They were both silent then. Out of nervous habit, Quell ran another systems check and twisted her body to ensure that 4E could see her through the viewport; the droid flashed an indicator at her and she was satisfied.
She began to turn back to the console when she saw the silhouette of the U-wing against the bright hyperspace tunnel. The transport looked perfectly still, surrounded by the blue, and she could see none of its details—not the cockpit, or Kairos, or the crest of Alphabet Squadron. It was barely more than a black oval.
It’s stupid, she thought as she turned back around. She doesn’t need to hear it. But she spoke anyway.
“What if you are still healing?” Quell asked.
Kairos didn’t answer.
“What if it’s just…different? What if your ship is a kind of chrysalis, too?”
Quell let out a long breath when the words had left her. She’d tried her best.
“Perhaps,” Kairos said.
II
Are you sure, Wyl Lark? Are you really sure?
He sat in one of the Deliverance’s private conference rooms, staring at the dead holoprojector where moments earlier an elder of Polyneus had spoken to him with such kindness that it made all the New Republic seem mechanistically brutal. Wyl hadn’t told the elder his plans—those were his burden to carry—but he’d made his request and the elder had agreed to help.
Contacting Home had been a good and wise choice, Wyl believed. He was less certain of the goodness and wisdom of what he intended next.
Operation Cinder was over. Shadow Wing had fled. Wyl’s A-wing, the only starfighter he’d flown since joining the Rebellion, was gone. He’d had time to think about all these things as he’d recovered in the medbay, and he held them in his mind now along with the words of Yrica Quell and Soran Keize.
Keize had sought to escape the war. He’d failed, but that didn’t make him wrong.
Wyl didn’t hurt as he stood and left the conference room. He felt tired—his sleep had been troubled lately—but otherwise strong, and his skin was whole and unbruised. The pain of his impact on the Chadawan moon had oppressed him for days; now it was almost forgotten, lingering only as a phantom. The recovery time had done him good, temporarily absolving him from responsibility to his squadrons and granting him perspective on what was truly happening. All the galaxy seemed different to him now, as if it had all been canted while viewed through the haze of adrenaline and violence.
There was another A-wing waiting for him in the hangar, delivered along with other fresh supplies. He’d looked at it from afar after saying goodbye to Quell and wondered if it had lost its pilot; it didn’t look new. Sentimentality urged him to visit it now instead of continuing on his path, to befriend it, but it was only a hunk of metal.
Are you sure, Wyl Lark? It’s not too late to change your mind.
He was sure.
There were a dozen pilots already in the ready room when he arrived: Nath and Chass, of course—he owed them his life a hundred times over and they deserved to be there; Essovin, Flare Leader, whose interactions with Wyl had always been about combat and little else; Denish Wraive, Wild Leader, the ancient figure who had flown with Wyl in the tunnels of Troithe; Boyvech Toons, the highest-ranking survivor of Hail Squadron, who’d fought along with Alphabet at Pandem Nai and Cerberon; and a smattering of pilots from all three squadrons who had taken the comm during the downtime at Chadawa, when they’d begun speaking to Shadow Wing like people. Vitale was among them, and sat closest to the front.
Wyl had asked General Syndulla to join, too, but he didn’t see her. “Is the general—?” he began.
Vitale shook her head. “Said she had another conference, and to start without her.”
“Right. Okay.” Wyl hesitated before walking to the podium. He’d wanted Syndulla present—he’d considered meeting with her alone beforehand, even knowing she would’ve likely stopped him altogether—but it didn’t change what he was about to do.
At the podium he turned and sat on the deck, placing himself level with the eyeline of the assembled pilots. They were his friends and comrades. Their voices quieted and they watched him, curious.
“This isn’t a briefing,” he said. “I don’t have anything new to say about Jakku—the flight plan General Syndulla and Captain Tensent put together while I was recovering looks more than solid.”
Now he had their attention. He felt as buoyant as he was nervous—almost as if he were back on Jiruus, celebrating the defeat of the Empire with Riot Squadron. Yet his underarms were damp. He drew in a breath but couldn’t smell his own sweat over the rich odors of a dozen species: a blend of copper and cinnamon and millaflower.
“I won’t be joining the attack,” he said. “I’m not sure there should be an attack at all.”
He’d expected a roar of protest. They only watched him and glanced sidelong at one another. Nath was scowling. Vitale’s mouth was half open in a smile, as if at a joke she didn’t really get.
“The Empire has fled across the galaxy to a desert world not even listed on most charts,” he went on. “The sector’s barely populated, and so far as we can tell the Imperials aren’t doing any harm. They’re not conquering new territory. They’re not wiping out populations. Operation Cinder is finished. They’re scared now, and they’re entrenching, and they’re trying to survive.
“If we go in, who are we helping? What are we doing other than killing people?”
“For one thing—” Boyvech Toons began.
“Shadow Wing remains a danger,” Denish Wraive said.
Wyl waved a hand for silence. The pilots obliged, though he doubted it would last. He looked between faces as he sorted his thoughts. One-on-one he could’ve made himself clear to any of them, but as a group he wasn’t sure he could meet their separate needs.
“Listen,” he said. “I know they’ve done awful things. I know they could do awful things again. I know it as well or better than anyone here. But if now isn’t the time to put our weapons aside and sue for peace, what is? We’ll never kill every authoritarian zealot with a gun, or win over every Imperial hard-liner. At some point we’ve got to accept that we’ve won already and find a way to end the violence.”
“Maybe that point is after we’ve dismantled the fleet of murderers and criminals,” Vitale said. She was no longer smiling.
“Or maybe trying will only make it worse,” Wyl said. His voice was soft but unwavering. “Think about when we talked to the 204th. Think about why they haven’t given up already. We can’t stop them all, we’ll never stop them all, and by slaughtering as many as we can at Jakku we’re going to persuade anyone else out there who survives—all the ex-stormtroopers on planets like Troithe and Coruscant—that the New Republic wants vengeance more than peace. We’re going to breed martyrs.”
Soran Keize is wrong. New Republic justice can be merciful. But we need to prove it. He thought the words but only Nath and Chass would’ve understood them.
Instead he put it as simply as he could: “We’ve saved as many lives as we can save, but the war ended a year ago. It’s time to walk away.”
The pilots waited for more. They respected him that much. But when he said nothing and the moments stretched out, they began to shift in their seats. Some opened their mouths to speak, yet they didn’t say any more than Wyl had.
One by one, they began to stand. Vitale was the first to walk out of the briefing room, brushing past Wyl and murmuring, “I’m sorry,” as her fingertips grazed his shoulder. Essovin went next, shaking her scaly head, and all of Flare Squadron followed. Some of the pilots met Wyl’s gaze as they departed, while others took winding paths through the room to avoid him. Denish Wraive stood above Wyl awhile, brow furrowed in puzzlement and pity, before leaving with a pronounced sigh. Soon only two were left.
Wyl had never expected the speech
to work. He couldn’t help but be disappointed anyway.
Chass lingered at the doorway. Wyl tried to read her face and thought he saw frustration or disgust. Nath touched the Theelin’s shoulder, urging her outside with a mutter Wyl couldn’t hear. Then Wyl and Nath were alone.
“That was something,” Nath said.
“I had to try.”
Nath grunted and studied the closed door. When he faced Wyl again his expression had become a mask of compressed grief and fury. He crossed to Wyl in three long strides and hauled the smaller man to his feet, holding Wyl aloft for an instant then shoving him away. Wyl stumbled and rebalanced as Nath roared: “If you didn’t want to fight here, why the hell didn’t you go with Quell?”
Wyl attempted to answer, but Nath shook his head and smacked his palm against Wyl’s chest, shoving him back. “You think the Deliverance is going to turn around? Find some nice world where we can drop you off before we hit Jakku? You already volunteered to risk your life in this battle! Fly or don’t fly, you could still end up a dead man.”
Nath was panting for breath. Wyl steadied himself before he could be shoved again. “I still have a place here,” Wyl said. “I’m not doing this because I’m scared—I can help the ground crews, I can play a role without getting in anyone’s way.”
“Or firing a weapon,” Nath said with a snort.
“Or firing a weapon,” Wyl agreed. “Besides, maybe it’s not too late for someone to listen.”
He’d never feared Nath Tensent—never felt intimidated by him, even on Troithe when they’d shouted at each other over Wyl’s desire to strike an agreement with Shadow Wing. But Nath’s anger then had possessed a laser focus; there was a rawness to his ire now.
Wyl wondered if he was seeing the pirate in Nath: the man who’d extorted and blackmailed merchants. He didn’t think so. He didn’t know what aspect of the man stood before him.
Nath took another step and made a fist. Then he dropped the hand and swung around, pacing alongside the row of chairs at the front of the room. “We’re done,” he said, and half turned toward Wyl. “You and me? We’re done. I’m not going to keep trying. I won’t keep pulling your butt out of fires you started, and I won’t point out the mistakes you’re going to regret. You were part of the squadron, and I always figured keeping you alive would keep me alive, but now—” He shook his head violently. “No. I was blasted generous was what I was. You and I both know it. But we’re done, and now I’ve got to clean up your mess one last time.”
Wyl smiled—sadly, foolishly, not knowing what else to do—and the expression faded as swiftly as it had formed. “What do you mean, ‘one last time’?” he asked, because what could he say to the rest?
“I mean two and a half squadrons’ worth of pilots just got abandoned by their commander before the fight of their lives.” Nath shook his head again and spat on the deck. “You think Syndulla’s going to lead them out there? Maybe Chass? Nah. It’s up to their damn medal-wearing hero to get any of us out alive. Who knows how…?”
The rage had faded, replaced by bitterness. Wyl nodded carefully. “They couldn’t ask for a better leader,” he said.
He couldn’t apologize. He was at peace with his decision.
“Get the hell out of my briefing room,” Nath said, and Wyl left his mission and his friend behind.
III
The TIE shifted out of hyperspace with the stability of a Juggernaut riding rough terrain. Soran feared the docking ring would tear from his wings as it decelerated the fighter; the ring was an antique, meant to provide lightspeed capability to Clone Wars starfighters, and only the miracles wrought by the 204th’s engineers had adapted it to a TIE chassis. The cargo pod under his cockpit worsened the shocks, moving his stabilizing center of mass beneath the TIE.
As he tried to breathe against the pressure on his chest, he nearly laughed thinking of Squadron Three: Wisp’s pilots had used the docking rings a dozen times with nary a complaint. Maybe, he thought, you’ve grown too comfortable as a colonel. Maybe you should’ve gone to the grand moff, tried to requisition a TIE scout because your stomach can’t take a bump or two…
The rays of stars compressed into specks and realspace fully enveloped him. Soran wrenched a toggle under his console and ejected the docking ring. This delivered one final jolt, and he was heaved forward as the ring tumbled away; then the fighter steadied and the engines’ comforting scream rose over his buzzing instruments. For a moment he luxuriated in a dark and open sky, and the motes of planets and ships and satellites reminded him of quieter days.
He had arrived in the Coruscant system. There would be no time for reflection after this.
Soran swung his fighter toward the planet Coruscant itself. The vast iron orb gleamed with golden flecks, textured not by mountains and oceans but by the intricate geometry of urban districts. He’d visited Coruscant twice in his life, and both times been moved by its grandeur; it was no less impressive with its lights dimmer, its texture faded, as if the machinery of the planet had been tarnished. He transmitted security codes as marks blinked onto his scanner: dozens of Imperial vessels in an orbital blockade, invisible while backlit by Coruscant’s glow.
His comm hissed with static and a woman’s voice declared, “Colonel Soran Keize? Reduce speed, power down your weapons, and await docking clearance. You will come aboard the Panaka and justify your presence.”
Soran checked the seal on his helmet and confirmed his oxygen supply was ample. He did not slow his fighter. “If I recall my history, Moff Panaka was instrumental in breaking his homeworld’s blockade, not preserving it.” He brought a hand to his console and keyed a series of commands. “My mission is extremely urgent and I am required at the Imperial Palace. The orders come from Grand Moff Randd himself.”
“You are not authorized to descend. We have received information suggesting you have been compromised.” The woman paused. “I have respect for your accomplishments, Colonel. Do not force my hand.”
You do make this difficult, he thought. But he’d killed so many Imperials over the past year—most less loyal than this woman, yet not without redeeming qualities. Madrighast had been among the hardest; though Madrighast he’d left to the New Republic.
“I am transmitting the coordinates of a city district adjacent to the Palace,” Soran said. “You must evacuate that area immediately.”
If he’d had another month—even a week—he might have taken a chance. He might have surrendered and attempted to persuade his captors that his cause was just; that, if nothing else, they had an obligation to prevent the Emperor’s data bank from falling into New Republic hands, and that it would be wise to make arrangements in case of the foe’s victory.
He didn’t have a week. If Grand Moff Randd was correct, the battle at Jakku would begin presently. The New Republic, if victorious, would not pause before taking the capital as well.
A nearby cruiser spat emerald light while a more distant vessel disgorged TIEs. Soran arced away from the barrage and kept moving toward the planet. He watched his range indicator and counted down, waiting for the vessels in the blockade to close around him. He was confident in his plan, but there was no margin for error.
The TIE squadron approached—he noted its frayed formation with disapproval—and a Reaper-class attack lander made to intercept as well. Satisfied he would have no better opportunity, he thumbed a button and felt his vessel lurch as its cargo pod detached. Half a second later he sent a trigger code and scintillating light flooded the void behind him.
His scanner flickered. Marks doubled, then tripled before the display went dark. His comm pattered like rain as a swath of Coruscant’s orbital space was flooded with radiation—Chadawan particles siphoned by Shadow Wing’s engineers, stored in a modified warhead for later release.
The effect wouldn’t last, nor would it disable whole ships as the Chad
awan tides had, but it would grant Soran the advantage he needed. His pursuers fired wildly and he evaded at acute angles, minimizing his loss of velocity as he plunged toward the planet. Reinforcements would come and those, too, he could escape. If necessary, he would open fire.
His body felt weightless as the TIE dipped and soared. He allowed his mind to return to the words of the Panaka’s commander, and he mused over who might have warned Coruscant about his compromised nature.
He suspected he knew. He was not surprised. He wondered if she would come for him.
CHAPTER 20
UNVEILING OF THE TOOLS OF ORDEAL
I
Hera Syndulla stood in the center of an expanding fleet like a newborn universe. The bridge viewports showed flashes of light above and below and around the Deliverance, each a New Republic ship emerging from hyperspace. She’d last seen such a gathering at Endor, but the fleet was different now—alongside Mon Cala cruisers and civilian frigates loaded for battle were Destroyers like her own and sleek corvettes newly manufactured on Corellia and Rendili. Mightiest of all were the three Starhawk-class battleships—massive vessels whose birth she’d midwifed, with firepower and defenses to match anything short of a Death Star.
The flashing went on endlessly; every time the glimmers faded and the last ships seemed to have arrived, another battle group snapped into existence. At last, Hera tore herself from the view and moved to the bridge stations, gaze flickering from screen to screen as she called for ships to reposition and take formation. Behind her, Captain Arvad saw to the operations of the Deliverance itself—Hera rightly should have been in a combat center somewhere, but they’d agreed to this arrangement in deference to their peculiar assignment.
They were part of the fleet, but if the 204th made its move? Hera would be needed to take command.
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