by Claudia Gray
To further complicate the situation, neither Ciena nor any other Imperial officer could be certain exactly which person they served. Declarations of a new emperor were so frequent as to be meaningless. No one figure seemed able to consolidate power. Already the propaganda holos spoke of “skirmishes” or “mutinies.” The truth: would-be emperors forced Imperial soldiers to fight one another, spilling their blood in the service not of law and order but of one man’s naked ambition. They seemed willing to tear the Empire to shreds rather than give up their own standing, Ciena thought with contempt. Already the Anoat sector had been cut off completely. What planets might fall next?
As for the rebels—they’d established their authority on worlds of their own. The only reports that emerged sounded so sunny Ciena believed they were propaganda, too, simply coming from the other side.
At least now there are entire systems safe for Thane, she sometimes thought. He’s no longer a hunted man. Would he still be with the rebel armada? Ciena wasn’t sure. It depended on whether he’d decided to trust this “New Republic” as much as he’d trusted the Rebellion.
Or whether he’d died in the Battle of Endor.
The rebels might have won the day, but they’d taken terrible losses, too. Ciena believed—illogically but unshakably—that she would have recognized Thane amid the melee. Didn’t she know exactly how he flew? Wasn’t that as unique to him as a fingerprint or a genetic code?
Even if that were so, it meant only that she hadn’t killed Thane herself.
Any number of other TIE pilots could have killed him. Or he could have been flying too close to one of the star cruisers when the Death Star’s laser struck. Maybe he had been among the pilots who flew into the station and smashed against the metal framework inside.
Don’t think about that, she would tell herself as she sat at her portable data terminal, propped on a med-chaise. Lying down helped her bear the pincer grip of the life support belt doing the work of her still-healing liver. You have to believe he’s alive somewhere. If you can’t have faith in anything else, you can still believe in Thane.
And yet sometimes Ciena felt that he must be dead. The galaxy could only feel that empty, meaningless, if he were no longer in it.
So she buried herself in her work, patiently untangling every bureaucratic knot, locating and rescuing marooned ships and garrisons, and helping families mourn their dead. In that small way she could uphold some measure of law and order amid the chaos; nothing else seemed worth doing. Her only comforts were the sedation of the bacta tank and sleep. Ciena could ignore everything else for days at a time.
Then weeks.
Then months.
Thane hadn’t expected the Empire to collapse overnight. Some of the cockeyed optimists around him had woken up the morning after the Death Star’s destruction talking about how they finally lived in a liberated galaxy, breathed free air, and other nonsense. He had patched up his X-wing and awaited the inevitable call to the next battle.
But he’d never expected to still be fighting a full-out war almost a year after the Battle of Endor.
“Incoming!” Yendor shouted through the comms. Thane whipped his X-wing around to see another phalanx of TIE fighters zooming toward them over the crest of the cliffs on Naboo. These must have been the very last stragglers of the attack force that had descended on the planet the day before. Luckily, the New Republic’s fleet had received a tip from defectors; when the Imperial ships came out of hyperspace, Thane’s squadron and several dozen other starfighters had been waiting. Since then, he’d been finishing them off, one by one, just like he was doing right now. He fired even as his ship sliced through the air sideways, and he took grim satisfaction in watching three of the TIEs explode.
The others in Corona Squadron took care of the rest. The planet was clear now, or close to it. Kendy took a hit to her starboard wing but still managed to land her starfighter smoothly alongside the others on the broad pavilion outside the Theed Royal Palace. Kendy burst out of her cockpit swearing, which made the others laugh. “Come on,” Thane called. “You’ve taken worse than that.”
“Yeah, and I’m sick and tired of it!” She grabbed her tool kit and got to work.
The rest of them had a moment to breathe. Corona Squadron was different now; the Contessa had left, returning to her homeworld to stand for the presidency. (The others had all promised to show up for her inauguration if she won.) Yendor had taken over as Corona Leader, and two new pilots had joined them—one a rookie from Nea Dajanam, the other an exile from Coruscant. But Thane liked them both and felt good about how the team had come together. He leaned against the side of his ship, relishing the warmth of the sun on his face. Moments of peace like this came too rarely.
Naboo had been Palpatine’s homeworld. As such, it had become a rallying point for Imperial sympathizers. Besides its symbolic importance, Naboo was a prosperous Mid Rim world, its economy and environment far healthier than those of most planets that had been under Imperial rule. As such, it was one of the most contested spots in the entire galaxy.
Three times now, the Empire had sent troops to invade; three times they’d been beaten back. Thane wondered how long it would take them to come back for number four.
“Hey,” Yendor said as he helped JJH2 from his ship. “Some of us were going into Otoh Gunga tonight—if we don’t get any more alerts, that is. Apparently there’s this dessert they make there that takes at least four hominids to eat. They say it melts in your mouth and delivers you straight into a glorious sugar coma. You know you want a piece.”
“No, thanks,” Thane answered, but with a smile. His friends tried hard to look after him, but some things you had to go through on your own. “You guys have fun. I’ll take night watch at the hangar.”
Yendor shook his head, his long blue lekku swaying with the movement, but wandered off without further argument.
Jelucan had very specific mourning rituals. At least, the valley kindred did. Thane had learned about them from Ciena—and wasn’t sure he remembered all the details correctly—but he was doing his best. (Jelucan remained under Imperial control, so Thane couldn’t ask Paron Ree for advice or even give his condolences.) Thane wanted to weave and wear a bracelet so Ciena could see through his eyes, but she’d told him that honor was reserved for family. As dimly as he recalled the customary rituals for friends, they seemed elaborate enough and lasted for a full year after a person’s death. He wore a cloth tied around his upper arm and would not remove it until the entire year was up. At the six-month mark, he’d prepared the customary meal of wine and bread to be left out at night for the spirits. He hoped it didn’t have to be special bread, or some particular wine; he’d done the best he could with what he had. As Thane understood it, he didn’t have to refrain from all leisure activity, but the ritual required him to spend several hours a week in meditation.
Okay, he wasn’t exactly good at the meditation thing, but he tried.
Big symbolic gestures usually weren’t Thane’s style—but after Endor, he had needed to ground himself in some way and had no idea where to begin. In his desperation, he had sought Ciena in the rituals of her people. To his surprise he found the experience healing.
He mourned for everyone who had been lost: Smikes, Dak Ralter, the kindly Mon Calamari of the Liberty, countless other pilots he’d known…and for Jude Edivon and other cadets he’d known at the academy who had died on one of the Death Stars or in other battles. The Empire might have demanded that they sacrifice their souls, but at one point, the majority of those people had been no worse than any others. All that was good in them had been lost to the Empire and to the war; surely that was worth grieving for.
His meditations had led him to another unexpected place, a viewpoint he’d never expected to have—the New Republic truly had been worth the fight.
Sure, the transition had been uneven. With the war still ongoing, Mon Mothma, Princess Leia Organa, Sondiv Sella, and other top officials could not establish total stability. Ye
t the provisional Galactic Senate contained only representatives chosen by the will of the people, and the first laws they’d passed had righted the worst wrongs of the Empire. Even the bickering on news holos about the merits of each proposal was wonderful, because it meant people were free to express their opinions without fear of Imperial reprisal. Resources weren’t directed only toward the military; mass cleanups of polluted worlds had already begun, as had reparations for the species enslaved during Imperial rule. (Lohgarra said she was going to spend her share on new engines for the Mighty Oak Apocalypse.) However imperfectly, the course of the galaxy had turned toward justice and maybe, someday, peace.
Thane had never tried being an idealist before, but he thought he was starting to get the hang of it.
As he settled in for a long evening at the hangar, Kendy strolled over from her X-wing. He said, “Got it fixed?”
“Pretty much. I need a Louar clamp to finish up, but I can borrow one from Yendor tomorrow morning.” She leaned against the wall, arms crossed in front of her. Her dark green hair flowed freely down her shoulders. “So. You’re staying in tonight?”
“As usual.”
“You’re going to be here by yourself for hours.”
“Yeah, I am. I’m going to sit on this comfortable chair with a good holonovel, underneath one of the most beautiful skies I’ve ever seen, on a world where the air’s still clean and the birds still sing. Nobody’s going to fire a blaster at me even once. After years of war, a peaceful night like that is my definition of a good time.”
“Happy eightieth birthday, by the way.”
“Come on.” Thane had to grin. “You have to admit I have a point.”
Kendy laughed. “I know. It’s just—weird, you going all mystical and spiritual and stuff.”
“I’m not.” So many of the rituals had felt strange and false to him; yet Thane believed he’d gotten something out of the mere attempt. “This is just a thing I have to do.”
“I get that. But will you answer one question for me?” Thane nodded, and she asked, “How long are you going to wear that?”
She pointed toward the strip of slate blue cloth still tied around his right upper arm. That was the Jelucani color of mourning—the shade of the sky in which they buried their dead.
“Once I’ve worn it for one year,” Thane said, “I’ll take it off.”
“We’re only a few weeks from the anniversary of the Battle of Endor. Is that when you’ll finally be over Ciena’s death?”
She hadn’t understood anything. “No. It’s the day I’ll stop following mourning practices. But I’m not over Ciena’s death. I never will be.”
“That is…more melodramatic than I expected from you, Thane Kyrell.”
He shrugged. “It’s not melodrama. It’s the truth.” How could he get through to her? Slowly Thane said, “What we were to each other—when I lost Ciena, I lost a piece of myself. You don’t get over that. You always feel the empty place where they used to be.”
Ciena winced, holding her hand to her midsection. The medical droids had finally cleared her for active duty, but the pain lingered. Maybe it always would.
She straightened herself up and smoothed her jacket. When she’d put in her requisition order for new uniforms, she’d ordered them in the same size she’d always worn. Now, however, the clothes hung slightly big on her frame. She’d lost too much weight this past year. At least the cap fit.
According to her duty roster, her first task was to meet with Grand Moff Randd on the main bridge of the Wrath. Ciena could only assume that he would brief her on her new duties—though most commanders didn’t receive their orders from anyone who ranked as high as Grand Moff.
Then again, those days all the old protocols had broken down. She could take nothing for granted.
Ciena walked to the bridge, waited until two minutes before her scheduled arrival, and then entered. Top officers liked it when you were early but not too early. The Wrath’s bridge differed from that of a Star Destroyer; instead of data pits, more junior officers were located on long banks of stations that lined the vast octagonal room. No windows revealed Ponemah, the world that they orbited; after almost a year on the station, Ciena still knew nothing of that planet, not even what it looked like from space. The only view came from the enormous transparent dome overhead, which showed the endless field of stars. Yet a few elements remained familiar, such as the dull reddish glow of the lights at floor level, the mesh metal floors, and the sense of tension—even fear. She could take no comfort in any of that.
Grand Moff Randd stood at the far end of the bridge, his rank obvious from his rigid, imposing posture alone. He was pointing out battle plans to a few other officers, the images displayed on a two-dimensional screen that covered one of the shorter walls. Ciena expected to remain at attention behind him until such time as he was free to notice her—but as she came close, someone called out, “Commander Ciena Ree on the bridge, sir.”
Randd turned—as did virtually everyone else in the room. Ciena’s eyes widened as she saw Nash standing nearby, smiling almost like his old self. Why would he be here? Why had all these people stopped and risen to their feet?
“Well, Commander Ree.” Randd smiled. “You return to active duty at last.”
“Yes, sir.” Ciena did not allow her expression to reveal any of the confusion she felt. Yet her heart pounded madly as she wondered if this were some sort of trap. Maybe they’d somehow guessed her lack of faith in the Empire and intended to make an example of her.…
“Hear this,” Randd said to all those assembled in the room. “At the Battle of Endor, Ree fought bravely and very nearly sacrificed her own life in our effort to save the late Emperor Palpatine. During her long recovery, no one could have blamed her had she taken the rest she deserved. Instead, Ree took on the most difficult and complicated tasks that would help restore order to the Imperial Starfleet. While others schemed for their own gain, she shared information equally and without ever asking for special favors in return.”
That wasn’t anything heroic. That was the bare minimum required by duty. Had everyone else in the Imperial Starfleet completely abandoned their responsibilities to their fellow officers? Despite her disillusionment, Ciena couldn’t help feeling contempt for those who had so callously shirked their responsibilities out of craven ambition or cowardice.
“In these times, few have proved themselves worthy of their rank. You have, Ree.” Randd walked to the viewscreen as he added, “No doubt you expect me to inform you of your new assignment. Well, here she is.”
On the viewscreen behind him, the battle schematics vanished and were replaced by the image of a Star Destroyer; an on-screen legend identified it as the Inflictor.
Randd said, “Herewith I present your first command, Captain Ree.”
Applause broke out through the bridge, and Nash even cheered. She covered her mouth, too astonished to know how to react.
Ciena’s first thought was the truest: The Imperial Starfleet is in worse shape than I thought.
Her service might have been exemplary, but even so, under normal circumstances an officer so young would never be considered for command of a Star Destroyer. Even if she’d been promoted to the rank of captain, she shouldn’t have been given a ship like this. The power plays and attempted coups have thinned the ranks. Everyone else with seniority has either defected to one of the splinter fleets or been eliminated.
Deep within her, the piece of Ciena’s soul that remembered her old love for the Empire wanted to take pride in this. Captain before age twenty-five! Commander of a Star Destroyer! These were honors she hadn’t even dared to dream of back when she was an idealistic cadet.
Now, however, the promotion was only one more burden to bear.
“Sir,” Ciena managed to say. “Thank you, sir.”
Grand Moff Randd seemed pleased with his little show. No doubt he saw it as a demonstration to his underlings that anything was possible if they were only loyal and worked hard. Sh
e had once believed that herself. What a fool she’d been.
Numbly, she joined the procession down to the docking bay where she would board her new command. Randd kept speaking the entire time. “Commander Brisney will be your ISB officer—ship systems are under the care of Commander Erisher—and as for your flight commander, I believe you already know Commander Windrider.”
She turned to see Nash walking at her side, slightly behind, still beaming. Only now did she notice the changed rank on his insignia plaque; no doubt hers awaited on the bridge of the Inflictor.
“Congratulations, Ciena,” he said. “I’ve hardly heard from you since I shipped out on the Subjugator.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t be silly. I understand completely. Between the ordeal of your recovery and all the work you’ve done, I’m surprised you even found time to sleep.” Nash showed no sign of jealousy or suspicion. Maybe he’d even gotten over his crush on her in the ten months they hadn’t seen each other. In some ways, his guileless trust was harder to bear. “I only meant I look forward to seeing you regularly again.”
“Every day,” Ciena said, without expression.
After another brief ceremony on the Inflictor’s bridge, Ciena pinned her new insignia plaque to her uniform and went into the briefing room with Grand Moff Randd for a classified conference. As soon as they were seated, Randd’s smile faded. Only the cool tactician remained.
“We’re headed toward a major standoff with the rebels,” he said. “We’re committing a fair portion of the fleet, and if the damned Rebellion wants to stand a chance of keeping that sector, they’ll have to do the same. This promises to be the largest battle since Endor.” His long finger jabbed at the controls, and an image of a planet in brown, russet, and gold hovered above the holo-projector. “Here we have the desert world of Jakku—worthless on its own but soon to live forever in history as the place where the Empire defeated the Rebellion once and for all.”