“They’re your pilots, too,” Wyl said. “We both want the same thing.”
“May the Force be with you, Wyl Lark,” she replied, and clasped him by both shoulders. “If anyone’s earned it, it’s you.”
* * *
—
Twenty-two minutes later the squadrons had been briefed and the hangar was steeping in a familiar chaos. Astromech droids glided across the floor, rocketed through the air, or were lifted by cranes as they awaited socketing in the X- and Y-wings. Ground crew members frantically disconnected hoses and performed last-second repairs in response to last-minute systems checks. Pilots raced in, still strapping on their helmets as they located their ships. Except for a handful of patrol vessels, all three squadrons had been brought back aboard the Deliverance to prepare for the mission—broadcasting the plan on an open channel hadn’t been an option.
Wyl could’ve made a speech. He had made one—a short one at the briefing’s end, touching on the points Syndulla had mentioned—but it felt like fakery. He wanted the mission to succeed (the thought of living with Chadawa’s death on his conscience was an impossible one) yet urging the pilots to fight well felt like hypocrisy: Those weren’t the sentiments of a Polynean.
Now you are the last, Wyl Lark. Your people await you.
He walked through the hangar and studied the expressions of his pilots, stopping to speak with the ones with bloodshot eyes, the ones still mourning friends, and the ones who trailed rage with every step. He threw his arm around Hadrios and reminded him how proud the man’s brother would be when he finally returned to Corellia, and assured a trio of fresh Wild Squadron recruits that their leader Denish Wraive had seen Shadow Wing at its worst. He threw Vitale a salute from afar, which she gamely returned with a wink. He approached Boyvech Toons, a scarred veteran of a hundred battles, and said simply, “Not another Alderaan. Not again.”
Syndulla had been right about not distracting them with the stakes. But Shadow Wing planned to kill half a billion people, and there was no forgetting that.
“Ready, Commander?” Captain Essovin called, raising a leathery fist. Flare Squadron’s leader hadn’t been among the survivors of the Lodestar or Cerberon—she hadn’t encountered Shadow Wing before coming to the Deliverance—but she’d taken to the grudge rapidly after first encountering the Yadeez. “Let them feel our bite as our teeth sink deep.”
Saving lives isn’t the right message for everyone, Wyl thought, and he grinned at the reptilian woman. “May your goddess—” He tried to remember the words Garthun, one of his first comrades in Riot Squadron, had taught him years earlier. “May your goddess view our hunt with favor, and bless our tally.”
Essovin cackled loud enough to draw stares from her nearest comrades. “You are wise, Wyl Lark. It is good to fight together.”
Wyl still had doubts, but he smiled as he climbed into his cockpit and the ships around him thundered. He stood apart from his pilots, and he knew them less well than he’d have liked. Sometimes, though, he felt like he got it right.
“Come on,” he murmured to the A-wing as the smells of synthleather and grease enveloped him. “Let’s do some good.”
IV
Nath Tensent watched from the cockpit of his Y-wing as two dozen starfighters raced into the distance, and the storm-gray sky of the Deliverance pulled away to reveal blackness. Flare Squadron and Wild Squadron, along with Wyl and the Star Destroyer, were speeding toward Chadawa. He was alone with Hail and his antique droid on a mission to save the planet, and he couldn’t even banter with his wingmates on the way.
He checked the current particle count and amended the thought: He could talk to Hail. He’d just be shouting to the Imps at the same time.
“Come on,” he told T5. “We’ve got a long road ahead.”
The Y-wing shuddered and groaned as he opened his throttle, rechecked his course, and glanced at his scanner to confirm the Hail bombers were in motion. A few hundred extra marks blinked on the screen—ghost images created by the radiation. They’d be the least of his problems if he got caught near Chadawa when the tide came in.
Wyl’s force would make enemy contact in roughly six minutes, while the bombers were still lumbering around to the far side of the planet. That would take nine minutes, assuming Syndulla’s tactical droids knew their stuff. If Hail was unlucky, they wouldn’t have more than a minute or two left to destroy the Raiders before the particle count started rising again.
“You looking forward to this?” he asked. “Get to save a whole planet, like we did on Troithe.”
The droid squealed sharply through the comm.
“Pretty much,” Nath agreed. “Only last time we picked our own suicide mission. Didn’t get much say in this one.”
One of the thrusters destabilized, and Nath felt weightless for an instant. He cursed, adjusted the power distribution, and listened to T5’s quick reply. “Either way,” Nath said, “we’re stuck with the mission. If I’d refused to lead Hail it’s not like I’d get to stay home.”
He tugged his harness straps, rechecked his course yet again—T5 was fine-tuning their vector as they arced toward the planet, but it was best to make sure—and frowned at the scanner. Wyl’s fighters were closing in on Chadawa and its rings with the Deliverance close behind. He wondered if he’d be able to see the flash of weaponry if he looked out his canopy. He kept his eyes on the console.
T5 chimed again, low and brusque.
“He’ll be fine,” Nath said. “Kid’s done this plenty of times.”
Another chime, sharper.
“Worry about us, not him! And stay off the comm if you don’t have anything useful.”
The scanner marks—the ones that weren’t ghosts—moved rapidly. Wyl’s squadrons were engaging the enemy. Beyond that, Nath hadn’t a clue what was going on.
Five minutes. They’re ahead of schedule. We’re not.
T5 didn’t interrupt again. The Y-wings remained in formation. The comm was silent. He could hear every loose bolt and engine pulse. Even Nath’s own breathing became an irritation. Never thought I’d miss Chass’s music, he thought. Let alone the prayer-chants.
He laughed, realizing just how sour his mood had become. He’d been frustrated when he’d spoken to General Syndulla in the hangar bay. Now he was downright peevish, and he didn’t care to examine why; maybe shooting down a Raider-class corvette was what he needed to cheer himself.
The particle count indicator rose, barely enough to register.
Maybe he was worrying about Wyl again, but the kid had half a fighter wing protecting him. Maybe it was the feeling of being part of a war machine, like he’d been in the Empire, instead of controlling his own fate. Or maybe—
His attention shifted to the Y-wings behind him. They were close enough, flying steady enough, that he could see the dull glint of their canopies and the silhouettes of pilots journeying with him into death. Their own deaths, or Shadow Wing’s, or Chadawa’s. The thought cramped Nath’s stomach, and he whispered: “Damn it all.”
The scanner marks were a fuzz of blinking fighters, real and unreal. Only the Deliverance was clear on the screen, a locus of mass and energy that might have been a small sun. But Nath shouldn’t have been able to see even that much—he scowled as he worked through the data in his head, certain the scanners lacked the range to pick up a skirmish over Chadawa’s atmosphere.
Shadow Wing must have moved away from the planet to engage Wyl and the others. That explained why the fighting had started early. It might even end up helping Nath and the bombers from tangling with any TIEs, he thought. But it didn’t strike him as a good sign.
“Droid? You see fewer Wild and Flare fighters than we started with?”
A brusque chirrup was the reply.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Something vibrated beneath
his right foot. He dug his toe around the seat well, trying to identify the source. The vibration ceased after a moment, and he made a note to check it back in the hangar.
The Y-wings were two minutes out when the particle count ticked up, first leaping 50 percent and then doubling a few seconds later. He looked to the scanner and saw the New Republic forces spread thin, battling a tight cluster of TIEs—exactly the opposite of the plan. Shadow Wing had expected the assault and prepared for it. Now high tide was coming in and there weren’t many paths to victory left.
He dropped his head against the seat as a voice declared through the comm: “This is General Syndulla to allied forces: We are aborting our attack.” She spoke with robotic stiffness, suppressing all emotion.
He should’ve been relieved. Knowing Syndulla, though—and knowing Wyl—this meant the next attack would involve even more desperate risks. He growled as he flashed his thrusters at the Y-wings behind him before changing course. The starfighter marks on the scanner surged toward the Deliverance and the Deliverance, in turn, began to retreat from the battle.
The particle count leapt again. The scanner was almost impossible to read, but before it was fully obscured by static Nath thought he saw one mark hovering midway between the retreating New Republic forces and the Shadow Wing cluster.
Don’t be stupid. Don’t you dare be that stupid.
T5 squawked through the comm. “Didn’t I tell you to keep quiet?” Nath asked.
The Y-wings had turned to retrace their path when a new voice came through the comm, barely recognizable as human behind the pops and squeals and distinctive rainfall static of Chadawa.
“This is Wyl Lark. Do as the general says. I’m holding the rear.”
Nath brought a fist down on the console with a roar of pure rage. The particle count ticked higher and his instruments went blind.
V
Colonel Soran Keize rhythmically tapped the tactical display as if he could conduct the battle like an orchestra. But it was the combatants who controlled the pace and Soran merely the audience; he hated it so.
“I’d think you would be more pleased,” Broosh said. He looked from the screen to Soran with a frown. “Syndulla called a retreat.”
“She did. But we’ve yet to hear from him.”
“Madrighast?”
It sounded like a question. It wasn’t, Soran knew—Broosh was a clever man—but it was an acknowledgment of Soran’s authority and his privilege to lead the discussion.
“Madrighast,” Soran agreed. “He’s still waiting, even now. It’s possible he’s being overcautious, and he’ll lose Chadawa because of it. Or it’s possible he foresees a better opportunity.”
“Is it conceivable,” Broosh said, speaking low and turning his head away from the crew, “that he’s holding out to join us? Avoiding committing to either our side or Chadawa’s governor until the right moment?”
“Very little is inconceivable at this juncture. But I suspect not.”
He switched from the tactical screen to the monitor showing data from the satellite rings. The Yadeez’s Raider escorts continued to modify and sabotage the satellites, dropping them to the planet one by one, but the process was painstaking. The self-repairing systems of the ancient alien technology were well outside the unit’s expertise, and the 204th’s engineers had spent hours searching for satellites in sufficient disrepair to accept the needed modifications. Shadow Wing could irradiate the whole planet, given time—but time was their most precious resource, more than pilots or TIEs.
Time was irreplaceable.
“I don’t like these interruptions,” Soran said with a sigh. “The particle flood gives us room to work but it also gives the enemy opportunities to plan. It gives their reinforcements time to arrive. We need another full day to complete Operation Cinder, but granting Syndulla and Madrighast another day to prepare…?”
He spoke aloud in the hope of triggering Broosh’s imagination—he was open to the possibility that he’d been blind to a viable strategy, and it was good experience for Broosh. But there were also layers Soran wasn’t ready to reveal. Broosh knew of Quell’s mission, of course, but Soran had taken pains not to emphasize how much was riding on her success.
It wasn’t time for Chadawa’s destruction he craved most—the planet’s fate, unfortunate as it might be for locals, was insignificant in the grand scope of his concerns. Rather, he needed time for Quell to return with the secrets of the Emperor’s Messenger. Time for Quell to realize that it wasn’t loyalty to the New Republic or loyalty to the Empire that she had to choose from, but loyalty to principle; to her truest self.
Philosophizing aside, if the Yadeez were forced to leave Chadawa before Quell arrived, arranging a rendezvous would be next to impossible.
“We could go on the offensive,” Broosh said. “Riskier than I’d like, but the radiation doesn’t make maneuvering impossible. One of the Raiders and a squadron of TIEs could slip away from the planet during high tide—ambush their battleship when the particle count begins to fall, do damage and retreat.”
“It’s a bold thought,” Soran conceded. “If you were in command—”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
Soran smiled and bowed his head. It was a good answer.
“What about the Minder?” Broosh asked. “We could reassign it to the sabotage effort.”
The surveillance vessel was deep inside the rings, studying the alien technology at Soran’s request. “I want the Minder uninterrupted. They’re too poorly crewed to make a difference, and their assignment could pay dividends later.”
Heirorius waved from the comscan station. Soran acknowledged with a nod, and a garbled voice reached the bridge: “—holding position.”
“Lark again?” Broosh asked. Heirorius nodded.
The satellite monitor flashed and the main viewscreen blazed with a dazzling spectrum of colors. The rings had activated, and the radioactive particle count was soaring again. “Last known position?” Soran asked.
A mark on the scanner blinked, alone near the initial point of engagement between the 204th and the New Republic forces. “Scopes can’t get a visual from here,” Captain Nenvez called from a cluster of officers. “We can reposition the Yadeez or break comm silence—”
Soran waved Nenvez off as the comm spoke again. Lark’s voice was steady and somber. “Wyl Lark to Imperial command ship Yadeez. I’m not here for conversation. I have a message for Colonel Soran Keize.”
Broosh arched his brow. Soran shrugged and stepped to the center of the bridge.
He hadn’t heard much from Lark’s earlier broadcasts—just enough to decide not to jam them or forbid his people from listening. He’d asked his commanders to monitor their pilots, watch for any ill effects on morale, but he wanted a comm channel available in case of emergency and he believed the broadcasts’ harm minimal.
Colonel Nuress wouldn’t have abided enemy propaganda broadcasts on her ships, but she had been part of another Empire. What remained of the 204th was loyal beyond reproach, for better or worse.
“This stalemate doesn’t serve anyone,” Lark’s voice went on, “and I understand that you’re a good man, Colonel—or at least an honorable one. Every source we have says so, Yrica Quell included.”
Soran kept his expression rigid. The implication was not new—only further confirmation of what he’d already believed—but his people would have questions.
“They say you’re an ace of aces. That you trained half your unit. To that end, I am challenging you—commander to commander. We duel alone in the particle tides.”
Somewhere in the dark of space, Soran’s TIE pilots were en route to the Yadeez, slipping among the satellite rings and sheltered from the radiation. They were listening as well. Soran knew they’d be waiting for an answer.
“The unit of the loser,�
� Lark continued, “withdraws all forces from the Chadawa system and renounces any vendetta against their opponents. No more Alphabet hunting Shadow Wing, no more Shadow Wing hunting Alphabet. Chadawa is free, or—Chadawa’s fate is up to you. Like I said, I’m told you’re an honorable man; I don’t imagine you want any of what’s happening.”
There it was, Soran thought—a plea to conscience. No one wants the Chadawan people dead, Wyl Lark. No one except an Emperor long gone and a handful of his devotees. That’s why Cinder is tragedy, not war.
He would not speak of Chadawa. He would not fight in Lark’s chosen arena. Instead he signaled the comscan station and asked, as crisp and passionless as he knew how: “Wyl Lark…you truly believe that either of our units will give up if their leader is killed?”
Soran expected laughter or defiance. Lark remained composed. “I don’t know, but I think the chance makes the risk worth taking. Even in the worst case—” He paused. Soran waited. “—in the worst case, one of our units is left without a commander. That still gives the other an advantage.”
Soran surveyed his people. Broosh was scowling. Nenvez appeared impatient, as if he saw the whole transmission as childish. The younger members of the bridge crew were rapt, trying to monitor Soran’s reaction without ignoring their duties.
But what of the pilots? He tried to picture Darita and Cherroi and Gandor in their TIEs, listening to the exchange. Wyl Lark kept speaking. “I was in the Oridol Cluster, Colonel. I helped burn Pandem Nai and I downed your Star Destroyer at Cerberon. I led the assault on the Core Nine megafacility and held you off with a squadron of antiques and cloud cars. I’ve killed several of your people personally, and I am sorry but I don’t regret it.”
Soran heard the man breathing heavily toward the speech’s end. Who was Wyl Lark? He tried to recall the reports from Oridol, everything Palal Seedia had reported before the Cerberon attack.
Victory's Price (Star Wars) Page 20
