“And when was this list assembled? When was it last updated? Were there alternates in case a commander was killed or their forces decimated?” Soran looked at the mass of obscure technology at his feet and shook his head. “This thing’s systems were meant for more. It decided who would carry out Operation Cinder. But based on what?”
“Competence?” Quell tried. “Sadism?”
Soran managed a bitter smile. “Maybe. Whatever qualities it looked for…how did it identify them at all? How did it know Colonel Nuress and the lot of us were competent—or sadistic—enough to see this through?”
Quell looked away when she saw that he saw her watching him. “Why do you ask?” she said.
“Curiosity.”
It was a lie, but he couldn’t have told her the truth. The real answer was inchoate in his mind—an instinct like the seed of a plan. There was something of importance there. He needed time to deduce its meaning.
For the first time in weeks, however, he felt emboldened.
“Tell no one of this,” he said, “and secure the storage room when we leave. We’ll draw up a schematic together, and continue the dissection in shifts.”
II
There were days Yrica Quell believed Colonel Soran Keize didn’t matter to the fate of the 204th. The Emperor’s Messenger didn’t matter. General Syndulla was already in pursuit, and even if Quell died tomorrow, Syndulla and Alphabet might still intercept Shadow Wing and end the second Operation Cinder. Or Shadow Wing might elude the New Republic and continue its genocidal mission anyway. Keize’s musings about the Emperor and Imperial soldiers changed nothing.
Yet the way Keize had spoken to her above the corpse of the Messenger—the way he’d accepted her excuses and hid her crime from the crew—hung off her thoughts like a barb, tearing at her mind.
It was a distraction she didn’t need.
“You hear what our next target is?” Rikton asked as they disassembled faulty proton torpedoes in the hangar. They’d already removed the warheads—Quell had been skeptical about Rikton’s abilities, but he’d been as careful as possible given the equipment at hand—and now they’d let their guard down, relieved to be past the danger.
“I hear the same things you do,” Quell said. “The colonel will give us details when we arrive in-sector.”
She watched Rikton pop out current regulators with trained ease. He could’ve glanced her way, but he kept his eyes on his torpedo. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, and carried himself with the awkwardness of a teenager uncomfortable in his own body.
“I heard it might be Fikzwaa,” he said. “Natives are these little critters, height of your knee. Billions of ’em. Tossed out the Empire after Endor, right? But maybe someone came back, set up a base, and we’ve got to go destroy it.”
Would that bother you? she wanted to ask. Killing billions of nonhumans?
Quell shrugged. “We’re on a small ship. There’re always rumors going around—I wouldn’t assume they’re true.”
“I don’t. It’s why I’m asking you—you’re tight with the colonel, right?”
Quell frowned at him. “Meaning what?”
“Just—” He looked up now, face entirely innocent. “—you’re his aide. He’s not a talkative fellow, but you might’ve heard something.”
She thought it over, nodded, and resumed sorting detonite triggers. “I haven’t.” She paused. “What makes you say he’s not talkative?”
“Well, he can keep a secret anyway. I sort of know him a little.” A smile flickered across his face, quick as a moth, and he glanced surreptitiously around the hangar. “You heard he hasn’t always been with Shadow Wing, right? That he was gone awhile after Endor?”
“I heard,” she said.
“We crossed paths out there,” Rikton said. “He helped me through a rough spot. Put me on a good path—better than I was on, anyway, until…”
She waited. He shrugged, as if his meaning were obvious. “Until what?” she asked.
“Until the rebels came for me. Not came, but—apparently they’ve got rules against working with anyone hiring ex-Imperials. Lost the job I’d found, drifted a little. Was lucky to find Devon again.” His eyes widened, and he amended: “Keize. The colonel. He even remembered me.”
“He’s a good man,” she said. It had come out unintentionally, but it was too late to take it back.
“He’s a hero,” Rikton said. “Doesn’t matter what our next target is. I’m with him, and not just because I don’t have much of a choice.”
It could’ve sounded bitter but he flashed a broad grin and she laughed softly. Inwardly, she cursed herself. She was starting to like Rikton.
She was starting to like him even as she plotted his death.
She was awaiting her chance to send another signal to the New Republic. She needed to do it before Shadow Wing really did pick a target with billions of civilians to murder. When Syndulla came, maybe the Yadeez could be disabled, maybe Rikton would end up in an escape pod, but that couldn’t be the plan.
“You were a pilot, right?” Rikton asked.
“Yes.”
“You ever going to fly again?”
“No. I don’t know. We’ll see where I’m needed,” she said, and while the answer didn’t appear to satisfy Rikton he seemed to accept she wasn’t going to talk about it.
She wondered who Shadow Wing would be flying against when Syndulla came, and who among Alphabet Squadron was still alive.
III
Only the eyes of Grand Moff Randd were steady above the holoprojector. The rest of his body wavered, dissipated, and re-formed, but the eyes stayed. They seemed wide and sleepless to Soran—the eyes of a brilliant man who had lain awake for days, knowing predators were about.
“—your recruits from Fedovoi End arrived at Jakku thirty hours ago,” the moff said, though Soran struggled to make out the words. “You should’ve warned us—our supplies are limited. We can’t take in every shipful of strays you find.”
“My apologies,” Soran said. “Making contact has been extremely difficult, and your needs are unknown to me.”
There was a burst of static that might have been laughter. “They would be. Very well, the newcomers are soft, but this world…it hardens all of us. We’ll find a use for them. You’ll see the sandstorms soon enough, too.”
Soran tried to picture it: Jakku, a dustball of a world bereft of anything but a few nonaligned outposts, lacking infrastructure and natural resources, now housing the largest gathering of Imperial warships and troops since the Battle of Endor. He envisioned stormtroopers crammed into bunkers like refugees, their armor unable to cope with the desert heat; pilots whose rations had been cut to half portions, who went comet-mining in search of water.
He hadn’t told anyone inside the 204th of the fleet’s secret location. He wondered if even the most loyal would be shaken by the truth.
But then, the rebels had endured the gelid world of Hoth. Loyalty could be an inflexible thing.
“May I ask,” Soran said, “what became of Grand Admiral Sloane? I haven’t received an update from her in some time.”
The eyes narrowed. “She is not your concern. Your orders come from me now.”
“I understand,” Soran said, and worried he did.
“For now,” Randd said, “continue as you were. When your mission to Chadawa is complete, contact us again and I will provide a new target.”
Soran nodded in a manner he hoped appeared humble. He considered whether to say more—whether to mention General Syndulla’s pursuit, for one—but saw no advantage in it. Randd’s priorities were not Soran’s priorities, and Soran could safeguard the 204th better while unfettered by additional orders.
“Understood,” he said, and the hologram flashed away.
Less than an ho
ur after that lie of omission he set to more active deception. “The Imperial fleet grows stronger each day,” he told the squadron commanders. The Yadeez had no formal conference room, so they sat on empty crates pulled inside the refrigeration unit. The coolers had been deactivated but the room smelled of meat and mildew. “It is my belief that our leadership is preparing to engage the New Republic directly—and soon. For now, however…”
He looked from pilot to pilot. Some he knew well: Commander Broosh had been a friend before Endor and his most trusted adviser after Soran’s return to the 204th. Phesh was not a friend, but he was familiar; he’d been with the unit nearly as long as Soran could remember, steady and competent throughout.
Others had been promoted to their positions after deaths at Cerberon. He’d chosen Captain Armenauth to replace Gablerone, hoping the man’s long-standing familiarity with his squadron would make up for his unearned confidence. Squadron Two now followed one of the recruits from Dybbron III, a woman named Starzha past her prime as a pilot but whom Soran knew by reputation as an able commander.
He was taking a risk on her. He was taking so many risks.
“For now,” he went on, “we will proceed to the Chadawa system and eliminate the rogue Imperial forces there. I expect Chadawa to prove a challenge, but we have several days in which to prepare our strategy. Study the data we have, no matter how outdated. Speak to your squadrons, see if anyone has personal knowledge that may prove useful. We’ll reconvene and assemble an attack plan with enough time for drills and adjustments.”
He gauged their reactions. For a few, it appeared the name Chadawa held no special meaning. Broosh’s shoulders stiffened. Wisp let out a whinnying breath before clasping a hand over her mouth.
“I know I’m new,” Starzha said. “I’m still getting to know the wing. But I can’t help but notice some tension among the pilots and crew.”
“Do we have a morale problem?” Soran asked.
“ ‘Morale’ is a misdiagnosis,” Phesh said. Starzha arched her brow but didn’t interrupt. “It’s discipline. Our people have grown so familiar with one another that they’re forgetting that devotion to the mission comes before—everything else.”
“ ‘Everything else’ being…?” Starzha asked.
Phesh didn’t answer. Soran looked around the room. Most of the attention was on Starzha and Phesh, but the last thing Soran needed was a rivalry between his squadron commanders.
He glanced toward Broosh, who caught his meaning and said, “I can’t speak for the other squadrons, but my people are in decent spirits, under the circumstances. They are on edge, though.”
The others shifted their attention. Soran tried not to look smug. “Tell me why,” Soran said.
“You can take a hunting dog out of the woods. Give it work to do, let it chase rats and other vermin around the house. But if it gets a sniff of its original quarry, it’ll whine at the fences for days.”
Wisp giggled. Phesh stared awhile, then nodded soberly.
“They want to go after the rebels,” Soran said.
“They want General Syndulla,” Broosh said. “These anti-treason missions from High Command have given us all focus, and we’re grateful. But half of us joined the military to fight these people—the rebels—and with Syndulla…”
“Some of us take it personally,” Wisp said.
“You want to finish the job we began at Cerberon,” Soran said, and shrugged lightly. “I understand that. It isn’t the mission, but we all have colleagues we’d like to avenge.”
Starzha looked between the others. She hadn’t met Syndulla in battle yet, hadn’t been at Pandem Nai or Cerberon, and she looked ready to object.
Soran cut her off before she could. “Make sure that all our new recruits are thoroughly briefed on Syndulla and known members of Alphabet Squadron—Wyl Lark and his ilk.” They’d tentatively identified the Y-wing pilot as a man named Nath Tensent, thanks to public broadcasts of a medal ceremony on Troithe; the B-wing pilot remained anonymous, but Shadow Wing had worked up an extensive profile on the pilot’s tactics long ago. The X-wing pilot had gone down at Pandem Nai, before Soran’s return. Only the U-wing’s status was in question. “The support squadrons as well—Syndulla may have replaced or rotated them, but we might as well be thorough.
“Direct engagement is not our goal, but we can assume the foe was not destroyed by the sabotage droids. They will pursue. If they find us, I want the advantage.”
That seemed to satisfy the commanders. The meeting reached its end, and as Soran watched the others file out of the refrigeration unit he thought about Lieutenant Palal Seedia—one of Gablerone’s pilots, the woman with an aristocrat’s sense of duty and vengeance. Soran had chosen her to fly on his wing at Cerberon, and had lost her over Catadra. He’d had hopes for her future; now she was one of many lives half forgotten, taken by Syndulla and her people.
He understood his people’s instincts. He would’ve relished the opportunity to fight Syndulla again himself—a chance to prove the 204th’s superiority.
But his priority was the unit’s survival, and that remained far from assured.
He exited into the central corridor of the Yadeez and made his way to the corpse of the Emperor’s Messenger.
CHAPTER 7
THE ROYAL ANTHEM OF ALDERAAN
I
Two days after the Deliverance completed emergency repairs, the battleship emerged into the Ciaox Verith system. The cerulean glow of hyperspace tore back from the bridge’s viewport, replaced by rippling serpents of jade plasma against a star-specked night. Hera almost gasped at the beauty of the display, but she forced herself to turn to the comscan officer instead.
“Trying to get a clear reading through the plasma storm,” the officer said. “That frequency you gave us—not picking anything up yet, but it’ll take a while to sort through the distortion.” The officer was Cathar, with neatly knotted fur; petite enough that Hera wondered if she qualified as an adult among her species.
Not that Hera hadn’t put children in the line of fire before.
“Do your best,” Hera said. “Take whatever time you need.”
Ciaox Verith was the end of a trail sniffed out by New Republic Intelligence—the point of origin for the latest of several comm bursts seemingly produced by a malfunctioning transmitter aboard Shadow Wing’s bulk freighter. There was a chance the bursts were bait for a trap; a better chance that they were real but not a lasting phenomenon. Either way, they were the Deliverance’s best lead.
Commander Arvad—Captain Arvad, since the sabotage droids’ attack—looked to Hera. “What’s our plan if we don’t find anything?” she asked.
“Things get a lot harder—” Hera began, and stopped as the comscan officer turned.
“General,” the Cathar said. “I can’t be sure, but I think they’re here.”
“Scramble the fighters,” Hera said, crisp but not harsh. If the woman was wrong, if it was a false alarm, it wouldn’t matter. If she was right, though? Hera moved to the comscan station. “Show me what you’ve got.”
The noise level rose as Arvad called the crew to battle stations; as flight officers and fire control chiefs sent orders to ready the hangar for launch and to power the main guns; as a thousand lesser tasks went to hundreds of crew members who kept the Destroyer ready for war. Hera could feel the sounds, sense the voices through her head-tails, and found them comfortingly familiar.
The Cathar indicated a display showing objects in motion above a gas giant. “What are we seeing?” Hera asked, then answered her own question. “One mark massive enough to be the Yadeez. The other large ones could be sensor shadows, or maybe escort ships. The small ones could be TIEs, but—”
“They look like they’re fighting,” the comscan officer said. “Could they be shooting at rogue Imperials?”
“I don’t—” Hera wanted to vocalize her thought, but it was only a hunch. She needed evidence. “Take us closer, and put me through to our fighters. Is Lark out there?”
There was more chatter and noise—headsets adjusted and replies called out. “General!” came a distorted voice through the comm. “Wyl Lark here. Flare Squadron’s with me. The rest are prepping for takeoff.”
“What do you see?” she asked. “Do you have a visual?”
“Lots of movement, but it’s dark—no cannon flash. There’re TIEs deployed but they’re not in position…” Wyl trailed off even as Hera felt a surge of excitement. “General, I think they were running a drill. They’re moving into attack formation now, but I don’t think they expected—”
“Go!” Hera lurched upright, doubted herself as she called out. “Deliverance, move to engage. Lark, begin your attack!”
Is this madness? she wondered. Is it hope? Neither would be enough if she’d misjudged Shadow Wing and Soran Keize. But she was operating on instinct now—instinct honed over years of warfare, months of studying the 204th, yet instinct nonetheless.
The man she’d loved, the father of her child, would’ve called it the guidance of the Force.
Maybe it was just tactics.
“Entering combat range,” Wyl said. She listened for fear and heard none, though stress made him brusque. “Enemy shots fired. Breaking away!”
The comm went silent. Hera wanted to hear the whole squadron over the bridge comm while she stared at the dots playing across the scanner. Instead she went to Arvad’s side as the bridge officers called updates and the deck trembled. A plasma serpent slithered across the bow of the Deliverance and the great ship shook it off with barely a shudder.
Until today the 204th had always, always been ready for them. This was an opportunity they had to seize.
“Hail and Wild squadrons launching now. Thirty seconds until the Deliverance is in range,” Arvad said. “Suggest we train turbolasers on the bulk freighter. Put them on the defensive.”
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