Shadow Fall (Star Wars)

by Alexander Freed

  She pressed the patch against the console, smoothing it with her fingers. It showed an emblem of the dead world of Alderaan orbited by a starfighter. “One of ours, right?” she asked. “From Thannerhouse, maybe?”

  Kairos’s gloved hand flexed on the control yoke. Her head turned a fraction of a degree. It was as much acknowledgment as Chass had expected.

  “What about the Imp stuff? Those your kills? Ours? Someone else’s? You save them for motivation, for memorials…?”

  Her hand had found its way to her sidearm. She thought back to Abednedo, where she and Kairos had slaughtered a pack of stray troopers. For all the damage Chass’s acid rounds could do, Kairos had somehow done worse.

  The U-wing pilot didn’t react at all this time.

  In a human, Chass would’ve seen the response as arrogant. If Quell had brushed her off that way, she would’ve raged. But Kairos had never acted like a human, and while Nath and Wyl might never have considered whether species made a difference, Chass was inclined to give Kairos the benefit of the doubt. She’d been on the receiving end of too many poor assumptions.

  So maybe Kairos was a killer at heart. But Chass breathed in the metallic, floral scent of Kairos’s gear—or her body, Chass didn’t know—and made a decision. Kairos had saved her more than once, and Chass owed her a good turn.

  “I won’t tell anyone, obviously,” Chass said. She peeled the patch back off the console, scratching off tacky residue with her fingernails. “You want my advice, though? You’re thinking too much, carrying this stuff around. Reminders don’t change the job. They just make focusing harder.”

  Kairos turned fully to observe Chass. Then she looked back to the viewport.

  Chass rose from the seat and clambered back into the main cabin. “Look at me,” she called as she stomped to the emergency compartment, sticking the patch against the metal somewhere close to where she’d taken it from. “I don’t dwell, and I get by fine.”

  That was a lie. She dwelled on many things. Just never on the dead.

  CHAPTER 5

  A WINDING PATH TO VICTORY

  I

  Yrica Quell was laughing. It came naturally, though the sound was unfamiliar enough to surprise her and her own surprise amused her further, fueling the reaction like a hyperdrive melting down.

  “It wasn’t that funny,” Caern Adan said. He was smirking as he spoke, though Quell suspected it was at her expense.

  “It really wasn’t,” she agreed, and stifled her snicker. She flattened her affect in an instant. “You’re not a funny man.”

  Adan arched his brow but didn’t reply. General Syndulla looked between Quell and Adan, apparently as charmed as she was puzzled. “Let’s continue,” she said, and walked two meters around the display table and forty kilometers west through the holoimage of Troithe’s surface.

  The two weeks since beginning the march to the capital had gone well. Alphabet hadn’t been grounded due to damage or mishap for more than a day. Meteor and Hail were assisting with all assignments requiring heavier firepower. There was the usual complaining from the Sixty-First Mobile Infantry—it was increasingly apparent the unit had never fought a traditional urban ground war, and Quell had spotted the captain arguing with Syndulla more than once—but Troithe was falling to the New Republic sector by sector.

  Meanwhile, Quell found herself spending most of her non-flying hours with Adan and his analysts. With Adan, she didn’t need to worry about slipping up and revealing her darkest truth. With Adan, she could be as cynical and honest as she had the heart for. She spent more time with the intelligence officer than she did with Syndulla, though the Twi’lek general seemed grateful for the sounding board that Quell had become.

  Now they were on the verge of victory. The greatest challenge was leaving room for future defeat.

  Syndulla took a sip of caf. Six cups and two thermoses stood guard around the room. “What if we hit the command centers on the way to the capitol building? That’ll reduce the risk of the infantry being outflanked. Maybe even let us capture the governor, if we’re lucky.”

  “We’re already blowing the shield generators,” Quell said. “The more military infrastructure we disrupt, the less likely Shadow Wing is going to want to take the planet back.”

  Adan grunted. “Not that I’m arguing for it, but do we need the infrastructure if enough of the Imperial Army is left standing? When the 204th studies the situation, they’ll see an opportunity to rally—”

  “No.” Quell spoke only to Adan, leaning lightly against the table. “They’re not grand strategists. Without Colonel Nuress, they’ll be looking for a dramatic win achievable with a single strike. That only works if the infrastructure is there for the Troithe forces to reoccupy.”

  “So the infrastructure stays. My big worry is putting the infantry in a killbox,” Syndulla said. “Air support can only do so much. We’re already paying a cost in lives to bait this trap; but total failure is a real possibility.”

  Quell parted her lips to reply. Syndulla raised a hand, palm-out, asking for silence as she wrinkled her nose and studied the map.

  Finally, the general nodded and drew up. “We’ll have to hit the shield generators as fast as possible. Allied troops move in under the field first, enemy emerges from hiding to intercept. We wipe out the shields, bombers decimate the enemy before they can retreat back to the bunkers. The timing will be challenging but I don’t see a way to make it easier. Not unless someone’s got a Jedi hidden away.”

  No one spoke up.

  “I can dream,” Syndulla said, and her smile was sadder than Quell would’ve expected.

  They spent another hour reviewing details. Adan’s team had worked up a psych profile of Governor Hastemoor that did little to illuminate his strategies. Analysis of the U-wing’s reconnaissance imaging had allowed the droids to plot out multiple “minimum-risk” routes for the ground troops. Quell read off inventories provided by Sergeant Ragnell of starfighter munitions (though Syndulla dismissed these—“If we win here, I’m not worried about running low on torpedoes tomorrow”; Quell disliked the principle but couldn’t argue).

  At last, General Syndulla announced that any useful discussion had ceased. “We’ll close up shop and discuss outstanding issues tomorrow,” she said, and began to collect the thermoses. “I’d say we’ve got about seventy hours before the troops are in position, so no need to burn out tonight.”

  Adan smiled wryly. “Why don’t you head back? We’ll save out the data. No need to keep you.”

  Quell gave Adan a surprised glance but didn’t comment. She stayed where she was, bent over a console entering encryption keys for the tactical maps.

  “I’m in no hurry,” Syndulla said. “Besides, I wanted to talk with Quell for a moment.”

  “If you’ve got concerns about the working group—” Adan began, and Quell tuned out the words as Syndulla reassured the man he wasn’t being shut out. She snapped off the holos and realized, looking between the two, that she was hoping Adan would win the argument.

  Yrica Quell…when did you start wanting to spend time with that man?

  Syndulla came out ahead, of course. Quell gathered an armful of mugs as they left the tactical center and began to walk to the galley. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Syndulla said, “your squadron’s come a long way.”

  “Thank you,” Quell said. She didn’t know what else she was expected to say.

  “I mean it.” The corridors of the ship were quiet. Without the background thrum of the engines, the Lodestar seemed emptier than it truly was. “You and I both remember when you couldn’t get your people through a training mission without an accident. Now they’re as strong a team as Meteor. Stronger than Hail Squadron, since we lost the twins.”

  Quell waited for the but. She thought of debriefings with Major Keize, who’d rarely
spared her feelings. Syndulla was fluid where he’d been solid, and the unpredictability made Quell tense.

  Or maybe it was the thought that Syndulla might yet realize what had happened at Nacronis. Or the thought that Adan had already told her.

  They entered the galley and they began returning the cups and thermoses to their places. “The only advice I’m going to give you”—the general smiled wryly as she spoke—“is to keep an eye on them. Bringing them together was the start, but you have to keep doing the work.”

  “You notice something wrong?”

  “Got a complaint from the ground crews about Chass joyriding in her B-wing and coming home intoxicated. Aside from the obvious, there’s something going on with her. Might just be she’s testing her limits.”

  Quell wanted to ask: Why wasn’t I told first? But that was a complaint for the ground crew, not for the general.

  Syndulla kept speaking. “It’s the rot you don’t see that does the most damage. Wyl, Kairos, Nath? Don’t wait till the house collapses to check on them.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Anything else?”

  “Seventy hours,” Syndulla said. “After that, it’s going to be a chain of crises until we know this trap failed or until Shadow Wing is done for good.”

  They stood watching each other. Syndulla seemed to be waiting for Quell to figure out the rest.

  “In the meantime…?” Quell tried.

  “Go bond with your squadron. Maybe take the night off.”

  * * *

  —

  “Try the green one,” Tensent insisted, nudging the bottle across the table toward Chadic. “Go on.”

  “I’m not trying it.”

  “You’re scared. You don’t have to be scared—”

  “Seriously? I’m not a puppet. You can’t call me scared and make me jump into action.”

  Quell watched them snipe under the light of stars and the burning iris of the black hole. They sat at a long metal table in the civilian section of the spaceport, their faces warmed by heat lamps and their backs chilled by the evening breeze. Somewhere nearby, Empty Sun cultists were listening to holographic lectures and children were playing cards. Lark had brought them to a makeshift restaurant serving high-class “neo-Coruscanti cuisine” on sheets of recycled plastoid—he’d somehow met and befriended the chef, who’d taken his trade from the wealthiest region of Troithe to the refugees’ tent city.

  Quell wasn’t sure where the chef had obtained his ingredients; she had her suspicions and chose not to investigate (a choice that made her feel more like Nath Tensent than the New Republic Intelligence officer she was supposed to be). They dined on curled slivers of gutterfish encrusted with spices; bread with the texture of sea foam and the taste of salted fruit; spoonfuls of organic metal dust drizzled in purple and green sauces kept in oversized squeeze bottles. The portions were small, but it was unquestionably the finest meal Quell had ever eaten.

  She said as much to Lark, who sat beside her while they ignored the escalating argument between Tensent and Chadic. Only Kairos hadn’t joined them for the meal.

  “We had plenty of food growing up,” Quell said, “but it wasn’t something we talked about. Flavor wasn’t something we analyzed, except for my father with his brandy.”

  “That’s the most you’ve ever said about your family,” Lark answered. “It’s good to know.”

  Quell shook her head, certain that wasn’t true but wondering if the cheap wine they’d been served in tin cups wasn’t having an effect. “What about you?”

  “We didn’t import much from offworld, but we enjoyed our food. We—”

  Tensent’s hand came down on Lark’s shoulder, cutting short the younger man’s thought. “Sorry to interrupt. Think someone’s looking for you.”

  He gestured past huddled crowds and tents, and Quell’s eyes spotted a woman trekking through the dark in an infantry uniform. Her hair was braided in tight rows, and streaks of cyan paint dappled her dark skin. Quell didn’t recognize her, but Lark politely excused himself.

  “Who is she?” Quell asked.

  “That’s Vitale,” Nath said. “Been teamed up with her a few times. Don’t think she saw us, but the boy deserves a good night and they seemed to get along,” Tensent said, and Quell laughed softly.

  By the time their meal was finished, Lark had returned not only with Vitale but with half a dozen other infantry soldiers. There was no more food in the restaurant’s stocks but the troops didn’t seem to mind. Tensent produced an armful of Imperial rations out of nowhere—the good sort, the kind TIE pilots had traded favors for aboard the Pursuer—and handed them out, calling the troops by name and pouring the last of the wine. The gathering felt less intimate than before but that suited Quell: It allowed her to escape attention.

  “Is it true we’re going after the governor soon?” one of the soldiers asked, and when Quell inclined her head enough for him to infer agreement, he swore. “Means we actually might win this system, huh?”

  “You rather not?” Chadic asked.

  The man laughed and shook his head. He was human and gray-haired and olive-skinned, with a high-pitched lilt to his voice that seemed out of place. “Just means the next assignment comes sooner than I’d like. You know where we’re going, right?”

  Tensent laughed uproariously at something occurring at the far end of the table. Lark asked, “Where are you going?”

  “The captain won’t admit it,” the man answered, “but everyone knows Troithe is just a test run. Command is trying out tactics, seeing what works. Giving us experience before they send us to the galactic capital.”

  “Coruscant?” Lark said.

  “Coruscant,” the man agreed. “Sooner or later, they’re going to drop us in the thick of it. All this? Just practice.”

  Quell could have corrected the man. She nearly did, thanks to the wine and a sudden warm burst of poor judgment. But the working group’s project was better left confidential, and she doubted he would prefer the news that Troithe was being used as bait.

  Besides, he might’ve been right. Quell didn’t know what was going on in the minds of General Syndulla and her superiors. She didn’t know anything about the captain of the Sixty-First Mobile Infantry. Any reassurance she could offer would be false.

  Instead she said: “Maybe it is practice. But you’d better get it right the first time.”

  The table erupted in laughter and cheers and mockery. Quell downed her cup of wine and wondered if she was as flushed as she felt.

  * * *

  —

  They told war stories, pretending they were engaged in the natural give-and-take of conversation instead of one-upmanship. A man named Zab who had just returned from Catadra claimed that an incident there reminded him of the fall of Yordain Core, and recited an unlikely tale of survival and a priest-king’s blessing. Chass na Chadic, in reply, told a story of the Cavern Angels in the days before she’d joined Hound Squadron. An infantrywoman told the story of Blacktar Cyst; Quell remembered the battle differently, but she said nothing about having fought there as part of the 204th. Wyl Lark spoke of Pandem Nai. Nath Tensent and two others swapped legends of the Battle of Hoth.

  Talk of Hoth became talk of Darth Vader, the dead Galactic Emperor’s chief enforcer. The strangers at the table gave their own tales before Tensent said, “A lifetime ago, I was Imp Navy. I could tell you what I heard—” Here he paused and jutted a thumb at Quell. “—but our commander’s got better.”

  Quell wanted to strike him. No one blinked at Tensent’s admission that he had been Imperial, however, and no one asked when she’d changed sides. They only looked at her and awaited a story.

  “I never met Vader,” she said.

  Tensent grinned and shook his head so only she could see. The others groaned with disapproval or urged her
on.

  “Give!” Chadic shouted, and squeezed Quell’s arm, nails digging into skin and Quell’s squadron tattoo.

  She bowed her head and gave what she could: lurid tales of Vader murdering subordinates who had failed, of Vader shooting down wingmates who got in his way during flight, of officers summoned to Vader’s mysterious fortress and never permitted to return. “One of my first captains served with Vader right after the Clone Wars and said he’d changed over the years. That he’d always been violent, but he’d matured.”

  “Matured?” one of the soldiers asked.

  “At the start, he’d kill you because he was frustrated. Later, he waited for you to make a mistake. Maybe a trivial mistake, but always a mistake.”

  “You know where he got his lightsaber?”

  “I don’t,” Quell said. “Probably killed a Jedi for it.”

  Wyl Lark shifted uncomfortably, but no one save Quell appeared to notice.

  Talk of Vader became talk of his master, the fallen Emperor, and talk of the Emperor turned to ghost stories. Quell silently prayed that no one would speak of Operation Cinder—that Cinder was Emperor Palpatine’s own order was a fact that remained unknown to most. And as soldiers took turns describing what they would do to the Emperor’s corpse if it were recovered from the ruins of the second Death Star, Quell thought of the night she’d walked alone through the forests of the cold moon of Harkrova and been haunted by his presence.

  “I wish he had survived,” said a one-eyed Mon Cala who’d been lurking beside Zab most of the evening. The socket on the scarred side of his face was as large as a fist, and Quell forced herself not to stare. “I wish we could see him tried for every crime he ever committed, from his days as Naboo senator on. It would take a year, perhaps, but everyone in the galaxy would watch. Everyone would say Never again shall such an empire rise, and when they executed him at last, every Imperial who followed him would fear the justice of the New Republic.”