by Claudia Gray
“Hey,” Yendor said quietly. “That was your Ciena back there, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw what she did for you. So—I get why you went to Jelucan now.”
Kendy added, “You were right, Thane. She’s still Ciena.”
It was the closest thing to an apology Thane would ever get for the way the others had shunned him, and it was more than he deserved.
Was Ciena in trouble now? Would they question her? Thane wondered if she would have to face the Empire’s interrogators. The thought horrified him.
But if anyone was smart enough to come up with an explanation and save herself, it was Ciena. He had to believe in her.
Ciena took her TIE fighter in without exchanging one more word with Nash Windrider. No doubt he would be livid; he would report her to Piett immediately.
Thankfully, she could say she had been acting under orders, and Piett would never know the difference. It occurred to her, however, that Piett might not acknowledge the orders he’d given her. If the mission’s objective had to remain completely secret, would she be sacrificed, too? Would the Empire execute a loyal officer for her loyalty if it furthered their ends?
Once Ciena would have believed that to be impossible. Not any longer.
She removed her helmet, took a deep breath, and unlocked her hatch. Whatever would befall her next, she had no choice but to face it.
As she hopped down from the TIE, she saw Nash striding toward her, his eyes blazing with anger. Ciena found herself wishing for a blaster. Instead she stood her ground as Nash came up to her, looked her in the face, and gathered her in his arms.
“I can’t believe he did that to you,” Nash said. “Knowing you loved him, to leave you like that—to fake his death and put you through years of anguish—it’s beneath contempt.”
Ciena simply hugged Nash back as well as she could manage with both of them still wearing armor. She was grateful for the chance to hide her face against his chest.
“Forgive me for shouting at you. I realize now you must have been so shaken, so heartbroken—well, it would affect anyone’s flying, even yours. You were even more eager to kill Thane than I was.” Nash sighed as he pulled back far enough to look her in the face. The anger she’d seen before had melted into pity. “I should have let you do the honors. If I’d been thinking straight, I would have.”
“I just can’t believe it,” Ciena said, which was both true and safe.
“That lowlife. We never really knew him at all, did we?” Nash straightened up. “Right, then. We’ll have to report in. This won’t go well.”
It didn’t. They were shouted at for some time about their failure to destroy all the rebel ships; Piett acknowledged Ciena’s secret success with only a nod at the end, when nobody else was looking. Afterward, Ciena stripped off her armor, took a quick shower, and tried to calm her thoughts.
Thane could have died today. Nash would have killed him.
Shaken as she was to have encountered Thane in combat, Ciena was comforted by the knowledge that he’d gotten away safely. If they never met again, his last memory of her would be the moment she’d saved his life. As she stood there beneath the warm water, hands braced against the metal-tiled walls, she decided she could bear that.
But Nash? How could he have been so homicidally furious at Thane? She understood the sense of betrayal—she had felt it too, the day she’d realized Thane had joined the Rebel Alliance. Even when she had almost hated him, though, she had still loved him, too. Whereas Nash had mourned his friend for years, discovered he was alive, and instantly been ready to kill him.
That wasn’t loyalty to the Empire. That was…fanaticism.
The engines shifted again, changing the slight vibration beneath her feet. They’d just come out of hyperspace. Ciena was chagrined to realize she’d been so caught up in her own thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed when they went to hyperspace in the first place.
She toweled off and tugged on her off-shift jumpsuit so she could get a look at what was going on. A row of triangular windows lined the wall closest to the head, so Ciena could simply look outside for herself. No other ships had made the journey with them, it seemed. Why would they ever leave the Imperial convoy?
To make something ready for the Emperor’s arrival. That was the obvious answer. But what? Ciena turned her head, studying the entire starfield, and saw that they were drawing near a planet, one orbited by a large moon so green and cloudy that she assumed it was rich with forest life. And yet something seemed to be orbiting that moon, something vast and dark—
Then she realized what she was looking at and gasped.
It can’t be. They would never do that again.
But they had. Ciena couldn’t deny what she saw—
—a second Death Star.
CIENA’S HANDS HAD gone numb, but still she stood there, palms against the window, staring at the new Death Star.
Why would they ever build another one? It was only to stop the war before it began—and it failed—so why?
She knew the answer but could not yet accept it. Instead she stared at the massive hulk of the space station, which only seemed to grow larger as the Executor drew close. Ciena had often wondered how such a gargantuan structure could be built in the first place; even the enormous resources of the Empire had to be strained by the construction of something the size of a large moon. Now she could see the process for herself, because this Death Star had not yet been completed. Great sections remained unfinished, and she could stare into the guts of the thing, an ugly crosshatch of beams and struts surrounding deep, hollow darkness.
Her own words in a Valentia cantina echoed in her memory, taunting her: The Emperor and the Moffs have to see, now, that destroying Alderaan did no good. It didn’t stop the Rebellion.…The only reason to attack Alderaan was to prevent an even more devastating war. The war has begun anyway. It’s too late to save the galaxy from that.
No other reason could ever justify the destruction of an entire planet, or the deaths of billions of people. Only by restoring galactic peace could the Empire redeem those deaths.
But now more worlds would be destroyed for no reason—except to cause pain and fear.
Maybe they’re doing this to finally end the war, Ciena thought. But the excuse was too feeble for her to believe even for an instant. If the Rebellion hadn’t been cowed by the destruction of Alderaan, then the deaths of other planets wouldn’t stop it, either. Instead, this would incite more people to join the rebel cause. This wouldn’t end the war; it would intensify it beyond all imagining.
Whenever Ciena had a nightmare about Alderaan, she scoured away her doubts by remembering Jude. Her friend’s loss had always helped Ciena balance the scales in her mind—to recall that massive death and destruction had been caused by both sides in the conflict. Today, however, she could only think that if Jude had seen the second Death Star, she would have recoiled from it.
She would never have wanted this done in her name. Never.
The cold had leached through to Ciena’s bones. Finally, she pulled her aching hands back from the window, rubbing them in hopes of restoring blood flow. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get warm again.
Once her shuttle from the Executor had docked on the Death Star, Ciena could see for herself how much had in fact been completed. From the outside, the enormous unfinished hemisphere dominated the view. Inside, however, they were anchored by a wholly functional tractor beam, disembarked onto a deck that was not only finished but polished, and walked into a space station as advanced as any other in the Imperial Starfleet. They had prepared well for the Emperor’s arrival.
“So we’re finally senior enough to get to see the Emperor himself.” Berisse covered her mouth with her fingers, trying and failing to conceal a smile. “I don’t know what I’m so excited about. We’ll be crowded in with another few thousand officers. Probably we’ll have a worse view than the back row at a podracing arena.”
Nash
had, as usual, fallen in step beside them. Ever since the dogfight in the Hudalla system, he had been more attentive to Ciena than ever. “Still, we’ll be able to tell our grandchildren about the day we saw Palpatine for ourselves. And a big ceremony—well, it makes a welcome change, doesn’t it? Just what you needed, Ciena. Something to cheer you up.”
She’d been hearing variations on that ever since Hudalla. The irony was that she did have a broken heart—just not for the reasons he believed.
Yet that minor irritation hardly mattered next to Ciena’s consternation. How can they talk about the ceremony for the Emperor? How does any of that matter compared with the fact we’re standing inside a Death Star?
Then she checked herself. Yes, they were standing inside a Death Star, surrounded by hundreds of other officers—some stationed there, others from the advance vessels sent to ready an appropriate ceremony for the Emperor’s arrival. Surely some of them shared her doubts, but others would not. Publicly voicing her opposition would send her straight to the brig. She could learn from her friends’ self-control.
So Ciena remained quiet until the three of them miraculously wound up alone in a lift. Her command-track training had taught her that listening devices were rarely put in military lifts due to frequency changes, so talking there was likely safe. As soon as the doors slid shut, she said, “I can’t believe they built another Death Star.”
Berisse shrugged as she leaned against the wall, no longer military proper. “I can’t believe they did it this soon. How long does it take to construct one of these? They must have started right after the Battle of Yavin. Good for them.”
Ciena refused to believe she’d heard that right. “…good for them?”
“Well, we had to rebuild the Death Star. I mean, come on!” Berisse’s frown revealed how confused she was by Ciena’s reaction. “The single biggest and most powerful station ever constructed in galactic history, and it gets blown up by rebel scum? Re-creating the Death Star is the only way we could ever honor our people who died at Yavin. If we hadn’t rebuilt it, then the terrorists would have won.”
“You don’t seem to agree, Ciena.” Nash’s tone was light, but she could see how intently he was looking at her. “What do you think?”
She realized she’d begun to sweat. “I think—I think that if we’ve built a Death Star, we plan to use it. That another world will die, just like Alderaan did.”
Berisse scoffed. “No way. Once the station’s complete and word gets out? Nobody will ever defy the Emperor like that again. The Rebellion’s going to melt away. Wait and see.”
Even amidst Ciena’s most painful doubts about Imperial tactics, she had believed that rule of law was always better than chaos—even when that law was harsh. But the future Berisse described was not rule of law. It was rule by fear, and therefore tyranny. Even the darkest atrocities of the Clone Wars did not compare with the destruction of an inhabited world.
And what did it mean that Ciena was afraid to say that out loud, even to her closest friends?
She tried to find the right words to make them understand. “When Alderaan was destroyed, we thought it would force the Rebellion to surrender. That we could prevent this war. But we’ve been at war for three years anyway.” And if someone as cynical as Thane can find rebel leaders to follow and admire, the Rebel Alliance won’t vanish as easily as you think. “Don’t you see? Those tactics didn’t work. If this station isn’t used to protect the Empire’s citizens from war, then how can we justify it?”
Nash stood up straighter, his eyes narrowing. When he answered her, his voice gave her chills. “Are you saying that Alderaan was destroyed in vain? For nothing?”
Ciena held up her hands. “Nash, please, I don’t mean to—”
“Listen to me,” he said. “Alderaan had to die for the Empire’s true power to be acknowledged. My homeworld’s end was also the end of the Imperial Senate, the end of the countless petty power struggles that had plagued Palpatine’s early reign. Only then was the Empire’s true strength revealed.”
His gaze had become glazed, almost unfocused, like that of someone suffering from a fever. This was what his face must have looked like during the Hudalla dogfight.
Nash continued, “This war is only the aftermath of the conflicts that have racked the galaxy during the past century, the final useless gasp of those who would oppose us. Through sheer stupid luck, the rebels managed to destroy the first Death Star. By rebuilding the Death Star, and using it as many times as necessary to restore order, we prove that their luck only goes so far. We prove that we are the only galactic authority and always will be.”
The lift doors slid open to the deck of the smaller docking bay that would soon welcome the Emperor. Countless officers filled the corridors, a crush that precluded any hope of speaking freely. Ciena felt vulnerable. Any of these people could and would expose her as a traitor—even her two best friends.
Then Nash’s hands closed gently around her shoulders. “You’re still not yourself,” he said. “After learning how Thane lied to you, of course you’re second-guessing who you can trust, maybe even what’s real.”
“That dogfight was one of the worst moments of my life,” she said. At least she could say that with total honesty.
“Trust in your service. Trust in us. Above all, trust in the oath you took when we graduated from the academy. Your integrity defines you, Ciena. You won’t go wrong if you only stay true.” Nash smiled down at her in the way that usually made her think up an excuse to leave the room. The same crush she’d tried so hard to discourage had become her best shield against a charge of treason.
Berisse, meanwhile, had already moved on. “What are we waiting for? The Emperor’s shuttle will be here soon. Let’s get it together!”
During the next couple of hours of instructions and formations, Ciena stood separately from her friends; commanders had a marginally better position, though hundreds of captains, admirals, and top gunners still stood in front of her. Numbly, she did whatever was asked of her, shifting position as the organizers thought better of it. At least it was something to do. She tried to occupy her mind by observing the power play among the various members of the top brass, but even that didn’t help. Seeing how petty their concerns were, and how often they betrayed fear of Lord Vader’s anger, only reminded Ciena that the Imperial Starfleet she’d served was not the one she’d believed in all this time.
Finally, the hour came. Lord Vader strode out, black cape billowing behind him; from a distance, the white shuttlecraft looked like a star. As it came closer, Ciena could see the distinctive gray stripe on its nose, the marking that informed everyone this was truly the Emperor arriving.
To Ciena’s surprise, Lord Vader bowed as figures began to descend from the shuttle. None of the other officers were required to bow. What could that mean? But the question was wiped from her mind as Emperor Palpatine came into view.
Palpatine’s face appeared on countless holos every single day. Like anyone else in the Empire, she could have described him as well as she could members of her own family. Hair almost entirely gray but still thick, face betraying only the slightest lines of care and time, his posture straight, his eyes sharp. In other words, the face shown to the world had nothing to do with the reality. Ciena’s eyes widened as she took in the face his heavy hood did not entirely conceal—the unnatural paleness of his skin, the inhuman folds and wrinkles. He walked through the bay with his back hunched and without so much as a word or glance toward the hundreds of loyal officers assembled to greet him.
Don’t be petty. So he’s grown older. That’s only natural! And surely the Emperor has other things on his mind than some silly ceremony—
The rationalizations didn’t work. What shook Ciena wasn’t merely the Emperor’s appearance; it was the sense of almost depthless malice that radiated from him, so strongly she could have reeled. Even from a distance, Palpatine awakened in her a physical dread—primitive instincts telling her to escape or fight.
Only one other person had ever made her feel that way: Darth Vader. Ciena had always told herself that Vader was an aberration, unique in the Empire. So far as it went, that was true. But the most terrifying thing about him, the constant sense of malevolence and danger he inspired—that was shared by the most powerful person in the galaxy.
Is this who I’ve been serving all along?
This is a bad dream.
Didn’t work. Thane could feel the iron bench beneath him, smell the grease-and-ozone scent of the repair bay. Every mundane detail made it clear he was wide awake.
This is a test. A drill. The Alliance leaders want to find out what we’d do when confronted with the worst-case scenario.
No way. They wouldn’t risk pulling together the entire rebel armada for a mere drill.
But if it wasn’t a nightmare and it wasn’t a drill, it was the undeniable, horrible truth: the Empire had built a second Death Star.
Thane could think of words from three dozen worlds to describe how he felt, each epithet more obscene than the last. But he lacked the breath to speak any of them. He could only stare at the rotating holo in front of the X-wing squadrons as they received their briefing from General Madine.
“Exactly how are they going to take care of the shield generator?” Kendy asked. “They’ll have dozens of troopers down on the forest moon of Endor, if not hundreds—”
“General Solo will take over from Major Lokmarcha, who was killed in action. Solo’s team on the moon of Endor will handle the shield generator. Each person involved in this assault has enough to do on their own without worrying about someone else’s job, Corona Five,” Madine said sternly.
Thane whispered to Yendor, “Who the hell is General Solo?”
“You know. Han Solo! Captain of the Millennium Falcon?”
The ship name sounded vaguely familiar, but Thane couldn’t quite place it.
