* * *
—
Sata Neek praised Chass’s singing and Skitcher berated her (“Sheldra-Ko is barely music! It’s a thousand years of art stapled onto insipid lyrics…”) and Rununja, to Wyl’s surprise, permitted it. When the pilots finished mocking Chass they returned to mocking Wyl; and when that was done, they began speaking of their lost colleagues again, of Nasi and Sonogari and Rep Boy and all the others. They spoke of cantinas and romances and pranks, and Chass sneered until Sata Neek reminded her that she, too, was now a part of Riot Squadron.
Wyl didn’t forget to watch his scanner. But the time passed more easily, and he rarely looked at his oxygen gauge.
These are some of the stories they told.
* * *
—
Sata Neek spoke of his homeworld. “Coral reefs tall as the sky and sharp as knives! I would show you all, but I fear it is not what I remember. It’s been too long since I returned, and I think I never will; I do not wonder what the Empire has done to Tibrin.”
Rununja told of her early days as a rebel, when she had flown under the legendary General Dodonna. After she finished, she hesitated a long while before saying, “I wasn’t a good woman before I joined the Rebel Alliance. I’ve tried to be a good leader, and I will stave off defeat so long as I have breath. But do not mourn me if I fall.”
Merish wept and acknowledged that once, he’d prolonged a stormtrooper’s death out of anger and rage. “He didn’t deserve it,” Merish whimpered. “Nobody deserves it.”
Skitcher read from a book of found poetry he was assembling from fragments of comm chatter. Wyl recognized Sonogari’s words and smiled.
* * *
—
Three hours in, with no news from the Dare and no movement from the Imperial cruiser-carrier, Wyl adjusted the frequency on his comm. Sata Neek was boasting about his romantic conquests again, but Wyl had heard it all before. He didn’t tune Sata Neek out; he merely began a new unencrypted broadcast, transmitting to the nameless star system where they drifted: “Hello?”
He stared into the darkness and the fog. He couldn’t see the Imperial cruiser-carrier, though every glimmer of dust resembled a distant TIE fighter.
“My name’s Wyl. Tell me the waiting’s not getting to you, too.”
Sata Neek had stopped talking. All of Riot Squadron had stopped talking. They were listening to him, and they didn’t interrupt or activate their jammers.
“We just spent the last hour telling stories,” Wyl said, “but we know each other pretty well and we could use a fresh voice or two.”
He squeezed his eyes shut; tried to imagine the TIE pilots in their flight suits, watching their own scanners and their oxygen gauges, listening to his voice.
“You missed the singing. I swear I don’t have any plan here—we all know we’re going to go back to fighting. But unless your ship’s about to start moving, what would it hurt to talk?”
“You’re an idiot, Wyl Lark.” It was Chass’s voice, followed by Skitcher’s laughter—all of it on the open channel.
Maybe, he thought. But I tried.
* * *
—
Another hour passed before a smooth, low voice punctuated by static said, “Wyl Lark?”
Wyl tuned out Chass and Sata Neek’s flirtations and startled upright in his harness. “I’m still here,” he said.
“A-wing or B-wing?” the voice asked.
“A-wing.”
“Identifying markings?”
“I clipped one of you a few days back—scraped up my canopy, almost broke it,” Wyl said. He was trembling, but he couldn’t help smiling. “Almost lost a cannon in the same fight.”
“I saw,” the voice said. “I’ve only got one cannon left myself.”
Blink, Wyl thought. He was talking to Blink. He didn’t quite restrain a laugh. “It’s really good to meet you.”
“Even under the circumstances?”
“Especially under the circumstances.”
Wyl had never talked to a TIE pilot before. He’d barely talked to any Imperial troops—they hadn’t prowled Polyneus like they had his friends’ worlds, and Riot Squadron hadn’t been given many chances to fraternize with its enemies.
So many of his friends were dead because of Blink and Blink’s friends.
“So,” Blink said. “You ever hear the myths around the Oridol Cluster?”
“I haven’t,” Wyl said. “Tell me everything.” He checked his scanner and set Riot’s channel to low volume.
Blink spoke slowly, shaping words with a craftsman’s lazy confidence. “The Tangrada-Nii people—that’s a culture, not a species—they said Oridol was the face of one of their gods, back in the days when gods were still something to be feared. Before we learned to kill planets on our own.”
Wyl couldn’t tell the pilot’s species—human, he assumed—or gender. He couldn’t picture a face beneath the Imperial flight mask.
“They were wrong, of course,” Blink went on, “but their descendants—called the Tagra-Tel—sent hundreds of ships into the cluster over the course of centuries. They still revered the cluster in their way. During these long journeys, they experienced strange hallucinations—the light of Oridol suns, scattered and refracted by cosmic dust, crept into the ships and into the optic nerves of the travelers. Into the eyes and into the brain.
“Sometimes the Tagra-Tel imagined the Oridol god speaking to them. Sometimes they heard the voices of their dead, or saw the dust coming to swallow them. But most often, they dreamed of their own hearts pumping blood and of blossoms bursting from tree branches.
“That’s how the Tagra-Tel came to conclude that the Oridol Cluster was alive. Not a god, but a vast, organic thing of dust and gas and energy, with a brain of starlight and crystal limbs. They would have said you and I are inside a life-form, and that all our battles are meaningless next to its vast antiquity.”
Wyl heard no joy in Blink’s voice. No wonder.
“It’s a beautiful myth,” Wyl said.
“You’re going to rot here, Wyl Lark.”
Wyl’s breath caught. Blink kept speaking. “The Oridol god passes judgment on those who enter, and you and your comrades have been tested. You’re going to be food in its guts, and if it bothers you to think your enemies don’t want to talk, you can believe this is the voice of the cluster speaking—”
The comm filled with static. Wyl turned dials with fumbling hands until the sound abruptly dissipated.
“Ten-second jammer burst. Figured I’d cut off the signal for you,” Rununja said. “No one worth talking to out there.”
Wyl found that he agreed. “Thanks,” he said.
“You all right?” Rununja asked.
“I’m fine. I really am.”
Blink didn’t speak again, but not long afterward, the enemy began broadcasting a series of Imperial marches and propaganda lectures. Wyl didn’t tune to the open channel again.
* * *
—
In the end, it was the cruiser-carrier that moved first. There was no foreboding rumble or brilliant flare of thruster fire—just a shimmer on Riot Squadron’s long-range scanners that meant the battle was about to resume.
“They’re pulling away,” Rununja called. “Cruiser-carrier withdrawing to safety and TIE squadrons incoming. They want the kill.”
“Status of the Dare?” Sata Neek asked.
“Nearly ready.” In Rununja’s voice, Wyl heard: Not ready enough. “The Dare has already calculated the jump to lightspeed—we just need to buy her time to finish repairs.”
“How much time?” Skitcher asked.
“I don’t know,” Rununja said.
There was silence on the comm. A dozen scanner blips brightened as the TIEs drew closer.
“There’s another option,” Rununja said—Riot Leader said. “We can run. We have functioning hyperdrives, even if the Dare does not. We could leave the frigate behind.” She spoke dispassionately, as if posing a hypothetical.
“You’re joking,” Chass said. “You’re joking.”
“No,” Wyl said, almost speaking over Chass. “We stay and fight.”
“We stay and fight,” Skitcher said.
“Stay and fight.” Sata Neek, then Merish.
Rununja sounded approving as she echoed, “Stay and fight. We are united.” Her voice regained its authoritative foundation. “B-wings stay close to the Dare—no point conserving ammunition, so use your proton torpedoes if you have a reason. A-wings, I want Riot Three and Riot Five off the Dare’s stern. Riot Four and I will take the bow.
“Beyond that, any plan is nonsense. You know how to fly. Stay alert, communicate, and may the Force be with you.”
Wyl broke off with Sata Neek, curving toward the dark engines of the Hellion’s Dare. The TIE fighters had already englobed the frigate and its escorts at a distance, and emerald fire lashed toward the Riot ships. The opening volley was only a provocation, not meant to do damage, and the particle bolts failed to strike metal; but the TIEs didn’t stop firing as they drew near, and Wyl saw the Dare’s shields shimmer as the first bolts made contact.
Then the TIEs were upon them, and the fight began in earnest.
Wyl and Sata Neek called out to each other as they sped through the emerald storm and wove dizzying patterns. The enemy knew exactly how to space themselves to avoid friendly fire; how to target two rebel ships deep in their midst. Yet each moment that passed was a New Republic victory. Every shot aimed at Wyl was a shot not targeting the Hellion’s Dare.
The other Riot pilots had engaged as well. Wyl listened to their chatter against the howl of his engines and the electric pumping of his cannons. Foolishly, he wondered: What music is Chass playing now?
He shouted a warning as he glimpsed carbon-scored Char head toward the Dare’s sensor array. Together with Sata Neek, he spun his ship and chased a TIE through the chaos. His targeting computer pinged as he fired and Skitcher called: “Riot Leader is gone! Rununja’s gone!” Wyl could do nothing for Rununja or Skitcher. His target erupted in flame and a swift exhalation was the closest thing to a cheer he could muster. He recognized the Twins sweep toward him in their perfectly mirrored TIEs and—knowing their patterns—slipped between them to escape.
“Riot Three!”
Sata Neek was calling him. Wyl swept his gaze across the field of fog and emerald fire, then down to his scanner.
“Wyl Lark, you fleshy peasant boy! Assist me!”
He located Sata Neek and fired a volley at the TIE fighter pursuing his partner. “You’re clear!” he said.
Chass’s voice came through. “They got Merish,” she cried, as if it were a victory, “and now they’re coming for me!”
Sata Neek responded instantly, breaking toward the Hellion’s Dare. Wyl followed, and the TIEs followed him. He could see the crackling of the Dare’s shields and eruptions along its hull where the shields had been pierced. His own ship leapt and jerked as particle bolts struck his aft deflector. He kissed the instrument panel. “For luck,” he said.
He saw the spinning cross of Chass’s B-wing against the background of the frigate. Her laser cannon and auto blasters burned, scattering TIEs intent on flanking the lone starfighter. Wyl saw Sata Neek’s A-wing sweep in to intercept an enemy fighter that had survived the curtain of destruction; the TIE disappeared in a flurry of crimson particle bolts before Sata Neek’s fighter, too, was reduced to a stream of ash and sparks and molten metal.
Wyl didn’t see the fighter responsible. He blinked back stinging tears. “Riot Three to Hellion’s Dare,” he called. “We don’t have long.”
Chass was swearing, asking: “Where’s Sata Neek? Where’s Sata Neek?” Skitcher was calling for help. Wyl was no longer defending the Dare or distracting the TIEs—all he could do was try to escape death as it pursued him, surrounded him, pinned him down. His cannons pulsed, rhythmically tearing through fog, crimson painting the battlefield but failing to destroy anything. Below him, the hull of the Dare sped past, rippling with excess energy.
His navigation systems were blinking. Lowering his eyes to his screens was a risk; he did so anyway, and saw that the Dare had beamed him a set of jump coordinates along with an encrypted data package.
“Riot Three to Hellion’s Dare—transmission received. Are we going?”
No one answered.
Was he supposed to wait? Was he supposed to run?
He saw a TIE fighter whip past him, ignore him, firing a single cannon like a blinking eye into the Dare.
Skitcher screamed over the comm.
“Riot—” Wyl couldn’t remember Chass’s designation. “Chass!” he yelled. “Chass!”
He rounded the bow of the Dare and turned, dipping under the bridge compartment. He was flying too close, but he’d be dead in moments if he left the frigate’s cover. “We need to go,” he cried. “We’ve got jump coordinates! They sent them for a reason. We need—”
She shouted back over the wailing brass of her music, “Are you kidding? We’re not leaving them!”
He checked her position and spun his starfighter, flying between two TIEs as he tried to reach her. “Their engines are offline! We need—”
“They killed your buddy! They killed Sata Neek!”
They had. They’d killed everyone but Chass. He couldn’t afford to think of that now, any more than he could think about Blink.
“Chass, please—”
His shield flickered bright enough that for an instant, he couldn’t see where he was flying. He navigated by his instruments, and when the iridescent shimmering passed he spotted Chass ahead of him, spinning and firing and killing like a wheel of devastation.
He didn’t know why he did what he did next. Anger or fear or love or gratitude overwhelmed him. In his mind’s eye, he saw Chass dying and the Dare tearing apart in two massive broken sections before bursting in an explosion bright enough to shame a nova. He couldn’t save the Dare, but he could save Chass.
He lined up the B-wing in his sights. He watched the cross-shaped ship spin. He timed his shot and squeezed his trigger.
Bolts flashed from the A-wing. The crossbar of the B-wing bled sparks as his blasts sheared off one of the assault fighter’s cannons. Chass cursed again as Wyl took position near the slower vessel and said, “You can’t fight back, and I won’t let you try. We’re going.”
Chass said something in a language Wyl didn’t recognize. Her voice was thick with loathing and sorrow.
Together, they ran the gauntlet of TIEs one final time. Together, they jumped to lightspeed and away from the Hellion’s Dare. The freighter burned behind them like a star.
* * *
—
They didn’t speak. Wyl didn’t push because there was nothing to say. Instead they floated in clouds of shining white caressed by rays of jade and cornflower blue and violet. If the Oridol Cluster was a living creature, Wyl thought, they had surely found their way to its mind—birthplace of dreams and nightmares, an infinite expanse in which two lonely starfighters could be lost forever.
Maybe Blink was right. Maybe the Oridol god had judged them. Having been deemed unworthy, they were now beneath its notice.
“Screw all this,” Chass occasionally muttered through the comm. That was the extent of their conversation.
Their onboard computers, linked together, attempted to plot a course toward the limits of the cluster. Toward freedom. The Hellion’s Dare had needed hours to calculate each jump; an A-wing and a B-wing, working together, might take days. Wyl didn’t know whether the Empire’s cruiser-carrier would come following, but if not, there were still l
imits to the rebel fighters’ food, water, and oxygen supplies. Wyl and Chass might have fled a battle and turned their backs on their colleagues only to suffocate.
Wyl thought of Sata Neek and Rununja. He thought of the captain of the Dare and the droids aboard that no one ever seemed to care about. He thought of Home, and his brothers and sisters, and began to weep when he had difficulty recalling their faces.
“We have a mission,” he told Chass. “We have a message from the Dare for the New Republic.”
He told the same thing to his ship and received just as warm a reply. He laid his head upon his console and whispered, “Take me Home. Take me Home.”
* * *
—
Then a miracle found them.
Wyl followed the message of light.
III
Caern Adan drank in private. Not because he was ashamed, but because he wasn’t. Because he saw enough horrors in the course of his work, feared enough of the outcomes he projected, confronted enough excruciating memories during an average day, that he had more than earned the privilege of a bottle before bedtime.
Besides, no one trusted a spy who drank. Not even if that spy was just an analyst. So it wasn’t like he had the option of company.
He was enjoying a bottle of Corellian red in his cramped-but-private cabin when the alert came in. He fumbled his way into a shirt as he read the notification: Two single-occupant vessels had just jumped into the Harrikos system within sensor range of the Buried Treasure, apparently emerging from the Oridol Cluster.
It wasn’t the Hellion’s Dare, but it was a promising sign. If the frigate had met up with one of the probe droids launched from the Harrikos research outpost—received hyperspace coordinates leading out of the cluster’s mire—the Dare’s captain might well have sent scout ships ahead.
Alphabet Squadron (Star Wars) Page 15