Victory's Price (Star Wars)

by Alexander Freed

  It hurt to say the words. If Hera had trusted Mothma any less, she would’ve kept them to herself.

  “It would be easier,” Mothma said quietly, “if we weren’t setting precedent. If the decision could be sealed, like it would be in the Empire—never subjected to public view, with no consequences; no one to answer to but our own peculiar consciences.”

  Hera laughed dubiously. “Is that an option?”

  “Maybe if Keize’s attack and postmortem proclamation hadn’t been so public. Maybe if fewer people knew, but—no. Justice works best in daylight anyway, and practically speaking we were going to encounter a case like hers sooner rather than later.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m not looking to make an example of her,” Mothma said, too swiftly for someone who hadn’t considered the possibility. “But this is the start of a very long process. The Emperor’s data bank cataloging his people’s atrocities isn’t public knowledge, and the Senate hasn’t yet determined the full process for trying Imperials outside the topmost levels of government. Each of those items impacts the other, all of which is to say…Soran Keize wasn’t entirely wrong to believe the data bank is a potential threat to a lasting peace.”

  Hera arched her brow. “You read those transcripts pretty closely.”

  “I did.” She shrugged. “I believe in justice. I also believe that for the galaxy to survive, reconciliation must occur. The New Republic will not hold together if we spend the next ten or twenty or fifty years divided into rebel and Imperial, yet true reconciliation requires honesty. It requires we stare at what we’ve done as a civilization and come to terms with it. The data bank can help, but only if the Senate—and the galaxy as a whole—has the appetite for self-examination over revenge.”

  “Especially since the data bank gives us an endless list of crimes to seek justice—or revenge—for,” Hera agreed. “You can’t blame people for wanting restitution from ex-Imperials.”

  “No, and I don’t object on principle. Pity those ex-Imperials make up a dangerously large portion of our population. Quell has the poor luck of being at the start of the line. I won’t make her an example, but she will send a message whether we intend it or not.”

  Hera stood and stepped to a small window looking onto the surrounding settlement. Nakadia was an agriworld, uncosmopolitan and formerly ignored by most of the galaxy; symbolically perfect for the latest seat of the New Republic government. Its buildings were squat and simple, and Hera could see where they disappeared into fields of grain just before the horizon.

  But Nakadia had seen its share of fighting—battles few people besides the Nakadians remembered. Even Hera only vaguely recalled the reports, yet she was sure the Emperor’s data bank named soldiers who’d inflicted suffering on the locals. How many nightmares, she wondered, did Nakadians endure every night because no one acknowledged their pain?

  And yet, she thought. And yet…

  “One last thought,” Hera said. “If I may?”

  “Always,” Mothma said.

  Hera turned from the window and looked at the chancellor. She wasn’t the orator Mothma was. She didn’t have to be so long as she was clear and direct and true.

  “The Rebellion got dirty sometimes, but the dream was pure. The ideal was pure. If we were still rebels, we would’ve forgiven her, and you know it. I don’t like the thought that winning’s made us harder.”

  “Nor do I,” Mothma conceded. “But there are luxuries we no longer have. We were a storm, shifting and chaotic, battering the walls of a fortress of evil. Now we’re rebuilding where that fortress stood, and we—I—have to consider whether each stone in our foundation can carry the weight of the future.”

  They were silent awhile. Eventually, Hera decided she’d been dismissed and began to walk toward the door.

  Mothma stopped her with a gesture. “Still, if we lock Yrica Quell away for her crimes, after everything she’s done to redeem herself…?” She sighed and smiled sadly before finishing: “What hope do any of them have?”

  * * *

  —

  Hera had seen pictures of Quell before she’d ever met her, from Caern Adan’s dossiers. Quell’s images had been taken during New Republic processing after her surrender on Nacronis, when she’d been covered in cuts and bruises, one arm in a sling. She’d had a glasslike sharpness, then—as if she’d been equally likely to shatter or to injure.

  There was no brittleness to her now, as she sat on a low table in the apartment she’d been assigned. She was thin, and her hair had grown out so that wisps often fell in front of her eyes. But she looked unafraid and certain of herself. When Hera had entered, she’d noticed the deliberate way Quell had relaxed her shoulders and turned and taken her seat—the movements of a civilian hosting a visitor, not an officer seeing a superior.

  Hera squatted across from Quell and said, “You’re going free.”

  Quell furrowed her brow. “What?”

  “Chancellor Mothma says you’re going to go free. There’s even a medal in it—I’m not sure which one—for exceptional bravery and service on Coruscant.” She smiled as she said it. Quell’s expression remained flat.

  “I don’t understand,” Quell said. She wrapped the fingers of her right hand around her left wrist, stroking her arm. “I don’t understand.”

  Hera softened her tone. “There were several requests for an expedited decision about your status. Mothma looked at your case just yesterday, and it’s all finalized as of this afternoon.”

  Quell said nothing, so Hera went on. “It’s not a full pardon. The Senate’s debating putting restrictions on ex-Imperial troops with certain records—limited voting rights, weapons prohibitions, that sort of thing. There’re a few bills under consideration. Mothma thinks it’ll end up varying planet-to-planet, but—” She laughed softly. “—I’m rambling. You’re free, Yrica. Congratulations.”

  Quell stood from the table, took several paces and turned back. Hera stood as well. This time she waited.

  “No consequences at all,” Quell said. “That’s what it ends in?”

  “You faced your share of consequences.”

  “I certainly don’t deserve a medal,” Quell said. She laughed scornfully. “You know that.”

  “What you deserve,” Hera said calmly, “is a question for philosophers. If you’re looking for unfailing judgment from a one-year-old government, you’re going to the wrong place.”

  Quell closed her eyes and nodded. “I take your point.”

  There was a self-awareness in the words that made Hera flinch. You’ve never had good experiences looking to government for moral guidance, have you?

  She stepped toward Quell, slowly enough that she could halt and back away if the woman showed discomfort. But Quell stayed put, and Hera put a hand on her shoulder.

  “If you don’t like the medal,” Hera said, “think of it as a political decision. There are a lot of people with opinions on what should happen with you and people like you—but the chancellor thinks this is best for the New Republic. A way to signal to ex-Imperials that even if their leaders can’t go free, there’s a path to normalcy for them.

  “Mothma also thinks—I think—that if it’s not perfect justice, it’s still close to fair. Can you live with that?”

  She felt Quell’s shoulder rise and fall as the woman took slow breaths. Quell looked quietly bereft, as if recalling a death grieved long ago.

  “Yes,” Quell said. “I have to.”

  “Come on,” Hera said, and squeezed her shoulder. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  They didn’t go far from Quell’s apartment. They found an outdoor table at a sparsely occupied café where locals played dejarik and grumbled about offworlders driving up prices. Hera paid for the meal—local fare, a groundnut stew for herself and thin seafood porridge for Quell�
��and carried the conversation. She talked about her father and her homeworld, and her desire to visit Ryloth again. She said little about the more difficult decisions she had to make, about her military commission or about her son.

  Quell needed normalcy, not stress. Hera had other friends she could lean on.

  After they finished, Hera walked Quell back to her apartment and said, “Think of what you’ve been given as an opportunity. It’s not a reward—it’s not vindication for what you’ve done or haven’t done. It’s a chance to do something fresh with your life.”

  “I don’t know what that would be,” Quell said.

  “When you find it, you will.”

  With that, Hera bid Yrica Quell farewell.

  II

  The Rim’s Edge cantina was mostly stairs—broad platforms holding tables and chairs, narrow staircases leading up and down the dark stone walls, mazes of stairs that led nowhere—and Nath Tensent felt every one in his knees. He was getting old. He wasn’t old yet, but he was getting there.

  He’d been to the Rim’s Edge once before, the better part of a decade ago. Back then it had been a dank pit in an abandoned monastery on a nameless planet bordering the Unknown Regions, sparsely occupied by outcasts drinking nervously in the cavernous space. It was still a dank pit but now, four months after the Battle of Jakku, the planet was named Freerock and the cantina was packed with everyone from pirates to Jakku refugees to explorers and fortune-seekers and ex-Imperials in hiding.

  Nath pushed his way through a cluster of Rodian prospectors and spotted his man in a corner alcove. It wasn’t a smart place to sit—it was high enough to afford a good view of the cantina, but it left nowhere to run. Nath hauled himself up the last few steps, approaching the table.

  “You look light on cash, brother,” Nath said. “Buy you a drink?”

  He dropped into a chair before the man could object. Nath’s tablemate was short and lean, with slick black hair that crept down his scalp like a mass of untended vines. “Not looking for company,” the man said.

  “Sure you are, Bansu Ro,” Nath said. “You’re just not looking for me.” He leaned back in the flimsy wooden chair and spread his arms as wide as he could to show he wasn’t holding a weapon.

  Make yourself a nice, big target, Nath told himself. Put him at ease.

  “You know my name,” Bansu said.

  “I know a lot of things about you. Been doing some reading. I know you were born on Lothal, though you split from your family when they sided with the rebels. That taint stuck with you at the Imperial Academy, and you almost ended up with a career making shuttle runs, only—”

  “Captain Tensent,” Bansu said.

  Nath grinned as he watched the man’s hand go to his right hip. “You sold your blaster this morning, remember? I was going to say, Only the 204th Imperial Fighter Wing liked your aptitude tests, and took you in.”

  Bansu scowled. He scanned the room rapidly before returning his attention to Nath. “You hunting us down for Syndulla? Yrica Quell tell you all about me?”

  “Yes to the second—though I also pulled a lot from your Intelligence files—but no to the first. I’m not working for the New Republic anymore.”

  “The ‘Hero of Troithe’ gave up his loyalties?” Bansu’s hand went to his left hip, now, where Nath glimpsed the hilt of a vibroknife. “I don’t think so.”

  “You clearly haven’t seen my file.” Nath shrugged. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that particular sentiment, and he tried not to let it rankle him; either the reputation would fade or he’d find a way to capitalize on it. “Look, you’re in dire straits so you may as well hear my pitch. I’m offering you a way to resolve all your current troubles.”

  “And purchase new ones?”

  Nath grinned. “Exactly. You see, I’m putting a crew together.”

  Bansu Ro said nothing.

  “I’m not a patriot or a true believer—just looking to earn a profit and do some good. I was thinking about my next move, and said to myself: There’s some fine out-of-work pilots out there. Maybe see what you can do for them. Be charitable, Nath.

  “See, I’ve already won over your friends Creet and Nord Kandende—that kid was in a real bad spot, let me tell you—and I’ve got a list of other candidates for recruitment. There’re plenty of credits out there for a team of freelancers with the right guidance.”

  “Nord Kandende is an idiot,” Bansu Ro said.

  Got you, Nath thought.

  “Sure is,” he agreed. “But you do like Creet, don’t you? And it’s not like you got a lot of other options—”

  He was interrupted by a series of squeals and pings behind him. He held up a hand to Bansu in the universal wait-just-a-minute signal and turned to T5. “What? What took you?” Nath asked. “You couldn’t handle the stairs?”

  The droid emitted a staccato set of buzzes. Nath felt his muscles tense. “All right,” he said, then turned back to Bansu and slapped his palm on the table. “Got some business to see to. You think about what I said. Swing by Roderick’s in a few hours if you want to talk more.”

  Bansu Ro looked bewildered as Nath rose from the table and followed T5 out of the cantina. “Check if there’s a bounty on him,” Nath muttered to the droid. “Just in case you blew my only shot.”

  Five minutes later they were in a decaying cloister on the opposite side of the outpost. Nath’s Y-wing sat on the scorched and cracked paving stones, and standing before the vessel was a thin, olive-skinned youth wearing a simple tunic and pants. The youth ran fingertips over a section of the ship’s nose that had been freshly painted and repaired. Only a few traces of the old squadron insignia remained.

  “Got to say,” Nath called, “I’m real curious about how you found me.”

  Wyl Lark turned and smiled, and Nath forced himself not to react at the sight of the boy’s reconstructed face. The medical droids had done good, patching in artificial bone around his nose, right cheek, and eye socket, but there were visible seams and webs of scarring where organic flesh met synthskin.

  “It’s not important,” Wyl said, and crossed the cloister until he stood with Nath and T5. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You, too,” Nath said, which was the truth—though he suspected neither of them would leave without ill feelings. “You didn’t just get out of—”

  “No. No.” Wyl’s smile flickered. “After the medcenter, I was recuperating on Polyneus awhile. I’ve been traveling two weeks now.”

  “Good. No, ah—trouble with Syndulla, then?”

  “No one mentioned the word deserter, if that’s what you’re asking. I know there are people who blame me, but—well, I think my people helped sway opinions behind the scenes.”

  “Hell, you earned the right to do whatever you want. Everything you did with Alphabet? You deserve a medal more than me.”

  “Maybe. But you wear it better.”

  Nath snorted and glanced about the cloister. Something moved in the shadows—one of the ghost monks, as the locals called them. “Look, I’d love to catch up but it’s kind of a delicate moment. Can we meet back tomorrow morning? I can buy you a good meal—decent meal, anyway, good as they come around here—and maybe we can find some trouble with the—”

  “What are you doing here, Nath?” Wyl sounded tired, as if an exhaustion in his bones had metastasized into his voice.

  “Taking care of some business. Nothing worth talking about.”

  “Isn’t it?” The tone was pointed. Then Wyl briskly shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long trip, and I’m glad you’re all right, and here I am giving you a hard time—”

  Nath gestured dismissively as he curled his lips into a smile. They’d reached the moment faster than he’d expected. Probably for the best, he thought. “Go ahead and say what you want to say. Figure we
can be frank with each other.”

  Wyl looked about—maybe he’d spotted a ghost monk, too—then back to Nath. “I know a little about where you’ve been. I know you were at Ankhural awhile, and that you transferred a lot of credits to one of the weaponeers there. I know you spent about a week at an outpost on the edge of the Sovereign Latitudes—”

  Nath laughed and Wyl, startled, paused. Nath explained, “They just call them the pirate territories these days.”

  “The pirate territories, then. I followed up at Gangxi Station, too. The point is, that’s all enough to make a person worried.”

  You don’t know half of it, brother. Nothing about Netalych, or the other places Nath had made contact with Shadow Wing. Or Wyl was holding back, but Nath didn’t think that was likely.

  “Nasha Gravas send you?” Nath asked.

  “She didn’t send me,” Wyl said, which struck Nath as careful phrasing. “I don’t know what you’re doing, and it’s not my place to tell you how to live. But you were—you are my friend, and it scares me to think you’re going back to the sort of business you were in before the rebels.”

  If he hadn’t known Wyl better, he would’ve felt patronized—he could see Wyl choosing his approach delicately, trying to frame it all for Nath’s benefit. But he also trusted Wyl’s sincerity, and the effort wasn’t manipulative, just misguided. “I appreciate the concern. You know as well as I do I take pretty good care of myself—”

  “I do, of course I do.”

  “—and that the New Republic was never going to be a good fit for me long term. The Rebellion was fine—plenty of breathing room there, and the cell leaders needed all the help they could get—but I’ve never been a law-and-order type. All those rules were starting to chafe.”

  “More than they did in the Empire?” Wyl cocked his head. “I can’t believe that.”

  “Empire had rules, but it didn’t have so many expectations—not where I was stationed, anyway. Made the whole business a lot more palatable.”