Shadow Fall (Star Wars: Alphabet Squadron, #2)

by Alexander Freed

The older man pulled a stick of chewable caf from his pocket, tore it in half, bit into one portion, and held the other out to Wyl. Wyl took it after a moment of hesitation. “We were too late to do a blasted thing about Su,” Nath said. “Whatever we did, she was outnumbered and too close to escape. You see that, right?” “I do.” He did. The twenty soldiers aboard the mining car—the soldiers who’d detonated their own vehicle to keep Shadow Wing from pursuing—were another matter.

Soran knew what he looked upon. He did not understand how it had survived the obliteration of the Aerie or found the wreckage of the Edict. “It is the Messenger, isn’t it?” Yadeez asked. “Of course,” Soran said. His pilots had changed without him, and changed again upon his return. He had hoped their fall to Troithe had freed them from their past. Yet there was no escaping the shadow of the Emperor.

Once, however, when Nukita offered the pilot one of her bent wire toys, Seedia whispered something to the girl and sent her away bawling. Chass saw the exchange from start to finish and something turned in her gut. She made a note to kill the woman slowly. —

Usually these little speeches were confessions of sins, major or minor, from various points in the speaker’s lifetime. To Chass, the whole affair looked an awful lot like a way to gather blackmail material—she expected there were recording devices in all the disquisition rooms, ready for Let’ij and her attendants to review. She’d seen similar scams elsewhere and thought, as scams went, it was a pretty good one.

The confessions went on. No one even looked at her. Lieutenant Palal Seedia rose from the auditorium’s bottom tier on a single crutch. Chass hadn’t seen her, hadn’t recognized her in civilian garb instead of her flight suit. Her electronically enhanced voice reverberated through the room, distorted by echoes. “I executed a planet,” Seedia said. “I was part of Operation Cinder and I accept personal responsibility for the cleansing of Nacronis.”

Once, when he was whimpering in misery, she stroked his arm and whispered, “I’ll remember you.” He laughed and coughed. “I know what you think of me,” he said. Quell shrugged. “It’s all right,” he said. “Leave me behind. You’re carrying enough with you.” — He died not long after that. His breathing became more strained, then softer, then ceased altogether.

move forward, because dwelling on my shame doesn’t help anyone. Was the solution that simple?

Her body was foreign to her as the black hole captured her mind, but still she walked. I move forward. She wanted to weep. Maybe she did. But she did not fall to her knees. She saw Nacronis and Nette and Soran Keize and Caern Adan. She saw the faces of her squadrons, old and new, and recalled Wyl Lark and Chass na Chadic and Nath Tensent leaving her behind on the Lodestar.

It wasn’t too late to return, a voice told her. Not too late to turn around and plunge back into the comforting horror that the tower made manifest. Still she walked. She heard the howling of the black hole in her skull, felt it devouring space and stars and years like a whirlpool. She howled in reply, unable to do otherwise, and with every step her body returned to her. She felt an ache in her teeth and a burning in her calves. The black hole released its grip and she felt weightless. The vision ended and she stood in front of the tower. The great door was open before her, wide enough to admit ten people abreast into the chamber beyond. Still she walked.

Inside, she was not at all surprised to find a ship. But for the first time in days, she smiled.

Then it was Wyl, Nath, Vitale, and Denish Wraive, and Wyl knew there wasn’t much time left. You made mistakes, he told himself, but you tried. “You did good,” he told his ship. Then a new thunderclap hit the battlefield. Wyl looked up and laughed like a man drenched in rain as a shadow passed over the stars. The voice through his comm was clear and self-assured. “This is General Syndulla to all New Republic forces. Vanguard Squadron is here.”

The ground forces had reported no sign of a planet-ravaging bomb. The freighter, although apparently jury-rigged with heavy weapons, was not moving toward any obvious target. As the TIE swarm thinned, Wyl wondered if he had been right: if Shadow Wing’s primary goal was simply to escape the planet. “Enemy squadron approaching the freighter—looks like they’re docking in the cargo bay,” one of the Vanguard pilots called. Wyl jerked his fighter to one side as cannon bolts streamed from below and a trio of TIEs passed him by. He had been right.

He had what he wanted, yet he’d achieved it on the backs of those who’d looked to him for aid. Forget Soran Keize. Remember Devon. “Arm the missiles,” he said. “Target all New Republic outposts and fire on my mark.” The Star Destroyer Edict’s ordnance, transferred to the freighter, wasn’t much of a parting gift for the warriors of Troithe. But the missiles would leave whole districts in ruins. They would turn rebel bunkers into craters and boil lakes and collapse factories larger than mountains. They would ensure that the fighting could continue long after Shadow Wing departed, and that millions of Imperial loyalists would not march readily into detention camps under New Republic domination. That would have to be enough.

All of which explained why he hadn’t joined the squadron chasing the freighter beyond Troithe’s orbit. All of which also explained why he was low enough to intercept one of the moon-smashing missiles that Shadow Wing had kindly decided to share before departure.

He channeled weapons power, repulsors, life support, dampeners, everything but thrusters into his deflector. His boot was stuck to his rudder pedal and his toes felt like they were on fire, but he managed to fine-tune his vector for what he hoped was an optimal intercept course. “You got anything you want to say—” he began, but he didn’t finish the sentiment before white light filled the clouds. He perceived the missile and the brilliance of its burning trail for only a fraction of a second. The droid squealed; proximity alarms wailed; and the blaze of the missile was joined by the blaze of his deflector screen. He’d channeled all his power to the port side, and he rolled to starboard, simultaneously hoping that he’d made his move too early and that he’d timed it just right. There was a noise like a thunderclap and the Y-wing spun wildly through the air, nearly dislodging Nath from his harness. Sharp pain spiked down his left shoulder as he was tossed about. Vision was utterly beyond him, but what he didn’t see wasn’t bright—no explosion, at least.

A message flashed onto one of the displays: CLOAKING SYSTEM ENGAGED. Quell emitted a small sound of approval. The ship really was a beauty. She sped toward the bulk freighter.

The freighter was going to escape. It was too late to stop it. Invisible to all sensors, Quell was going to go with it. She’d been thinking about her future, and what would become of her in the New Republic. When her tribunal came, who wouldn’t see her as IT-O had? As her squadron had? She wasn’t ready for her existence to end. She left the crushing gravity of the Cerberon black hole behind. She left the darkness and guilt and despair behind. Her ship alighted on the hull of the freighter, and she saw the cerulean glow of hyperspace.

Hera wanted to point out the obvious, but she understood. We’re not ready to talk about the ones we lost. She knew it was best to let them mourn in their own way, but it was a disappointment nonetheless. She’d been hoping—for her sake as much as theirs—to discuss Yrica Quell.

“I don’t blame her,” Syndulla said. “Swift justice might help quell Imperial resistance.” No one responded to the wording. No one responded at all. Chass fixed her gaze on the plaza pavement. Syndulla started over. “We’ll find the 204th, in any event. If anyone wasn’t convinced of their significance before, they certainly are now.”

“They really don’t want to talk about her, do they?” Nath Tensent laughed long and loud and embittered. “No, they don’t,” he agreed, glancing from General Syndulla to the smoke in the distance. This time the plumes were from fireworks rather than rioters, though he supposed the former could’ve been in the hands of the latter. “Can you blame them? Quell was their commander. Losing her like we did—” “Are you certain she’s lost?” “Possible she made it out,” Nath admitted, and shrugged. “If she did, though…makes it more complicated.”

The hologram flashed into nonexistence, the light staining Soran’s retinas and leaving him blinking away spots. His expression fell with the same suddenness as Sloane’s disappearance and he stroked the comm panel with trembling fingers. He had made a bargain that he would surely curse, if not regret. He had recommitted himself and his unit to a losing battle for an Empire not worthy of being saved, for the sake of giving desperate soldiers a brief reprieve from their graves or New Republic prison cells.

Without thought or intent, Soran swung at the machine. Pain lanced from his knuckles to his elbow as his fist impacted the curved plate, and as he pulled his hand away he saw that he’d left a red smear across the glass along with a web of cracks. “Operation Cinder,” the droid said, “is to begin at once.” Soran wondered whether the words were echo or portent.

A man walked into her line of sight. His brown hair appeared black as he passed through a shadow, and his thin, delicate lips looked out of place on his angular face. He carried himself with an easy confidence, though there was a weariness to him she’d never seen before. Her eyes fell to his right hand, where a strip of sanitary cloth was wrapped around his knuckles. “Everything all right?” she asked. He followed her gaze and smiled gently. “An accident. Thank you.” They studied each other. His smile faded. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” Soran Keize said. She straightened her back. The words came naturally. “Lieutenant Yrica Quell, reporting for duty.”