“As you wish,” the droid said, and drifted downward as if falling asleep.
* * *
—
The Empire had as many types of prisons as it had weapons, and Caern had seen most of them over his career. The labor camps were luxurious in their way—brutal, apt to work inmates to death, but the prisoners were more likely to be killed by one another than by a stormtrooper. They were the place for irritants and petty criminals whom the Empire preferred to ignore. Conversely, the mass education centers were exercises in brutality, where whole villages were packed into conditions rats would balk at and left to fester in their filth. There were the mobile prisons like Accresker, built to discourage rescue attempts. There were the biocontainment zones for species the Empire hadn’t properly cataloged (and for any nonhuman who particularly irritated an Imperial officer).
Then there were the transitory facilities—transitory only in the sense that, officially, a prisoner was to be held at such a camp for a maximum of six months before being moved to a more appropriate location (or released, rare though that was). The transitory facilities were for prisoners who might be something special—rebel informants, or Crymorah syndicate lackeys, or accessories to some grand act of Imperial corruption—but whom the relevant authorities weren’t ready to label yet.
Many prisoners in transitory facilities were never charged with a crime at all. They were locked away because a stormtrooper or a loyalty officer or a middling bureaucrat found them indistinctly suspicious and wanted someone else to investigate further.
That was how Caern Adan had come to be in prison. How he’d gone from writing articles about disputes within the InterGalactic Banking Clan and Corporate Sector solvency to being confined for twenty-seven months for reasons no one had ever fully articulated.
He hadn’t been a rebel. He’d been a passable financial journalist, credentialed and censored by the Empire.
He drank before the facility, though not as much as he drank now. He’d always been a coward, but he’d never had phobias before his imprisonment. As was the way of things, his time there had radicalized him; persuaded him to join the Rebel Alliance. He’d made allies. Met Kairos. Met IT-O, though that relationship had begun as a rocky one.
He thought of all this as he made his way through the Lodestar to the brig where the stormtrooper was confined. He didn’t know the man’s name—the stormtrooper hadn’t offered and Caern had ordered the man kept in isolation. He’d performed enough interrogations that he didn’t need a name or a background check to predict how it all would go.
The stormtrooper would stonewall awhile. Caern would be polite, trying to coax out information with a smile and reassurances. When that didn’t work, he would grow frustrated but try to hide it; a day later he would emphasize to the stormtrooper how little time they had, how swiftly the chance of a merciful outcome was passing. He would hint at a deep familiarity with Imperial interrogation techniques and ask whether the stormtrooper believed the New Republic would enforce its regulations regarding the treatment of prisoners.
Maybe Caern would play upon the stormtrooper’s guilt, if he had any. Maybe he would lie about the man’s comrades and say that they, too, were imprisoned and ready to turn. Maybe Caern would bond with the man over a sumptuous meal. In the end, Caern would get what he wanted.
He could’ve passed the job on to IT-O. That thought crossed his mind as he nodded politely to the guard on duty and passed into a cramped corridor where three little cell doors waited. But Caern had, as Yrica Quell had reminded him, been useless enough so far. He operated best from behind a desk, or with an enemy who didn’t fight back.
Caern knocked on the door of the stormtrooper’s cell.
“It’s time for your interview,” he said.
CHAPTER 11
PRIMITIVE CULTURAL REGRESSION
I
Yrica Quell flew through an endless night in the cockpit of an Imperial TIE fighter. No asteroids or planets moved through the vastness around her; not even stars marked the void to contextualize her journey.
The TIE wasn’t real, though. It was a simulation, and while the scream of the engines was nearly perfect it didn’t have the smell of old sweat and seat leather. There were no scratches around the edges of the viewport where panels had been imperfectly installed. It wasn’t satisfactory, but it was better than an X-wing that had never fit her comfortably.
She changed course through the virtual blackness and grimaced when the thought came, unbidden, that her astromech unit would confirm her new vector. The X-wing might not have fit comfortably, but she was getting used to its luxuries.
She was surprised when a voice came through her comm. “Alphabet Leader, this is Spectre Leader. Bring it in for a landing, will you?”
She didn’t recognize the call sign. A moment later she recognized the voice. You can’t hide anymore, she told herself, and shut down the simulation. When she climbed out of the pod, General Syndulla was waiting.
“Alphabet Leader?” Quell asked.
The jade-skinned woman smiled crookedly. “It’s what the other squadrons are calling you. I think you’re stuck with it.”
She didn’t sound like a woman furious at being disobeyed, or at the deaths of prisoners, or at one of her subordinates manhandling a superior officer. Maybe she was just resigned—maybe Syndulla had known the mission would fail from the start, and she was ready to order Quell off her ship.
Or maybe she’d send Quell to a prisoner-of-war camp somewhere. She’d be within her rights.
“Walk with me,” Syndulla said, “and let’s talk.”
The general led the way out of the simulation center, speaking as she went. “I’ve already gotten the story from the rest of your squadron,” she said. “Interesting bunch. Rotten mission. Lots of people dead, and you should’ve known better.”
“I know.”
“Even your droid offered to resign. Sent me a report, said it mishandled the targeting calculations in that last run—that you were attempting an almost impossible shot, and it should’ve known as much.”
“It wasn’t the droid’s fault.”
“Agreed.”
Quell was puzzled by the notion that D6-L had tried to take the fall, but she had other concerns for the moment.
“It was a tragedy,” Syndulla went on. “You didn’t want it. I realize that, and I’m not saying you did. Maybe you could’ve planned better, but you weren’t anticipating an engagement and—” She stopped and turned to face Quell. “How many people died aboard that freighter?”
“Sixteen, I think. More, if the Verpine had a crew.”
“Okay. You know the number. That means you take this seriously and I don’t have to rub it in.”
Quell nodded. She felt the ache in her shoulder and her skull return, as if her body revolted against the conversation.
“You should’ve anticipated how things could go wrong,” Syndulla said. She was walking again, ducking under piping and conduits in the tight corridors of the Lodestar. Quell cleared the passages with ease. “But you’re young. You’re new to the job. You can learn from your mistakes. Your bigger problem—” She laughed to herself, and Quell wanted to bristle; yet there was no mockery in it. “Your bigger problem is that even if you had seen everything coming, your plan still would’ve fallen apart.”
Because I’m incompetent? She let the general talk as they turned a corner and headed toward the hangar.
“You expected your people to fly like Imperials,” Syndulla said. “You expected predictability and deference—and that’s your right if that’s how you want to run your squadron, but these people have spent years learning to trust their comrades and do what has to be done. I’m not saying it’s the best way—the 204th obviously operated differently, and you outflew us plenty of times—but it’s their way.”
�
��I do understand that, General,” Quell said. She wanted to quarrel with the particulars—with the notion that somehow rebel flying was more reliant on trust or more creative and improvisational, but there was truth to the idea that the Empire valued squadrons and the Rebellion valued pilots.
Syndulla nodded brusquely. The lights in the hangar had been dimmed in accordance with the ship’s clock. A few droids hummed about the bay, disengaging fuel lines or polishing nose cones. Aside from Quell and the general, only one other person occupied the vast chamber, tinkering with the underside of an astromech unit.
“Ragnell,” Syndulla called. “You working in the dark again?”
The tattooed mechanic slid out from beneath the droid and flicked her hand in what could have either been a cutting motion or the sloppiest salute Quell had ever witnessed. Quell felt a rush of discomfort, but the general seemed unperturbed. “My body’s still stuck on Chandrilan time,” Ragnell said. “Figured I’d get ahead before you broke more of my ships.”
“Good attitude. You watch out for the ships, I’ll watch out for my pilots,” Syndulla replied.
Ragnell retreated back under the droid. Syndulla waved Quell along as they walked past rows of X-wings and Y-wings. Gold and blue stripes marked the Y-wings of Hail Squadron, while the starfighters of Meteor Squadron were decorated with brightly colored paintings of rock and ice. Like the sloppy salute, these personalizations discomforted Quell. The Empire permitted no customization.
Syndulla noticed Quell’s gaze and murmured, “Ragnell’s got more than a few hidden talents. Tattoos and paint jobs among them—but don’t tell her I told you.”
Quell cast another sidelong glance at the woman under the droid, but Syndulla was moving on and her voice was businesslike once more.
“How well do you know your people?” Syndulla asked.
Well enough, Quell wanted to answer, but she knew it wasn’t the reply the general was looking for. “I’ve read their profiles. I’ve talked to IT-O—Adan’s droid—and gotten its opinion. I’ve participated in—”
“All right, you’re not the eats-with-the-pilots sort of commander. Let me put it this way: You know your squadron will fight, but will they fight for you?”
Quell said nothing.
“Do they know that you’ll fight for them?”
Again, Quell said nothing. Syndulla waited as if she expected an answer, but Quell had nothing to give. “Come on,” the general said, and marched at a brisker pace out of the hangar before climbing a ladder to the upper decks. Her tone became curt, and Quell wondered if she’d displeased her. “I’m giving your squadron an assignment—and don’t you dare tell me I can’t. So long as you’re operating out of my ship, I’ll go around Caern Adan whenever I want.”
“Yes, General.” Whatever Quell was about to be assigned, she doubted it would be to her liking; but any assignment at all suggested she wasn’t about to be imprisoned.
“Alphabet’s been chewing up resources I’d rather use on other projects. Not that Shadow Wing and Pandem Nai aren’t strategically important—I’ve heard Adan’s arguments and I believe them—but the Lodestar has its own battles to fight. You’re using up fuel, power cells, food rations, and I’m short on all of it.
“The truth is, Lieutenant Quell, we weren’t ready to win this war. Our supply lines are shot. I spend more time discussing logistics nowadays than I ever did when we were a patchwork fleet scampering around the galaxy.”
“The Separatists had the same issue in the Wentrion Gaps.” Quell saw a glimpse of surprise through the general’s mask. “I’ve read a lot of military history.”
“I imagine you have,” Syndulla said. “In any event, since we don’t have any new leads on Shadow Wing right this second, it’s time for you to pay your dues. There’s an old rebel supply cache not far from here. The base hasn’t been used for years but we kept it stocked in case we needed a safe house.” They reached a door with a roughly affixed plaque reading GENERAL HERA SYNDULLA. The general indicated for Quell to wait, entered the room, and returned a moment later with a datapad in hand. “I want your team to strip the base bare and lug everything back home. Nothing romantic about the job, nothing they’ll sing songs about, but I can’t spare other forces to do it.”
Quell took the datapad and glanced down at a list of coordinates, topographic surveys, and inventory listings. “Noncombat, I assume?” she asked.
“You assume right. You show up, you land, you spend a day or two loading cargo. Best case, it turns out those inventories are accurate and we don’t have to requisition more equipment for a bit. Worst case, at least pirates won’t get whatever’s there.”
“Are looters a serious concern?”
“Only if someone’s been stupid enough to talk about the base in public. But rebel secrets have been spilling out since Endor, so anything’s possible.” Syndulla tapped the door’s keypad. The door locked with a metallic clunk. “I’m sure Officer Adan will have a laundry list of objectives he wants pursued when you get back. But how you handle this mission will help me decide if there’s another.”
Quell clenched the datapad until she feared the screen would break. “Understood,” she said.
She was being punished, and deservedly so. She’d been given a menial task. But she was also being tested—if only to determine her willingness to accept a menial punishment.
She’d expected worse. She would see it through.
They started walking again. Quell felt reasonably certain she’d been dismissed, and cringed inwardly at the awkwardness of following the general all the way to the pilots’ berths and crew quarters. But Syndulla made no comment, and they moved in silence.
Even at night, sounds of life echoed through the corridors: irritable shouts and calls for assistance; the whistling of droids and the replies of their masters; laughter drifting out of one of the ready rooms; and from somewhere—Quell couldn’t guess where—the sound of music, real-time voices singing over recorded instruments.
“Can I ask you something?” she said to the general.
“Ask whatever you want while you’ve got me.”
She hesitated. The question felt like a risk, but she wanted to know. “You’ve been doing this a long time,” Quell said. “The Imperial Navy has massive dossiers about you.”
“More a statement than a question.” Syndulla flashed a good-humored smile, then answered: “More than a decade now.”
“Is it worth it?”
Syndulla cocked her head.
“Not the Rebellion,” Quell added quickly. “Not fighting against the Empire, but—being a soldier. Everything it costs.”
Syndulla’s face took on a look not—as Quell had feared—of disdain or suspicion, but of something approaching pity or maternal sympathy. “Look around you, Yrica. The answer’s all over.”
Quell didn’t understand. When the general walked on, she didn’t follow.
II
The moon had no name. The planet only had a numeric designation. The star system was called Harkrova, after an ancient astronomer who—Nath could only assume—believed he’d found something worth discovering.
He had been wrong.
The squadron launched from the Lodestar at roughly sixteen hundred local time, as the Acclamator-class battleship moved on to the front lines of the sector conflict. Since returning from Abednedo, Nath had spent most of his free time buying drinks for the pilots of Meteor and Hail squadrons, gauging the status of General Syndulla’s campaign and the likelihood that any of them would survive to reach Pandem Nai. He had his doubts. Meteor and Hail were joining Vanguard at Argai Minor to aid ground forces against what one pilot had described as “the citadel from Darth Vader’s schoolyard sketchbook, with more weapons emplacements than personnel.”
In his younger days, Nath had craved a decent fight. As he got older, his cr
avings waned. His appreciation for the thrills of combat was balanced by his desire to keep breathing. So he wasn’t really sad to miss the Argai operation. He just had doubts about the salvage job he was stuck with.
He glanced at the console of his Y-wing and saw a message from T5 flash across the screen. He laughed at the obscenity and muttered, “You and me both, brother.”
Harkrova I was the only planet in the system: a barren, sulfurous wasteland illuminated by a dim yellow sun that looked small and distant even from space. Its single moon was more hospitable, covered in mountains and lush forests, and Nath found himself peering below as he emerged from the moon’s cloud cover. Needle-leafed cyan trees completely obscured the ground. Nath hadn’t grown up with forests, and they still surprised him with their beauty.
“So where are we supposed to land?” he asked over the comm. “Tell me there’s a clearing.”
“Not exactly.” Quell’s voice came through clear and steady and dead as ever. “There’s a mountaintop.”
Was that a joke? he wondered.
It wasn’t long before all five vessels landed on a stony peak overlooking the woodland, kilometers from the site of the supposed rebel cache. Nath shivered as he climbed out of his fighter and saw his breath wisp upward. He began checking his emergency gear. “Going to be a long hike,” he called toward Wyl as the kid popped his canopy. “Pack well or don’t whine on the way.”
Wyl laughed. Nath gave the other ships a glance and saw Chass staring at him, arms wrapped around her chest. Were Theelins cold-blooded? He couldn’t remember.
Quell was next to speak, confirming what Nath had suspected. “Topo maps indicate we’re four, five hours from the cache. We may not make it by nightfall so be ready to camp. And keep in mind we’ve got a lot of supplies to cart back this way.”
“Any chance there’s transport at the cache?” Wyl asked.
“There’s a chance,” Quell said.
Alphabet Squadron (Star Wars) Page 25
