Shadow Fall (Star Wars)

by Alexander Freed

  “Adan,” Yrica Quell said.

  He hadn’t expected to hear from her until hours after the battle. They’d been getting on better lately, though—she seemed calmer—and she had become more communicative.

  He wondered on occasion if she was simply manipulating him.

  “I’m here. What’s going on?”

  “Kairos is hurt,” she said, her tone flat. “We’re evacing now. I’m not sure of her condition. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Send coordinates to my team,” he said, and closed the channel as he stood. He paused long enough to grab his comlink, made it out of his office and halfway to the turbolift before it occurred to him to return for his coat, then forged ahead anyway. He ignored the stares from Nasha Gravas and the rest of his staff—they could supervise themselves for an hour.

  He tried to snuff the anxiety in his chest as he formulated a plan. If her injuries were bad enough they’d take her to the spaceport, but only if she could survive the trip. Otherwise they’d move her to a field station, and he’d need a shuttle to get there. He tried to remember who was still available to fly him—who hadn’t gone to the capital to fight?—and ran through a mental list of names as he stepped out into the spaceport proper.

  Had he sent Kairos to die?

  It had never occurred to him that Kairos could die.

  If she did die—

  Time became a blur. He spoke to Nasha through his comlink. He made arrangements for an airspeeder. He kept walking alongside the refugee settlement and out to the tarmac where a pilot met him. Thirty minutes later he was at a field site, and only then did he find the courage to alert IT-O. The droid would want to know, even if Adan didn’t want to talk to him.

  It had been the three of them in the camp, long ago. Adan owed and trusted Kairos, as she owed and trusted him.

  The medical evac point was nothing more than a few oversized tents erected around a makeshift landing pad outside the flooded remains of the Thannerhouse District. Adan doubted anyone present, organic or droid, had the proficiency to treat Kairos. But he would put in the call anyway. He’d tell IT-O to unlock her files, to decrypt and declassify everything he had about Kairos’s anatomy. He expected they’d argue about it, but IT-O would obey an order if it was given.

  He’d worry about Kairos’s reaction later. Yes, she trusted him. She would expect him to keep her secrets. But he owed her.

  He was activating his comlink, breathing in the stink of polluted water, when someone behind him spoke his name.

  “What?” Adan asked, not turning around.

  There was no answer but the muzzle of a blaster against his scalp, an electrical crackle, and the sound of his own breath expelled from his lungs.

  CHAPTER 7

  SCHEMES AND DREAMS

  I

  He had chosen the timing carefully, waiting for a moment when the value of his guidance had become clear. Soran Keize didn’t think of himself as a man proficient at politics nor one who enjoyed them, but he knew when he was liked and when he was loathed. Only a fool proposed a new enterprise when he was loathed.

  Thus, the morning after the attack on Parozha VII, Soran called the leadership of the 204th into conference. It had been barely six hours since Squadrons Two, Three, and Four had swarmed the supply port, first annihilating every docked ship and then cracking open the station itself; suffocating the inhabitants and blasting open the cargo bays so that the Edict’s tractor beam might retrieve whatever bounty the crew could lock onto. It was an act of piracy more than an act of war, but the Parozha VII outpost had once supplied the Empire and now aided the enemy; before Endor, the Rebel Alliance had struck ports with less justification.

  Word was that the outpost had been operated by the same family of Parwans for generations—a forest of over seventy of the fungal creatures, left to drift in vacuum. The galaxy was a touch less wondrous without them.

  The squadron commanders and senior staff of the Edict and Aerie sat at the Edict conference table where Soran sipped a cup of tea—a blend he didn’t recognize, one of the few worthwhile spoils from the attack—and waited for their attention. “We have an opportunity,” he finally said. “A chance to do more than simply restock, rebuild, and survive another month. I’d like to put forth a proposal.”

  The words carried risk—the phrasing was a concession to his status as adviser, yet there was no humility in his tone. He might well incite the commanders against him.

  “The Deep Core system of Cerberon has been hard-pressed in recent months,” he went on. “Once an Imperial stronghold, its planets are rapidly falling into rebel hands and we have received a plea for aid.

  “The message was corrupted but it appeared to be from allies of Governor Hastemoor. It contained details of the enemy presence in-system as well as the remaining Imperial holdouts. Such distress signals have not been infrequent—” He raised a hand to forestall questions that didn’t come. “—but all of them so far have been from parties too distant or desperate to be worth attending.”

  Now he did wait. It was Major Rassus who said, “I’ve seen the distress calls. I’ve never pressed to pursue them; there’s little we can do for the Empire’s gangrenous limbs. So tell us—what makes this call different?”

  “Specifics,” Soran said, “and a plan of action.”

  He tapped the control panel on the conference table. Lights dimmed and a hologram shimmered into being, displaying the layout and orbital paths of the Cerberon system—a tangled knot of satellites and planets and asteroids whipped around the mass of a black hole. A blinking halo accented a dot labeled TROITHE. “The sender suggested an unusual approach to the capital—a planet heavily shielded and under guard by enemy naval forces.

  “The system’s orbital dynamics are—as you can see—extraordinarily complex. The local government expended significant resources studying and modeling the effects of the black hole. Wartime activity caused additional disruption in the debris field, which in turn resulted in minor collisions between uninhabited planetoids.” He paused and smiled long enough to make a show of humility. “I’m quoting the reports now—astrophysics isn’t my field, but the Edict’s main computer double-checked the math.”

  Lieutenant Seedia raised a single finger. Soran had expected her to challenge him again at some point—had invited her to the conference anticipating it, despite her rank—though now seemed an unusual time to do so. He acknowledged her with a glance and a nod.

  “I spent a year in the astronomy department at the Institute for Quantitative Studies at Bothawui.”

  Not a fact that had been in her profile; he wondered if it was true. “If we decide to proceed, I’ll make sure you have access to the data,” he said. She appeared satisfied, and he continued:

  “As of the Empire’s last readings—and by last, I do mean final—it appeared that a small asteroid would soon traverse the debris field and approach Troithe at high velocity.” The holo highlighted a second dot, drawing an arcing path toward the first. “As a weapon, it would prove ineffective even if we wanted to bombard the world. Troithe’s planetary defense shields would be raised well in advance and hold against the impact. However, were a TIE unit hidden on the asteroid itself…” He paused, allowing them to come to their conclusions before he echoed them. “…it could approach Troithe undetected, then launch an attack near Troithe’s orbit before alarms could be sounded or shields could be raised.”

  It was a plan worthy of the Rebel Alliance, and that was distasteful in its own right. But no frontal assault would take Cerberon, and Soran saw that his commanders understood. Darita appeared grudgingly impressed, eyeing the holo with pursed lips and crinkled nose. Teso Broosh sat impassive, as a man deep in thought. Gablerone watched Soran rather than the orbital map.

  Soran might have swayed them then. He saw vulnerability. But there was another matter—on
e they deserved to comprehend before passing judgment.

  “General Hera Syndulla’s battle group has taken the lead in the New Republic invasion of Cerberon,” he said. “Her flagship is currently at rest on Troithe.”

  Broosh flinched—not at the words, Soran suspected, but at the swiftness of the lash. Major Rassus’s shoulders tightened. Only Nenvez, the Edict crew’s representative, looked altogether puzzled.

  “Syndulla led the attack on Pandem Nai,” Rassus said, by way of explanation to their newest recruit. “I’m sure you know her by reputation.”

  She nearly killed you, Soran thought. She killed Grandmother. She almost burned Pandem Nai to ashes. But he didn’t have the right to say it aloud. He hadn’t been there.

  “Last time,” Captain Phesh—Squadron Six’s commander—said, “we were at nearly full strength. No Star Destroyer, true, but the advantage of the turf and our defenses made up for the lack. Run a tactical analysis and I doubt you’ll find we’re in condition to compete.”

  “We wouldn’t be going there to compete—” Gablerone began, but Soran didn’t hear the rest of it. Arguments filled the air as suddenly as dead Parwans had poured from the Parozha VII supply port. He saw no wild bloodlust in their eyes, knew that all of them were too seasoned to think the choice was an easy one, but Wisp had lost almost all of her squadron at Pandem Nai and tapped her forefinger against the tabletop; Darita pulled files from the Edict’s data bank and pointed out that General Syndulla had always been a priority target, still was one; Broosh asked the others, one by one, how their squadrons would react, whether they would be inspired or intimidated. Phesh and Rassus discussed the strategic advantage of controlling Cerberon and whether the Imperial fleet would even make use of it.

  Seedia remained silent, observing the others and observing Soran. When she spoke at last, it was with clarity sharp enough to cut through the bedlam despite her electronic vocabulator. “General Syndulla and her people murdered our comrades. Bringing home her head is the honorable thing to do.”

  This was why he’d brought her—because while he was fond of many of the pilots under his command, it was Seedia who would be bold enough to vocalize the sentiment too many of the squadrons felt.

  By necessity, the commanders gravitated toward practical answers. Soran needed the support of the full wing for what was coming.

  He judged the time was at hand. “We all have our reasons for wanting this. I desire only what is right for the 204th and I am willing to lead the mission personally,” Soran said. “To take full command, as would be necessary.”

  They looked at him. He waited to be accused—accurately, he supposed—of using the moment to seize power.

  “And can you give us victory where Colonel Nuress couldn’t?” Rassus said.

  “I can promise nothing,” Soran said.

  You desire victory. You desire revenge. This is the only way I can protect you and give you what you want.

  “Do you advise us,” Rassus asked, “to take on this task?”

  “I do,” Soran said, and rose from his seat at the table. “Will you accept my decision?”

  * * *

  —

  They said yes, of course. After, Soran considered whether that was the outcome he’d truly wanted.

  He returned to the Aerie from the Edict, where much of the 204th remained—with the Edict’s systems still barely functional, the cruiser-carrier was the more robust and adaptable ship. He listened at the doors to the billets, hearing his pilots debate and laugh and mourn, but he spoke to no one.

  That Shadow Wing needed purpose was undebatable. He could save his people if they would let him—he could teach them to survive on the fringes of the galaxy, away from the war they’d already lost—but they’d committed to the delusions of vengeance and patriotic fervor. They wished to fight a war, and so he would find a war for them to fight.

  He simply wasn’t certain if this was the right one.

  He paused as he rounded a corner and heard a voice whisper, “Help us.”

  The corridor intersection where the shrine of the red-cloaked Messenger lurked was ten meters away. The offerings to the droid multiplied daily, and now ashes and scorched wood from the ruins of Parozha VII joined other gifts at the machine’s feet. Kneeling before the Messenger was a young man Soran recognized as Kandende—the pilot who’d disrupted the welcoming party for the Edict’s crew.

  “Help us, Emperor Palpatine,” Kandende said. “Guide us to something more.”

  Soran observed as Kandende withdrew a straight razor from his pocket, opened it, and pressed the blade into his palm. Blood the color of the Messenger’s robes welled up, and Kandende took one of the droid’s hands in both of his own, clasping the leather glove until red ran down Kandende’s wrist; until red dripped onto the Aerie’s deck; until Kandende’s pained expression broke and he pulled away, stanching the wound with the sleeve of his uniform.

  The droid had not reacted and did not react now. Kandende turned away, stumbling down the corridor.

  Soran recalled the Messenger’s arrival. The machine had arrived aboard the Pursuer via shuttle—Soran still didn’t know the shuttle’s origins—and sought out Colonel Nuress. It had tested her blood with a needle that had erupted from its palm.

  He thought of anthropological studies of primitive peoples exposed to galactic technology—cults that formed around moisture vaporators, believing that worship was necessary to activate the devices. He wondered if Kandende was the first pilot to entreat the Messenger so; the man’s actions had possessed a ritualistic formality.

  Soran decided it no longer mattered whether the war for Cerberon was the right war for the 204th. It was far better than the alternative.

  II

  “It’s hard to hear it, I know—but it’s good news.”

  General Syndulla spoke with the quiet authority that Yrica Quell had become accustomed to, sitting cross-legged on the hull of the Lodestar half a dozen meters from the nearest maintenance hatch. The general had made a camp of sorts, with a blanket spread on armor plating, a heat rod glowing to one side, and a spread of datapads around her like a fortune-teller’s cards. The battleship sat ensconced in the spaceport once again, and the burning light of the Cerberon singularity sank behind the city like the dying sparks of a distant battle.

  It was three days since the invasion of the capital, and the news—as Syndulla said—was good. Yet Quell took no pleasure in it.

  “Any word on an enemy counterattack?” Quell asked. She lifted her left foot, instinctively wanting to pace. Syndulla had already scolded her for that—If you won’t sit, she’d said, do me a favor and stand still.

  “We’re watching for anything via satellite. They have no communications. No organized leadership, so far as we know. There are a lot of them—we left whole sectors of Imperial troops untouched for a reason—and this planet’s going to have guerrilla trouble for a while. But I wouldn’t worry about anything coordinated, at least not until—” Syndulla shook her head. “If the New Republic can keep the threat from organizing, I’m willing to call the planet stable.”

  “Until Shadow Wing,” Quell said.

  “No. We’ve got that under control. Forces are deploying. This was your plan, remember?” What should’ve been condescending in the words was somehow mitigated by the warmth in her voice. “And his. He knew what he was doing.”

  “Caern Adan is a bastard,” Quell replied.

  “I know. And you were just starting to get used to him.” She raised a hand, forestalling any reply. “The New Republic will find him. His staff, his superiors, everyone’s invested in the search. He’s on the missing-in-action list, classified and declassified versions, so the troops know to look. I can’t promise he’ll turn up tomorrow, but everything that can be done will be done.”

  Quell nodded briskly. It
was nothing she hadn’t heard before, and she knew that the intelligence officer was most likely dead. He’d disappeared outside the safe zone—racing to meet Kairos’s medical transport after Quell had chosen to contact him, which surely put a share of responsibility on her shoulders—and if he wasn’t floating in the waters of the flooded Thannerhouse District, he was probably being interrogated by Imperial guerrillas.

  To say that Quell missed him would be a misrepresentation. But she felt his absence.

  “Any word on Kairos?” General Syndulla asked.

  This time it was Quell’s chance to offer platitudes. “She’s in good hands. She’s nonresponsive. They won’t let anyone in to see her.”

  Syndulla waited for more, but it was all Quell had to give and the general smiled sympathetically. “Sit down, Lieutenant. Please.”

  Quell lowered herself onto her knees beside the blanket. Her bones felt as brittle as they had after Nacronis. She knew what was coming—she’d heard the rumors, seen reports that had been meant for Adan but had made it to her anyway—and she managed to say, hoarse but not disrespectful: “I understand you’re leaving?”

  The surprise in Syndulla’s face didn’t reach her tone. “I am. Not for long, I hope, but Vanguard Squadron needs support in the Bormea sector and I intend to give it to them. I’ll need a few units with me, but the Lodestar will stay here. With any luck, I’ll be back before the 204th comes out of hiding.”

  “Give Vanguard my regards,” Quell said.

  She’d never been close to Syndulla. They’d never been friends. The general certainly didn’t owe her anything.

  “The timetable’s not an easy one to meet. But you have the plan. Your squadron knows what needs doing. The troops from the mobile infantry—they’re ready and committed. You don’t need me for this, Yrica. I’d love to cheer you on, but I can’t do more than get in your way.”