by Claudia Gray
He switched on the sensor, waited a long moment—then saw the indicator turn green. Signal sending.
“We made it,” he whispered to Ciena, who lay unconscious against his shoulder. Maybe in her sleep, her subconscious would hear him and subtly let her know everything was going to be all right.
A small line of blood marked a cut on her forehead. Thane untied the mourning band from his arm to use as a makeshift bandage, staring down at her in wonder.
Of all the ships in the galaxy, I boarded hers, he thought.
Maybe…maybe Ciena and Luke Skywalker and the other traditionalists were right about the Force. Maybe there was some power that bound the galaxy together and took you unfailingly to your fate. The Force must have guided him to her so he could save her life and they could go on together.
It felt like all the cynicism and anger of his old life had finally melted away. He lived under the authority of leaders who were fair and just; he had fought a noble war and was on the verge of winning; he served alongside people he both liked and respected. Ciena had been freed from the shackles binding her to the Empire, and from now on she had no limits. Neither of them did. How was it that a guy like him—without hope, without faith—had found his way here?
He leaned his forehead against hers. Despite the painful bruises swelling on his face and body, despite the blood still seeping into his mouth, despite the terrible shape Ciena was in and the stifling heat of the escape pod, he thought that might be the single most joyful moment of his life.
Thane heard sifting sounds above and lifted his face to see the escape pod doors shiver. Then they slid open, sending a small cascade of sand streaming down onto their feet and revealing a New Republic search team silhouetted against the bright sun.
“Am I glad to see you guys.” He lifted Ciena in his arms. “Help me out, will you?”
“Sure thing, Corona Four.” One member of the team leaned forward to pull Ciena through the opening to freedom; Thane crawled out just after and flopped down in the sand beside her.
The medic leaned down. “Do you need assistance?”
“I’d take care of her first,” Thane said.
He expected the medic to begin examining Ciena’s injuries. Instead all the other team members pulled their blasters as the leader kneeled down with a pair of magnetic binders for her wrists.
“What the…?” The words died in Thane’s mouth as he realized the New Republic soldiers were doing exactly what they were supposed to do. They were capturing a high-ranking Imperial officer who would have to be tried for her crimes.
He’d thought he was rescuing her, that the Force had miraculously intervened to protect them both. All Thane had done was deliver her to prison.
CIENA STOOD IN her cell, hands clasped in front of her. The energy field that separated her from the rest of the prison was almost perfectly transparent, tinting the world beyond slightly silver. She had not bothered looking out during most of her captivity—at times she’d been so depressed that she had lacked the will even to get out of her jailhouse bunk.
Today, however, she had a visitor.
She knew Thane by the heavy tread of his boots alone, or maybe that was only wishful thinking. Ciena had strained at every small noise outside the entire day, even though he hadn’t been due until this hour.
But this time it was him.
Thane smiled when he saw her, though she could see the stricken look in his eyes. Did he feel guilty for caging her like a bird? Good, she thought. But probably he was more shaken by the sight of her standing there thin and plain in her prison dress, which was very nearly the light brown color of her skin.
“Autumn leaf,” he said, more to himself than to her—then recovered himself. “Ciena. Thanks for finally agreeing to see me.”
She simply nodded. There was no point in telling him that she’d relented after just one week, only to be told that he’d already shipped out on a mission. That had been a moment of weakness. Now she was finally ready to talk. “We have so much to say,” she said. “It’s hard to know where to begin.”
“Tell me why you didn’t allow me to visit before.”
Ciena turned her head, unwilling to look him in the eyes as she said this. “I wish you had left me aboard the Inflictor.”
“If you’re waiting for me to apologize for saving your life, you’ll be waiting awhile.” After a brief silence, he added, “But I understand why you feel that way.”
“Do you?”
“You wanted to do your duty and escape the Empire at the same time. Suicide was the only way to do that—to balance the scales. But you shouldn’t measure yourself against the Empire. You’re worth more than the rest of it put together.”
Ciena glanced up at him then, touched despite herself. He looked even more handsome than he had in her daydreams. His hair had darkened slightly, more red than blond. Someone who had not seen him since his childhood might not recognize him now.
But she thought she would always know him, by his step or his flight or his eyes. Something about his eyes never changed.
“You do understand,” she said quietly. “But I wish you’d respected my decision.”
“You’re glad to be alive, though, right?” Thane stepped closer to the barrier as he added, more hesitantly, “Aren’t you?”
For a moment Ciena couldn’t answer. Finally, she managed to say, “It’s too early to tell.”
He didn’t seem to have a reply to that. She didn’t blame him.
There were times she truly wished she had died rather than face this shame. At other moments, however, Ciena found herself enjoying the smallest pleasures of existence—the only ones available inside her cell. And then she felt she hadn’t been ready to die just yet.
Looking at Thane now was one of those moments.
She said, “It’s hard. Everything I worked for my whole life has been destroyed. Everything I ever fought for is a lie.”
“Not everything. In the end, you fought for me.” His smile was crooked. “That’s got to be worth something.”
Her throat tightened against tears she refused to shed. “That’s the only part still worth anything.”
“Ciena—”
“It was the perfect trap. You know?” She had to clench her fist hard enough for her nails to dig into her palm; focusing on the pain kept her from breaking down completely. “I was so dedicated to honor that I became a war criminal.”
“There’s more than one kind of trap. For a second there I’d convinced myself that we’d fixed the whole galaxy, truth and justice had prevailed, so on and so forth—even started believing in the Force, of all things—” He laughed at his own folly. “So I had enough hope to take that impossible chance and come after you, but it turned out I saved you only for this. And now you’re trapped here, where we can’t even touch—”
“Stop. Please stop.” Ciena hid her face from him; she could tell he’d turned slightly away.
For a few moments they both remained silent, struggling for control. Ciena had thought her own sorrow was too much to bear, but now she had to endure Thane’s, as well. It was too much for either of them—and yet they had no choice. When one was wounded, the other bled. He was a part of her, forever.
She managed to slow her breaths, regain her composure. By the time she lifted her head again, Thane had calmed himself, too. “So. Are you all right? They’re treating you well?” He glanced around her small cell as if inspecting it.
She had to admit the truth. “Yes. They give me holonovels and simple games. I can claim up to seven hours of outdoor exercise a week—under supervision, of course—but the doctors agree I shouldn’t do anything too strenuous until I’ve healed some more.” Her hand stole across her abdomen, unconsciously shielding it.
He winced. “You know I would’ve been more careful with you if I’d realized how badly you’d been injured.”
“Yes. I know.” Though perhaps that would have been the death of them both, because it had taken that much force for him
to overcome her. She felt strangely proud of that. “Anyway. I sleep a lot. The bunk here isn’t much, but it’s reasonably comfortable. I’ve been treated humanely by the Rebellion…the New Republic officers.” She brushed a loose coil of hair away from her face, self-conscious about her next admission. “I had expected interrogation by torture. The Empire had taught me to think that was standard procedure—all any prisoner could expect. Instead I got medical treatment and information about my legal rights.”
“Have you told them anything voluntarily?” Thane hastened to add, “I’m not pressuring you. I’m not here on behalf of the New Republic, and I never will be, all right? You never have to doubt whether they sent me in here to play you.”
Ciena had harbored dark thoughts about that very scenario late at night as she lay in her bunk. But now she could honestly reply, “I believe you.”
Visibly relieved, he continued, “I asked only because—you know, they’d cut you a break if you did.”
As if that could ever persuade her. “My oath still holds, Thane. While I admit that I see the New Republic in a different light now, I’m not turning traitor. Nor do I accept their rule. From what I’ve heard, the war’s still raging on, chaos has returned to the galaxy—”
“It’s the normal disorder of planets trying to get their governments back together after years of—” Thane sighed. “Skip it. We both know each other’s lines.”
“There’s no point anyway,” she said. “They’re not going to ‘cut me a break,’ no matter what I tell them. I’m a war criminal, remember? The New Republic will make me pay for my service to the Empire.”
Maybe that was no less than she deserved.
Thane stared at her for a long moment; then, to her astonishment, he began to smile and shake his head. “You’re going to get out of here pretty soon even if you don’t talk. If you did share some intel, I bet you wouldn’t even have to stand trial.”
“What are you talking about?” Her appointed defender had shown her the list of charges against her; it spooled down several screen lengths and elaborated with great detail her service at the battles of Hoth, Endor, and Jakku. She could not deny that she was responsible for every single item on that list. “We both know I’m guilty. The New Republic will want to make an example of me. They’ll need to prove that law and order prevail, precisely because it’s a new law and a new order. The lines have been redrawn and I’m on the wrong side.” At last she spoke her worst fear out loud: “I might be in this jail cell the rest of my life.”
“We’ve had this argument before, too, you know.” He leaned closer to the energy field. “My idealistic phase is over. I’ve remembered how the world really works. And the thing is, Ciena, things fall apart. Too many people had to work for the Empire for them all to be jailed. That’s literally hundreds of billions of people, not even counting the troops who vanished with the rest of the Imperial Starfleet. You think the New Republic can punish every single one?”
“They’ll free the clerks and the cleaners. Not a captain of a Star Destroyer.”
But Thane was unconvinced. “You have useful talents. That’s one of the things the New Republic is going to start looking for, sooner rather than later. Plus you have friends in high places—or I do, anyway, and I intend to have a long talk with every single one who could help you.”
“I don’t want you to ask for special treatment on my behalf,” she protested.
“Too bad,” he said. “Because the deck is always stacked, Ciena. All we can do is stack it in our favor.”
Ciena remembered the first time they’d had this out. They’d been in a cantina in Valentia, the fates dividing them as never before, and they’d argued and pleaded until they’d finally broken down and made love. It felt like another lifetime—lying next to him, pulling him close—yet it felt like yesterday. She could never forget how she’d felt about Thane that day, and she never wanted to.
“So here we are again,” she said with a rueful smile. “Debating order versus chaos.”
“Maybe fate will finally settle the question for us. If you’re right, then, yeah, you have some rough years ahead. But if I’m right—and the New Republic chooses freedom over vengeance—you’ll be out of here in no time.” Even through the silver shimmer of the energy field, she could see the tenderness in his eyes. “Either way, you know I’ll be waiting for you, right?”
Ciena would have given anything to hold him then, even as she said, “You shouldn’t.”
“You would, if it were me inside that cell.”
“…yes. I would.”
Slowly she raised her hand, flattening her palm against the edge of the energy field. Thane did the same. They mirrored each other, almost touching but forever apart.
“In the month since the Battle of Jakku, the Empire has attempted no further large-scale offensives. Sources report all Imperial vessels within the Core and Inner Rim staying within the boundaries defined by treaty.” The woman in the news holo smiled as she continued, “A few prominent members of the Provisional Senate have speculated that the New Republic’s war with the remnants of the Empire has finally come to an end and that a final surrender may be imminent. However, in her address today, the chancellor warned that all planets should remain on high alert, and the New Republic Starfleet should be kept on a war footing for the foreseeable future. Here to discuss both sides of this issue are—”
Nash snapped off the rebel propaganda from the Hosnian system. He’d already learned all he needed to know—namely, that the so-called New Republic believed the Empire beaten. Fools.
Let them grow fat and lazy, he thought. Let them congratulate themselves. Let them go slack.
Commander Nash Windrider left his personal office and walked out into the main docking bay of his new ship, the attack cruiser Garrote. Every subordinate straightened at the sound of Nash’s boots on the metal floor; not one of them turned away from his or her work to so much as glance in Nash’s direction. Good. Already he’d managed to reestablish proper discipline.
For someone who had spent years assigned to a Star Destroyer, an attack cruiser posting might have seemed like a step down—but the Empire had so few Star Destroyers left. He was flight commander on a strategically important vessel, which was a step toward eventually receiving his own command. Nash took pride in readying the Garrote for the next stage of the war, the next assault.
The one the rebels wouldn’t see coming.
He strode between the long lines of TIE fighters, all of which were being refitted with stronger weapons of new design. These would be able to punch through energy shields and starfighter hulls with a single blast, which meant the one advantage starfighters had over TIEs—their shielding—would vanish. Changes like that could win the war.
Rather odious to think that Ved Foslo had invented these weapons. Nash had always assumed Ved’s rise through the ranks was solely due to his father’s interference, yet it turned out his former roommate had some aptitude after all. No doubt his adolescent arrogance had become completely insufferable in adulthood.
Nash sighed as he reminded himself that, of his two roommates at the academy, Ved Foslo was by far the least offensive.
To think that Thane Kyrell might have survived the war, might even be out there now smugly celebrating the Rebellion’s temporary advantage—it sickened him. Why should Ciena have died while Thane lived?
But you couldn’t look to the fates for justice. You had to take retribution into your own hands. The Empire had taught him that.
“Sir? Commander Windrider, sir?” Nash’s assistant had begun to follow on his heels, as usual. “A question, if I may?”
“You may, Lieutenant Kyrell.”
Dalven Kyrell stood before him, data tablet in his hands, visibly nervous. He had no idea of his brother’s role in the Rebellion; Nash had elected to keep that truth from him and treat this Kyrell as an individual. It seemed only fair. However, taken on his own merits, Dalven was weak and toadying, capable of no more than fulfilling
the basic tasks he was given. Fortunately duty required no more of the flight commander’s assistant. “I wanted to ask about the list of officers you nominated for top commendations.”
Was Dalven going to ask why he wasn’t on it? If he did, Nash intended to tell him. “What is your question?”
“You nominated Captain Ciena Ree for the Distinguished Medal of Imperial Honor. I think you meant the more common Medal of Honor—”
“I know precisely what I meant, Lieutenant Kyrell.” Nash enjoyed speaking that surname with a slight sneer. “The Distinguished Medal of Imperial Honor is the highest medal we can bestow, and I can think of no one more deserving. To have remained aboard her ship when the autodestruct had failed—to personally crash it into the planet’s surface to keep the vessel from enemy hands, at the cost of her own life—Captain Ciena Ree deserves to be remembered.”
“Yes, sir,” Dalven said weakly, but he continued, “I only meant—nominating someone for that honor is a big step, one others might comment upon as a sign of factionalism.”
“Usually, yes. In this case, however, I have it on good authority that a number of captains, generals, and admirals intend to nominate her, as well. Even Grand Moff Randd may do so. The Empire endures its inner conflicts, but on this we all agree. The late Captain Ree died a hero.”
“Absolutely,” Dalven hastened to add. “Such a terrible way to die.”
“Terrible? I would call it glorious. We all wish she were still with us, but that doesn’t change the fact that there is no finer fate than to die for the Empire. I hope I shall get the chance myself someday.”
“Of course, sir. Yes, sir.” Dalven slunk away.
Thane had always said Dalven made fun of Ciena when they were children, mocking her poverty and her old-fashioned ways—as if everyone on Jelucan weren’t a backwater bumpkin. Sometimes when Nash remembered that and thought of Dalven ridiculing a young, helpless Ciena, he wanted to find an appropriate suicide mission for the man.
But he could no longer assume Thane had been telling the truth. Apparently, Thane Kyrell was a master deceiver.
