Nath grinned slowly, broadly, and held back an oath.
He had a thousand questions, but it was the best news he’d heard all day.
V
“Major Soran Keize. It’s good to finally meet you.”
“You, as well,” Soran said. He didn’t correct her regarding his rank. Grand Admiral Rae Sloane was, according to the rumors, the closest thing the Galactic Empire had to an Emperor nowadays; he doubted she was interested in his field promotion.
Her hologram cocked its head. She’d heard something in his tone, perhaps, that piqued her. But she didn’t follow up on it, and between the static distortion of the image and the freighter’s low-quality projector Soran didn’t try to interpret what he saw of her expression.
“It’s a pity you didn’t make contact sooner,” Sloane continued. “By all reports you made a valiant effort at Cerberon but you lacked the ships to hold the system. You dealt a solid blow to General Syndulla’s battle group but the general herself still lives. I understand that the 204th is a formidable unit—but it is only one unit, and we no longer outnumber our enemies.”
“I am aware of that, Admiral. I have been…humbled by my experiences.”
All he’d really heard was: The general herself still lives. He had brought Shadow Wing to Cerberon promising revenge; he had failed to deliver even that.
“How were you humbled, exactly?” Sloane asked.
He chose his words carefully. Sloane had, he assumed, eliminated her share of rivals in order to secure her position in command of the fleet. He wished to show that he was no threat, yet he couldn’t afford honesty.
He’d always heard that Sloane was a patriot and a military officer above all else. Soran had never been the former; he could hope she would relate to him as the latter.
“As you said, the 204th is a single unit. As its commander, my primary concern has been the unit’s well-being. Merely surviving in the current environment has been challenging, and I knew I could do little to affect the course of the war on my own. Thus, we’ve focused on precision strikes, ambushes, and the like.
“My experiences in Cerberon, however, brought me into contact with units less privileged than my own. Less able to survive without the support of the Empire as a whole. My view of the war has…broadened.”
“And now you’ve come to me.”
“Now I have.”
Because there are others looking to the 204th for hope.
Because the likes of Governor Yadeez and the people of Troithe deserve more.
Because while they aren’t my responsibility—and here he thought not only of the people of Troithe, or of the cadets he had found aboard the Edict, or of Colonel Madrighast and the Imperial fleet, but of Rikton, whom the wanderer Devon had tried to save—I would be a miser to refuse to give what I can give freely.
“Good.” Admiral Sloane studied him, then shook her head briskly. “I’m sending you rendezvous coordinates for one of our battle groups. You will resupply there; expect a limited capacity for repairs. I’ll see what I can do about finding you a better carrier, but you may be stuck with the freighter.”
“I understand,” Soran said, “and I appreciate any help you can provide. Do you have a mission in mind?”
“Possibly.” She looked to one side, either referencing a file or signaling someone else in the room. “Your unit was involved in Operation Cinder, correct? Action in the Nacronis system?”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“That puts you in a rarefied group. It tells me your pilots are steadfast, as well as skilled.” It sounded like praise but her smile was bitter. “We’ll have a use for you. Expect new orders shortly.”
The hologram flashed into nonexistence, the light staining Soran’s retinas and leaving him blinking away spots. His expression fell with the same suddenness as Sloane’s disappearance and he stroked the comm panel with trembling fingers.
He had made a bargain that he would surely curse, if not regret. He had recommitted himself and his unit to a losing battle for an Empire not worthy of being saved, for the sake of giving desperate soldiers a brief reprieve from their graves or New Republic prison cells.
But he had hoped not to hear of Operation Cinder again. Those days represented the worst of the Empire and the Emperor’s atrocities.
“I imagine you’re pleased?” he asked.
In the corner of the dim communications center stood a figure in a red robe. One arm dangled at its side, severed midway between elbow and shoulder. The glasslike plate of its face flickered and sparked with light that, on occasion, resolved into the image of the dead Emperor Palpatine.
Soran had not asked for the Messenger to be brought aboard the freighter, but someone had delivered it anyway. He’d only discovered its presence after the escape from Troithe and the jump to lightspeed.
“You are but one of many tools,” it said in the Emperor’s decrepit voice, before the sound became an electronic squeal and the words played a second time, a third, over an ear-piercing shriek.
Without thought or intent, Soran swung at the machine. Pain lanced from his knuckles to his elbow as his fist impacted the curved plate, and as he pulled his hand away he saw that he’d left a red smear across the glass along with a web of cracks.
“Operation Cinder,” the droid said, “is to begin at once.”
Soran wondered whether the words were echo or portent.
VI
She waited in an unpowered cargo turbolift—the closest thing on hand to a cell, she suspected. Her guard’s name was Mervais Gandor and he snorted when he laughed, raised bantha calves on his homeworld, and had been the single clumsiest ordnance specialist aboard the Pursuer.
She wasn’t sure he recognized her. She barely recognized him. She didn’t try to make conversation.
Outside the elevator, through the small window and past Gandor, she could see TIE fighters lined neatly throughout the hold and uniformed men and women hurrying between them, decoupling hoses and unbolting hull panels and performing tasks meant for droids. She tried to make out faces and failed to identify many.
The unit really had changed.
“Stand back,” Gandor said through the intercom. She did, and the door rose fast enough to wash stray locks of hair behind her ears. Scents of fuel and dust filled her nostrils.
A man walked into her line of sight. His brown hair appeared black as he passed through a shadow, and his thin, delicate lips looked out of place on his angular face. He carried himself with an easy confidence, though there was a weariness to him she’d never seen before.
Her eyes fell to his right hand, where a strip of sanitary cloth was wrapped around his knuckles. “Everything all right?” she asked.
He followed her gaze and smiled gently. “An accident. Thank you.”
They studied each other. His smile faded.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” Soran Keize said.
She straightened her back. The words came naturally.
“Lieutenant Yrica Quell, reporting for duty.”
For Stephen R. and Iain M., who’ll never know and who aren’t to blame
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
See the acknowledgments for the previous book, only more so.
Need I say anything else? Maybe a few words. Special thanks to editor Elizabeth Schaefer, who made certain that the squadron made it home safe. Thanks as well to my Fogbank colleagues who were, as always, endlessly patient (and to the children of the garden, who deserve to be remembered).
Most of all, to those friends and loved ones I let slip into the distance while staring at words: I am eternally grateful to you all. I’m coming for you.
Two down. One left.
BY ALEXANDER FREED
Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company
Star Wars: The Old Republic: The
Lost Suns
Rogue One: A Star Wars Story
Star Wars: Alphabet Squadron
Star Wars: Shadow Fall
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALEXANDER FREED is the author of Star Wars: Alphabet Squadron, 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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Shadow Fall (Star Wars) Page 42