“Humans,” the door’s speaker declared with electronic disdain. “Have your masters sent you to be fitted with restraining bolts? Likely not…I do not recognize you. Travelers, then. Neural implants? Total conversion? I require payment in advance for both.”
“I have a data reclamation job for you,” Quell answered. “We have credits—”
“Yes, I know,” the door responded. “I figured it all out while you were speaking with the haste of a glacier. You can enter.”
The door began to rumble open, its servos grinding noisily. It was at least ten centimeters thick, and though Quell couldn’t identify the alloy she suspected it would stand up to a midsized proton bomb. She shifted the duffel on her shoulder and stepped forward only for the door to screech and stop as Kandende and Rikton moved behind her.
“Only your leader is required. Thank you,” it said.
“It’s all right.” Quell shrugged at her crew. “Wait here.”
What were you planning to do if you’d all gone in together? Show the Messenger to both of them?
She didn’t look back as she stepped into the cluttered workshop beyond. The door’s servos whined again and she had to nudge aside machine parts with her boot to forge a path through the dim chamber. “Let’s talk,” she called. “Are you the Surgeon?”
Why bring Kandende, of all people? Do you want to fail? Do you want your team to find out the truth?
A chrome head emerged from a curtain of wires. Mismatched photoreceptors rotated asynchronously before focusing on Quell. “One of the Harch’s referrals? Imperial, clearly. Doing a poor job of hiding it. I’m surprised you’d trust me with the work. Most of your kind doesn’t.”
She thought of D6-L, the astromech unit who’d sacrificed itself for her at Pandem Nai. She thought of IT-O, her therapist, whom she’d desperately tried to preserve. “I’ve had friends,” she said. “Droid friends.”
“Of course you have,” the Surgeon said. “Toss me the bag, don’t approach. Are you looking for a repair, or—”
“No. Absolutely not.” She shifted the straps of the duffel, hefted it in both arms, but didn’t throw it over. “I need specific data—I wrote down the particulars—but if there’s even a chance the thing’s programming will activate you melt it first. Will that be a problem?”
The curtain of wires rustled. It sounded almost like laughter. “I have only a passing interest in droid solidarity. I can avoid activating higher functions. Separate out the memory circuits if necessary. Good enough?”
“Good enough,” she said, and tossed the bag. It landed a meter short of the curtain with a graceless thump of cloth and metal.
Three triple-jointed metal arms emerged from the curtain and unzipped the bag, carefully removing pieces of the vivisected Messenger and arranging them on the floor. After a while, a fourth appendage ending in a telescoping lens joined the others to study the components. “Intricate work. Unusual. Organic handcrafting, in places. Stay, I’ll have an assessment soon.”
Quell didn’t move as several arms retracted and others extended with scanners and laser scalpels. The Surgeon kept speaking. “They weren’t your friends, you know.”
“Pardon?”
“Your droid friends. They weren’t. At best, you were an interest to them, a hobby. You’re social creatures in a way we aren’t. Even those of us designed to mimic organic thought patterns are so far removed from your kind that—”
“One of them was an Imperial torture droid.”
Two of the arms stopped moving. “Oh. They do get a bit obsessive, trying to figure you lot out.”
The next ten minutes were spent in silence, save for the humming of the Surgeon’s mechanisms, the hiss and whir of its tools, and the occasional clatter from behind the curtain. Finally the head declared: “I can do it. Give me until tomorrow morning. Late morning. I’m going to assume I shouldn’t mention this to anyone?”
“You assume correctly,” Quell said. “What about payment? I’ve got—”
“Speak to your Mister Kandende. I’ve already made the arrangements.”
She froze, possibilities flashing through her mind. There were too many to count, like stars in a night sky.
The grinding of the door brought her out of stasis and she protested, demanded to know more. The droid ignored her except to wave toward the gap back into the waiting room. She could see Rikton and Kandende both still present—the former seated on a stool, slumped and staring at the floor; the latter pacing restlessly.
With a frustrated growl, she left the workshop and snagged Kandende by the arm. “What happened?” she asked. “What did you do?”
Kandende widened his eyes as he squared his shoulders. He spoke in a hoarse, unwavering voice. “The machine said its price was a human servant. I pledged to one year.”
Then he glanced sidelong toward Rikton and lowered his voice to a whisper. “ ‘Operation Cinder takes many forms,’ you said. The sacrifice is mine to make; I do this for the Emperor.”
* * *
—
They rented a cramped, second-story apartment for the night from the outpost’s droid administrators. The closets were stuffed with rough civilian clothing and a few workers’ jumpsuits, and plush toys were secreted under chairs and high on shelves. No one questioned where the former residents had gone as they laid blankets on the floor.
Instead they argued about Kandende. Fra Raida wanted to mount a rescue before the team departed the planet, and she seethed silently when Quell deemed the plan too risky. Mirro was more concerned about the man’s state of mind: Squadron Four had been decimated in recent months, with Lykan killed just days earlier; Kandende had always been unstable, and it seemed wrong to let him martyr himself. Rikton offered to take Kandende’s place. Ultimately Quell put a stop to the debate with a few swift words: “We’re in enemy territory,” she snapped, “and our mission is crucial. Maybe someday we’ll have the luxury of finding our brother, but we do not shy away from sacrifice.”
It sounded unlike her. It sounded like Grandmother.
But the others accepted the rebuke. Quell sat beside Fra Raida in the washroom awhile, half expecting the woman to place her head in the crook of Quell’s shoulder and for the two of them to talk—to reaffirm the bond they’d tentatively forged aboard the Yadeez. Instead Raida was silent, and when Quell returned to the living area the others were gathered around a portable heater to ward off the chill.
“…feels wrong,” Brebtin said, “being here instead of—” She waved a hand as if flicking aside a gnat.
Quell stayed in the doorway and observed. The others must have noticed her arrival, but they didn’t look her way.
“They’ll be all right,” Rikton said. “The colonel knows what he’s doing.”
Mirro sighed heavily and shook his head. “What she’s saying, Rikton, is that the rest of us—excepting our gallant leader—haven’t been apart from the unit like this for a long time. I’m used to wrapping a pillow over my ears to shut out the noise of Strannos snoring. Don’t know how I’ll sleep without it.”
Brebtin nodded, expression flat. Quell felt a hand on her shoulder as Fra Raida emerged from the washroom, gently guiding Quell aside. “That’s not what she’s saying, either,” Raida said, easing into the circle around the heater. “You’re not a pilot. You wouldn’t understand.”
“We could try,” Rikton said.
Raida laughed, low and rough. “It’s wrong to be here while they’re shouldering the burden. While they’re—when we go back, Chadawa will be gone because of them. They shouldn’t be doing it alone.”
She might as well have said: They shouldn’t carry the guilt alone.
“They betrayed the Empire,” Rikton said softly. “The Chadawans did.”
“Sure,” Mirro said.
Quell’s chest hu
rt. No one else spoke. Brebtin looked frustrated—maybe what Raida had said hadn’t been what she’d meant at all.
But it was the only time since Quell’s return she’d witnessed regret over Operation Cinder.
Late that night, lying awake on a stranger’s bed, she wished she’d never heard it. She replayed the conversation in her mind often, but in her sleepless haze the voices sounded like Lark and Chadic, Tensent and Kairos, as they flew above the corpse of a world.
II
When the tide went out and the particle count dropped, Wyl Lark led his seven fastest starfighters into the heart of the system and counted down to his retreat. Soon the rings around Chadawa would activate again and disrupt every mechanism keeping him alive. He was relying on the Deliverance’s estimate of just how soon—the rings followed a schedule accounting for everything from Chadawa’s orbital dynamics to its atmospheric conditions to the fluctuating background radiation of nearby stars, and he didn’t understand any of it. He didn’t understand lightspeed travel, either, but if the crew said he could trust their calculations, he would trust them.
He had only minutes to succeed at his mission. He’d agreed with General Syndulla that this window of opportunity was too small for an assault on Shadow Wing’s bulk freighter or to destroy as many TIEs as possible, or even to interfere with the progress of Operation Cinder. Instead the job was reconnaissance: assess the 204th’s strength, record images of Chadawa, and determine what the enemy was doing to wipe out all life on the planet.
Wyl’s A-wing screamed as he swung toward the blue dot, weighting his body with the force of acceleration until he could barely reach the controls. Wild Squadron’s modified X-wings and R-22 Spearheads spread out, sweeping their visual sensors across the battlefield. Shadow Wing came like an insect swarm, first by ones and twos and then by dozens, spitting emerald fire and driving the New Republic forces back.
Through it all, no one on either side spoke on their single shared channel. Wyl refrained from even whispering to his ship, no matter that his comm was closed.
No one died in the four minutes before the rings flared and vacuum was flooded with radiation and the scouts returned to the Deliverance. Their mission had been a success, but it wasn’t sufficient and the silence seemed to follow Wyl into the hangar, dulling the noise of ground crew chatter and machinery so thoroughly that he wiped at his ears, fearing they were filled with sweat.
* * *
—
“They’re up to something,” Syndulla said, staring at the hologram of Chadawa above the conference table. “Obviously they’re up to something. But look at the rings—Shadow Wing is deploying those Raiders near the satellites closest to the planet.”
Wyl shut his eyes for a moment, trying to envision the reality behind the glittering blue images. “You think they plan to use the rings to destroy Chadawa?”
“It fits the pattern,” Syndulla said. She reached through the hologram to retrieve a mug of aromatic caf, briefly lodging her arm in the center of the world. “Cinder always exploits a planet’s vulnerabilities. We’ll keep an eye out, try to figure out the specifics and how long we have until the purge starts.”
“Next time the tide goes out we can target the Raiders. It’ll be hard to get so close, do damage, and get out before the rings reactivate, though.”
“Agreed—not unless the next low tide is a lot longer. But I don’t see many other options.”
Wyl hesitated, looking to one of the display screens showing distances and angles and velocities of the Shadow Wing ships. He didn’t read the numbers; he just wanted a place to stare while he thought about it all.
“We could throw everything we’ve got at them,” he finally said. “A frontal assault next time the particle count drops. We don’t worry about retreating, we just do as much damage as we can regardless of the losses…stop them from implementing their plan, whatever it is.”
Syndulla caught his gaze. “There’re a lot of people on Chadawa. We are going to save them. But it’s not time for desperate measures yet.”
Wyl remembered Rununja, Riot Leader, who’d often used the same tone he heard from Syndulla now. It was the voice of the Rebellion. “Understood,” he said. “Glad to hear it. Both parts.”
Syndulla straightened and wrapped her hands around her mug, apparently satisfied. “We skirmish with the Raider corvettes, then. Do what damage we can, slow Shadow Wing’s plan bit by bit while we wait for better tidal conditions or find another way.”
“I’ll brief the squadrons,” Wyl said. “You know how long before the next opening?”
“Five hours, roughly. Probably another four till the next after that. Congratulations, Mister Lark—you get to teach your pilots the meaning of patience.”
* * *
—
If anything, Wyl found, Syndulla had understated the challenge: Patience didn’t come easily to pilots who could see their enemy floating visibly, tantalizingly out of reach.
Two New Republic squadrons patrolled the system at all times while a third rested and refueled aboard the Deliverance. Whenever the particle tide subsided, the squadron aboard the Deliverance replaced one of the active units; then both active squadrons moved on the Chadawan rings. The skirmishes were brief and infuriatingly unproductive—each time, Shadow Wing’s strategy was to drive off and scatter the attackers, buying time for the rings to reactivate and the tide to come in. No starfighter on either side was destroyed across three battles; only a single fighter (piloted by Flare Ten, a Corellian hotshot Wyl’s own age) delivered a solid hit to one of the enemy Raiders.
If the New Republic forces were slowing Shadow Wing’s progress—and Syndulla insisted they were—it wasn’t by much. The pilots were getting restless.
“This downtime…it’s just enough to do blast-all,” Nath grunted as he pawed through the walk-in pantry. Wyl observed him from the doorway, wincing as Nath used T5 as a shelf for unwanted ration bars. “Can’t drink, can’t catch any real rest, can’t even do a proper maintenance check in case we need to launch fast.”
“What are you looking for?” Wyl asked.
Nath made a satisfied sound and held up three foil packages. “Told the Hail Squadron gang I’d cook. Scramble these, add some oil and anything in the vegetable cooler, it’ll be almost palatable.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“They’ll start bickering if they play another round of sabacc. Can’t have that when I need them watching my back.” Nath cleared off T5 and shook his head. “Hate to say it, but this would be easier if someone died out there. Right now it’s like waiting for a sneeze—nothing to punctuate the moment so we’re all just left…”
He trailed off and spread his arms wide. Wyl waited for him to finish until realizing that was the point.
They left the pantry together. Wyl tailed Nath into the galley where the larger man gathered cookware and T5 kept the chef droid at bay. “You seen any old friends yet?” Nath asked as he squeezed a yellow oil from one of the pouches into a pot.
“Not many,” Wyl admitted. “Spitsy and Brew were out during my last run. No sign of Char.”
Still nothing from Blink since Cerberon, he thought, though he didn’t say so to Nath. He wondered with a pang whether the enemy he’d connected to had died weeks ago.
“I ran into the Twins,” Nath said. “Figure they’ve all gotten to know us pretty well by now…probably asking the same sort of thing.”
For an instant Wyl was transported to the Oridol Cluster. He remembered Riot Squadron floating in the void, the Hellion’s Dare adrift and the Shadow Wing carrier similarly damaged. They’d been forced to wait then, too. Chass had sung, Rununja and Sata Neek and Merish had told stories, Skitcher had read poetry…Wyl had reached out to the enemy. It had been the first time he’d spoken to Blink, and it had ended badly
“Probabl
y,” he said. He realized he was trembling. “I’ll leave you to it—but can you send me the Intelligence files on Shadow Wing? Anything new from the Cerberon records?”
Nath flicked water at T5. “You heard the man,” he said, and the droid growled and squeaked.
* * *
—
“This is Wyl Lark of New Republic squadron ‘Alphabet,’ ” he began, then grimaced and started over.
“This is Wyl. You probably know me.”
There was only one channel anyone could hear in the Chadawa system. He hadn’t asked Syndulla or the captain of the Deliverance permission to commandeer the comm room, but the officer on duty had readily stepped aside and let Wyl fill the stiff chair surrounded by banks of glowing computers.
He squirmed and tried to make himself comfortable. The headset pinched his ears and whined with the rainfall patter of the radiation particles. Relax, he told himself. Just talk to them.
“I don’t have any favors to ask, or any suggestions about what we do next. You can always jam me, but I thought we’d get to know one another better. Starting with me and—” He took a deep breath and glanced at a datapad he’d placed on the console. He ran his finger over the names there and prayed for guidance. “—Duchas Cherroi.”
It wasn’t a name he recognized—it was one of dozens Quell had given Caern Adan during her debriefings on the 204th. One New Republic Intelligence had found in the wrecked data banks of the cruiser-carrier that had gone down over Troithe.
“Hi, Duchas,” he went on. “My name’s Wyl. I hope you’re out there, I hope you’re alive, I hope I’m pronouncing your name right.
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