Alphabet Squadron (Star Wars)

by Alexander Freed

  He said it with such affected bemusement that Chass laughed despite herself. She knew exactly the kind of man Nath was, and she knew she ought to loathe him as a liar and a snake. Instead she found his predictability amusing—as if Nath were a con artist pretending to be a con artist as part of his game, playing every note as broad as possible.

  “All right,” she said. “Twenty minutes?”

  “Meet outside the B-deck turbolift,” Nath said. Chass marched out without looking back.

  * * *

  —

  The White Book—the Rebel Alliance’s military field guide—officially prohibited possession of intoxicants under nearly all circumstances. But individual rebel cells and ships had always done as they pleased, and the White Book was seen as a joke by some and an insult—an attempt to impose Imperial order on the Rebellion’s anarchic coalition—by others. The New Republic was trying to apply its own standards more rigorously, but trying didn’t mean doing and Chass didn’t know anyone who read the frequent handbook updates.

  So she wasn’t surprised Nath had found a place to drink aboard the Lodestar. Whether it was permitted only mattered if the captain or General Syndulla found out.

  She’d changed out of her flight suit and into civvies when she found Nath waiting in the tight, low-ceilinged corridor on B-deck. Wyl Lark stood beside him, hair wet and gleaming.

  “You didn’t say he was coming.” Chass jutted a finger toward Wyl but didn’t look at him.

  “Didn’t say he wasn’t,” Nath answered.

  “Besides,” Wyl added, “Kairos said no, and it’s better to have company.”

  Are you that much of an idiot? Chass thought.

  “Are you that much of an idiot?” Chass said.

  Wyl winced, but—to his credit—the expression passed almost before Chass spotted it. “We’ve got to try,” he said. “What happened with the Dare—you’re not going to like me, but we have to try.”

  “Tell it to Sata Neek.” Chass pivoted and started to walk away. Even at her height, she had to duck under a power conduit to pass. Before she’d made it five meters she turned back and called, “For the record? I am trying. You know how you can tell?”

  Wyl looked at her with the sad, confused, dumb expression of a hound kicked by its master. Like he couldn’t comprehend why his provincial charm wasn’t reaching her.

  “Because you shot me,” Chass finished, “and I never shot back.”

  So stop clinging to me, she thought, and went to find other drinking partners. Better drinking partners. Drinking partners lacking the self-involvement seemingly possessed by every human. On a ship full of soldiers, there had to be someone.

  II

  “So what’s the story between you two?” Nath asked.

  Wyl sat beside the hulk of a man on a couch worn through to its metal frame, illuminated by the glow of a sign that said RANJIY’S KRAYT HUT. The sign’s meaning wasn’t clear to Wyl, but it wasn’t the only mysterious object in the suite that had (Nath claimed) once been the shipboard home of the Old Republic senator from Malastare. Over two dozen pilots were packed into three rooms, most of them out of uniform. A line snaked across the suites to the makeshift bar in the restroom.

  “Me and Chass?” Wyl asked.

  “You and Chass. You put a bounty on her pet? Sleep with her boyfriend? She hates you, brother, and you’ve got to know why.”

  “She doesn’t hate me. She barely knows me.” He sipped at his drink—mostly foam and water—and wondered how much to share with Nath Tensent. Wyl was trusting by nature but he wasn’t naïve, and Nath’s interest felt more manipulative than empathetic.

  Yet Nath was part of his squadron now, and he deserved a fair shake. Wyl managed a tight smile. “We served together on the Dare, but different squadrons. What happened at the end—she blames me for leaving the others behind.”

  “And for shooting her?” Nath asked.

  “It was a bad day all around,” Wyl said.

  Nath laughed, as if that explained everything. Wyl was grateful the man knew when not to press.

  They both turned their heads as a cheer erupted on the far side of the suite, where a cluster of pilots watched a newsscreen. Wyl made out an image of a blue-gray planet and the word LIBERATION.

  “Looks like we got Kerkoidia back. Another victory for the New Republic,” Nath said, raising his glass of wine. Wyl detected no sarcasm in his voice.

  “That’s great,” Wyl said, and he meant it even as he frowned. The pilots who had cheered wore the determined faces of men and women who saw a shot at salvation. “So do you know why everyone acts like we’re losing?”

  Nath didn’t even pause to consider the question. “You were out of touch awhile, right? The Dare?”

  “Even before we ran into the 204th, yeah. Recon mission, checking on systems that had been cut off.”

  “You hear about Cinder before you left?”

  “It happened as we were heading out,” Wyl said. He thought of Shadow Wing and the ruins of Nacronis; Caern Adan had shown him vivid images captured by New Republic scouts. “Reports trickled in, but—”

  “But you didn’t appreciate the damage till you got back. You were riding that victory feeling for a while.” Nath shrugged. “Cinder hurt morale, but that’s not all of it. Rebellion was always close to losing, and old habits are tough to shake, especially when they’re what kept you alive.”

  “You think it’s just pessimism?”

  “Mostly. Sooner or later, though, the New Republic’s going to have to remember it’s on the offensive.”

  “The offensive,” Wyl echoed. He glanced at the newsscreen again. He remembered the judgment of the Oridol Cluster; the fate of the Dare. “Winning or not, sometimes it seems like the Empire is doing more damage than we are.”

  Nath shrugged again. “Imperials are stuck living by old habits, too.”

  “You’re a philosophical man, Nath Tensent.” It was a joke, but not insincere. Wyl tried to decipher the crinkles around the older man’s eyes; the faint curve in his lips. “Being on medical leave give you time to think about it all?”

  Adan had told Wyl and Chass that Nath had been injured—and his ship and droid damaged—in the fight against Shadow Wing six months prior. Nath hadn’t spoken of his recuperation, and Wyl had tried to respect the man’s privacy; but Wyl needed to change the subject and Nath only waved it away.

  “Suppose it did. I got pretty comfortable. But whatever mess the rest of the galaxy is in, seemed to me like—” He looked about the room, carefully lowered his voice without appearing deliberately discreet. “—well, I’ve got a grudge against Shadow Wing, same as you. I know what they can do, and it sounded like Adan and Quell were going after them with or without me.”

  “And you’d rather they do it with,” Wyl said.

  “Exactly. I’d like to see the job done right. I won’t say I don’t want a hand in shooting them down myself, but either way. It’s why I don’t mind all the tactical planning; why I put up with this simulation garbage.” Nath downed half his drink in a single swallow. “This is swill. Come on—you want to see how your ship’s faring?”

  Wyl had, in fact, been wondering about his starfighter. They left the makeshift cantina for the hangar bay, and as they walked the conversation turned to trivial things: first jests about the A-wing and Nath’s aging bomber, then stories about old comrades and past battles and rebel leaders. They stumbled into Nath’s astromech droid—a C1-series unit creakier than his ship—whom Wyl embraced and chattered at like a long-lost brother while the droid muttered and warbled. “Don’t patronize the old bastard,” Nath said, giving the droid’s chassis a solid kick; but T5 vented hot air and trailed Wyl as they continued on their way.

  Soon they were strolling among crates and toolboxes and half the night had gone by. Wyl
realized that he regretted none of it.

  He hadn’t spoken to much of anyone since escaping Oridol. Chass wouldn’t talk to him. Caern Adan had briefed and debriefed him. Quell was focused on business. And there hadn’t been opportunities to socialize with the crew of the Buried Treasure or the Lodestar.

  No—that wasn’t true. There had been opportunities. Wyl had avoided them, after losing Sata Neek and Rununja and Nasi and Sonogari. After failing his friends and squadron and ship. What could he say when someone asked, “Where was your last posting?” He hadn’t had the courage for that conversation.

  With Nath Tensent, he didn’t need to. The man expected nothing.

  After midnight shipboard time, they said their goodbyes. Wyl stepped back, ready to depart, when Nath said, “Does it bother you, what she did today?”

  “Chass?” Wyl asked.

  “Quell. The Endor simulation. You were there for the real thing—I know I’d be a mess if someone popped me back to Boz Pity, made me watch a few of my friends die.”

  Wyl nodded. The simulation had troubled him, but he’d set the notion aside, ignored the ghosts of Riot Squadron. “I’m sure she meant well.”

  “Probably. Seemed to mess with Chass’s head, too. Don’t know why.” Nath snorted and clapped his hands together. “Maybe I’m overthinking it, but there’s something off about Quell. It’s not the Imperial style—I was an Imp pilot myself, once—but something else. Too focused on the mission, or not focused enough.”

  “She was part of Shadow Wing,” Wyl said. “Maybe she feels she has something to prove.”

  “Maybe. Just keep an eye out, okay? Meanwhile, the rest of us can look out for each other. Got to get flying before the fleet hits Pandem Nai, or who knows what we’ll miss.”

  Wyl considered the man before him, trying and failing to separate self-interest and truth. Maybe with Nath, he thought, they’re one and the same.

  “For you and for Chass, I’ll absolutely keep an eye out,” Wyl said. “If you can win over Kairos, let me know.”

  III

  Yrica Quell watched Caern Adan pace across the ready room, buried deep in his rumpled coat. They’d commandeered the place from Meteor Squadron while that squadron was deployed to Chazwa, and Quell struggled not to gaze at the mementos pinned to the walls or read the notices displayed on the seat consoles. She kept her eyes off the graffiti etched into her chair’s armrest. The ready room told the story of two wars, and she wanted to escape into the tale—submerge herself in the history of the Lodestar and its pilots instead of wrestling with the unpleasant reality before her. Instead of keeping her eyes on her superior officer.

  Had Major Keize ever felt so alone at a briefing aboard the Pursuer? She doubted it.

  “New Republic Intelligence,” Adan was saying, “has tasked additional stations with flagging intercepted communications concerning Pandem Nai. We’re still not picking up much, but we’re hoping to learn more soon about the 204th’s garrison. Our latest guess is that the Star Destroyer Pursuer is not operational in-system, but it’s possible additional capital ships have been deployed.”

  She noticed him taking care to meet the eyes of his audience—to look directly at Tensent, Lark, and even Kairos. He lingered on the empty space where Chadic should have been; the Theelin girl hadn’t shown for the status meeting and Quell had made an excuse rather than admit that Chadic was tardy.

  “General Syndulla’s fleet,” Adan went on, “may be in position to strike in as few as three weeks, based on our previous estimates and our progress over the past several days. We have until then to gather additional intelligence on Shadow Wing and determine what vulnerabilities exist in Pandem Nai’s defenses.” He paused at the appropriate times. He did all he could to make scanty findings sound more momentous than they were.

  “We can assume they know we’re coming,” Quell added. “The squadrons that destroyed the Hellion’s Dare are almost certainly out of the Oridol Cluster by now, and they will have reported the escape of two rebel—New Republic—starfighters. But knowing Colonel Nuress, she’d be preparing for the worst anyway. So we need to determine not just what their defenses are now, but what they can construct while we’re on the march.”

  Lark spoke up, cautious as he asked, “Are we assuming they’re entrenching for a siege? Or could Shadow Wing plan to grab as much Tibanna gas as it can and then move on? Stay mobile?”

  Adan’s lips twitched in a suppressed wince. “Quell? You’re the behavioral specialist. What are the odds they’re gone before we get there?”

  She didn’t know. She didn’t like answering questions she didn’t know in front of her squadron; nor did she like admitting ignorance to the man who controlled her fate. “We think they’ve been stationed at Pandem Nai for almost a month,” she said. “If they wanted to stay mobile I think they’d be gone by now. But I can’t be sure.”

  “What about their other operations?” Tensent shifted his bulk in his seat, glancing to his console. “Any update on whether they’re sending sorties out of the system?”

  He asked this of Adan, but Adan again looked to Quell.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Adan, have you heard anything about additional operations?”

  “I haven’t,” Adan said.

  Quell reviewed her mental model for anything that might offer a clue. “What about transport capabilities?” she asked. “If we knew how many cruiser-carriers were at Pandem Nai before—”

  “We don’t,” Adan snapped. “New Republic Intelligence accepts that Shadow Wing is a priority, but there’s a whole galaxy on fire right now. You know what I know.”

  Quell bit back a retort and nodded.

  Adan wasn’t finished, though. “The entire Intelligence working group on Shadow Wing is in this room. My assumption was that by this time, you’d be conducting tailored reconnaissance and planting tracking devices on Imperial supply convoys. Instead I had to tutor Meteor Squadron on what to watch for at Chazwa, and why we should try to preserve local fuel samples to see if they came from Pandem Nai.” He let his gaze slip from Quell, scanning the room before returning. “I didn’t count on you needing the better part of a month to get your team operational.”

  Quell didn’t flinch. She didn’t say a word.

  Adan was a bastard, but he was in command, and he was right. She’d earned herself a squadron, and now she was proving herself incapable of leading it.

  Shortly afterward, Adan adjourned the status meeting. Quell excused herself and went hunting for Chadic. The search took her most of an hour; she went deck by deck, compartment by compartment, asking brusque questions of engineers and officers and droids. She didn’t talk to the Lodestar’s other pilots—she’d heard enough sneering about the “alphabet’s worth of ships” dropped aboard by New Republic Intelligence, and she didn’t care to damage her working group’s reputation further—but she walked through the hangar, eyes open and searching. Sergeant Ragnell, the tattooed engineer, greeted Quell with a polite wave before turning to scream obscenities at a droid dragging a repulsorsled loaded with heavy ordnance.

  By the time Quell finally located Chass na Chadic, she’d pushed her failure in the ready room to the back of her brain and kindled her fury at her missing squadron member. In the medical bay, Chadic stood at the bedside of a man with leathery yellow skin and a bandage wrapped around his forehead. Three other figures stood with Chadic, laughing and arguing, all of them in New Republic special forces uniforms.

  Quell stood in the doorway, waiting for Chadic to notice her. When she didn’t turn, Quell approached.

  “Friend of yours?” Quell asked.

  Chadic pivoted toward Quell, snorted, then looked back to the man in the bed. “Bad friend to have,” she said. “Man’s a jinx.”

  “To you, the man’s a hero.” One of the upright soldiers—a human with a black be
ard that extended to his stomach—growled the words without looking at Chadic. “You got to earn the right to call him a jinx.”

  “Dirt-sucker,” Chadic muttered.

  “Spit-racer,” the man returned.

  Quell wrapped her fingers around Chadic’s upper arm and tugged her away from the bed. The three specforce troopers, along with their wounded companion, observed but said nothing. Chadic hissed her own objection as they stumbled to the far side of the room, while Quell spoke over her: “You get one chance to tell me where you were. One.”

  “Drop ship was short a copilot,” Chadic said. “I was playing backup.”

  Quell didn’t understand at first. Then realization dawned. “You were gone on a specforce mission? You volunteered for other duties?”

  “Yeah,” Chadic said. Her voice possessed the unbending surety of an Imperial flagstaff.

  Quell stared at the compact young woman before her. In the 204th, she wanted to say, you’d have been stripped of your rank and shipped to a military prison. A pilot fresh from the Academy would fill your seat and never hear your name.

  Chadic gazed back. Quell’s rage seemed to break against her speckled face and strong chin. “In the Empire,” Quell said, not meaning to, “you’d be shot for treason.”

  “The Empire lost,” Chadic said, unmoved. “Something happen in the status meeting I actually needed to know? Or are we still sucking our thumbs and waiting for Syndulla to say we can fly?”

  Quell had never harmed a subordinate before—not like a dozen commanders she’d known in her career, who answered disobedience or failure with thrashings. She prided herself on her calm and reason. Yet she watched herself, as if from afar, as she grabbed Chadic and swung her into the wall and said, “You’re only alive because of me. You’re in this squadron because of me. If I tell you to suck your thumb, that’s what you do.”

  Four strong hands caught her arms and shirt. Firmly, but not roughly, they pulled her away from Chadic. Quell didn’t struggle as a voice said, “She saved the jinx’s life.”