Nath shrugged. “Oh, his people haven’t absolutely confirmed it. They’re waiting to exfiltrate some embedded agents, maybe. And he definitely won’t say it over the comm, no matter how good our encryption is. But they’re not on the verge of locating the Empire’s base—they’ve got it. They just need to decide what to do with it.”
He’d expected the truth to buoy Wyl’s spirits, but the youth only nodded thoughtfully as they marched down the corridor. “Is ‘what to do with it’ even in question?” Wyl asked.
“Not in the long view, I suppose.”
“Then the war keeps going,” Wyl said. Despite his sober tone, his lips described a cynical smile.
Nath laughed. “I hear you, brother.” He felt a pang of—what was it? Pride? Guilt? Wyl had been tired of fighting when they’d first met, but he’d never been so jaded before. “We need to get you a break—even a few hours. Soon as I can, I’ll get you an intel mission; we’ll pick some dingy planet where news of Endor hasn’t spread, and you and me’ll let the locals know the galaxy’s free of the evil Empire. Innocent fun, a grand celebration. You’ll have the time of your life.”
“I’ve been through it before,” Wyl said, and his smile softened. “Riot Squadron went on a whole victory tour. Pretty fantastic, until it ended.”
“I’m serious about a break, though. Better we don’t wait until the war’s over. Experienced commanders burn out coping with half of what’s on your plate.”
“Did you? Ever burn out, I mean?”
Nath heard it as a joke and answered in the same spirit: “I made a choice not to worry about the things troubling you.”
It wasn’t true, but it was Nath’s habit to play the role of carefree pirate more than any other—more than hero of the New Republic or dangerous thug. It was an easy role to slip into, even unintentionally. But in reality, he’d worried plenty when he’d run his own crew. He’d spent sleepless nights figuring out how to discipline them, how to train them, how to keep them alive.
If he hadn’t worried at all, he’d have taken over Wyl’s position on Troithe. Hell, you could’ve taken over Quell’s.
He debated saying as much, but Wyl had already moved on. “I can’t talk long, but there’s something I wanted to ask you. It’s about Chass…”
Nath grunted. They’d heard nothing from Chass or Kairos since the battle. “I remember her. Good pilot, until she went AWOL. Touch obsessed with our old leader, but that’s nothing new.”
“Pardon?” Wyl broke his stride and looked at Nath.
“Forget it. If you’re worried about her, I’m not sure there’s much we can do. Odds are she’s in one piece wandering hyperspace. Could be back any hour, once her search becomes hopeless.”
“That’s the thing…” Wyl glanced down the corridor and lowered his voice. “She’s always been impulsive, and maybe she’d have gone after Quell regardless, but she hasn’t been the same since Cerberon.”
“Who has?” He waved off the objection before it could come: “The difference is she went through her stuff alone, I know. Something messy with those cultists.”
“Exactly. I tried to talk to her a while back and I didn’t handle it well. General Syndulla went to her, too. I’m worried about her—really worried—and with everything happening I haven’t had the time…” He trailed off. Nath could practically taste Wyl’s self-recrimination.
“For what it’s worth,” Nath said, “I don’t think she’s as serious about the cult as she pretends. But you want me to sit down with her for a chat, I might as well.”
“Thank you. Really, thank you.”
Nath shrugged. “Not any trouble. You straighten out Kairos and we’ll call it even.”
Wyl laughed, though his shame wasn’t gone. “That’s a whole other subject, and I’ve got a planning session with Flare to figure our next approach to Chadawa. We’ll take that break together when the chance comes?”
“Sure,” Nath said.
He watched Wyl depart, then turned and moved the opposite way down the corridor, running through the exchange in his mind. Wyl was still keeping Nath at a distance—something about the way he spoke and held himself had the quality of artifice—but at least the kid was talking to him again. Chass would be a tougher problem, but Nath could speak her language. He just needed to decide what to say.
Nasha Gravas and New Republic Intelligence seemed to consider him useful these days. He made a note to request every file they had on the Children of the Empty Sun.
III
Chass stared out of her cockpit into a system devoid of life and worlds, lit only by a dying coal of a star. The all-consuming darkness triggered memories of Cerberon—memories of staring into a black hole, adrift and short of fuel and oxygen. Only the thunder of her engine anchored her in the present. She squeezed her control yoke until the plastoid bit through her glove into her palm.
“Nothing,” she spat. “Not a blasted thing.”
“No energy readings,” Kairos said. Her voice was as clear as if she were inside the B-wing—the benefit of a star system lacking even a droid to generate comm interference. “We should continue.”
“Yeah,” Chass said. “We should.”
This was their third system and their third failure. Kairos had recorded Quell’s trajectory leaving Chadawa. Chass had plugged the vector into her navicomputer and calculated every star system, deep-space outpost, and astronomical anomaly out to twenty thousand light-years along Quell’s path. If they checked each one they were bound to find their target sooner or later.
Unless Quell was going farther than twenty thousand light-years. Or unless Quell changed course instead of traveling in a straight line. Or unless Kairos’s sensors had misjudged Quell’s heading by a fraction of a degree. Or unless they were too late and Quell was gone by the time they arrived.
Assuming the vessel really had been Quell’s at all.
“We could split up,” Chass said. “Divide the destination list. It might keep her from getting too far ahead.”
There was a several-second pause before Kairos replied: “No. This is the hunt.”
Fine by me, Chass thought.
A voice in her mind asked: Is it, though? Is any of this fine, Maya?
Chass shook off Let’ij’s condescension. Imaginary or not, the cult leader was a distraction. “All right. You pick a star. Send me coordinates and I’ll follow.”
Flying with Kairos wasn’t so bad. She wasn’t chatty. She didn’t want to talk about Shadow Wing or the Children of the Empty Sun or much of anything, and that suited Chass.
The navicomputer blinked as Kairos’s signal came through. Chass depressed a rudder pedal as the U-wing wheeled in the distance. A moment later the glow of the transport’s thrusters were centered in her view; some residual combat instinct urged her to open her throttle and fire.
“Hey,” Chass said. “You know what you want to do when we find her?”
“Judge,” Kairos replied.
The U-wing leapt out of realspace and into a brighter and bluer universe. Chass swallowed her answer and followed, holding on to Kairos’s certainty like a tether or a leash.
For once, Let’ij was silent.
IV
The Yadeez rumbled. Then the hum of surging deflectors sent aftershocks through the deck. Soran steadied himself on the overhead controls and gave the bridge’s combat display a glance.
The shields, modest as they were, were holding; the Yadeez couldn’t increase its distance from Chadawa without exiting the protective cage of the rings, but the planetary defenders’ ground-to-air barrage was ineffective enough. Chadawa’s weaponry was built to vaporize intruders inside the atmosphere, not those hovering just beyond, and the Yadeez would draw no closer until the ground weapons were removed.
The surviving Chadawan navy was of greater conc
ern. Colonel Madrighast and his ships were lurking in the upper atmosphere on the far side of the planet, repairing and regrouping. General Syndulla, too, awaited her moment to strike. Soran was confident he could repel her attacks so long as Shadow Wing remained inside the rings—the particle tide would see to that—but once the operation was complete Shadow Wing would need to leave the rings’ protection to escape the system.
That might be a problem. In a direct confrontation, Shadow Wing might well decimate Syndulla’s forces—but she was better armed and better equipped, and Soran wasn’t so arrogant as to believe victory was guaranteed. Nor was he eager to spend even a few of his pilots’ lives.
Overall, the situation was delicate, if not precarious. It deserved more attention than he wanted to spare. His attention was needed on longer-term concerns.
The scrape of a metal cane across the deck heralded the arrival of Captain Nenvez. “Colonel?” Nenvez said. “Squadron Five has completed its initial pass. Commander Broosh is available at your convenience.”
“Put him through to the headset,” Soran said. He ducked under the cargo controls and settled into an empty seat, slipping the headset over his ears. “Commander? Your report?”
Broosh replied with disciplined ease. Soran could’ve closed his eyes and envisioned them both aboard the Pursuer, so long as he ignored the words. “We took out some of the smaller gun emplacements but we were careful not to get between the surface and Madrighast’s ships. No trouble there. The bombers we loaded with scanning equipment didn’t pick up anything unusual—so far as I can tell, Chadawa’s capabilities are exactly as they appear.”
“Good. What about the other squadrons?”
Soran listened as Broosh summarized flybys and the preparations for the planet’s purge. He made sure to ask the relevant questions and to reinforce the need for expediency—to emphasize that if Syndulla brought in reinforcements before Chadawa was left a wasteland, the entire operation could fail.
If Broosh noticed his mood of detachment, the man was too professional to say so—at least over the comm. Broosh had always preferred his confrontations face-to-face.
“All right,” Soran said at last. “Let’s proceed as planned. Use your judgment when it comes to deploying the squadrons at each phase, but alert me if Madrighast takes action—his options are limited but he’s cannier than his reputation suggests.”
“Understood, Colonel. Anything else?”
The viewscreen flashed before another shudder went through the ship. The bridge lights dimmed as energy was diverted to the deflectors.
“I want you running the fighters from the Yadeez, Commander. Please come aboard at your earliest opportunity.”
Broosh hesitated. Soran imagined the man sifting through his objections—determining which were emotional and which pragmatic—and deciding how to present them.
“Colonel, Squadron Five is already shorthanded with Brebtin assigned to your…strike team. I’m reluctant to pass the reins so soon.”
“I sympathize, and I recognize the risks involved. You have permission to temporarily dissolve the squadron and reassign your pilots elsewhere; or to bolster your ranks, as you see fit. Nonetheless, I want you in a position of oversight during this operation. I can’t have you distracted—or killed—in combat.”
This time there was no hesitation, but Soran had fought alongside Broosh long enough to recognize the reluctance in his voice. “Yes, sir.”
“For what it’s worth,” Soran said, “it will never cease being difficult, leaving your people in the field while you watch from afar. But you do get used to it.
“Keize out.”
He closed the transmission. It wasn’t among his triumphs as speechmaker or mentor. He was very aware he hadn’t addressed the matter troubling Broosh most deeply. He couldn’t address it, not yet.
He couldn’t tell Broosh why he’d allowed Yrica Quell to steal away Jeela Brebtin—one of the best small-arms gunners among the pilot corps—for a strike team that Soran likewise could not explain. He couldn’t explain the team’s mission, or why it was more vital than Operation Cinder or the destruction of General Syndulla and Alphabet Squadron.
He certainly couldn’t explain to Broosh the message Quell had failed to jam—the one suggesting Quell’s loyalties were in doubt, and the strike team’s mission compromised. In all his imaginings about Quell’s time with the New Republic, Soran had never dreamed she’d worked directly with Syndulla or Alphabet. It had seemed likely she’d shared Shadow Wing’s secrets with her debriefers at Traitor’s Remorse—likely that those secrets had made their way to Syndulla’s battle group, in turn—but to learn she’d been close enough to the B-wing pilot to inspire enmity…it was an unpleasant surprise, if not a shock.
Had she been at Pandem Nai, watching from afar? Had she been at Cerberon—perhaps even in a starfighter, killing former comrades and struggling to repel the attack by the Edict? Very possibly she had, assuming this wasn’t all some esoteric deception. On Nacronis he had ordered her defection; he had no right to be dismayed if she’d followed through.
He couldn’t say it changed much, however. The B-wing pilot had called Quell a traitor, and what mattered—internal tensions aside—was where Quell stood now. She had returned after Cerberon, and he had entrusted her with a task he believed true to her spirit. She might well return again.
All Soran could do was have faith that he had earned his people’s loyalty and trust, and that Broosh would wait for his answers.
All he could do was hope that Quell would choose to save Shadow Wing and the Empire instead of destroying them all.
CHAPTER 10
ELIMINATION OF INCONVENIENT VARIABLES
I
Indoors and away from the stinking sleet, the outpost had an odor of mechanical lubricant and spoiled food. The ex-Imperial workforce and their families appeared healthy but cowed, and they interacted little with what Quell assumed were travelers waiting for fuel or a resupply—tense individuals who clustered inside cafés that had obviously been abandoned months earlier, playing cards and sipping steaming thermoses. One such traveler, a Houk easily four times Quell’s mass, had rushed up shortly after the team’s arrival jabbering about needing work, credits, or transport after some failed repair of his ship; Fra Raida nearly shot him before Mirro talked him down, suggesting a cheap and ugly fix to the Houk’s engines.
But while the outpost’s organic occupants were worth worrying about, Quell mostly watched the droids. They were fewer than she’d expected—at least the ones walking the public throughways—and mostly Imperial designs. Many-armed repair bots instructed human engineers maintaining the outpost’s refineries. Gleaming protocol units strode past Quell and her team without pausing to acknowledge them. Drones tumbled through the air together like mating insects, performing inexplicable acts.
Quell had just finished consulting a directory of outpost services when they spotted an astromech berating and shocking one of the human workers. Kandende looked ready to intervene, but he caught Quell’s eye and lowered his head and the group moved on with deliberate care.
“This is the galaxy now?” Kandende asked when they were out of earshot of the droid.
“Not everywhere,” Quell said.
Rikton glanced back, then shrugged. “Not everywhere,” he agreed. “Not like it used to be much of anywhere, either. It’s all muddied up.”
Fra Raida kept her eyes on their surroundings as she spoke. “One of the boys we picked up from Dybbron told me the rebels have been pardoning pirates. People who used to massacre merchant caravans are running planets now.”
“Emperor Palpatine tried to save us,” Kandende said. “The Empire was the only thing stopping it from all falling apart, like it did with the Old Republic. This here—it’s perverse, droids commanding people, but it’s the way things go if no one strong enough st
ops it.”
“Maybe.” Mirro spoke slowly, putting on what seemed to Quell like a performance of thoughtfulness. The old man shrugged. “Or maybe this is what liberation looks like.”
Kandende and Brebtin began to argue. Mirro gestured expansively at the outpost and the droids, raising his voice without sharpening it. “We treated these droids like tools at best. At worst, we took out our frustrations on them, scrapped them, and blamed them for our failures. Free from our control, naturally they lash out at anyone who looks like us.”
“So what?” Brebtin asked. “You think this is justified?”
“Not justified.” Mirro shrugged again. “Natural, maybe.”
“If this is natural for droids,” Fra Raida said, “I’d hate to see how the rebels treat their ‘oppressors.’ ” Her voice was soft and bitter, and Quell caught Raida’s sidelong glance aimed her way. She wasn’t sure what it meant.
“Save the philosophizing for later,” Quell said, and pulled to a stop. “Brebtin, Mirro, see if you can find us lodgings for the night. Rikton and Kandende are with me. Raida, follow us at a distance, watch our backs. Everyone keep your comlinks close and call if there’s trouble.”
The group dispersed without quarrel. Quell wasn’t sure if the conversation, had it continued, might’ve resulted in a more serious clash, but she welcomed its end.
* * *
—
Colonel Keize had given Quell the name of a contact before she’d left the Yadeez. Where he’d obtained it, she wasn’t sure—some secondary source he’d met during his time wandering the galaxy—but he admitted he’d never met the contact himself. “All I know is that someone I trust believes this droid can assist us. Whether it will, I cannot say.”
So with some trepidation she climbed a narrow stairway to the gate bearing the address the outpost directory had furnished. Rikton and Kandende followed single file as she emerged into a cramped, filthy room that might have been a waiting area. Squat stools sat along one wall, facing a row of portable heaters; the opposite wall was lined with power generators and covered with patches of what appeared to be a dark alien fungus that seemed to wiggle in her peripheral vision. A heavy metal door festooned with scanners, comm devices, and mechanisms Quell didn’t recognize led farther into the building.
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