Alphabet Squadron (Star Wars)

by Alexander Freed

  “It depends on you. Your skill. Your bravery. Your willingness to neutralize Shadow Wing while the fleet acts as backup. It’s a solid plan—” She resisted the urge to glance at Quell. “—but it is exceedingly dangerous. Which is why I’m telling you all, no matter what you think, you have a choice here.

  “I can find other pilots. You don’t have to do this.”

  Chass snorted. Wyl smiled kindly. Kairos stared ahead. Nath leaned back in his seat and said, “You’re joking, right?”

  “I knew what to expect,” Hera said. “But I never send my people on a mission like this without asking. If you change your minds, just say the word.”

  She stepped back and gestured to Quell. “That’s all prologue. Start the briefing, Lieutenant.”

  * * *

  —

  They spent four hours in the ready room. The initial overview was short, but Quell’s detailed flight plan was a work of art in minuscule type—page after page of likely Shadow Wing response scenarios, reaction time estimates, footnotes citing squadron psych profiles and Wyl and Chass’s own encounters in the Oridol Cluster. Every assumption cited intelligence or precedent. They reviewed all of it together, and then, of course, came the questions. Hera was glad to see the pilots engaged—glad that Nath and Chass, in particular, seemed to take the dangers seriously and had expertise to offer—but she was exhausted by the time the briefing was over.

  And you’re not even putting your life on the line, she thought.

  Quell drew Adan aside as soon as they broke, confirming one of the latest intelligence drops. Wyl looked preoccupied, not so much as glancing at the others. Chass had a nervous, excited energy that didn’t surprise Hera. She couldn’t get a read on Nath or Kairos, which also didn’t surprise her.

  “So,” Hera said, before anyone could disappear out the door. “Drinks on me?”

  “You’re kidding,” Chass said.

  “Why not? You’re not absorbing anything tonight you haven’t learned already. And don’t tell me you have anything better going on.”

  Kairos bowed her head and stepped past Hera into the corridor. Quell and Adan were intent on their discussion. Most of you, Hera amended to herself.

  “I’ll go,” Wyl said. “And while Chass and Nath might hesitate, they’re not going to make me drink with the general alone.”

  Chass muttered under her breath. Nath laughed and said, “Kid puts a lot of faith in us.”

  “You’re his squadron,” Hera said.

  She slipped away long enough to get her messages from Stornvein—to swiftly review the alerts from High Command she’d missed during the briefing and confirm that the pile of memoranda and requests from her battle group could wait until after dinner. When she finally reunited with Wyl, Chass, and Nath, they were already sharing a plate of military-grade “imitation braised bantha” and working their way through bottles of cheap swill at the Krayt Hut.

  She settled in while Nath told a story from his Imperial Academy days. She’d come with stories of her own prepared, in case they were needed—stories of her old crew, her family, to inspire the pilots or frighten them or ease the tension, as required. She’d told her stories so many times for so many reasons—taught lessons to so many squadrons—that it almost felt artificial now. Like the stories had never happened to her, and only existed to help others.

  But they’d all happened. They were real. It’s why they were still precious.

  Nath finished his tale, and the pilots snickered and Hera asked questions. She encouraged Wyl to talk about Riot Squadron and the Hellion’s Dare, and she mentioned the time she’d met the Dare’s captain, the strange little Chadra-Fan called Kreskian. She asked Chass about the Theelin’s B-wing. “I was there,” Hera told her, “when we brought home the first prototype. They’re not like any other starfighter—anyone who can climb out of a B-wing and not fall over dizzy is a hero in my book.” Chass was slow to reply, but Hera kept putting out bait and eventually even Chass engaged energetically. Tough girl, Hera thought, but she’s got as much heart as anyone.

  She didn’t force the conversation. She let it flow and race along and double back. She didn’t need to force it—Alphabet Squadron really had come together.

  At the same time, though, she saw the faults. Nath would ask a question of Wyl and glance sidelong at Chass, checking her reaction. Wyl’s expression brightened into something beautiful the moment he mentioned his homeworld; everything else, in comparison, was mere professional courtesy. Chass was often distracted, looking across the room to a crew of special forces operatives or staring into the distance.

  There was a bond between them. There was. But it was new and tender, like young love or fresh skin over a deep cut.

  Hera’s crew had taken an eternity to bond. Rough, angry arguments had aged into comfortable disagreements through years and shared suffering. Shared hope. She wanted to give the same to Alphabet Squadron, but she worried there wasn’t time.

  And what of Kairos? Hera only knew what she’d read in the New Republic Intelligence files, and that was enough to trouble her dreams. And Quell? Quell, who was trying with every fiber of her being to make this operation work…

  Quell was a good soldier. But Hera wondered if she could handle what was coming. If she could fly against her people without hesitating or letting the memories overwhelm her.

  “You look worried,” Wyl said.

  Hera snapped out of her reverie and smiled at the boy. She shrugged and gave him the most honest answer she could. “I’m a worrier. Don’t let it bother you.”

  “It won’t,” Chass said. “Wyl’s worse than a worrier. He’s an idealist. He figures it’ll all come out right in the end.”

  “It’s good to have one,” Nath offered. “Gives the rest of us something to calibrate against.”

  They were back at it in a moment. Hera let them talk.

  Fragile bonds. An untested commander. Back in the old days—back with her family—she would have judged a mission like this, with well-intentioned but unstable pilots, too risky. You’re not ready, she might have said.

  But now she was a general. She didn’t have the luxury to think like that anymore.

  May the Force be with them, she thought. And please—let me not be wrong.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE EXPLOITATION OF FANATICS

  I

  The Harch, whom everyone called “the Harch” as if her species were a royal title, flexed two of her claws high above her head, focused six eyes on the supplicants before her, and clacked her chelicerae as she cried, “Receipts, soft-things! You wish reimbursement? You bring receipts!”

  Rikton protested in an unpersuasive stutter. Devon placed his hand on the younger man’s arm and cut Rikton off in a crisp, authoritative voice. “Eightmarket doesn’t give receipts, but the transaction was recorded. If you need proof, we can get a copy.”

  “Receipts,” the Harch said. She rotated her body back toward the landspeeder suspended from the garage ceiling, her upper arms prying back the hood of the engine compartment. “I prefer receipts.”

  “But the recording will do?” Devon asked.

  “Yes,” the Harch hissed.

  Rikton let out a relieved noise like a deflating pressure hose. Devon nodded to the man and, as one, they exited through the back of the shop. “You knew she wanted receipts when you bought the parts,” Devon murmured. “You got the repairs done. The customer was happy. But you won’t handle things that way again.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and Rikton seemed to know it. “No, sir,” he said.

  Devon laughed. Rikton looked confused. “Go home,” Devon said. “Work orders are piling up, and it’ll be a long day tomorrow.” Rikton hesitated, then headed for the lockers.

  Devon liked Rikton. He wasn’t much more than a boy—nineteen, t
wenty years old at most—but Rikton was hardworking and naïve and arrogant all at once, in the way only young people could be. Devon even liked the Harch, who ran a disciplined crew without brutality and with a forgiving heart. She claimed to have eaten human flesh once, and Devon both believed it and suspected the victim had deserved the fate.

  He liked Rikton and the Harch and the whole crew. Every time he thought it, he found himself surprised.

  After Tinker-Town, he had traveled awhile, from planet to planet and spaceport to spaceport. On Mon Gazza he’d been caught up in a war between rival spice traders and moved on when the bloodshed had escalated. On the Ring of Kafrene, he’d made an enemy of a one-eyed weapons smuggler and slipped away in the night. He’d been present when the Bazaar of Esoteric Obscenities had burned to the ground. At each stop, he’d done his best to keep his past from following and to begin anew.

  He hadn’t planned to stay more than two days aboard the Whitedrift Exchange. The aging Lormar-class space station crawled through hyperspace, serving as a mobile trading post and as a home—temporary or otherwise—for its ten thousand passengers. Devon had intended to disembark upon reaching the next inhabited system; but the Harch had offered him work and a place to stay in the corroded, cavernous reaches of the station, and he’d agreed for reasons he couldn’t entirely justify. He didn’t regret his decision.

  Maybe this time, no one would pull a weapon on him. Maybe this time, the war really was over.

  * * *

  —

  Despite the many work orders, the next day’s first job was also the last. A century-old cargo hauler had lost its plasma transvertor, and the owner—twice as old as her vessel, by her looks—had promised the Harch a cut of her freight if Devon and Rikton could get her ship online. The Harch had barely glanced at the particulars before sending the two on their way, and what should have been a one-hour task stretched to eight. Devon and Rikton spent the morning removing a dozen layers of hull plating and radiation shielding, and spent most of the afternoon swapping out components by feel.

  They talked as they worked. Rikton was cagey about his life before the Harch, but that wasn’t uncommon with workers aboard the Whitedrift Exchange. Prior to the Battle of Endor, the trading post had been subjected to frequent Imperial raids in search of fugitives, bounty hunters, and traffickers. Since the Empire’s fall, the Exchange’s workforce had been vetted no more thoroughly.

  Still, Rikton didn’t strike Devon as a bottom-feeder hoping for a score. They’d talked about Rikton’s upbringing on Corulag and his grandfather’s declining health. “Never really got on with my parents, but my grandfather understood life, I figure. Always talked about serving alongside the clone troopers, how it taught you what matters is heart. Doesn’t matter if you all look alike—inside we’re all different.”

  Trite as it was, Devon appreciated the sober sincerity of Rikton’s statement. “Your grandfather’s a wise man,” he said.

  “Was a wise man,” Rikton said. “Passed away. When I left Corulag to—to seek my fortune, yeah?—my parents disowned me. Haven’t been back since.”

  Devon heard the evasion. He smiled sympathetically, stuck his arm deep in the guts of the cargo hauler, and didn’t ask what seek my fortune meant. He nodded toward the glow rod in Rikton’s hand and the boy raised it over Devon’s head, illuminating the narrow access compartment.

  “You got here not long before me, yeah?” Rikton asked.

  Devon grunted, found a melted mass of wiring with his fingers, and tore out the entire clump. “Maybe two weeks,” he said. “But I’ve been fixing machines much longer.”

  “You’re good at it,” Rikton said. “Real good. You going to stay on?”

  “For a while, I think.”

  “The Harch likes you. Bet you could earn enough to start your own shop, if you wanted.”

  “Is that what you’re looking to do?” Devon asked.

  Rikton looked surprised by the question. He stuttered over the start of an answer, began again, then said, “Not for me, I don’t think. Got a long trip in mind. Just trying to make enough credits to book passage.”

  “Where to?”

  Rikton looked to their toolbox, pulling out a fresh spool of wire. “Don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out when I’ve got the money.”

  Another evasion, Devon decided. But everyone had their secrets.

  The work continued. With a surgeon’s precision, Devon excised a dying power pack and spliced two meters of fresh wiring into a panel ten centimeters wide. The public address system declared (in six languages) that the Whitedrift Exchange was arriving in orbit around Karazak. That, Devon thought, would have triggered Imperial scrutiny in the old days. Karazak was a slaver world, and for all that the Empire had tolerated slavery it had at least regulated the trade. By contrast, the Old Republic had ignored slavery outside the Core Worlds despite officially forbidding it; Devon doubted the New Republic would treat the matter any more seriously.

  Devon and Rikton kept at it, and as afternoon became evening and they focused on reaffixing the ship’s plating, they spoke about cleaning solutions and the droids they’d loved as children and whether the Harch would scold them for finishing so late. At last, as they packed their equipment and Devon scrubbed grease and oil and acid stains from the hangar floor (“We’re not janitors, Rikton, but it’s our mess”), he asked, “That old power pack we took out—can you grab it? It’s a class-T hazard; need to handle it properly.”

  Rikton was latching the lid of the toolbox. “Already done,” he said. “While you were finishing with the shielding.”

  Devon grunted and nodded.

  The boy had a right to his privacy. Devon wasn’t troubled by most of his lies. But that one surprised him.

  * * *

  —

  He watched Rikton more closely after that. He didn’t follow the boy or ask prying questions; but he did take more care to inventory equipment brought to the job, the parts they junked along the way, and the items they returned to the Harch’s shop.

  He spotted irregularities four more times in the following weeks. Rikton wasn’t a thief by the conventional definition—he never took anything directly from the Harch’s supplies. Mostly, he collected items destined for the scrap heap. Once, he purchased a naikon matrix using the Harch’s bulk discount, then “forgot” to ask for reimbursement.

  It wasn’t any of Devon’s business, but now he’d seen too much to let it go.

  He began asking questions—not prying questions, but simple questions, natural ones, spread out over time. “How many more jobs before your trip off station?” he asked, and learned he had a month before Rikton planned to leave. A month to get the answers he needed. “Any other family besides your parents out there?” he asked, and wasn’t surprised when Rikton told him no. He asked technical questions, too, about whether the boy could handle an XJ9 hypercharger or if he could show Devon how to disassemble a servo-pulsor. Nothing there surprised him, either.

  “Not a lot of strangers worth trusting,” Devon told the boy one night at the lockers. “But you find the right crew, you look out for them. You understand? You help them, they help you, no matter the trouble.”

  “True, that,” Rikton said.

  But he didn’t seem to understand, and Devon couldn’t force him to see.

  Later that same night, after the rest of the crew had gone home, Devon found the Harch in the garage. “I need your help,” he said.

  The Harch chittered and scoffed as she closed blast shields over the windows. “I have given you work. I have given you purpose and pay. Now you ask more?”

  “Are you still providing Rikton with his shipboard comm?” he asked. The Whitedrift Exchange offered passengers and crew limited access to the galactic communications network, but the price was high. The Harch leased a portion of her bandwidth to her wor
kers.

  “I am,” she said.

  “I’d like to review the logs. I know you have that ability. I don’t want Rikton to hear about it.”

  The Harch swiveled toward Devon, focusing all six eyes on the human. “He has found trouble?”

  “Maybe.”

  Her chelicerae folded and unfolded. She was thinking. She was smarter, Devon suspected, than anyone gave her credit for.

  “Is it related,” she asked, “to his service with the Empire?”

  “I don’t know,” Devon said. “I’m hoping not. But what are the odds a boy that young has two secrets?”

  * * *

  —

  Rikton lived in a habitat capsule on D-deck. The capsules were private and soundproofed, and those were the kindest things anyone could say about them—each was smaller than an escape pod, built to accommodate the most budget-conscious traveler. Devon waited until the shipboard lights illumined to their early-morning radiance, then tapped Rikton’s door chime.

  He’d read the logs. What happened next would prove difficult and potentially dangerous. The boy deserved a full night’s sleep.

  “It’s Devon,” he said into the comm. “We need to talk.”

  Rikton’s voice mumbled a reply. Several minutes later the capsule door slid open and Devon caught a glimpse of the vertical bed against the wall, the empty shelves, and the duffel on the floor behind the blinking boy. “I’m not late,” Rikton said. “Promise I’m not, I saw the schedule.”

  “We need to talk,” Devon repeated. “Come on. I’ll buy you breakfast.” His tone was matter-of-fact. Almost friendly. Rikton nodded briskly and fell in behind Devon like a man condemned.

  They purchased tin cups full of poached eggs and curdled green milk and carried them to the catwalks above subsystem engineering. They saw no one but repair droids making their rounds. Devon ate hungrily—he’d learned long ago not to ignore the value of a meal—while Rikton prodded at runny yolks. “What’s going on?” Rikton asked. “You’re acting odd. You know that, right?”