It was a threat, in its way, because no one needed to know until Quell caused trouble. But this was how the conversation always went, no matter who she asked about: Gravas, or Adan’s superiors, or General Syndulla.
They spent a few more minutes discussing the operations to come, and with her options curtailed Quell found it easier to concentrate on business. It wasn’t until she left Adan’s office that she found her mind wandering again.
Nasha Gravas escorted her to the turbolift, as if afraid Quell would peer over someone’s shoulder at a classified data display. As she stepped through the doors Quell said, “Adan trusts me more than you do.”
She waited for a reaction. She hoped to see some glimmer in Gravas’s eyes—some sign that Adan had shared Quell’s crimes with her, or not. Something to tell Quell how boldly she wore her shame.
Gravas only smiled darkly. “It’s not about trust. Adan likes you more than I do.”
Quell began laughing as the turbolift doors shut.
CHAPTER 4
SUBSURFACE ROT
I
As a child Soran Keize had visited the ruins of Navosh-Hul in the Warplands of Fedalle. The decay of ages had occluded that window into the planet’s ancient past, as had the anachronisms—the custodial droids and velvet ropes and explanatory plaques—but he’d perceived grandeur nonetheless. Wandering those alien palaces, knowing that every vast chamber and kilometer-long passageway had once possessed a name, served a purpose for a forgotten people, he had felt awe for the first time in his young life.
Years later, when he had stepped aboard his first Star Destroyer, the broad, endless corridors had returned the metallic scents and glasslike chimes of Navosh-Hul to the forefront of his mind. He had felt awe again, knowing that a battleship required more workers to construct than even Navosh-Hul—that although generations of Fedallese life-forms had carved and mortared and etched those palaces, tens of thousands of Imperials had worked factory lines and engineering pits to bring the Star Destroyer to life. Soran didn’t think of himself as an artist or historian, but on a visceral level he was drawn to the Empire’s grandeur as he had been drawn to the achievements of that lost Fedallese civilization.
The cruiser-carrier Aerie was not a Star Destroyer. It inspired no awe, and Soran was reminded as much every time he walked its cramped halls. It was an efficient, functional vessel, with equipment visibly packed into every alcove and cabling run close enough to overhead lighting fixtures to cast odd shadows onto every surface. No Imperial cadet, Soran thought, had ever aspired to serve aboard a Quasar Fire-class cruiser-carrier, no matter how useful such vessels were in the larger scheme of the navy fleet.
He descended a ladder on his way from the bridge and hesitated to drop his booted foot to the plating below. For an instant he considered taking an alternative path to the wardroom; then he dismissed the notion as cowardice and proceeded along his path, soon reaching a four-way intersection near the center of the deck.
Standing in the center of the intersection, oriented ninety degrees from Soran, was a humanoid figure cloaked in red leather and fabric. A plate of black glass served as its face, and it possessed a stillness that made obvious it was either statue or machine. Periodically, Soran knew, the figure would turn to face one of the other halls—like an antique timekeeping device cycling through the hours, or a primitive compass pointing to some place of galactic importance.
The intersection around the figure was decorated—anointed, Soran thought, distantly recalling lectures on the rituals of the Fedallese—with a hodgepodge of objects. Tucked into the space between piping and the corridor walls were rank plaques and officers’ caps and bottles of contraband liquor. From a cable hung a line of medals and ribbons that swayed in reply to the thrumming of the Aerie’s hyperdrive. On the walls themselves, writing etched by utility knives and laser torches filled whole panels—names of the dead from the 204th and elsewhere.
It was as much a memorial to the Empire and its fallen as it was a shrine to the entity at its center—the red-cloaked Messenger who had come to Shadow Wing after the Emperor’s death. The Messenger had spoken only once, so far as Soran knew, ordering the commencement of Operation Cinder before falling silent. Since then, it had remained with the unit, following Grandmother to Pandem Nai and escaping where she had not.
It had been in the same intersection aboard the Aerie when Soran had arrived. Its presence troubled him—it was a machine with outsized influence, using the name and voice of a dead Emperor who had strangled the galaxy as much as nurtured it—but the reactions of the Aerie’s company disturbed him more. The shrine grew daily. Pilots bowed their heads and fell silent as they passed. Soran had considered proposing it be moved to a cargo bay, but he feared that would only create dismay and distrust.
He met the faceless gaze of the machine as he passed. It said nothing. Two minutes later he arrived at the wardroom.
The chamber was dominated by a single table and left barely enough room between table and walls for seats—let alone for the occupants of said seats. Outside, the Aerie’s corridors had been almost silent aside from the ever-present hum of the engine; inside the wardroom, a dozen voices competed for attention.
“These attacks on Yaga Minor are suicidal—”
“Cherroi’s complaining about falling behind on that competition with Squadron Five! Is that really—”
“—rebel propaganda, all of it. Maybe they are winning, but the idea that we’d believe—”
Soran crept along the edge of the wall and took his seat at the head of the table. Gradually, the others fell silent. He swept his gaze over the faces before him: the 204th’s six squadron commanders and the acting commanders of the cruiser-carriers Aerie and Allegiance. They all looked back at him, stoic or impatient or concerned.
He made an effort to even his breathing. He steepled his hands against the table’s edge. He owed them all his best effort.
“The operation at Jarbanov was a success,” he said, the acoustics of the room flattening his voice. “The objective was completed with zero casualties and minimal damage to our fighters. Our engineering crews report that no fewer than seven of the TIEs we retrieved can be restored to working order, while the remaining two can be disassembled for parts. That brings us significantly closer to a full fighter complement—a necessity for any further action.”
Even to Soran’s ears, it didn’t sound like much of a victory. No one applauded.
He thought back to when Devon had rallied the citizens of Tinker-Town, teaching them to defend themselves against the local gangs. Life had been considerably simpler then.
“Successful or not, however,” he went on, “we do have much to learn from the operation. No one here was trained to worry about the energy cost of missed shots; nor are we used to fighting an enemy capable of deploying vast forces at a moment’s notice. Nonetheless, a failure to adapt will cost the wing dearly. We refine our methods with every mission. All of us.”
There was silence in the room. A few of the squadron commanders nodded.
Gablerone stiffened in apparent discomfort. “I thought,” he proclaimed from the far end of the table, “that this meeting was a state-of-the-war update.”
Soran studied Gablerone. The commander of Squadron Four was round-faced and curly-haired, with a mustache that hadn’t been in style in the Core Worlds during Soran’s lifetime. Soran had known Gablerone for many years and still thought of him as the man Moff Coovern had sent to replace Colonel Nuress as leader of Shadow Wing; despite Nuress’s stubborn unwillingness to retire, however, Gablerone had served adeptly and shown neither ambition nor disloyalty. No matter their differences, Soran respected him.
“I’d intended to leave that topic for the end,” Soran said. “We can’t do much good for the Empire if we can’t stay alive ourselves. But—” He leaned back and dropped his hands to his sides, project
ing indifference. “—I don’t wish to overstep. I’m here to advise. If the consensus is to alter the agenda, so be it.”
Gablerone had been the first to agree to appoint Soran adviser to the 204th. He’d also been the first to aim a rifle at Soran upon his arrival aboard the Aerie several weeks prior, accusing him of desertion. For this, too, Soran respected the man.
The assembled officers looked to one another. Gablerone finally answered, “Give us the Jarbanov postmortem first, then we talk about the war. My people want updates.”
There were no further direct challenges. They reviewed footage from the Jarbanov attack, and Soran called Gablerone’s second-in-command, Palal Seedia, into the conference to account for her flight’s actions. Though it was certainly possible to find fault with the strike, Soran had no desire to make an enemy of Squadron Four; he encouraged both Gablerone and Seedia to lead the discussion, raising concerns only when required.
Where Gablerone was a thundercloud of emotion forever portending a storm, Seedia was stoic save for a hint of arch wit. Slender-bodied and crested by a fuzz of dark hair, voice projected through a medical vocabulator, she defended her flight’s actions. When Soran brought up the fuel costs of tight maneuvering, Seedia argued that burdening her pilots with logistical worries could lead to fatal errors. Rather than answer with irritation, Soran agreed that the key was not in arbitrary limitations but to alter flight patterns in low-risk circumstances. He’d have raised the same objection in her place; he didn’t fault her for defending her people.
He waited until a good fifteen minutes into the discussion before asking why she’d gone out of her way to damage the colony’s hazard vaults. “We had all the distractions we needed,” Soran said. “By the time you irradiated the colony, the act itself was unnecessary.”
“Setting Pandem Nai on fire seemed unnecessary, too,” Seedia answered. “Yet the rebels did so without hesitation. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Lieutenant,” Gablerone growled.
“The concern is Jarbanov,” Soran said, “not Pandem Nai.”
But he let the jab go. He almost smiled.
By the time they’d dissected every shot fired over the junker world and every errant TIE-to-TIE transmission (“Assume that all comm traffic will be recorded, decrypted, and passed on to New Republic Intelligence,” he warned them), Soran’s people were growing restless. He dismissed Seedia and set to fulfilling his earlier promise. News of the war wouldn’t lift the commanders’ spirits, but it wasn’t a subject he could avoid forever.
“The New Republic propaganda broadcasts are not to be trusted,” he told them, “but as supporting evidence they have been useful. It appears Moff Pandion has indeed been killed, and that his forces have allied with Admiral Rae Sloane. Sloane’s fleet is clearly growing, and she appears to be operating primarily within the Outer Rim.
“Our technicians aboard the Allegiance have also managed to access a newsfeed operated by former Black Sun agents—no more reliable a source than Republic propaganda, but with its own slant. Combined with the data banks delivered to us by my junker friend, we can safely assert that the New Republic is every bit as chaotic as one would expect—their military supply lines are stretched thin and pirate and raider attacks are at levels roughly sixty times normal. The Empire’s been reduced to pockets of stability, but that stability seems real.”
Teso Broosh, Squadron Five’s commanding officer, had been staring at the wall during Soran’s summary. Now he asked simply, “What about Coruscant?”
Major Rassus looked to Soran; Soran waved him to speak. “The system is still blockaded,” Rassus said, “but the capital remains untouched by New Republic troops. No word yet from Grand Vizier Amedda.”
Captain Darita, Squadron Two’s latest commander, offered, “We could break the blockade. Not permanently, but we could make it to Coruscant. Aid in the fight, maybe extract Amedda himself.”
Gablerone scowled. “If Amedda wanted to get offworld, he’d find a way. One TIE wing can’t free Coruscant.”
“If not Coruscant, what about one of the other territories under siege?” Phesh spoke next, leaning forward across the table. “There’s still no news out of Anoat—the sector must be under control. We could pledge our services—”
“—and end up working for a power-hungry would-be Emperor who doesn’t give a rip about the galaxy at large.” Darita shook her head brusquely. “I’m not throwing in with some warlord outside the chain of command.”
“Then pick a target!” Phesh cried. “If we’re not rejoining the fleet—any fleet—then let’s at least do some damage out here!”
Soran allowed the officers to debate—to sketch plans ranging from the cautious to the absurd in their search for a purpose for the 204th Fighter Wing. He listened without judgment until Rassus asked, “What about the Emperor’s Messenger? If the droid’s with us, it must have orders…” Then Soran stood, striking the tabletop with the palm of his hand.
“We won’t solve this problem today,” Soran said. “Nor should we try. Until we’ve recovered our strength and reestablished the unit, planning for the future is a futile gesture.” Gablerone’s lips were twitching and even loyal Rassus shifted uncomfortably, but Soran didn’t stop. “I suggest we adjourn for the day and resume tomorrow.”
The officers muttered and cursed but filed out of the room, edging around the table and knocking shoulders as they made for the door. When the door slid shut Soran was surprised to find Broosh still present.
“Why encourage debate if you won’t accept their ideas?” Broosh asked.
He was a tall man, with a neatly trimmed beard and a face that seemed to have aged a year for every month since Endor. His voice was mild and puzzled.
“They don’t trust my ideas yet,” Soran said. “If they’re going to question me, I’d rather them do it in the open so I can guide them toward—well, toward something that won’t get us all killed.”
Broosh laughed—politely, Soran thought, but with no genuine amusement. Soran had known Broosh long enough to distinguish one from the other. “Give me your judgment,” Soran said. “You see the others from a clearer vantage.”
Broosh sighed, glanced toward the door, then said, “It’s not your ideas that are the problem. I don’t think anyone here believes they can lead this unit better than you—hell, it’s the only reason you weren’t tossed out an air lock.
“It’s you, Major. You’re a problem for them.”
“Proceed.” There was nothing in Soran’s voice to comfort or encourage Broosh. Nor was it necessary.
“You left us,” Broosh said. “After Nacronis, you told the squadron commanders that the war was lost—that continuing to fight was pointless—and you deserted your unit.” There was no rage in Broosh’s voice that Soran could perceive—just a scolding, like a parent might deliver to a child caught in a lie. “You offered us a way out. Honorable, in its way, and I know you were attempting to set an example, but you left us at our lowest moment.
“And you didn’t see what happened at Pandem Nai. You can’t understand the pilots who want revenge instead of safety, and they won’t understand you.”
Shakara Nuress was a friend, Soran thought. I want revenge as much as anyone.
But he knew it wasn’t true.
Leaving Shadow Wing had been a calculated risk. Soran had moved on to show the others that moving on was not only possible but necessary for survival. Yet they had learned nothing from his example and instead, Soran had discovered his assumptions had been in error. Leaving the battlefield had not given Soran a chance at peace; it had isolated him from allies while the New Republic had hounded him. His unit, meanwhile, had been exposed to the vehement spite of the Empire’s old foes.
The soldiers of the 204th were wrong to think victory was a possibility. Wrong to think revenge could be wrought in any satisfactor
y way. They were not wrong to think the New Republic would never leave them be.
“I appreciate your candor,” Soran said.
Broosh grunted. “I’m sure. Is—”
“One other question. What do you think of Lieutenant Seedia?”
Broosh arched his brow. “Speaking of revenge? Blowing the hazard vaults was a bad idea only she could’ve pulled off.”
“High praise.” Soran considered awhile, stood, and gestured to the door. “Thank you, Commander. Again, I appreciate your candor.”
Broosh exited with a brusque nod.
He was right about everything.
Almost everything.
Yet another reason Soran had to do justice by Shadow Wing.
II
The X-wing cut a slash across the dark sky, its strike foils closed. Wyl Lark followed the faint light of its thrusters—fainter than stars under the strange heavens of Troithe—and tried to mimic its dips and spins while maintaining a steady distance. He chased it low among the planet’s solar projectors, lower still over the near-invisible atmospheric ripple of the bombardment shield, and then into the upper atmosphere at speeds that left his head aswim and his vision glittering.
There, as he leveled out his ship and sucked in cold gasps of oxygen, he was struck by a revelation: He was a better flier than Yrica Quell. But she was the better starfighter pilot.
“Tell me we got the images,” he said, “and that we’re not making another pass.”
“Confirming.” If Quell was breathless, Wyl couldn’t tell by her voice. “CB-9 confirms the cam rig picked up twenty-two hundred images of the target area. Assuming your equipment’s functional we should have seventy percent coverage.”
Wyl tried to recall the briefing. The target had been 63 percent. “Recon’s over, then?” he asked.
He rubbed at the console as navigational data flashed onto its screens: a course looping them over the planet’s northern hemisphere. “We’re taking the long way around,” Quell said. “Comm network is glitching today, so better not to pass over even friendly territory. No reason to scare anyone.”
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