Victory's Price (Star Wars)

by Alexander Freed

  They watched each other, standing half a meter away, and Quell was overwhelmed by gratitude and grief. She’d lied to Syndulla about Nacronis, fled the woman instead of trusting her after Cerberon, and now she wondered if either of them would live through the coming battles.

  “It’s okay,” Syndulla whispered, and reached out with both arms, pulling Quell close and tight. Quell nodded into the woman’s shoulder, felt her own forehead brush one of the Twi’lek’s head-tails, and awkwardly clutched the tough fabric of Syndulla’s uniform. “It’s okay.”

  Eventually, Syndulla let go. Quell straightened and steadied herself before swallowing. “Permission to launch?” she asked.

  “Permission granted,” Syndulla said.

  * * *

  —

  There wasn’t time for Quell to do anything but pull on a flight suit, climb into the cockpit, and introduce herself to the astromech—4E, a conical unit Ragnell claimed had been flying and repairing starfighters since the Clone Wars. “Foree won’t talk much,” the sergeant said, “but he’ll get you where you need to go.”

  She caught only a glimpse of the droid as the crew loaded it into its socket, but she was certain someone had painted an Alphabet Squadron crest on its chassis.

  Two minutes later the fighter’s reactor was thrumming and the droid was running through several hundred systems checks. Quell did as much as she could to expedite the process; she didn’t know when Keize would arrive at Coruscant, but she couldn’t imagine she had long. She certainly didn’t have time to say any goodbyes, nor was she sure she wanted to—yet as the lights on her console flipped from gold to green she craned her neck to look around the hangar, hoping to glimpse Chass na Chadic before departing. She’d barely spoken to the Theelin since boarding the Deliverance.

  “The cargo is loaded,” Kairos announced over the comm. “I am ready.”

  “Right. Okay.” Quell returned her focus to the console, skimming the droid’s status reports. “What was all that they put aboard your ship?”

  “Many weapons, and communications equipment. To maintain contact with the Deliverance as long as possible.”

  Quell roughed out the calculations in her head. Coruscant was the epicenter of the best-maintained hyperspace comm network in the galaxy; with a hardware boost and a lot of luck, they might be able to maintain a link to Syndulla and the rest of the fleet all the way to Jakku, albeit with plenty of signal decay and lag time.

  Maybe the general’s more worried than she lets on. Or she wants Kairos to alert her if I’ve been lying.

  She couldn’t blame Syndulla for being cautious.

  “All right,” she said. “Sending departure request to hangar control.”

  The droid facilitated the back-and-forth while Quell retracted the landing gear. She felt the X-wing vibrate and hum, then the jolt as repulsors kicked in. Her body tingled with the familiar sensation of competing artificial tugs—the gravity of the Deliverance meeting the antigravity of the starfighter—and her feet found pedals as her back and helmet reshaped the seat.

  She spared one more look toward the personnel entrance. There, she saw not Chass na Chadic but Nath Tensent watching her departure. He must’ve seen her looking, because he straightened his back and snapped a salute in her direction.

  Time to go, she thought, and felt her thrusters ignite as she opened her throttle, making for the hangar doorway and the darkness of space.

  II

  The Empire had gone mad. How anyone could be blind to it was beyond Soran, but he suspected those who remained were not blind—they simply chose to overlook the peculiarities of their leaders, chose to believe that the blasted hellscape of the Jakku desert was superior to imprisonment in a New Republic camp or a mercenary’s servitude on the outlaw moons.

  Perhaps they were even correct in their reasoning. Soran wasn’t certain he had the right to judge.

  Shadow Wing’s sojourn in the Jakku system had been brief but telling so far. Soran had managed to graciously reject the admirals’ requests to transfer personnel to and from the Yadeez, citing (entirely honestly) the massive modifications made to both the vessel and his unit’s protocols. To his surprise, Captain Nenvez—who’d resisted change more than anyone, who’d done everything possible to imprint his cadets with the spirit of the dead Empire—proved a keen ally in this endeavor, providing written justifications for most every alteration Keize had arranged.

  But even isolated aboard their carrier, the troops of the 204th were exposed to the alien culture of the new Empire. Combat exercises with allied units granted insight into a starved and desperate people. The fleet’s comm channels broadcast hours of propaganda at odds with the reality Shadow Wing had experienced—breathless speakers made excited claims about the New Republic disintegrating and a civil war among its leadership. Nor did Soran have the heart to forbid certain reunions: Mervais Gandor’s brother Sliblis had served aboard the Super Star Destroyer Ravager, and the two swapped tales and wept together over holo; Lieutenant Darita took a shuttle to Jakku’s surface to carry word of her sister’s death to the fallen woman’s husband.

  Soran’s people were not like those troops stationed with the fleet. They had suffered different trials. But they all came from the same stock; they were all of the Empire, and blood and comradeship bound them.

  That was why, Soran knew, his people would refuse to leave.

  He was finalizing written orders to the engineering team when Teso Broosh arrived in the refrigeration unit “conference room,” standing in the doorway until Soran looked up at last. “You asked to see me?” Broosh said, and Soran waved him to a seat.

  “You know why you’re here?” Soran asked.

  “I have suspicions,” Broosh said. “I’d rather not speculate.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Keize paused, frowned, and scanned the contents of a datapad before tossing it to his companion. “Teso Broosh—as of fourteen hundred hours you will take full command of the 204th Imperial Fighter Wing. I am using my authority to grant you the rank of major in acknowledgment of your tremendous success and courage on the battlefield.”

  Broosh didn’t look at the datapad. Instead he stared at Soran as if he’d been accused of treason.

  “This is wrong,” he said.

  “It’s done.”

  “Colonel—” Broosh scowled, shifted in his seat, then rose and locked the door. He didn’t sit when he turned again. “I’m not an idiot. You’re not being promoted to fleet command.”

  “No,” Soran said, and spread his hands on the crate he sat upon. “No, I’m not.”

  He wondered briefly if he had misjudged Broosh—if his colleague for so many years would execute him for treason. It wasn’t how Soran wished to die (and if it came to it, he would fight), but the notion had a poetic appeal that nearly made him smile.

  “You deserted this unit once before,” Broosh said. His voice was steady and cold. “You were allowed to leave because you’d earned our respect; you were allowed back because we were desperate. But don’t think any of us will stand for it a second time.”

  “I don’t,” Soran said. “I wouldn’t. When I first left, it was in the hope others would follow—you know that, and I understand the mistake I made. This time…” He frowned, squeezing thumb and forefinger together as he considered his words. “…what I do, I do in absolute service to you and the unit. To all the Empire, though not all will understand. My mission will be perilous, and I do not expect to return—but I shall, if I am at all able. I swear to this.”

  Broosh watched him. Soran did not move or moderate the severity of his expression.

  Then Broosh laughed, and Soran knew he had not misjudged him. He felt pride in having served with the man, and in knowing him, and knowing him well.

  “Grandmother would’ve put you in a cell for this,” Broosh said. “Sh
e wouldn’t have known what else to do with you.”

  “Very likely. But we’re short on cells and guards alike. So…?”

  “So in a short while I’ll be in command and you’ll be gone.”

  “Excellent,” Soran said, and rose from his seat. “There will be no speeches, no goodbyes—I want this done as if you were expecting me back tomorrow, so as not to impact morale. I’ll address the other squadron commanders so no one questions your authority. I also suggest you turn to Nenvez to aid in the transition—he’s been invaluable to me, as he will be to you.” He paused, frowned, and added: “So long as he’s kept in line.”

  “What are the odds Nenvez will recognize my promotion to major?” Broosh asked, dry enough that Soran barely recognized it as a joke.

  “About the same as Grand Moff Randd and his cohorts accepting it. They’ve only just begun calling me colonel.” Soran proceeded out the door, waving Broosh to follow. “Come tour the ship with me. I’ve some final words of advice, and you’re obliged to hear them until fourteen hundred.”

  They proceeded through the cramped corridors. The Yadeez was small and there was little for Soran to show Broosh that the man didn’t already know; but it was the only farewell Soran would be permitted, and he’d earned the indulgence. He paused often to speak to the crew or the pilots: He praised Taquana’s performance in the war games; noted to the ground crews the ion trails left by two of the TIEs from Squadron One. He drew aside Alchor Mirro and told him he’d never forgotten his promise to the old engineer, made years before; looked to where Rikton had sat during meals and took a moment to mourn and consider how to convey a message to the youth’s relatives on Corulag. He found Starzha and Phesh arguing over the coming battle and gently separated them, making a note to speak with each later—Phesh, in particular, would rightly bristle at Broosh’s promotion; but while Phesh had the experience to lead the unit, he lacked Broosh’s compassion for his people.

  Phesh was a good soldier. Together, he and Soran would remember Gablerone, and Phesh would understand.

  Brebtin had, in her reclusive way, struggled since returning from Quell’s mission to Netalych, and Soran sent Broosh away and spoke with her for the better part of an hour. He could console her, strengthen her, if not heal her. When Broosh returned they resumed their tour, and Soran laughed as they came upon two of Wisp’s pilots—Cherroi and Gargovik—half naked and entangled in a storage closet. Colonel Nuress would have disciplined them, and once Soran would have done the same—romantic entanglements inevitably caused complications—but times had changed so very much. There was no point encouraging detachment now.

  Between these visits Soran and Broosh discussed the composition of the squadrons and the damage to the Yadeez and where to reassign the surviving escorts. They discussed the mixture of fear and anticipation in their soldiers, and the possibility that Imperial Command might dissolve the unit and split the squadrons after Jakku was won.

  “I have a gift for you,” Soran said to Broosh when they arrived on the bridge and he skimmed an update from engineering. “I wasn’t certain it would be ready until today.”

  He passed the report to Broosh, who read it with a mix of puzzlement and interest. “I’m not sure what I’m seeing,” he admitted.

  “While the Raiders were sabotaging Chadawa’s rings, our friends aboard the surveillance ship Minder had another task. It seems they’ve finished at last.”

  The report itself was nearly incomprehensible in its technical detail; Soran likely wouldn’t have understood it himself if he hadn’t ordered the procedure, and he was pleasantly surprised as understanding dawned in Broosh’s expression. “You could’ve mentioned this before.”

  “If it had resulted in nothing, it would have been a distraction.” Soran shook his head. “Now it could prove key to success against Syndulla and her people.”

  “You assume they’ll be with the enemy fleet?”

  “I do—and I think it likely they’ll seek out the Yadeez, for all the obvious reasons. Fitting, in a battle that will bring this era to a close.”

  “We’ll be prepared either way. I’ll talk to—”

  They were interrupted by the tap of Nenvez’s cane on the deck. They turned to the old instructor, and he scowled as he spoke in a low voice. “Apologies for interrupting, but I thought you should know—there’s a gathering taking place in the hangar.”

  “What sort of gathering?” Soran asked.

  “When I asked, I was told it was a homecoming celebration,” Nenvez said. “Though frankly, that sounds like an excuse.”

  “Yes, it does,” Soran said, and looked between Broosh and Nenvez. “Shall we join them?”

  * * *

  —

  He believed it was the last time he would see his people together. But his presence would disrupt the event, so he lingered at the fringes and listened to them discuss the fleet and the future and the odds all of them would die, enemy and ally, in the fires over Jakku. Some truly believed the Empire would resurge after victory; others were prepared to become martyrs. In a few, he saw a readiness for an ending—any ending, after everything they’d seen this past year.

  He longed to stay with them. He considered forgoing his mission and fighting to protect them till the end, or persuading them somehow to flee; but he thought of Fara Yadeez and the soldiers of Troithe, and knew he owed those troops too much to disappear like Devon and save only the 204th.

  Bansu Ro had obtained narcotics, and he wailed his grief over all they’d done at Nacronis, Dybbron, Kortatka, and Fedovoi End. Soran hauled the man out of the hangar with the help of Creet, the TIE mechanic with a Twi’lek accent, and sat him on a bunk and told him, “There’s nothing wrong with grieving the fallen. But you served your comrades, and there is no shame in that.”

  Creet stood behind him, and she squeezed his arm before they both returned to the celebration.

  Soran sought out Broosh and told him, “Keep them alive. Keep your people alive, no matter what happens.”

  He believed Broosh understood.

  * * *

  —

  Late in the night Soran finished the last of his tasks aboard the Yadeez and climbed into the cockpit of a TIE fighter retrofitted with a hyperspace docking ring. The bridge crew asked no questions when he ordered the hangar opened and passed through the magnetic containment field. He said nothing over the comm to indicate anything out of the ordinary was occurring.

  As goodbyes went, the day had been a fine one. It took all his strength to leave.

  He abandoned his people to fight for them. He set a course for Coruscant.

  CHAPTER 19

  REVELATION OF THE ACCUSED

  I

  Yrica Quell spent the first three hours of her flight refamiliarizing herself with the X-wing’s controls. She tested her understanding of the indicator lights, checked the resistance of the control yoke and the rudder pedals. She studied the specifications that 4E summoned to her console and noted the differences between the T-70 and the T-65B she’d flown (and fought) before.

  She was reminded of returning home to Gavana Orbital for the first time after enlisting in the Imperial flight academy—of the sense that surface alterations, the repainted walls in her room and her parents’ repositioned kitchen table, were indicative of some deeper change in the place or in herself. The T-70 X-wing was no more than a piece of hardware, but it roused emotions she hadn’t expected.

  Then again, it seemed almost everything did nowadays.

  The voyage to Coruscant was a long one. She tried to sleep but the cerulean glow of hyperspace and the unfamiliar pitch of the engines kept her awake. She reviewed the droid’s files on the Coruscant system and maps of the Imperial Palace and the Verity District, but no true plan was possible until she knew what Keize was up to—whether she would be too early or too late or in time to int
ercept him.

  Eventually, she activated her comm and recited key points to Kairos, noting where to potentially cut off Keize on the fringes of the system and where the Imperial blockade was weakest in case they needed to follow Keize to the planet surface. Kairos spoke little—even for Kairos, she spoke little—and a knot of discomfort formed in Quell’s stomach.

  “When we get there,” Quell asked, “are you going to obey my orders?”

  “Perhaps,” Kairos said, as if she didn’t know herself.

  Of course.

  “Are you only here because Syndulla doesn’t trust me?”

  “No.”

  “Are you here because you don’t trust me?”

  “Perhaps,” Kairos said again.

  Quell recalled her words: You are my sister, but your crimes are not forgotten.

  Kairos had abandoned the Deliverance and chased Quell to Netalych to “judge her for her wickedness, the deaths of worlds.” Maybe, Quell thought, she should’ve been grateful the U-wing hadn’t fired on her.

  She shrugged away her discomfort. A soldier made do with the resources on hand; Keize had taught her that. Yet there were hours to go before they arrived and she didn’t care to spend them all dreading her companion’s wrath.

  “How are you?” Quell asked.

  There was a lengthy pause. “Why?”

  “You went through a lot on—” She still didn’t know the name of the planet. “—your homeworld. I thought I’d ask.”

  Tensent or Lark would’ve handled it more gracefully. She hoped Kairos would respond better to bluntness.

  Another lengthy pause. “I—” A sound like half-formed words came from the comm. “—am unchanged. I shed what remained of my chrysalis. I have accepted that I cannot return. But I am still not complete. I still do not know what I am.”

  Quell rubbed her bruised arms through her flight suit. She thought of the woman’s agony as she’d hidden from her people and didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t really expected such an honest answer.