“How did we get to this topic?” Yrica asked.
“I asked how business was,” Wyl said.
Yrica opened her eyes again. “We’re doing all right. The long-term contract with the medcenter keeps us afloat. It’s getting harder to make money on in-system runs but we’re not really equipped for interstellar hauling.”
“And she doesn’t want to do it,” Chass added, falling back into her chair with a shrug.
“And I don’t want to do it,” Yrica agreed. “Do you need more wine?”
Chass agreed, and Wyl—out of politeness, Yrica thought—agreed as well, and Chass and Yrica asked about Wyl’s work, and the ventures he was passionate about, and whether he was still involved with the man they’d briefly met two years earlier. Wyl didn’t linger on the Senate (he knew his audience—Yrica didn’t talk about politics, and Chass cared only about the broad strokes), admitted he’d broken up with Tareesh some months back (“Screw it, you’re young,” Chass offered by way of consolation), but circled back to the second question, talking about the Reconciliation Project and the ongoing effort to find volunteers. “I know I ask this every time,” Wyl said, “but if you’re ever willing to come and be a part—”
“I really can’t,” Yrica said.
“That’s all right. If you’re ever ready.”
She nodded. The silence was broken only by Chass’s collection of amulets and charms, clinking like wind chimes in front of an air vent; and by the burbling of T5 and 4E, both of whom were recharging by the front door.
“Hey,” Chass said. “You hear anything from Nath?”
Wyl pursed his lips and shifted uncomfortably before finally offering: “No.”
“You want to explain that long pause?” Chass asked.
Wyl smiled wryly. “No.”
Yrica nodded. Better to leave the subject alone, she knew, and was surprised to hear herself ask: “How much trouble?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s the hard thing. I don’t have contacts on the intelligence committee anymore, and Gravas and I—” Wyl sighed. “He’s alive, I know that. I worry about him sometimes, but what is there to do?”
“He made his choices,” Yrica said. “No one can change his path but him.”
Her voice was harder than she’d intended. Wyl nodded carefully. He seemed to take no offense.
“Speaking of the old days,” Wyl said, “did you ever look for her?”
Chass appeared puzzled before enlightenment dawned on her face. The wine was slowing her down; Yrica had understood instantly.
Last time they’d all met, Yrica had been considering searching for Kairos. She’d been haunted by dreams about a woman without a face. “I didn’t,” she said. “I was going through some things back then, but after talking it over—” She indicated Chass with her head. “—I realized that if any of us will do fine on her own, it’s her. She can find me if she wants me.”
“I wish I’d gotten to know her,” Wyl said. “I think about that time, after she was out of the suit, when I was so wrapped up in myself—”
Chass snorted. “Yeah, I don’t think it would’ve made a difference if you’d been hanging out with her.”
“Maybe not,” Wyl admitted.
Yrica rotated her glass and tasted her brandy again. “I’m glad she got her fresh start.”
Talk of Nath and Kairos led to talk of General Syndulla and others, and they began down the meandering, inevitable path Yrica had known they would take by evening’s end. There were side treks—recollections of Troithe and the special forces crew of the Lodestar, Chass’s tipsy tribute to the B-wing, “the greatest fighter ever flown”—but soon they spoke of the dead. They lingered on each name for a while, giving due tribute to Sergeant Ragnell (whom Yrica had known best) and Sata Neek (whom she’d never met). They spoke at length about Caern Adan and IT-O, and about Vitale and Denish Wraive, and soon they were going around the table reciting the victims of war: Sonogari. Fadime. Ubellikos. Neihero. Snivel. For every survivor, there were a hundred dead to remember.
Yrica had to stop herself from offering the wrong memories: Rikton. Xion. Nosteen. Raida. The dead of the 204th, whom she carried as Wyl and Chass carried the dead of Riot and Hound squadrons. She knew it wasn’t the time, so she spoke of the fallen from the Lodestar and the Deliverance instead. There were enough to go around.
Eventually the ritual came to a close. Chass was drunk by then, and became fixated on heading into the city together and infiltrating the port security office. (“They’re bastards!” she yelled, “human supremacist bastards!” and from what Yrica had seen at customs Chass had a point.) Wyl insisted, calm but firm, that his senatorial credentials wouldn’t get them inside. Yrica promised she’d send him specifics the next time they ran into trouble. Grudgingly, Chass agreed to go to bed.
The three of them stood. Chass embraced Wyl, then shoved him away. Then she went to Yrica and, surprisingly delicately, kissed her on the lips before stumbling to the bedroom. She left her cane behind.
Wyl helped clear the table and said nothing until closing the bottle of brandy on the counter. “From your father?” he asked.
Yrica shook her head, surprised. “My brother Thren. He lives in Santrapei, three hundred kilometers east. How’d you know it was family?”
“You mentioned it once,” Wyl said. He gestured to the bedroom. “When did that happen, by the way?”
She shrugged, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders. She remembered Wyl was a friend and slowly relaxed. “A while back.”
“It looks good on you. You needed each other.”
Yrica nodded and slid the dishes onto the shelves, which hummed as they began their cleaning routine. When she turned back around, Wyl was still watching.
“She forgives you, you know,” he said. “She did a long time ago.”
She pushed her back against the counter so she wouldn’t sag, and nodded slightly. “Maybe,” she said.
She asked Wyl if he needed a place to spend the night, but he told her no, he had a ship waiting; so she took him by speeder to the port and they said their goodbyes and promised not to wait so long before they met again. The wind blustered and snapped at Wyl’s garments as he lingered outside the passenger door, T5 beside him on the dark and empty road.
Yrica was about to depart when he leaned in through the open speeder window and said, “There’s one other thing. There’s someone I’d like you to meet, if you’re willing.”
She shifted uncomfortably. She wasn’t fond of ambushes. “Here?”
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Wyl said. “Someone who reached out to the Reconciliation Project. They got in touch with me, I wanted to talk to you—”
“Who?”
“A survivor.”
Yrica gripped the speeder’s control yoke, staring past Wyl’s left shoulder and steadying herself on the lights of a control tower.
“She was offworld when it happened,” he said. “She lost family on Nacronis, and she—”
“What about the recordings?” Yrica asked. She bit down the tremor in her voice. “We spent enough hours making them.”
“She’s seen your statements and interviews. But she wants to meet one-on-one with some of the pilots who didn’t cooperate. She says it’s for closure, the project director thinks she wants to change their minds…I just think it would go better if she met you before she heads to the prison. Nothing official, just a conversation.”
“Okay,” she said.
“I know it’s not easy—”
“I said ‘okay.’ ”
Wyl looked like he wanted to reach out to her, but the door was in the way. He stroked T5 instead and thanked her, and she managed a smile and said goodbye again and sped away before he could say more. She breathed a sigh of relief when she was on th
e road.
She didn’t hold the request against him. It was part of the work.
Back at the house behind the cargo office she checked on Chass, feeling sad and tired and glad they’d all had the evening. She sat by the bed awhile, toying with Chass’s cane (she’d brought it in from the living room without thinking) and when Chass woke Yrica apologized for disturbing her.
Chass only grunted and asked, “Wyl want anything? He always wants something.”
“Nothing important,” Yrica said. “Go to sleep.”
Chass rolled onto her side and dragged a pillow against her face. Her muffled voice asked, “You coming?”
“In a while.”
When she was sure Chass was sleeping soundly she left the house again and climbed into the cargo shuttle—a Helotek Loadhauler she’d bought from a junkyard and spent the better part of six months refitting and persuading to fly. The design was an unauthorized knockoff of the Empire’s old Zeta-class vessels, but the parts were cheaper and it lacked the Zeta’s armament.
Yrica liked that about the Loadhauler. It was noisy and wobbled and got hot as a star on atmospheric entry, but she hadn’t flown a starfighter or anything else with weapons since Coruscant. Since she’d condemned what was left of the Empire to face what they’d all done.
She’d followed the hearings and trials when her heart allowed it; stepped away and focused on her work when it didn’t. She’d never put in to get her record expunged. She still couldn’t vote or take government contracts, and she wasn’t in any hurry. It was the same reason she’d turned Wyl down more than once, when he’d asked her to join the Reconciliation Project full-time: She’d forfeited her right to speak and to judge.
She started the shuttle and it lifted off the tarmac. She felt herself smile as air rushed beneath her and wind pushed at her wings, and she plotted a parabolic course that would take her up into orbit, then down at the best speed the ship could muster.
She loved to fly. Whatever happened next, she didn’t want to give up flight.
As acceleration pushed her into her seat, she thought about the dead she hadn’t spoken of with Chass and Wyl. She thought about Grandmother and Gablerone, Tonas and Barath. She thought about her mentor, and everything that had shaped Soran Keize into what he’d been—a murderer and a soldier and a fierce protector of his people, who’d left an indelible stain on her soul and freed her from the Empire.
She thought about Nacronis, and all those who had died there.
She would never stop thinking about Nacronis. But Yrica Quell soared, and it was joyful.
For Elias J. Marsh (one of them, anyway)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
What’s left to say, really? This book owes so much to so many people, most of whom I’ve mentioned before and who I’m glad to call out again: My editor, Elizabeth Schaefer, for bringing me aboard and encouraging my mad ideas and helping me through logistical snarls and half-baked drafts with unflagging good spirit. Jennifer Heddle, for advocating for me and offering a much-valued second set of eyes. The rest of the Lucasfilm crew, too—Matt Martin, Pablo Hidalgo, and Kelsey Sharpe, among others—for assistance and incisive comments large and small. Shelly Shapiro and Frank Parisi for guiding me into the world of Star Wars novels in the first place.
Thanks as well to Jo Berry and Mitch Dyer for being such game partners—no pun intended—in integrating the universes of Alphabet Squadron and Vanguard Squadron. Likewise, thanks to Jody Houser for sharing the toys from her TIE Fighter comic, particularly in this last book. And, as always, thanks to my unofficial Star Wars military adviser, Charles Boyd.
Last, this trilogy builds on decades of Star Wars work from hundreds of creators (and likely owes a debt to all of them, to one degree or another). Consider this a particular note of appreciation for Michael A. Stackpole and Aaron Allston, whose original X-Wing novels electrified the fandom and proved starfighter novels could succeed both artistically and commercially. Alphabet Squadron wouldn’t exist without them, and I am truly grateful.
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
Star Wars: Victory’s Price
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander Freed is the author of Star Wars: Alphabet Squadron, Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company, Star Wars: The Old Republic: The Lost Suns, and Star Wars: Rogue One and has written many short stories, comic books, and videogames. Born near Philadelphia, he endeavors to bring the city’s dour charm with him to his current home of Austin, Texas.
alexanderfreed.com
Twitter: @AlexanderMFreed
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Victory's Price (Star Wars) Page 48
