Caern was pleased. He had been right. (Quell had been right, but he had been right about Quell.) He was halfway to the bridge when an ensign intercepted him and steered him in the opposite direction. The captain had already spoken to one of the pilots, and the ships—an A-wing and a B-wing, both low on fuel and oxygen—would arrive in the hangar presently.
Quell and Tensent, along with a security detail, were already in the hangar when Caern arrived. Who told them? he wondered before lifting his eyes to the magnetic containment field. Gliding in on the Treasure’s tractor beam came two distant white objects, swiftly resolving into the shapes of starfighters.
“They’re scouts,” Quell said. She was almost gaunt, as if she’d taken on a fever, but she was no longer wearing her sling. She didn’t look at Caern, and instead stared fixedly at the fighters. “The Dare’s captain won’t follow our probes without knowing it’s safe.”
Obviously. Quell’s ego was swelling daily, and she knew her reputation was at stake. You shouldn’t have let her steal a ship, Caern.
Tensent grunted skeptically but didn’t comment. Caern appreciated that about the man. He’d accomplished less than Quell but he knew his place in the working group and his loyalty was not in doubt.
Caern wondered where the last of his people had gone. He’d secured Tensent’s loyalty, but Kairos was the one he trusted more than anyone in the galaxy. She had earned his faith long ago, and he had earned hers.
The first vessel into the hangar was a battered and scarred B-wing. Its strike foils were still spread for combat, apparently due to shearing and servo damage. Yet it couldn’t land with the foils open, and the pilot must have realized it; the hangar filled with a metallic grinding and an acrid scent as the foils wheezed and stuttered and finally half folded enough to let the ship touch the deck.
The second ship approached the magnetic field as the security officers surrounded the B-wing and lifted the pilot from the cockpit. The woman was green-haired, compact and muscular, with thorny studs of flesh protruding from her temples. She stumbled down the cockpit ladder and was caught quickly by the security team.
“What’s wrong with her?” Caern asked. He suddenly wished IT-O had come with him.
Quell’s body and balance shifted beside Caern as if she wanted to run to the B-wing. She stopped herself, but she still looked like a hound on a leash. “Muscle fatigue,” she said. “Dehydration.”
“Probably been in there more than a day,” Tensent added. “Not a lot of room to stretch in a B-wing cockpit.
The second ship—the A-wing—had touched down by now, and the B-wing’s pilot struggled against the security officers, pulling away to hobble toward the other vessel. As the A-wing’s canopy slid back, the man inside—the boy, really, dark-haired and olive-skinned—cried hoarsely, “There’s a message!” He nearly collapsed as he clambered onto the wing of his ship. “Check the computer. There’s a message.”
“A message?” Caern called, as Quell silently mouthed the same words. “From who?”
But the boy ignored him, dropping clumsily off the ship’s wing and wrapping his arms around the woman pilot. The security officers gave them room. Caern hurried over. The boy was mumbling something Caern couldn’t hear—asking about the woman’s health, maybe—and the woman was gripping his chin, lifting his head and looking into his eyes. “You’re dehydrated and tired,” one of the Treasure’s officers said, “but you’re both safe now. You’ll be fine.”
Maybe it was the words you’ll be fine that set them off. Caern couldn’t tell, but in an instant the group was in chaos and everyone was shouting as one pilot wrestled the other to the ground. The woman straddled the boy, pounding her fists into his back and screaming, “You hear that? You’re fine! You’re fine and your whole squadron is dead—” Caern watched as two of the security officers tore the woman off her victim and Quell dashed to the boy’s side. She was asking questions (“Who’s dead?” “What happened?”) almost lost under the woman’s shouts.
Behind Caern, Tensent laughed. “This is who we rescued?”
* * *
—
Their names were Wyl Lark and Chass na Chadic. Two pilots without a unit. Two pilots who had survived the destruction of the Hellion’s Dare by the 204th Imperial Fighter Wing and brought home a message—a data package containing everything the Dare had discovered during its reconnaissance mission.
The data package would take time to analyze. There was promising intelligence within, but Caern suspected even the crew of the Dare hadn’t understood what it meant. They certainly hadn’t organized it with clarity or ease of processing in mind. Yet even if the data proved useless, he felt confident that Shadow Wing was responsible for the attacks that had whittled away Lark and Chadic’s squadrons—Quell’s hypothesis about Jiruus fit too neatly, as did the pilots’ descriptions of enemy tactics.
All in all, he decided, Lark and Chadic’s recovery was a significant step forward for the working group.
(He wondered briefly whether anyone would hold him responsible for the Dare’s destruction—for not finding it sooner, really—but banished the thought just as quickly. Without him, the Dare and all its pilots would be dead in the Oridol Cluster, and no one would even know.)
“First priority,” he told IT-O the afternoon after the pilots’ arrival, “is to finish reviewing the data. I’m doing an initial sort before sending it home. If headquarters starts asking questions, I want to be able to answer them.”
The droid observed him in the nearly empty conference room. “Will you be debriefing the pilots individually?” IT-O asked.
Both Chadic and Lark had spent the night in the medbay before summarizing their journey to Caern and the Treasure’s captain in the morning. Caern had sent IT-O in afterward; the droid’s bedside manner was superior to his own. “I’d like to,” Caern said, “but I want your impressions first.”
“They’ve both suffered a great deal in recent days.”
Caern let out a bark of a laugh. At another time he might have held it in, but he could express himself freely in front of IT-O. “They were dehydrated,” he said. “Not exactly what I’d call suffering.”
“They saw their comrades die. Neither currently has a social support system in place. Both feel responsible for what occurred—”
“You said they’d suffered,” Caern snapped. “You know what suffering is. I know what suffering is.”
“Their pain does not diminish yours,” IT-O said.
Caern waved briskly, trying to move the conversation forward. “So you finished your interviews. I’ve pulled their personnel files. Spotty, obviously—” The Rebel Alliance hadn’t been fond of record keeping. Its reasoning had been sound, but the New Republic was paying the price. “—but by all reports they’re both capable pilots. And they survived, which is a point in their favor.”
“Nothing otherwise remarkable?” the droid asked.
“No medals. The boy’s homeworld has an interesting history, the woman is lucky to be alive twice over. No serious discipline problems recorded with either, but you know how reliable those assessments are. The most important question—” He frowned, drawn into the gravity of his own thoughts. “Are they right for the working group?”
“You intend to recruit them?”
“I intend—” He heard the impatience in his voice. IT-O didn’t need to know the logic behind his decisions—but the droid had a way of helping him solidify his reasoning. “If the data we received is useful, there’s a real chance the military will try to appropriate our operation. If the data isn’t useful, we’re certainly not receiving additional support. Either way, we’ve got a very narrow window before Lark and Chadic, along with their starfighters, are reassigned elsewhere in the fleet.”
“So it isn’t so much that you want them,” IT-O said, “as that you see an opportunity to expand
your working group and fear other opportunities won’t come.”
“I wouldn’t have put it so cynically, but yes. Plus, I want their ships.” He thought of justifying himself further—of reminding IT-O of the immediate threat they faced and the long-term ramifications of leaving New Republic security in the hands of the military—but the droid hadn’t forgotten and Caern refused to be distracted. “So…?”
The droid was silent, running assessments. Caern waited.
“I believe Chass na Chadic will join if you emphasize the threat that the 204th Fighter Wing poses. Be clear that she will participate in its elimination. Do not press her to decide rapidly. Do not emphasize the need to avenge her squadron. She will not respond well to overt manipulation.”
“And once we have her?”
“That’s beyond what I can predict from a single conversation. Her personnel record is a better guide than my profile.”
Evasive answer, Caern thought, but plausible. “All right,” he said. “What about the boy?”
“Wyl Lark will prove more difficult.”
The droid stopped.
Caern waited. Finally, he prompted, “Why will he be difficult?”
“He spoke to me in confidence. I am reluctant to break that trust—”
“Please,” Caern scoffed.
“—but I observe that he has already made one official request to be discharged from his duties and allowed to return to his homeworld. I believe a discharge remains the best means of preserving his physical and psychological well-being.”
“Of course it is. War isn’t healthy, but we keep doing it. What if I want to keep him?”
“He is devoted to his comrades. Argue that the working group represents the continuation of Riot Squadron’s mission. Inform him that Chass na Chadic has already joined you. He will assent under pressure.”
“Wonderful.” Just what he needed: a fragile boy he’d need to coax into producing results. “Anything else I should know about him?”
“He is afraid.”
Even better.
Caern considered the resources before him. Five operatives and five starfighters that hadn’t yet been claimed, reclaimed, or requisitioned by the New Republic military. Those operatives ranged from absolutely reliable to—well, to Yrica Quell. Put together, they were barely enough to mount a raid.
But the work was necessary.
He’d spoken with Chief of Intelligence Cracken while Kairos, Quell, and IT-O had been at the Entropian Hive. The conversation had been brief, but the chief had made it clear that Shadow Wing was a secondary concern for the provisional government: that the unit responsible for massacres at Grumwall and Mek’tradi and Nacronis—Nacronis, where a whole planet had been slaughtered!—was, in the eyes of the New Republic, a drop in a sea of Imperial holdouts.
The Senate wanted the remnants of the Empire to surrender all as one. The military thought it could break the enemy’s spine, forgetting the beast had already been beheaded. Only Intelligence understood the painstaking work of disassembling the Empire piece by piece.
Five operatives and five starships would have to suffice.
“One last thing,” Caern said. “I’d like you to push harder with Quell.”
The droid dilated its photoreceptor. “May I ask why?”
“You told me she was lying about something. She still is, and she’s starting to get cocky.” Caern cut the droid off before it could interject. “Don’t say it. My threshold may be low but she’s already disobeying orders, no matter how contrite she claims to be.”
“I don’t disagree,” IT-O said. “I recommended against her recruitment.”
“You did, and you were wrong. Let’s make sure things stay that way.” Solve the problem now before she becomes a distraction. “Push her. I’ll see what I can find on my end. And if we don’t discover anything soon…”
“Yes?”
“Watch out for a replacement. We can always toss Yrica Quell back to Traitor’s Remorse.”
IV
The torture droid had made the arrangements, though Quell didn’t know whether the droid or Adan was ultimately responsible. One way or another, the mess hall of the Buried Treasure had been cleared and—the IT-O unit had told her—a crate of produce defrosted and given to the galley droids. The temperature had been adjusted for optimum comfort. There were few other luxuries the crew could offer, but this was an occasion to celebrate.
Quell hesitated at the entryway, drew a breath, and reminded herself what was expected of her and why. She wasn’t in a celebratory mood. She wasn’t close to achieving her goal. But she was closer than she’d ever been, and the people inside needed her.
She needed them, too.
She tapped the door’s control panel. The metal panel slid open, and she stepped past Kairos (who loomed inside, motionless, like a sentry). At the central table, seated around platters of apparently untouched finger food—cuts of fruit, miniature flatbread sandwiches, and a sweet- and musty-smelling bowl of crushed something—were three humanoid figures.
Nath Tensent was holding court, his boots on the tabletop as he spoke. “—never got to board one of those big Mon Cala–built star cruisers. Always wanted to. I hear they’ve got water tanks for—” He cocked his head and grinned in Quell’s direction. “Lieutenant Yrica Quell, everyone. Say hello.”
A young man stood. He looked healthier than the last time Quell had seen him, when he’d been carted to the medbay by the Buried Treasure’s crew; but now dressed in civvies instead of a flight suit, he seemed thinner than before. He extended a hand and Quell took it. “Wyl Lark,” he said. He squeezed her hand without gripping. “It’s good to meet you properly.”
The third figure—the green-haired Theelin who’d piloted the B-wing—stood more slowly than Lark. “You’re the one who found us?” she asked, shifting her weight as if ready for a fight.
Quell met the woman’s gaze. “We all did,” she said. “Tensent, Adan, Kairos, and me.” She paused, then added: “I’m sorry we weren’t in time to save the Dare.”
She wondered how sincere she sounded—she’d never been any good at conveying empathy, no matter how real.
Chadic only shrugged. “Same here. Not your fault. Your boss from intelligence said you defected a while back, so—thanks.”
Lark bowed his head. Chadic avoided looking toward him. Tensent, still seated, added, “Quell was there for Operation Cinder. Nearly got herself killed trying to save Nacronis. Woman’s a hero all around.”
The right thing to do would have been to deflect the praise or find something generous to share about Tensent. Quell only managed to nod awkwardly. It wasn’t a subject she cared to dwell upon.
This was the working group now. Gathered together for the first time to celebrate one victory and begin planning the next. Staring in silence. At least Lark and Chadic weren’t trying to kill each other.
Tensent snapped up a wedge of fruit, swallowed it, then rose to his feet. “If we’re done with the party,” he said, “maybe it’s time we got to work.”
Without speaking, they seemed to come to an agreement. Their postures changed. They transformed from patients into pilots, and even Kairos stepped away from the door to join the circle.
“Maybe we should start,” Quell said, “by talking about Shadow Wing.”
CHAPTER 7
GUIDANCE SYSTEM
I
The stranger arrived in Tinker-Town on foot, a duffel slung over each shoulder. Chestnut hair and a ragged, gray-specked beard gave him the unkempt appearance of a local, but the waterproof poncho gave his foreignness away—the people of Tinker-Town had made their peace with the rain.
He strolled down narrow streets, dim in the dreary midafternoon, past neon signs for junk dealers and droid repair shops and pawnbrokers. Metal scaffolding spread fr
om building to building like creeping vines, and the gutter-water was the dull brown of rust flakes. If Tinker-Town had ever been a lively place, it had been during the heyday of Greater Xnapolis; and that city’s glory had faded over twenty years earlier, when the Empire had cut resources to Mrinzebon and declared the colony a failure.
The spindly, amputated arm of an IG-series droid waved cheerfully above the entrance to Gannory’s Cantina as the stranger marched inside. The cantina’s interior was dark save for the light of the tabletops, and paint buckets caught water dripping from ceiling panels. But the surfaces were spotless and the smell of caf and stronger beverages was rich and appealing. The stranger lifted his chin as he approached the bar.
“Hello?” he called.
A topknotted Cerean, head tall as a human’s torso, emerged from a doorway behind the bar. His hair was white and his face deeply lined, giving him the appearance of advanced age.
You haven’t met many of his kind, the stranger reminded himself. For all you know, they age in reverse.
“Not so much business at this hour,” the Cerean said, by way of apology. “Not so much business most hours. Here to drink?”
The stranger hadn’t slid the duffels from his shoulders, and he didn’t now. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “I’m carrying salvage and looking to sell. Can you help me?”
The Cerean eyed the bags, then studied the stranger’s face. “What’ve you got?”
“Power dampers. Stabilizing coil. Pressor control chip. Cold-weld arrestors. More besides, and tools.”
The Cerean nodded, apparently deferring a decision rather than rendering one. “How fast are you looking to sell, and how much profit are you looking to make?”
“I’m in no hurry,” the stranger said. “But I’d rather not spend the week haggling just to get a fair price.” For the first time, thin lips ventured a smile. “You’d know what’s fair around these parts better than I.”
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