weeping gently as he told the story, though he hadn’t wept at the news of Andara. He did not hide his emotion, and the others watched him with the gravity of youth as he described Gannory, the cantina owner who had befriended him; his students in Tinker-Town, who had learned to fight for their own survival when someone—the Empire, the New Republic—should have been protecting them.
“One of my first captains served with Vader right after the Clone Wars and said he’d changed over the years. That he’d always been violent, but he’d matured.” “Matured?” one of the soldiers asked. “At the start, he’d kill you because he was frustrated. Later, he waited for you to make a mistake. Maybe a trivial mistake, but always a mistake.”
Kairos took three steps until she was half a meter from Quell. Each footfall rang like a gong on the metal deck. Quell noted the tears in the woman’s cloak; the rip in the leather of her left glove, which revealed only more fabric beneath.
Kairos was not steady now, nor implacable. She was trembling. A voice, low and wet and guttural, made sounds that Quell took full seconds to register as words: “They fall for us, so we may purge the shadow. The mission must succeed.” As if released from a spell, Kairos’s shoulders slumped and she spun away, marching back the way she’d come.
“You got a week’s pay to bet?” “Sure,” Nath repeated. His week’s pay wasn’t the same as Chass’s, but she didn’t need to know that. Caern Adan was still lining Nath’s pockets, as he had been since the founding of the working group.
She fumbled with her vessel’s controls through ungainly gloves, smelling the rotting odor of her twisted body trapped inside her mask.
He’d worry about Kairos’s reaction later. Yes, she trusted him. She would expect him to keep her secrets. But he owed her. He was activating his comlink, breathing in the stink of polluted water, when someone behind him spoke his name. “What?” Adan asked, not turning around. There was no answer but the muzzle of a blaster against his scalp, an electrical crackle, and the sound of his own breath expelled from his lungs.
“The Deep Core system of Cerberon has been hard-pressed in recent months,” he went on. “Once an Imperial stronghold, its planets are rapidly falling into rebel hands and we have received a plea for aid. “The message was corrupted but it appeared to be from allies of Governor Hastemoor. It contained details of the enemy presence in-system as well as the remaining Imperial holdouts.
“No. We’ve got that under control. Forces are deploying. This was your plan, remember?” What should’ve been condescending in the words was somehow mitigated by the warmth in her voice. “And his. He knew what he was doing.” “Caern Adan is a bastard,” Quell replied. “I know. And you were just starting to get used to him.” She raised a hand, forestalling any reply. “The New Republic will find him. His staff, his superiors, everyone’s invested in the search. He’s on the missing-in-action list, classified and declassified versions, so the troops know to look. I can’t promise he’ll turn up tomorrow,
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The Captain grinned. “In the air? I’m sure they’re death on wings. Down here, parked and hiding and waiting for their ride to Troithe? If they step out of their TIEs, we’ll slit their throats in their sleep. If not, we’ll clip their feathers and offer them a fair fight.” Despite the words, there was neither pride nor malice in his tone. “Keep the rest of my company safe on Troithe, and I promise we’ll do our part.”
This was the final stage of Adan’s plan. Troithe was now a prime target for Shadow Wing to retake. The intelligence section of the working group had arranged for word of the planet’s plight and details of asteroid CER952B to reach the 204th.
Caern Adan knew the truth about Nacronis—that Lieutenant Yrica Quell of the 204th, instead of trying to save the planet from destruction during Operation Cinder, had been a willing participant in the genocide. The New Republic was still in the phase of talking about war crimes more than prosecuting them, but the day for tribunals was coming and Nath doubted Quell would look much better than the Death Star gunners who’d vaporized Alderaan.
Lieutenant Seedia rose to her feet. “Sir?” she said. “About Wyl Lark?” “What is it?” he asked. “I was in the Oridol Cluster,” Seedia said. “I have an idea.”
He hoped the specialists aboard the medical transport Bright Vigil would serve Kairos better when they arrived. The droids would tell Wyl nothing of her condition other than that applying bacta—the miracle fluid, capable of everything short of resurrection in a hundred species—had failed, and that keener minds were required.
Wyl puzzled over the codes and moved on to the opening text: TO BE DISTRIBUTED IN THE EVENT OF THE DEATH OR DISAPPEARANCE OF CAERN ADAN, CONCERNING NEW REPUBLIC INTELLIGENCE ASSET YRICA QUELL. He read on, feeling somehow that he should not.
Soran Keize hadn’t come to Cerberon to reclaim it for the Galactic Emperor or for Admiral Sloane’s fleet or out of some concept of ideological purity. He would plant no flags. He had come to strike a fatal blow to General Hera Syndulla, and to give Shadow Wing the victory its pilots so dearly needed.
The droid buzzed again, low and angry like a locked door or a computer socket rejecting an incompatible plug. Quell slammed her palm against the side of her starfighter. “Open it!” The droid did not open the cockpit. She put her back against the vessel, watching the lights of Meteor and Alphabet Squadron recede into the distance, away from the Lodestar and off to war.
He did understand, and suddenly the galaxy seemed to compress around him. He was speaking to Blink. “I understand. What’s going on?” What is this? “I don’t have much time. You need to turn around and get back to Troithe. Do you hear me?” If Blink was communicating with him, that meant Shadow Wing was in Cerberon.
The enemy was lying in wait, preparing an ambush somewhere; General Syndulla’s battle group had reduced the size of its fighter complement since Pandem Nai; or the general had retained more resources to protect Troithe than anticipated. The last could pose a problem. But if adjustments needed to be made, he would adjust. The specks of enemy starfighters became burning sparks, then grew rapidly until he could make out the familiar profiles of X-wings, strike foils spread.
She stared after him, replaying the TIE’s maneuvers in her mind. She knew the technique, had seen it played out hundreds of times. She’d studied videos and spoken to the pilot responsible, but she didn’t comprehend how she was seeing him here and now. Major Soran Keize, her mentor, was alive. He’d broken his promise to leave Shadow Wing. He’d broken his promise to Quell, and now he’d left her behind for a second time.
Soran Keize sped through the debris field, leaving the crippled freighter to careen among the rocks until it met its end. That enemy pilot would do no more damage. The casualties aboard the Aerie consumed a greater portion of his thoughts, but they could be mourned at another time along with Seedia and Bragheer. His wingmates had fallen with the drones over Catadra; he would weep when no other member of the 204th was at risk.
You want to wait around? Suffocation’s slow but it’ll put you to sleep before the end. The idea wasn’t appealing. She reached under her seat to where she’d stowed her sidearm—the custom KD-30 with its acid-packed rounds—and nudged the barrel with her fingertip. It was there if she needed it, but the thought of her brain dissolving into organic mush was no more appealing than suffocation. Possibly more painful, too.
She spotted a crater where a turbolaser emplacement had formerly stood between two granite towers. “Hit you once already,” she muttered, and felt her skin tingle as the pod’s electromagnetic brakes kicked in. She tuned out the chanted prayers of her companion and braced for impact. — Chass survived the fall. Her companion didn’t. After the crash the woman with fur and fangs lay beneath Chass with her head unnaturally twisted. The body was still warm, and close enough that Chass would’ve felt a heartbeat if she’d survived.
Adan groaned softly, as if he were too weak to shrug and the sound was all he could offer. “How do you think?” he said next. “We made a new friend. Ver Iflan was gone, but he worked miracles with machines. We became three again.” “The interrogation droid?” “Reprogrammed. Yes. Caern, Kairos, and Ito.”
“Admit it: You love being in command.” Nath grinned. With another man, he might’ve joked about leaving Quell aboard the Lodestar on purpose. He knew better than to try it with Wyl. “You feeling good about them?”
The wind rose. Quell felt cold. Adan was mocking her, she thought. Maybe she deserved it. “If she’s a spy, she’s not an especially good one,” the interrogation droid said. The unit floated a short distance behind them. Both Quell and Adan turned. Its primary manipulator arm twitched and its photoreceptor was dilated. Then it seemed to steady. “Apologies,” it said. “My memory circuits are faulty. I was momentarily confused. Please continue.”
But there was no heat. She fumbled, arms outstretched, touching flat lenses and the spokes of gears. She touched grease and jabbed her palm on something sharp. Finally her hand closed on the leather grip of a hold-out blaster. Of course the cult wouldn’t destroy the weapons when it could stockpile them instead. The guns’ destruction—like everything else in the palace—was a lie.
