Shadow Fall (Star Wars)

by Alexander Freed

  He would only get one pass.

  The light from the explosion was brighter than anything he’d seen since the death of the Lodestar. It washed the canyon like daylight—true daylight, not the glow of solar projectors or the fire of the black hole—and he grinned, tempted to soak in the view as his weapons readouts turned red and the last of his torpedoes shot forth. Instead he pitched upward and veered as if to skim the side of the dome; and as he approached his torpedoes’ impact point he dropped the handful of proton bombs he’d kept unused since the battle for the capital district. He couldn’t see whether he’d achieved his goal, but the ground outside the facility entrance rippled like water from the resulting shock waves. Dust rose in burning plumes.

  His scanner showed the TIE fighters descending toward him. He wondered what they expected to do, given his Y-wing’s usefulness was spent.

  “Any luck?” he asked his droid. “Or do I need to slam this thing into the wall to finish the job?”

  He was only half joking. He’d checked the ejector equipment before takeoff, and if he didn’t succeed now the battle would be over before it had truly begun.

  T5 flashed a sensor image onto a screen. Behind the dust clouds and the flame, there was a crack in the wall of the facility. Not more than a meter wide, but it could’ve been worse.

  “Nath to ground troops,” he called as he rode the wind. “Your turn.”

  IV

  Half a kilometer below, the New Republic’s Sixty-First Mobile Infantry poured out of canyons on foot and by speeder bike, racing toward the gap in the facility wall. Wyl heard the shouting over his comm—the updates passed between squad leaders and the obscene battle cries—and he was heartened by the noise. But he had no time to listen to the particulars as he yelled, “Down! Down!” and his squadron scattered while the TIEs pursued.

  The world blurred as the A-wing rocketed toward the ground. The flash of his scanner indicated two TIEs chasing him; the four other aircraft were likewise followed, which left two enemy fighters free to hit soldiers on the ground. That was a better result than Wyl had feared, but it wouldn’t leave much margin for error.

  He fell like a meteor toward a canyon and pulled up as cliff walls rose around him. For an instant he lost control of his ship—it bucked and shuddered and the control yoke did nothing—and TIE fire rained down, pelting stone below. The shimmer of Wyl’s shields suggested something had hit him, but then he had control again. Only one of the TIEs was in the canyon with him, and they rocketed forward together.

  This is the plan, he reminded himself. This is exactly how it’s supposed to go.

  He spared his scanner a glance to confirm that the other aircraft, too, had descended into the canyons. It was a mad tactic, but the walls offered a shield against assailants, reducing their possible angles of attack; and at top speed the TIEs were likely to crash, forcing them to match the lesser velocity of the airspeeders. Wyl and the others had even gathered as much topographic data as possible during their flight to the facility, which might—conceivably—give them the advantage.

  “Wraive,” Wyl called, trying to keep half an eye on his sensors as he swung back and forth in the narrow canyon. The TIE closest to him was attempting to lock on. “Can you get to the troops? Give them air support?”

  “Not with two fighters on me. Apologies.”

  He adjusted the sensor map and spun in time to avoid a burst of fire from behind. “Prinspai, try to cut in behind Ubellikos in Canyon Echo. Use sub-branch Echo 1-1. Wraive, stay on your path and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Acknowledgments came rapidly. Wyl adjusted his comm and heard Carver reporting TIE attack vectors from the ground. He tried to imagine the enemy descending as the infantry pushed toward whatever breach in the facility Nath had managed to create—hordes of New Republic troops totally exposed as they ran across rough terrain.

  “We’re coming,” he swore, though he wasn’t sure whether anyone heard.

  Emerald particle bolts sprayed across the canyon. Wyl instantly recognized the tactic. The Shadow Wing pilot was firing wildly, but it wasn’t an act of desperation—the foe was forcing Wyl off course, encouraging him to dash himself against the rock faces. If Wyl didn’t do something the plan was liable to work.

  Who are you? Char? Blink? Do you know me from Pandem Nai?

  He thought about opening a channel to the enemy, but his own pilots were counting on him for instructions and he had his hands full surviving the flight. It would have to wait.

  He turned to speed to save him, opening his throttle and giving up on consciously watching sensor readings or listening for screaming TIEs. He let instinct guide him as he had when flying the beasts of Home, and the A-wing seemed to twist and dive with the fluidity of a sur-avka. He flipped and kept flying with blood saturating his head and turned down twisting passages in the rock. Emerging from one canyon into another, he spotted an airspeeder whip past and fired instantly, his bolts catching the pursuing TIE a fraction of a second later. The enemy trailed sparks and its wing panels coruscated with energy, as if it were in the throes of ascension to some higher plane; then it smashed into rock and Wyl sped through the resulting pyre.

  Who were you?

  The first Imperial kill was his. If he opened a comm channel, what could he say now?

  But he’d momentarily freed Wraive from pursuit. His own hunter had disappeared somewhere in the canyon maze. He checked his sensors again, called out recommendations to Prinspai and Ubellikos and Vitale as he confirmed their positions, and headed for the mining facility. “Stay in contact,” he said, “and watch relative positions. We planned this, but we’re outnumbered and the enemy’s going to start using the same tricks against us real fast.”

  He took the risk of soaring out of the canyons to cut the distance he needed to travel, exposing his fighter long enough to speed five hundred meters across the highlands before dipping into the basin where the mining facility awaited. TIEs flew like insects over the mass of troops, dancing and leaping out of range of the rockets and heavy cannons as their volleys churned rock and tossed burning bodies into the air.

  Wyl tore his eyes from the troops and fired into the swarm, careful to ensure any stray blasts would strike the cliffsides or the facility instead of the ground. A fresh pair of TIEs split off to strike at him and he laughed in relief as they followed him into yet another crevasse.

  He could outrun them, perhaps, but then they would return to their battle against the ground troops. He reduced thruster output, allowed his foes to creep nearer as he wove among rock formations. The TIEs began to fire, particle bolts skimming so close to his hull that the coruscation of his shields and the energy discharge made it difficult to see. He diverted power from his weapons to rear screens, tried to determine whether any of his squadron mates were near enough to assist, but by their comm chatter they were having enough trouble keeping the ground forces alive.

  You’ll have to save yourself.

  The crevasse widened until the base was broader than the top and a canopy of rock hung above Wyl, save for a single narrow crack leading to the surface. The light of the particle bolts painted the stone walls in jade. The shadows were deep enough to conceal a village but he couldn’t use them to hide—the glow of his thrusters would give him away anywhere, and if he switched to repulsors now he’d be shot down before the mechanisms kicked in.

  “We’ll find a way,” he whispered, more for his ship than for himself. Yet he’d be sorry to fail his squadron and the infantry.

  The cave walls turned from jade to fiery ruby. Particle bolts ripped from a dark hole in the shadows, forcing the TIEs off course and allowing Wyl a chance to adjust, to attempt to exchange position with his pursuers.

  He only caught a glimpse of his savior: a Y-wing hovering in darkness like a sniper. Somehow in the chaos he’d forgotten that Nath Tensent could still
be counted on.

  V

  The New Republic was inside Core Nine. Colonel Soran Keize watched enemy soldiers clamber through a gap in the duracrete on a security monitor no larger than a datapad—a reminder that no matter how sturdy the megafacility was, it was not built for the peculiar needs of war. The monitor room itself was built for a handful of security officers, not a command-and-control operation, yet it was the only place from which he could follow the invasion.

  One of Yadeez’s aides sat at the console, frantically accessing blueprints as Soran spoke into his comlink. “Combat-rated ground forces should proceed to sections one-alpha and one-gamma immediately. Use all necessary firepower to stop the New Republic infantry; our squadrons will cut off the reinforcements outside.”

  He spoke with confidence. He hefted a rifle off a side table, slung the strap over his shoulder, and inspected it one last time; a power cell two-thirds charged wasn’t ideal, but it was the best anyone could bring him on short notice. When the battery was burnt out, he could always switch to his sidearm.

  He clapped a hand on the aide’s shoulder. “I’m heading for the fight. We’ll need every gun we can get, but stay in contact—I’ll coordinate from the front lines.”

  The aide nodded briskly. Soran turned and nearly walked into Governor Fara Yadeez as she entered the doorway of the small office. “There’s no need,” she proclaimed, and it surprised him to hear her countermand his orders so boldly—even by implication. “The freighter is nearly ready. They’re attempting to bring the engines online. If you’re going to counterattack from anywhere, the bridge of your flagship seems preferable.”

  Soran studied the governor. Her expression was somber and dutiful as ever.

  “It’s good news,” he said. “But someone needs to lead the defenders. Even if we had time to evacuate, surrendering the facility to the New Republic would be an imperfect solution.”

  The monitor showed blaster flashes. The facility’s narrow corridors made for a natural kill zone. The Imperial defenders had claimed an intersection from which they could fire and retreat, and though enemy corpses quickly accrued Soran knew his forces would soon need to retreat to another choke point, then another.

  “The freighter is nearly ready,” Yadeez repeated, the words deliberately enunciated as if she were speaking to a child.

  He finally understood her meaning: You have what you came for.

  In that moment he was certain she knew what his priority had been since the moment his troops had fallen to Troithe. She knew that he had worked not toward conquest, but toward escape. She might have been saying: Only a fool would throw it all away now.

  “Come aboard with me,” he said. “If the defense does fail, you’ll be able to—”

  She interrupted him—again, surprising him with her boldness. “It hasn’t come to that yet. It’s my people who will hold the line. Your personnel—your ground crews, your shipboard officers, along with anyone from Troithe not combat-rated—should board the freighter now.”

  She held both hands out, her palms up. Soran understood what she was asking.

  “It’s not necessary,” he said.

  Yadeez shrugged. “The Empire won’t survive or fall according to the fate of Troithe or its governor. Shadow Wing may yet save us.”

  She curled and uncurled her fingers, waiting.

  The Empire, like Troithe, is already lost. You needn’t go with it.

  He wanted to say the words, but they would not persuade her. They would only steal her faith in him, steal her faith in the 204th’s grander purpose. She was not his responsibility—his duty was to his people—but he wished to do better by her than that.

  Soran Keize unslung his rifle and laid it carefully in the hands of the last Imperial governor of Troithe.

  “I will remember what you did today,” he said. “It was my privilege to know you.”

  “Likewise,” she said, and it startled him to hear the word pronounced without aristocratic pretense. He wondered again just how far she had risen—how far down the line of succession she had been from Governor Hastemoor.

  It only made him admire her more.

  She flashed him a gruff smile. He returned it, and left her behind as he made for the freighter.

  VI

  Nath Tensent waited in the shadows of an overhang, reactor operating at one-tenth maximum output to conceal his heat signature but ready to ignite at a prompt from T5. He kept his hands on his weapons controls, watching his scanner and listening to the comm. The experience was almost relaxing.

  A Y-wing wasn’t much good at playing sniper, but given the choice between shooting from cover and jumping into a dogfight, the choice was clear.

  Wyl was calling orders to the other pilots again, and Nath observed as the aircraft swapped paths through the canyon maze. “That’s a mistake,” he muttered, but he kept his channel closed so that only T5 could hear. Wyl might’ve been prone to boxing his people in but no one deserved to be second-guessed on the battlefield. Besides, the kid was almost as good at getting people out of trouble as into it.

  “Don’t suppose you could tweak the maneuvering jets, since we don’t need to power the torpedo launcher?” Nath called. “Maybe make this wreck a little more useful in this fight?”

  T5 didn’t respond. Nath snorted and shook his head.

  “You keep monitoring the squadron,” he said and tuned the comm to the infantry frequency.

  Dozens of soldiers were still fighting to get inside the facility, trapped in caves and canyons by TIEs that opened fire whenever they emerged. Nath heard fear and determination in the troops’ voices as the squads planned surges and diversions and multipronged attacks, all of which inevitably failed. Carver had gone silent at some point, dead or just without a working comlink. Junior was leading three soldiers up the cliffside in an attempt to shoot down TIEs with blaster rifles.

  Meanwhile, the squads inside the facility fared only slightly better. Sergeants Twitch and Zab led the assault. By the sounds of the yelling, Zab’s strategy amounted to “rush the bastards, fast as you can”; somehow that was resulting in a modicum of success whereas Twitch’s attempts to secure the compound corridor by corridor had bogged down.

  “There’s a command center here,” Zab called, “but the place is dark and it’s just a bunch of…I don’t know, mining controls. Heavy opposition is all toward the main hangar.”

  Maybe Wyl was right, Nath thought. Maybe Shadow Wing really was trying to escape the planet, not ignite some mineral deposit deep underground. It would be hard on the kid if it turned out to be true. But they couldn’t have known.

  Besides, the more Shadow Wing pilots who died, the better off they all were.

  T5 beeped through the comm and Nath’s scanner flashed. He swore as he watched a dozen fresh marks, then another dozen, approaching the facility from all directions. The rest of Shadow Wing had finally arrived, coming in from across the planet to make sure the New Republic didn’t stand a chance.

  “Twenty-to-one odds, huh?” Nath said, and brought his reactor back to full power. “We’d be better off down there with the infantry.”

  T5 squealed in agreement. Nath smirked and adjusted his comm again. Make this good, brother, he thought, and waited for orders from Wyl.

  VII

  Six squadrons of TIE fighters lashed out with particle bolts like lightning. The sonic boom of their passing was like thunder. Wyl Lark and his pilots fought them in the open, above the mining facility, because playing hide-and-seek in the canyons wasn’t an option against an enemy with enough proton bombs to level a mountain range; and leaving that same enemy to slaughter the New Republic soldiers was no option, either.

  So Wyl’s squadron sped through the TIE swarm, evading particle lances and attempting to survive rather than fight. Before Shadow Wing’s reinforcements had ar
rived, Wyl had hoped that the infantry would open the facility dome and grant the New Republic fighters shelter against the storm; but it was too late now. The storm had come. All they could do now was buy the infantry time.

  Wyl called orders as familiar Shadow Wing maneuvers played out—maneuvers he knew well but his pilots did not. Wyl recognized the Twins, whom he hadn’t seen since the Oridol Cluster, move in perfect sync through the firefight. Wyl lost Prinspai to the Spiral and Ubellikos to Snapper’s Needle when the pilot was pinned to the ground and left with nowhere to escape. Both cried out for help before their end, and Wyl could do nothing to save them.

  Then it was Wyl, Nath, Vitale, and Denish Wraive, and Wyl knew there wasn’t much time left.

  You made mistakes, he told himself, but you tried.

  “You did good,” he told his ship.

  Then a new thunderclap hit the battlefield. Wyl looked up and laughed like a man drenched in rain as a shadow passed over the stars.

  The voice through his comm was clear and self-assured. “This is General Syndulla to all New Republic forces. Vanguard Squadron is here.”

  VIII

  Hera had been gone for too long.

  She had left Cerberon with a clean conscience, knowing—believing—that the system was secure and that Caern Adan and Yrica Quell had built an inescapable trap to destroy one of the Empire’s most lethal forces. A trap that, in addition to its ruthless efficiency, could be sprung with a minimal loss of New Republic and Imperial life. She had left because Vanguard Squadron needed her, and because the New Republic war effort had needed the ships and territories that Vanguard Squadron would bring into play.

  She didn’t wonder now whether she’d made a mistake. Maybe she had, maybe not. Maybe when she’d received Chass na Chadic’s emergency message she should’ve taken time to regroup and develop a plan. But rushing headlong into battle for the right cause was a habit she’d never unlearned from her rebel days, and self-recriminations wouldn’t save Troithe or Alphabet Squadron or the Sixty-First Mobile Infantry.