Alphabet Squadron (Star Wars)
Page 43
Devon met Klevin’s gaze and said nothing.
Klevin laughed and spat again. This time the noise was sudden and his whole body shook, as if he’d been struck by a revelation. “This about your politics? Hell, you know where you are?”
Again, Devon didn’t reply. He forced his shoulders to relax; avoided any posture that would invite aggression.
“No one cares about your politics, Devon. You’re a decent man and a decent worker. Stay as long as you want. Leave if you want. Just don’t whine about it, huh?”
Klevin guffawed again, striding past Devon and smacking him with a wet hand. Devon let himself smile, and a few minutes later followed Klevin out of the dig-rig.
He didn’t allow himself to feel comforted by Klevin’s words. His instincts for survival—his hard-earned paranoia—were too strong. But he went to the cantina that night and found that nothing seemed to have changed. No one watched him. Nanchia joked about keeping him away from the screen. They drank mijura together and pooled their credits to bet on the Cantonica podraces.
His instincts wouldn’t fade. But he allowed himself to hope.
* * *
—
The next day was the Red Moon Festival, when the clouds parted and Vernid’s second satellite hung like a lantern over the world. The rain didn’t stop but it lessened enough to be bearable, and in the evening the dig-rig workers rode out to Bakerstown for the celebration. Under a tin roof singing to the beat of raindrops, three dozen stalls offered up food and drink and games. It was, Devon thought, a small and sorry event even compared with what he’d seen aboard the Whitedrift Exchange.
But it was a place of joy on a world that didn’t see much in the way of festivals—and the joy was real, even if the machine-spun stringfruit candies weren’t. He spent most of the night observing, but when Vi’i’che tried to coax him into the knife-throwing competition, Devon relented; and when Tyros urged Devon to come, in Tyros’s words, “Talk to my friends about the work and make me look good,” Devon laughed and went along.
“You ever need something from me—you get eyes for one of the pretty folk here—you let me know, all right?” Tyros murmured to him when Devon excused himself after half an hour of boosting Tyros’s reputation. “I know everyone. Plenty of them would like you.”
“Maybe someday,” Devon answered, and was surprised to realize he meant it.
Shortly before midnight, Devon decided he’d seen enough and exited the cover of the festival grounds. The public speeder was at the edge of Bakerstown, a few minutes away down the labyrinth of bridges. Devon tugged at his gloves and adjusted his hood as he returned to the rain.
He’d been gone no more than a minute when he heard someone shout his name. Three figures were rapidly strolling his way from the direction of the festival. Klevin stood in the lead, recognizable beneath his rain gear only by his burly physique. His two comrades were poorly dressed for Vernid—they wore ordinary jackets and looked soaked to the bone. They were a man and a woman, both human, the former young and the latter, perhaps, close to Devon’s own age. Each wore a blaster on his or her hip.
“These strangers wanted to meet you,” Klevin said as they stopped a short distance away. His face looked weary and grim. “Didn’t really make it a choice.”
“It’s all right,” Devon said. He looked to the woman and waited.
“Devon Lhent?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” Devon said. “I left my scandocs at home.”
“We’re with New Republic Intelligence. We know who you are.”
The man spoke next. “Why don’t you come with us?”
Devon nodded slowly, as if this was the introduction he’d expected. He watched their eyes. He watched their hands. “I’m not your problem anymore,” he said. “If you found me, you must realize that. Leave Vernid now, and you won’t ever have cause to regret it.”
“That’s not how this works,” the woman said. “You know that.”
“No one will come to harm,” Devon said.
“Would that excuse have worked under the Empire?”
“I thought you were supposed to be better than the Empire,” Devon said.
He knew it was imprudent to bait them. He also suspected, from the spies’ expressions, that nothing he could say would matter.
The woman reached for her weapon first. Devon determined that on the rain-slick bridge, he wouldn’t be able to reach her before she fired. Instead of charging, he turned and leapt in a single motion, diving off the side of the bridge and splashing into the muck below. Crimson flashed and lit the catwalks.
Shooting to kill, not to stun, he thought.
He ducked beneath the bridge as the male spy dropped down on the opposite side. Devon grappled with him before the man could find his footing, wrenching the man’s arm and turning his blaster away from Devon, inward toward his chest. The man’s finger was already on the trigger. Confounded by the mud and darkness, muscles straining in Devon’s grasp, the man squeezed his weapon and shot himself dead. The stench of burnt flesh mixed with the reek of the mud.
Devon dropped the body and spun as he heard a shout. The woman had fallen off the bridge, entangled with Klevin. Klevin’s advantage in strength, however, was not an advantage in skill. The woman slipped from his grasp, blaster still in hand as she struggled to rise.
Devon snatched away the weapon in one swift move. The woman was too disoriented to stop him, but she was repositioning to sweep her leg beneath him and knock him to the ground.
She didn’t have the chance. He aimed the blaster he’d taken from her. At such close range, he couldn’t miss. He didn’t.
He drew in a long breath as he looked to the two corpses, confirming his kills. Then he looked over to Klevin, who stood unhurt beside him.
“I saw it,” Klevin said. “They pulled first.”
Devon nodded. He worked back through his memory, considering what his assailants had said. Studying the words. Examining the implications.
“Don’t you worry,” Klevin said. He was shaking, but his voice was certain. “Plenty of places two strangers could’ve disappeared on Vernid. We’ll have some work to do, maybe even need to tell the overseer, but he’ll back you. Same as we will.”
It should have been comforting. But Klevin’s words were buzzing in the back of Devon’s thoughts. His hands were trembling, too, now—shaking with anger that rose as it had in the cantina. Anger that had been growing since Tinker-Town.
“No,” Devon said.
“You’re one of ours.”
“No.” His thin lips worked into a snarl as he disassembled the blaster, tossing barrel and gas chamber and power pack into the mud. It was the motion of an anxious child tearing up blades of grass. “No. Someone always catches up with me. One side or the other, it’s always someone, and they’re not going to stop.”
“It’s like I told you,” Klevin said. “No one here cares about your politics.”
But it wasn’t politics, Devon thought. It was his past. His life, and the lives of people he’d left behind.
“Go home. Wait three hours. Then go to the overseer,” Devon said. “Tell him I murdered the New Republic officers—with or without provocation, I don’t care. After that, proceed as you like, but know that you can’t help me and that I’ll be leaving Vernid forever.”
Klevin opened his mouth to say something. Devon stared at the man and let fury show in his eyes. Klevin clambered back up onto the bridge and Devon heard him running.
He thought of Rikton, the boy who’d nearly gone to Traitor’s Remorse to blow himself up. He thought of Vryant, the Imperial Army officer who’d abandoned his post to join the gangs of Mrinzebon. He thought of Yrica Quell, who’d defected, and he thought of Shakara Nuress and Jothal Gablerone and Teso Broosh, who hadn’t.
He hadn’t
expected all of them to follow Quell’s path. But he’d expected some of them to follow his.
He’d been a fool, and they had been wise.
They’d known that the galaxy would not be kind to the soldiers of a defeated Empire. That there would be no place—not in the New Republic or the outlying worlds—for people like them. For people like Devon.
How had he not seen? How could he have deluded himself and asked others to follow him into fantasy?
Nuress and Gablerone and Broosh and all the rest had seen the new era with clear eyes and chosen to stay in the only home remaining to them. They’d held fast to their comrades, their family. Now the New Republic was slaughtering them for it.
The night of the incident in the cantina, he’d checked every public report he could find. Colonel Nuress—Grandmother—was gone. The others had fled. He knew what he had to do now.
He walked away from the dead spies. He left Devon with them.
His name was Major Soran Keize, of the 204th Imperial Fighter Wing. He had been among the Empire’s finest pilots, and he would be again.
It was time he returned to Shadow Wing. Time he set things right.
To Renée, who sustained me
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Taking on this project was madness, but it was madness abetted by dear and supportive friends and colleagues. You told me I should do it (except one of you, who worried over me; and that, too, was appreciated), and I made it through this first book, at least. I’ve missed the lot of you, and I fear I’ll forget someone if I start naming names. But you know who you are, and you mean the world to me.
My additional thanks to Charles Boyd, Susan Robinson, and Jeffrey Visgaitis, who all offered valuable feedback at various points and improved the story in important ways. I’m grateful to my colleagues at Fogbank Entertainment, as well, for trusting that I could juggle it all. Apologies to my derby brothers, who are doing just fine without me, but who I wish I could have supported better.
Thanks, too, to my editor, Elizabeth Schaefer, for putting such faith in me, and Jennifer Heddle and the Lucasfilm crew for doing the same. Much appreciation to Jody Houser for taking on the TIE Fighter comics project under tricky circumstances and bringing Shadow Wing to life in that medium, and for being a game collaborative partner in this endeavor.
One down. Two to go…
BY ALEXANDER FREED
Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company
Rogue One: A Star Wars Story
Star Wars: Alphabet Squadron
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALEXANDER FREED is the author of Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company and Star Wars: Rogue One and has written many short stories, comic books, and videogames. Born near Philadelphia, he currently resides in San Francisco, California. He enjoys the city’s culture, history, and secrets, but he misses snow.
alexanderfreed.com
Twitter: @AlexanderMFreed
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