Then Wyl Lark came back to life and for about a day things seemed to improve.
* * *
—
Chass had been the one to rescue him—the dark-haired boy whose name she’d never been able to remember. She’d spotted his A-wing careening out of control after the squadron had emerged from a hyperspace jump. She’d peppered the ship with power-disrupting ion blasts until its thrusters had shorted out. The Dare’s tractor beam had caught him then, dragged Wyl’s fighter into the hangar where they’d found his canopy cracked and nearly shattered. The oxygen-deprived fool had spent the next days in bed.
“I saved your life,” Chass told him at his resurrection party.
“Do your people believe in life debts?” Wyl asked, squinting tired eyes in the stinging light of the medbay.
“What’s a life debt?” Chass asked.
“It’s a promise,” Wyl said. “An oath to serve the person who saved you from death. An oath to stand by her side forever, knowing your lives can’t be disentangled.”
Chass looked from Wyl to the others: Sata Neek and Skitcher and Rununja and Glothe, all of whom watched the exchange without comment. “I’m not getting stuck with you,” Chass finally said, and Wyl laughed.
“No, you’re not. My people don’t believe in life debts, either. But I really am grateful you helped me, Chass na Chadic.”
She felt like she was being mocked. But Wyl’s smile was so sickeningly sincere she just shook her head and cursed under her breath and said, “Watch where you’re flying next time, huh?”
Chass didn’t much enjoy celebrating with strangers. Without Fadime and Yeprexi and Quaysail and the rest of Hound Squadron, the dead of Hound Squadron, it wasn’t the same. But when the others began speculating about the rivals and lovers of Blink and Char, Sata Neek drew her away from the others to talk about his homeworld of Tibrin and the fire-coral beneath the phosphorescent sea. She told him she came from a savage jungle full of insects the size of a man’s arm, where Theelins were revered instead of leered at and objectified. If Sata Neek noticed that her stories were lies and that she didn’t bother to hide her falsehoods, it only seemed to make him more keen to continue the conversation.
After an hour, Chass was delighted to realize they were both flirting.
* * *
—
Thirty-three hours and two battles—two deaths—later, Chass, Sata Neek, and Wyl cut cubes of Jiruusi fruit in the galley and tossed them at one another. Sata Neek masterfully caught the cubes in his beak. Chass laughed, her chin dripping with juice. Wyl chopped as he told the story Chass had insisted on hearing.
“We didn’t know what we were doing—not until we were already at the muster point and waiting on coordinates,” Wyl said. “Riot was just one more squadron in the mix.”
“Rununja—Riot Leader—she knew,” Sata Neek interjected. “She knew the Empire had built another planet-killing battle station, and that Riot had been chosen for the attack.”
“Everyone in five sectors was chosen for the attack.” Wyl grinned. “Maybe Rununja knew, but Admiral Ackbar and General Calrissian and all the rest? They didn’t know about us. We were there to support the heroes however we could, not to get in the way.”
“Did you meet them?” Chass asked. “Calrissian? Or Skywalker?”
She thought she saw a flash of hesitation in Wyl when she said Skywalker, but Sata Neek was too quick for her to comment. “I met the princess!” he cried. “But not that day. That day we flew into the fray merely hoping that in the aftermath we could drink and eat as equals. And so—but no, my brother-comrade Wyl speaks more truthfully, and the Battle of Endor is a story that deserves truth.”
Wyl finished chopping and wiped the knife on his shirt. “She doesn’t want the true story,” he said. “She wants to hear you. You tell it—”
“Sata Neek is an idiot,” Chass said, “and I love his stories. But I want to know about Endor.”
She kept her tone light, gave the words a sardonic edge. But it might have been the most honest thing she’d said to either of them.
Sata Neek squeezed Chass’s shoulder with his talons. Wyl nodded. His voice dropped in pitch and volume. He told the story like a prayer, and Chass listened.
“It feels a long time ago now, far away from here. There were more ships than there were stars…”
She had heard stories of the Battle of Endor before. She’d read reports and seen broadcasts and even viewed grainy holo-footage of the battle station’s explosion. Wyl didn’t talk about the Death Star or the fall of the Emperor, though. He talked about the joy of the flight through hyperspace, knowing that their commanders hoped to end the war in a single stroke. He spoke of wonder at seeing so many ships, flown by so many species, all together and working toward a common goal. He spoke of fear and desperation as the battle seemed to go wrong; as the Emperor sprang a trap, and all appeared lost. He named his colleagues who died.
He told the story of men and women who gave everything in a fight against the ultimate terror. The story of sacrifices. He went on into the night, after even Sata Neek had gone, and Chass listened.
She dreamed later of dying above a green moon to stop a force of impossible evil. She dreamed of flying alongside Riot Squadron as Wyl and Sata Neek and Rununja fell behind and she, only she, could enter the depths of the Death Star. She dreamed of her lips on the beak of a bird-frog.
She woke to a voice over the intercom, speaking to the near-empty berthing compartment of the Hellion’s Dare. “Pilots to the ready room. We have a plan.”
* * *
—
“Riot Ten, standing by.”
It felt strange to say. It reminded Chass of her dream.
Outside the canopy of her cockpit, the fog of the Oridol Cluster surged and pulsed like something alive. Six ships flew in formation around her: Rununja, Sata Neek, Wyl, and Skitcher in their A-wings, Glothe and Merish in B-wings.
“All fighters, ready for attack run,” Rununja snapped.
We know, she wanted to say. We all know the plan.
Chass glanced at her instruments. Nothing red. Scanner showed the Hellion’s Dare falling away behind the squadron. New signals blinked into existence as the enemy cruiser-carrier, far ahead and out of sight, loosed its TIE fighters. Nothing they hadn’t seen a dozen times.
She set course, adjusted the audio filters on her comm, and slapped at a panel with her palm until noise—brutal noise, rhythmic and pumping—filled the shell of the ship. Synthtone and bass vye screeched chords over the rage of a gurgling Herglic singer. She felt the music in her bones and her horns, the pounding redoubling the ship’s vibrations as she increased thrust. It was a song of agony and revolution, a track she’d played while reducing armored Imperial walkers to burning hulks.
Not for this mission, she decided, and fumbled with the panel until the music changed. The bass dropped out and a new voice, higher-pitched and rapid-patter, accompanied the sound of bells. This track was energetic and nimble, surreal and incomprehensible and obscene, and Chass knew every word. She had to resist the urge to jerk the B-wing from side to side.
Now she was ready for the attack run.
“Entering visual range,” Sata Neek said. Chass barely heard him over her own singing.
She leaned forward in her harness, peering at the far-off glimmers that might have been ships and might have been cosmic dust. Much closer were the burning thrusters of an A-wing, perfectly positioned two kilometers ahead. Rununja was the front of the wedge, with the other A-wing pilots spread out in a V behind her and enclosing the three B-wing assault craft.
The plan was simple.
“We’re developing a theory about how they’re following us,” Captain Kreskian had said at the briefing. “They’re picking at the bones of the dead we leave behind, and we have no good way
to stop them. Except—” He’d shown his teeth then, a pair of incisors that could have gnawed through a bulkhead. “—by stopping them.”
Finally, Chass had thought.
She sang a high note and checked her range to the target.
“Incoming fighters,” Rununja called. “A-wings, break formation and intercept but do not leave Hound—do not leave the B-wings exposed.”
The jets of the leading A-wing flared, then dimmed as it pulled away. Chass spotted the first flashes of emerald lightning and glanced at her weapons panel. Her strike foils were still locked shut; with a few thousand kilometers left to travel, she wasn’t ready to switch her power and heat dispersal settings into combat mode. “You guys got this?” she called, the music dropping in volume automatically.
“Maintain course and speed,” Rununja answered. “We’ve got this.”
“Have fun,” she said.
As the B-wings raced forward, a battle took shape around them. First a handful of A-wings and TIEs swirled; then a dozen more fighters; then two dozen; then a thousand bolts of red and green glittered against the dust. The New Republic ships swooped and soared and forced the TIEs away from the B-wings, as if the assault ships flew through the eye of a hurricane. Chass jinked from side to side, evading stray shots from all parties.
Sata Neek cried, “Snapper attempting a variant Needle! Moving to disrupt!”
Wyl’s voice came through the comm. “Char’s heading for the Dare. Looks like he’s got partners—do we pursue?”
“Negative, Riot Three,” Rununja said. “The Dare’s expecting visitors. We stay on target until they signal.”
The music faded. For a moment the cockpit was silent except for the roar of the engine and the rattling of metal. Chass’s console blinked, alerting her to an enemy missile lock before the warning vanished almost instantly.
The cruiser-carrier came into view as another song started. This time, the beat was low and rapid and the words were long, slurred passages of pidgin Gamorrean. An outlaw song—flaunt music, rough and passionate and barely competent. Perfect, Chass thought, for what was coming.
The cruiser-carrier—Quasar Fire–class, outdated but functional—used the dagger design of a Star Destroyer rescaled to a fraction of a Destroyer’s size. This particular carrier had turned ninety degrees away from the squadron, concealing the hangar bays built into its undercarriage and presenting a slimmer targeting profile. That was an irritation but not an obstacle.
Green sparks flashed off the cruiser-carrier’s hull: turbolaser fire.
“Reduce speed. Lock S-foils in attack position,” Chass called. “Get ready to move in.”
She ignored the comm chatter from the A-wings and yanked the strike foil control cord. Servos hummed as automated locks released and metallic limbs extended, reshaping the B-wing into its familiar cross profile. Lethal weapons charged with an electric moan. She rotated the bulk of the B-wing around the cockpit, feeling a jolt as the gyrostabilizers kicked in.
The beat grew louder and a playful melodium joined as counterpoint to the low notes. Glothe and Merish signaled their readiness to Chass, and the three assault fighters made for their target.
This was the part she loved. She reveled in it without irony or embarrassment—racing toward the enemy, cannon fire baking her cockpit in emerald light. Swinging her fighter out of the path of a concussion missile, switching off her thrusters to confuse heat sensors, and relying on inertia to carry her forward. Refusing to flinch in the face of weapons that could reduce a city to slag and glass.
Running the gauntlet.
The ship jumped and swayed as particle bolts splashed against her shields and the protective electromagnetic bubble crackled and coruscated. The A-wings were too busy with the TIEs to draw fire from the cruiser-carrier. She was at the mercy of the enemy gunners. She considered her options: transfer power to her forward shields or transfer power to her weapons. She picked the same answer as always:
Weapons. Definitely weapons.
She checked her range again. Scale was deceptive with a Quasar Fire—it looked too much like a Star Destroyer, which made it tough to tell how far away the smaller vessel really was. Just a few more seconds, she told herself. Soon as you can pick out the hull plates.
A burst of laserfire lit her shields. Close enough, she decided.
The starfighter sizzled as she ignited her ion cannons. Three streams of electric-blue bolts streaked toward the carrier, sending out shock waves of lightning where they struck. Chass was barely aiming—she’d be lucky to short out a turbolaser emplacement or a sensor tower—but she only intended to cause confusion and panic. Glothe and Merish were firing as well, and together they descended on the vessel.
Her head slammed into her seat as a laser volley hit her dead-on. The ship rocked and the console glowed with alerts. She grinned and fumbled with the volume control until the music was deafening.
The cruiser-carrier was close enough to dominate her view. She cut short her barrage and turned, swinging the cross-body of the fighter to reposition her jets. Now she was passing over the carrier. Now she was a perfect target, and she could see her objective. She fired again and unleashed the B-wing’s entire arsenal, proton torpedoes and laser-guided bombs tearing through space as her shields burst and particle bolts scorched metal. She smelled burning wires. She heard Glothe scream and saw his blip fade from her scanner.
Far below, lightning raged over the rear of the cruiser-carrier. She shot past the vessel and checked her readings.
“Direct hit! Direct hit!” Merish called.
“Quasar Fire’s lost power to its engines,” Chass said. “They’re not following us anywhere.”
“Interceptors, escort the B-wings home.” Rununja’s voice. For the first time since Chass had met her, she showed a hint of pride at her squadron’s performance. It made her profoundly less insufferable. “Prepare to jump to lightspeed.”
* * *
—
But they didn’t jump to lightspeed.
They returned to the Hellion’s Dare without difficulty, scattering to avoid TIE pursuit and taking the long route home. The TIEs that had broken away to target the Dare during the battle—the unit led by Char—fled as the Riot pilots approached, unwilling to face the combined firepower of the frigate and its escorts.
Chass immediately understood why: They’d already completed their objective. The Hellion’s Dare was in flames.
Smoke billowed from three sections. Energy surged visibly across the hull, spilling out from torn conduits. The shield globe flickered in and out of visibility when it should never have been visible at all.
“Blistering hell,” Sata Neek said.
A static blast of a message came in from the Dare a minute later: The damage was substantial but the ship was intact and its weaponry largely functional. The TIE fighters had concentrated their efforts on the frigate’s reactor and hyperdrive.
Like the cruiser-carrier, it was going nowhere.
Chass stopped the music and listened to nothing.
CHAPTER 5
IDENTIFICATION FRIEND OR FOE
I
The Pursuer limped toward the inner system. Colonel Shakara Nuress suspected it might be the Star Destroyer’s last journey, and though the craft had been her home for years she was unsentimental about its fate. She’d had many homes, shipboard and planetside, over the decades. Even if this one survived, Shakara doubted she would walk its decks again.
“Approaching the minefield,” Major Rassus called.
The Pursuer’s final mission had been bloody and unspectacular, and its skeleton crew was ready to disembark. The last regional threats to the 204th’s privacy had been eliminated. No colony would witness the passing of Shadow Wing ships; no scout would reach sensor range of Shakara’s new base of operations without trigg
ering alarms. The only outstanding business was the Aerie’s quarry—the cruiser-carrier and its TIEs hadn’t reported back yet, and that was genuinely concerning.
Shakara wasn’t prone to panic or to underestimating her people. Silence was not indicative of failure, and the best hunters were patient when tracking elusive prey. She wondered whether the enemy had fled as far as the Oridol Cluster, which would have explained a great deal—if the cruiser-carrier had plunged into that chaotic region, it could be some time yet before she received word.
Quit speculating, you fool. Until you’ve docked, pay attention.
“What’s the minefield’s status?” Shakara asked. She saw nothing but the distant orange sun through the viewport, and turned instead to the nearest screen.
“Still substantial gaps. At a glance, I’d call it sixty percent complete, but that’s—”
“—better than when we left, yes. I’ll check in with the minelayers later.” She started to say more when the comscan officer rose abruptly and caught her gaze from the pit. “What is it?” she snapped.
“Incoming transmission,” the man replied. “Badly distorted—it must be boosted and patched through ten different relays—but it’s using the Pursuer’s transponder codes. They want us.”
Shakara hurried into the pit, ignoring the ache in her knees as she climbed down. She took the headset from the officer without a word and slipped it over her ears. She strained to hear the voice through hissing and pops: “—on behalf of Colonel Madrighast, this is the Unyielding. We must sever communications in two minutes. Please respond.”
Colonel Madrighast. The man was an idiot, but he was a loyal one.
“This is Colonel Shakara Nuress of the 204th Imperial Fighter Wing,” she replied.
For several moments, there was no answer. Then Madrighast’s colonial brogue came through: “Nuress. There were rumors you’d survived Cinder. I’m surprised you didn’t reach out to me first.”
Alphabet Squadron (Star Wars) Page 11
