Victory's Price (Star Wars)

by Alexander Freed

  A recorded transmission from Chancellor Mothma played, demanding the surrender of what remained of the Empire. Hera ignored it—she’d heard it before, during the long journey to Jakku—and continued relaying instructions to the vessels nearest the Deliverance. With the remainder of her attention she listened to Stornvein relay Admiral Ackbar’s instructions to her.

  The first time she’d been part of a fleet’s command structure it had seemed a sort of profound chaos, and she’d left the battle with a pounding headache and the need for a day’s worth of sleep. Now it was all almost rote. She could no longer count the number of battles she’d overseen, or the number of ships she’d lost or worlds she’d won. It had become too easy over the years; for her own sake, for the sake of her son who needed a mother with more than a keen tactical mind, this had to be the final battle.

  One of the bridge crew swore loudly. Hera saw why before anyone could announce it.

  The tactical display had been updated with sensor readings over Jakku. Swarms of scanner marks represented whole clusters of Star Destroyers. The TIEs were thick enough around the planet to resemble fog. Clusters of frigates and cruisers and gunships orbited the lone Super Star Destroyer.

  These were only the forces the enemy had chosen to reveal—lurking in Jakku’s atmosphere, hidden on the surface of the barren moons, would be additional vessels ready to ensnare unwary foes. Nor could Hera see the armies on the ground, or the cannon emplacements in the desert, or whatever secrets the Empire hid this time.

  She realized that she’d never truly considered the possibility that the battle at Jakku might be lost. It didn’t change her plans, but the weight on her shoulders became tangible.

  “Bring us underneath group delta,” she said, “and start combing those sensor readings for the Yadeez. If Shadow Wing’s out there, they shouldn’t be too hard to recognize.”

  Once, she’d been a rebel, and she’d grown comfortable with doubt and uncertain odds. She remembered her role and resolved to fight.

  II

  Chancellor Mothma’s call for surrender played throughout the Deliverance. It was eloquent without being flowery, unconditional in its demand for peace, and compassionate in its offer of mercy. The chancellor delivered it well, and Wyl imagined she truly hoped the Empire would accept.

  But he knew she believed the Empire wouldn’t accept. She hadn’t joined the fleet for the attack; that made her expectations clear enough.

  He put Mothma out of his mind as he delivered his own plea into a headset in the comm room. “This is Wyl Lark to the 204th Imperial Fighter Wing,” he began. “Please know that I am no longer with Alphabet Squadron.”

  Whether anyone would hear, he didn’t dare guess. Syndulla’s crew and New Republic Intelligence had spent months analyzing Shadow Wing’s comm traffic, and their broadcast frequency was stored in the Deliverance’s computers. He couldn’t listen to the unit or break their encryption or prevent them from shutting him out—but he could speak into the void and hope.

  “This war is bigger than any of us. We can’t stop the battle from happening. But I’m going to plead with you one last time to think about everything that’s happened between us. Think about what happened in the Oridol Cluster and on Troithe and at Chadawa. Think about your dead and think about ours.

  “I look back at it all and I’m not sure either of us ever won a battle. Even at Pandem Nai, my side almost destroyed a planet. For your part…hunting us down in Oridol is how Alphabet got started. You destroyed the Lodestar in Cerberon, but at what cost to yourselves?

  “I can’t stop the war, but I can stop killing you. You can turn away, too. It’s not too late.”

  He knew as well as Chancellor Mothma what the odds were anyone would listen. But it was his last obligation to the New Republic.

  He put the headset down and looked to the cramped room’s only other occupant—a four-armed Morseerian who stared at a console screen, one hand nervously adjusting his respirator mask. “Is that all?” the man asked.

  “Everything I need to send,” Wyl said. “There’s a smaller favor, too, but if it’s too much…?”

  The man didn’t reply. Wyl drew a breath and waited. He’d never spoken to the Morseerian before, but he had invited Wyl into the comm room and granted access without hesitation. Even when Wyl had warned the man that he wasn’t authorized, the Morseerian had only said: “My brother was Lourgh T’oknell. He was one of your pilots, and you were kind to him.”

  Not kind enough, Wyl thought. T’oknell had died too early.

  “Speak your favor,” the man said now.

  “Yrica Quell and Kairos—have we heard anything from them yet?”

  “No. They should be in Coruscant soon. The signal may be delayed.”

  “When it comes in, can you patch it through to—” He hesitated and managed to smile. “—what’s left of Alphabet? Chass na Chadic and Nath Tensent. If you can, if it’s safe. I think they’re better when they support each other.”

  “Yes,” the man said, never looking away from his screen.

  “Thank you,” Wyl said, and left the comm room behind.

  He wasn’t more than a dozen meters down the corridor when the deck shivered and metal creaked. Wyl recognized the impact of an enemy particle volley mitigated by distance and shielding.

  He began to run, heading toward the nearest damage control station.

  His obligations to the New Republic were finished. But he wouldn’t let his comrades die if he could help it.

  III

  “Wild Squadron ready.”

  “Flare Squadron ready.”

  “Alphabet Squadron ready,” Nath said, “along with the bombers.”

  Chass’s voice came through his comm. “Alphabet and Friends? Alphabet-Plus?”

  Hail Six—Genni Avremif—laughed nervously. “You know we outnumber you, right? Shouldn’t it be ‘Hail Squadron and Friends’?”

  “Screw that,” Chass said, and Nath barked a laugh. He wasn’t looking forward to what was coming, but at least the company was tolerable.

  Flare and Wild had already sped past Nath’s Y-wing, Chass’s B-wing, and the three Hail bombers sturdy enough for flight; the Deliverance trailed the bombers in turn. Capital ships on both sides had exchanged salvos, but fighter engagements were localized to the opposite side of the planet. That was about to change—Nath didn’t need scanners to see the TIE swarm past the glowing thrusters of Flare and Wild, or the hulks of enemy warships blotting out the dusty sphere of Jakku.

  Size and scope were hard to judge in space—even experienced pilots struggled with questions like “how far?” and “how many?” without sensor assistance. But Nath couldn’t recall ever seeing masses of ships like he saw now; even civilian traffic at the Estaria orbital ports or the Commerce Guild worlds hadn’t seemed so dense. Given T5’s silence, he suspected the droid felt the same.

  “Flights stay together, don’t stray too far from the Deliverance until you’re told,” he said. He kept his tone easygoing, like it was just another battle. “Otherwise, dive right in and pick your targets. Have fun with it.”

  There was laughter in reply. Wild and Flare started betting on kill counts. That was good, Nath thought—he didn’t doubt they were taking it seriously, but they weren’t showing their terror. They’d accepted him as their commander, too; the only thing left was flying.

  (They’d accepted him as commander only because Wyl was gone, of course. But he squashed that thought like a gnat. The boy was done with fighting and Nath was done with him.)

  “Wild Two, engaging now!” a voice called, and the comm was full of chatter as Flare and Wild disappeared into the field of flashing TIEs and ion trails and turbolaser lances. Nath glanced at his scanner, but there were so many marks it was hard to make sense of the scenario. Within seconds six fighters had flashed into
nonexistence—two New Republic and four TIEs.

  “Hell,” he whispered. Then he checked his range and called to the bombers: “Gozanti cruiser, heading our way! We’ve got two minutes to gut and fry it as a gift for the Deliverance.”

  Nath pitched toward the cruiser and led the bombers into the fray. T5 was chattering and Chass na Chadic was snarling; Wild and Flare were shouting and trying to reconfigure after their initial losses. Emerald and crimson beams seemed to cage them into an arena; the barrages of the capital ships on all sides would incinerate any fighter that came close.

  “Stay together!” Nath yelled. He glanced at the scanner, added, “Wild Five, get back to your squadron!” and forced his attention back to the Gozanti as T5 squealed a warning.

  The cruiser was veering away. Behind it were two Raiders, better armed and armored than the Gozanti, and their weapons flared as they lashed at Alphabet and Hail. Nath froze for an instant, then dodged as a turbolaser blast burned toward him; called for the bombers to scatter and reposition at a distance.

  Yet those orders meant nothing. Nath was riding chaos, jerking his Y-wing to evade energy blasts and firing at TIEs as they passed. He heard a Hail pilot and another Flare fighter declare they were badly damaged; saw a mark wink out that might have been someone from Wild. The enemy was doing no better—he saw burning TIE parts spiral past him and, in the distance over Jakku, the nova burst of a dying Star Destroyer—but that wasn’t any comfort.

  He could hear his strained breathing; feel the nausea in his guts and the sweat soaking his gloves. The harness bit at his chest and T5’s squeals dug into his skull. “All fighters, follow me!” he snapped as he spotted a gap in the battle—a place to regroup without becoming a target. He wasn’t stupid enough to think it would buy them more than seconds.

  Plans didn’t matter here. In this sort of battle, death or survival was a matter of luck.

  He needed predictability, even of the worst sort.

  “Where the hell is Shadow Wing?” he demanded.

  IV

  Chass watched the stars burn and poured fuel on the fire. The B-wing spun through the melee, hammering her as she rotated her foils and abruptly changed velocity, pushing the ship to perform in ways its designers would’ve blanched at. She sucked in air and unleashed every weapon she had—barely aiming, unworried whether she’d hit friend or foe because it was all random anyway. She smiled nastily as she heard Nath trying to coordinate the attack; trying to pretend this wasn’t the end of the world.

  A damaged TIE spun into view and she squeezed her trigger, feeling the pulse of her cannons through her seat. The enemy fighter lost one wing, then the other, then took a bolt in the center of its cockpit eye.

  She wondered whether Wyl or Quell would’ve done any better at keeping the fight under control. Probably not, she decided, and realized with an unexpected flicker of emotion that she was half glad they weren’t with Alphabet. This wasn’t the kind of clash for brave rescues or clever plans, and she didn’t care to watch the two of them blown to pieces, helpless and surprised.

  Towers of destructive energy erupted on all sides of her B-wing. She couldn’t see their source, didn’t know if the particle fire came from allies or enemies. She wrenched her airfoil controls, folding in her outspread foils to convert the cross of the B-wing into a narrower line; then she slammed on her repulsors, holding her vessel immobile in space.

  The galaxy was still and bright for a long moment. Her thoughts skipped across memory and dreams, and she wished she had music to distract her instead of the lectures of the Children of the Empty Sun. Prayer-chants weren’t her answer today; Nath had picked away that scab, eliminating the last semblances of mystery and profundity Let’ij had possessed. Chass had never believed, but even feigning belief felt tainted now.

  So what will you do, Maya Hallik?

  The blazing towers fell away. Something exploded above her, violently enough to send burning gas smashing over her cockpit and set the B-wing tumbling. She spent seconds bringing it under control and re-extending her foils, and ended up alongside a Flare Squadron X-wing. She called her position into the comm.

  You have the battle you always wanted. What is it you’ll do?

  She thought of the Battle of Endor, the Battle of Scarif, where the likes of Jyn Erso were carved into the granite of history. If the war was really ending, this was the finale she’d been waiting for—the one that had been stolen from her in the Oridol Cluster and at Pandem Nai. The one she’d given up any hope of achieving months ago.

  Death was calling her name, offering one last chance to be a hero.

  Nath was shouting orders again. By the sounds of it, some Flare pilot was about to smash into the Deliverance. She recalled his words to her with a bitter laugh: Don’t get yourself killed before the next mission is over. You owe me a replacement bomber pilot!

  “Screw it,” she muttered. “Guess we’re doing this.”

  She’d hoped committing to her mission would’ve brought more relief. But a blaze of glory wasn’t painless, and Chass na Chadic had always had a spark of animal fear inside her.

  V

  The astromech was everything Ragnell had promised. 4E had filled her console with data before Yrica Quell had even blinked away the luminous spots in front of her eyes—the fading traces of hyperspace travel.

  She remembered her earliest lessons and checked her immediate surroundings before reviewing the console data. She’d attempted to enter the Coruscant system far enough from the capital planet to avoid hitting its defensive perimeter, and appeared to have succeeded: She saw no spacecraft except Kairos’s U-wing to her port side, and the world of Coruscant itself was a distant, glittering marble. When she looked to her scanner, several marks in planetary orbit blinked in and out of existence. Maybe a miscalibration, she thought, or deflector distortion?

  Despite the garbled readings, the droid reported it had analyzed the trajectories of Imperial ships in Coruscant’s blockade. A tactical map appeared on her screen.

  “Quell to Kairos,” she said. The comm hissed. 4E adjusted frequency and she tried again: “Quell to Kairos—are you reading?”

  “Yes,” the woman replied.

  She kept her eyes on the map and saw the pattern. The ships in the blockade are repositioning. Why?

  She gave her thrusters a kick, felt the X-wing glide through space, and let inertia carry her onward as she studied the data in front of her. “He’s been here,” she said. “They’re compensating for a hole in the blockade—he must have outmaneuvered them somehow.”

  “Yes,” Kairos said. “Have we come too late?”

  “I don’t think so. Not if they’re still repositioning—”

  She cut herself off, eyed her range to the blockade, and opened her throttle to maximum. The sudden acceleration bounced her helmet off her headrest and sent a flare of pain through her nose. (The medical droid aboard the Deliverance never had fixed the break.) “Follow me exactly,” she said, “and keep up as well as you can. We can follow Keize’s path but our window’s closing fast.”

  The U-wing slipped behind the X-wing, unable to match the smaller fighter’s speed. Quell tried to place herself in the minds of the blockade commanders yet found her attention drifting: She thought about Jakku and Alphabet; about Keize, and whether she was wrong to try to stop him; about Kairos, who might still kill her; about Keize again, and whether she could stop him at all…

  She needed to focus or she’d never reach the planet.

  “If we manage this,” she said, “we’ll end up with at least a dozen TIEs on our tails after the blockade closes behind us. We’ll be under fire the whole time we’re chasing Keize.”

  “Yes,” Kairos said. “They will encounter me before you.”

  She could’ve slowed to match the U-wing’s speed. But that entailed other risks. “Yes,”
Quell agreed.

  “I will inhibit them.”

  Kairos didn’t sound like a woman preparing for a last stand. Quell wondered what she was capable of—what reserves she possessed that Quell remained unaware of.

  She realized she’d never found out how Kairos had learned to fly.

  “Understood,” Quell said. “Atmosphere will cut their top speed anyway. Catch up when you can.”

  The planet swelled in her viewport, and she began to discern the geometry of the city. She’d expected something like Troithe, but Coruscant didn’t look like Troithe at all—it looked like a machine, like Gavana Orbital, like a Death Star built for beings from a higher plane of existence. She realized, upon spotting a mass of clouds in the atmosphere, that she’d been holding her breath; she released it then, relieved that something ordinary tainted the planet’s synthetic perfection.

  “Are you set to transmit to the Deliverance?” Quell asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Open the channel.”

  Syndulla and the others might never hear, Quell knew. If they were at Jakku already, they might not survive to hear, if the transmission was delayed. The Empire might jam them, or the hyperspace beacons could fail. But there was something bracing about proclaiming her intentions—about not going alone into near-certain death.

  “This is Yrica Quell, approaching Coruscant blockade. Colonel Soran Keize has entered atmosphere and we are attempting to pursue. Will maintain this transmission as long as possible.

  “Good luck on your end,” she added. She paused and bit her lip. She pictured the faces of Tensent, Lark, and Chass na Chadic, and lied for her sake or for theirs. “See you after the war.”

  She hoped it was what her squadron needed and flew after her mentor.

  CHAPTER 21

  CONFESSIONS UNDER DURESS