Alphabet Squadron (Star Wars)

by Alexander Freed

  “Target in sight!” Quell’s voice, urgent through the comm. “You see it?”

  “I see it,” Chass said. “Watch what I do next.”

  She spotted, at the edges of her vision, the marks on her scanner—eight TIE fighters closing from all angles. She rotated the bulk of her ship around the cockpit, let the thrust send her spiraling to keep her trajectory unpredictable, but she didn’t worry over the opposition. Quell’s job was to pull away the TIEs. Chass’s was to be destruction personified.

  Emerald splashed against her shields, and the electromagnetic bubble protecting her vessel shimmered through the color spectrum. Chass ignored that, too. She leaned forward and peered at a crease in the orbital station’s skin—the closed maw of the port hangar bay doors.

  She fired every weapon she had—ion cannons and lasers and torpedoes, spewing streams of electric energy and crimson bolts and warheads toward her target. Fire and lightning erupted at the point of impact, obscured the hangar doors from sight, but Chass kept firing and let her ship drop into the smoke and chaos. When her console began screaming alarms, warning of power drains and overheating, she switched to firing one set of weapons at a time—but she didn’t stop.

  Her whole body snapped forward as a volley from a TIE fighter nearly punctured her aft shields. She braced for another burst, then grinned as the pursuer disappeared in a thunderclap and a blossom of flame.

  “You love me,” she laughed. “You’d do anything for me.”

  Quell didn’t reply for several seconds. When she did, her voice sounded strained. “I can’t keep them all off you. Did you hit the target?”

  “Of course. It’s not small.” She wasn’t sure how much damage she’d done, but the fireworks had been spectacular. “If you’re worried, we can do it again…” She heard the lilt in her voice and realized how giddy she sounded.

  “Agreed,” Quell said. “We make another pass. We’ll make a third if we have to.”

  Three TIE fighters emerged from the scarlet mist ahead of Chass, silhouettes against the red. The music stopped, then started again with a slower, ethereal voice in command.

  The mission, Chass thought, was impossible.

  It was perfect.

  IV

  Wyl Lark twisted above the Y-wing, clinging to it like a jealous lover as he warded off TIE flights and laser volleys. He felt every burst of particle bolts against his shields, saw the warnings glare at him from his console, but he didn’t slow. His purpose—his only purpose on this mission—was to protect Nath Tensent.

  He intended to do so.

  They raced together along the starboard side of the orbital station. Nath skimmed only meters above the superstructure—wisely, Wyl thought, as it forced the TIEs to be selective about their shots—while picking off turrets and closing on the primary target. Wyl hadn’t downed an enemy yet, but he’d discouraged the hostile forces by alternating swift, precise shots with rapid-fire sprays.

  He wasn’t sure he could kill any of his enemies. The last time he’d met Shadow Wing, the Imperial pilots had calmly slaughtered his squadron mates while evading nearly every attack he’d made. He’d studied all the files Quell had provided since then, but personnel evaluations weren’t the same as lived experience. His eyes followed the fighters through the fog of Pandem Nai, seeking identifying marks and scratches—looking for Blink and Snapper and Char, who had haunted the Hellion’s Dare for so long.

  “Yes, I’m scared,” he murmured to his ship. “I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

  He jumped in his harness when Nath’s voice came in response. “All right, brother—coming up on the objective, but we’re getting swarmed, here.”

  “Have you taken a hit yet?” Wyl asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then trust me,” Wyl said. “You’ll make it there just fine.”

  He pushed the images of Blink and Snapper and Char out of his mind. He opened his throttle until the orbital station became a dark blur and Nath’s Y-wing was far behind him, then looped up and over until he’d reversed course toward his TIE pursuers. He let momentum hold him in place—they were deep enough within the planet’s gravity well that upside down had meaning, and his stomach lurched as his harness straps dug into his shoulders—and he screamed as he flew straight toward the surprised TIEs, whipping through a storm of particle bolts and dodging blasts with swift, almost imperceptible motions. He squeezed his trigger and scattered the enemy fighters.

  No kills. He heard Nath laughing.

  “Target acquired,” Nath said. “Weapons locked. Be careful if you’re close—might be some splash.”

  Wyl was curving back around to rejoin Nath when he saw explosions and felt the shock wave. The Y-wing had unleashed a flurry of cannon fire and torpedoes at the orbital station’s starboard hangar bay, and the detonation sent ripples through the atmosphere that buffeted the A-wing like storm winds.

  “Tell me you did damage,” Wyl called. “Tell me you’ve got good news…”

  “Good enough,” Nath said. “We bought a couple of minutes, at least.”

  That was all they’d been sent to do. Buy time. Cripple the hangars and keep them shut long enough to prevent the TIEs from swarming. Face a dozen Shadow Wing pilots instead of seventy. The real mission would happen elsewhere.

  Just like in the Oridol Cluster. Just like when Wyl had waited to be saved or doomed by the Hellion’s Dare.

  “Another pass?” Wyl asked.

  “Another pass,” Nath said.

  V

  Outside the cockpit of the U-wing, as Kairos descended through the layers of Pandem Nai’s atmosphere, the gas changed and the dense clouds thinned. Scarlet bled its darker hues and became tawny. Tawny wisps became pale ocher. It was as if she were passing through the layers of a painting; as if there were beauty surrounding her instead of violence and disaster. She longed to press her face through the viewport; to extend her tongue and flare her nostrils and taste the colors, as she might have when she was young.

  But in truth, there was nothing beautiful at Pandem Nai.

  She eased out of the descent, passing a hand over the console as if reading its instruments by touch. She had dived far enough to elude Shadow Wing’s notice. Now it was time to return. She checked her course and leaned back as the ship pulled up and the pale-ocher wisps became tawny once more. She heard a series of thuds and groans from the cabin and a deep-throated shout:

  “Warn us next time, huh?”

  The thought hadn’t occurred to her.

  The ship vibrated until her skin seemed to burn. She made out the murky wheel of the orbital station above and aimed for a section of spoke near the center. This was the plan of the traitor—the woman soaked in blood and ash who had promised to make it right, and Kairos had accepted the plan because it aligned with her purpose. Through these acts, she would achieve vengeance. Through these acts, she would derive restitution from all the murderers of worlds—from the killers of Alderaan and Nacronis and Hetnagaro.

  The Emperor, she thought, would be pleased at the violence she committed. But there was nothing she could do about that.

  The U-wing soared. Its wings—its strike foils—stretched forward for flight instead of combat. Flickers of light around the orbital station suggested a storm, though Kairos knew they meant battle. The part of her that craved death grew excited at the scent, but she did not relinquish control.

  There was another reason why she followed the plan of the traitor. This thought came to her unbidden and caused her pain: She thought of the face of Caern Adan, delicate and stubborn and scarred so deeply that the scars had become flesh.

  She knew the debts she carried.

  She leveled out her ship as she reached the underside of the orbital station, weaving through scaffolding and evading the gas storage pods that hung like fruit. She sa
w a TIE fighter flash past, but it twirled, spun as if regaining control of its flight, and returned the way it had come, apparently oblivious to Kairos. She reduced her speed to nearly nothing as she leaned over the control panel and peered above her at the station’s hull.

  “There! Right there.”

  The same voice as before, closer this time. She retreated into her seat and delicately positioned the U-wing to rise into the orbital station’s executive docking bay. The magnetic containment field flickered but offered no pressure or resistance. This surprised Kairos. It suggested that Shadow Wing had neglected to secure the bay.

  Or that someone had prepared a trap.

  Kairos’s organs seemed to twist and compress at the thought. She didn’t like the notion of a trap. She never wished to be trapped again.

  The docking bay was compact, designed to house no more than three vessels. Only one other was present at the moment—a Zeta-class cargo shuttle hooked up to power and fuel. Kairos saw no guards, no white-clad stormtroopers, and glided to a stop without landing. Her thrusters quieted while her repulsors whined.

  She stood and turned to the main cabin. Pressed against one another in the confined space were fourteen humanoid figures wrapped in bulky jackets and armor plating, bearing packs and satchels and weapons gleaming with polish. Kairos had seen them on the Lodestar before they’d come aboard for this mission—they were New Republic special forces, full of bluster and efficiency.

  A man with leathery yellow skin looked to Kairos questioningly. She inclined her head and gestured at the loading door. Someone tapped the control panel, the door opened, and the soldiers poured into the bay, sweeping the vicinity without firing a shot.

  “All right,” one of them called—a squat woman with skin weathered by burns. “We’re ready to head in. You’re holding our exit?” This last was directed to Kairos.

  Kairos inclined her head again and began to heft and assemble the equipment left aboard the ship. The troops accepted this answer and noiselessly hurried away as Kairos swiftly attached barrel to battery to base. Soon she had a weapon—a turret able to rotate and fire and obliterate anything that entered the bay. She stood behind it and waited.

  She was not patient. She wished to pull the trigger. To have a reason to pull the trigger.

  She wished she were a better creature. That her metamorphosis would soon be complete, and that she could emerge as something bright and wondrous, shedding the atrocities of her life.

  For now, however, she was what she was.

  She readied herself for slaughter.

  VI

  Caern Adan didn’t particularly want to be aboard the Lodestar. He had no desire, as some of his colleagues did, to be “close to the action.” He’d been close, and lacked the egomania required to want to repeat the experience.

  Nonetheless, he knew that if he left prior to the assault he had masterminded—the operation he had planned from the very beginning, when he alone had had the foresight to see the danger of Shadow Wing—it would raise questions among his superiors. It would erode confidence. And there was, he supposed, some chance he might be useful.

  So he sat in a corner of the tactical operations center (staffed with two dozen officers and aides to General Syndulla, all jostling for elbow room and attention) and watched a hologram of the Lodestar’s captain proclaim that the fleet would emerge from hyperspace in two minutes. He watched the general pace and murmur platitudes to her people. He gripped his seat as the whole ship lurched, arriving in the Pandem Nai system.

  Numerous indicators flashed onto the transparent display screens as the Lodestar was followed by the rest of Syndulla’s battle group: corvettes and cruisers with weapons primed and starfighter squadrons in protective formation. Additional indicators began to light a moment later, showing Imperial ships in orbit around Pandem Nai.

  “Jump coordinates were correct, General,” someone said. “We’re just outside the minefield.”

  “Good.” Syndulla’s voice was unhurried. Unafraid. All soldiers are suicidal, Caern thought. She went on: “Send the signal to spread out and form a blockade. Remind our ships not to drift too close to the mines—we’re not planning to push through until we absolutely have to.”

  A dozen voices echoed Syndulla’s orders, passing them down from general to unit commanders to communications officers to individual ship captains and squadron leaders. A hundred fingers tapped at consoles and droids chattered as they turned vague intentions into numbers and angles and coordinates. Caern couldn’t decide whether the chain of activity was something to be admired or a stunning example of military inefficiency.

  “What’s it look like in orbit?” Syndulla asked a com-scan officer. “Has Shadow Wing launched its fighters?”

  “Not yet, General. Looks like two TIE squadrons active. Alphabet must be doing its job.”

  “Signs of movement from the Imperial capital ships?”

  “None.”

  “What about reinforcements?” Caern asked, though he knew it wasn’t his place. “Any Imperial presence in the outer system?”

  The com-scan officer looked to Syndulla, who gave a curt nod. He replied, “Nothing we’ve spotted so far. We’re scanning for hypermatter particle traces—if anyone’s coming out of lightspeed, we might get a few seconds’ warning.”

  “All right,” Syndulla said. “Then we hold position until something changes.”

  Caern tried to force the tension from his body and failed to do so.

  This was the plan—his plan, in part. The fleet could go crashing through the minefield, but it would take considerable damage in the process and engaging over Pandem Nai would be pointless. Heavy weapons were, after all, effectively neutralized by the atmosphere. Meteor, Hail, and Vanguard squadrons might be able to join Quell and the others by picking their way through the minefield more slowly, but that would give the enemy capital ships time to leave orbit and intercept the fighters. In the gap between the minefield’s edge and Pandem Nai’s exosphere, the squadrons would be easy prey.

  The best thing Syndulla’s fleet could do was ensure that nothing interfered with Caern’s working group. With his squadron. If Shadow Wing acted unpredictably, the fleet would respond. Otherwise, well—

  They would discover whether they’d won or lost in just a few minutes.

  Caern Adan sat back and thought of how long he’d been pursuing Shadow Wing. How certain he’d been that this mission was necessary for the safety of the New Republic and the reputation of New Republic Intelligence. It was all still true to him, still real, yet somewhere it had transformed from a theory into an operation risking the lives of hundreds or thousands of New Republic troops.

  He didn’t much like that part. They’d all volunteered, but he still didn’t like it.

  A voice deep inside him offered some small comfort: It’s not your responsibility anymore.

  He hoped Quell was up to the task.

  CHAPTER 17

  UNEXPECTED COMPLICATION

  I

  Colonel Shakara Nuress remained unimpressed. She remained unalarmed. She was, however, growing irritated.

  The arrival of the enemy fleet was not a surprise, but it confirmed her theory of the attack—that the initial starfighter raid had been a prelude, and that the foe intended to throw its full weight against Pandem Nai to crack its defenses without a prolonged siege. The fleet’s composition was in line with what she’d predicted, as well—an Acclamator-class battleship and a dozen smaller capital ships along with fighter escorts. It was too large for her to engage directly, but it didn’t necessarily pose a problem.

  “How many vessels,” she asked Major Rassus, “do we have between the minefield and the planet?”

  “Our own ships? Or all Imperial craft?”

  If they’re in this star system, they’re mine, she thought. “All of them
, Major.”

  “Eight,” he replied. “Supply ships, mostly. Two cruisers, a corvette, and a troop carrier.”

  Nothing that could turn the tide of battle, she decided. “Recall them into low orbit. They’re exposed out there and I don’t want the enemy taking shots at them.”

  She’d barely given the command before another voice broke in. Ensign Nagry was looking over from her station with an alarmed expression. “The captain of the Lancer requests clearance to depart. He thinks he can slip past the enemy blockade, and worries his ship would be vulnerable to New Republic fighters if he stays—”

  For pity’s sake. “The enemy isn’t after him. Recall him into low orbit! Make it clear that’s an order, and that disobedience still carries consequences.”

  She didn’t have time to worry about self-important corvette captains. She’d felt the bridge shudder twice from the enemy fighters’ attacks—seen the deflector generators strain and heard the damage reports from the hangar bays. The foe was outnumbered but they were inside her perimeter and doing their damndest to prevent her from launching reinforcements.

  There was a reason for that (one beyond the obvious), and she hadn’t yet figured it out.

  She waved off another complaint from Nagry and looked to her chief of operations. “What’s our time estimate on the hangars? When can we launch?”

  The old man’s voice shook, though Shakara knew him well enough not to interpret it as fear. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. The fighters are intact but the doors are a wreck and the magnetic containment field on the port side is offline. If we somehow did open the doors we’d lose pressure through the whole compartment—”

  She didn’t need the details. “All right. Anyone you have to spare, put them on the task. I need those fighters in the sky.”