Shadow Fall (Star Wars)

by Alexander Freed

  “How long do we wait?” Quell murmured after a droid had floated down to deliver their drinks.

  “Could take a while for word to spread. Or it could be five minutes, if no one’s feeling subtle.”

  “If we stick around too long, it’ll look suspicious,” Quell said.

  Nath raised a tin cup full of something bubbly and steaming that smelled like wet fur and cabbage. “That’s okay by me. Settle in, drink slow, and look like you enjoy the company.”

  Quell grunted. They drank. Nath wasn’t surprised to find that Quell had no instinct for conversation. He proffered a handful of harmless subjects (news of the war in the southern galactic quadrant; civilian relief efforts back on Troithe; speculation about Chass’s evening activities, when she disappeared and pretended otherwise), but Quell took to none of them. He decided that if she wasn’t going to cooperate he might as well get answers to questions he was genuinely interested in, and said, “You know you could’ve found someone else for this job.”

  “Instead of you?” Quell asked.

  He shook his head. “Instead of you. New Republic Intelligence has gotten fond of Adan. If they really believed this was the best way to find him, they could’ve brought an agent out eventually.” He brought the cup to his lips but didn’t drink. “Without the general around, you ought to be prepping for Shadow Wing.”

  Quell’s eyes were fixed just above Nath’s left shoulder. “The plan is set. The troops are in position. We’ve got days before Shadow Wing is supposed to arrive. Meantime I thought I’d search.”

  “Never figured you cared that much for the man.”

  She scowled and took a swig of her drink—a real swig, Nath noticed, watching the pulse of her throat. “I don’t.”

  He could have pushed the subject, but she’d given up enough and he didn’t want to overplay his hand.

  Caern Adan knew the truth about Nacronis—that Lieutenant Yrica Quell of the 204th, instead of trying to save the planet from destruction during Operation Cinder, had been a willing participant in the genocide. The New Republic was still in the phase of talking about war crimes more than prosecuting them, but the day for tribunals was coming and Nath doubted Quell would look much better than the Death Star gunners who’d vaporized Alderaan.

  The fact that Quell remained virtually unsupervised suggested Adan hadn’t shared that truth with much of anyone. Except maybe Quell herself.

  And Nath knew what Adan knew because Nath had supplied the intel—obtained it above Pandem Nai at Adan’s request. Quell surely wasn’t aware of that.

  Nath had noticed the bond forming between Adan and Quell over the past weeks—there was no fondness in their exchanges, no joy; at most a mutual respect. Still, there was an ease about them as if they’d both accepted the nature of their relationship. Nath had also seen the two together aboard the Buried Treasure, however, back when Adan had been threatening to have the woman executed, and Quell didn’t seem the type not to hold a grudge. Something had changed, and the truth about Nacronis was the obvious answer.

  Maybe, Nath thought, Quell didn’t want to find Adan at all. Instead she wanted to convince the world—convince herself—that she was doing everything she could, so she could rest with a salved conscience when Adan was never seen again.

  He almost laughed to himself when the simpler answer occurred to him: If Adan had been captured, she didn’t want him telling anyone else what he knew.

  I don’t envy you your troubles, Yrica Quell, he thought, and swirled his drink so that steam spiraled through the air.

  * * *

  —

  It was well after nightfall (or what passed for nightfall in the Cerberon system) when they caught their stalker in the act. Nath was on his fifth drink while Quell had gone through considerably more in her efforts to blend—she’d managed to dilute the noxious concoctions enough to stay sober, but her lips were stained green by whatever it was they’d been served.

  Nath had been the one to spot the squat Utai in the corner whose stubby eyestalks strained to look their way without seeming to look their way. The puckered mouth chewed samples from a small dish of leafy herbs. Nath guessed the Utai had come to the Rev for the sole purpose of observing them.

  Several gestures and minutes later, Nath and Quell agreed to their next move. Nath loudly declared his intention to “check on the thing,” and strolled out the door. On the off chance the Utai didn’t follow him, he imagined the humanoid would take the opportunity to approach Quell. Either way suited him.

  He spotted the Utai’s squat shadow as he turned down a staircase and smiled as he headed for the landing. He allowed himself to stumble, missing a step and bowing his body low. When he heard footfalls close by, he grappled the Utai by the legs, sliding his arms up to a solid torso. He ignored the ensuing screeching sound. Within a few moments he had his foe compressed in his arms, and Quell stood a dozen steps above leveling her blaster at the Utai’s head.

  The Utai stopped wriggling.

  “You want to take lead?” Nath asked.

  Quell descended. The weapon in her hand stayed perfectly trained on the Utai. There was nothing kind in the woman’s eyes. “You know about the auction?” she asked.

  The Utai’s voice was a high-pitched gurgle. “I’m a stairmason! Just a stairmason. I cut and mortar.”

  Nath arched his brow and flexed his arms around the Utai. Quell didn’t look at him. “I used to be Imperial,” she said.

  The Utai’s breathing quickened. Quell’s finger shifted on the trigger of her weapon.

  “I am guided by the Force in all my deeds,” the Utai whispered, as if chanting a mantra, “and through the teachings of my masters I find harmony in its guidance.”

  “Wasn’t expecting that,” Nath admitted. “Force or no Force, we still need an answer.”

  “Where’s Caern Adan?” Quell asked.

  The Utai whimpered. “Who?”

  “The New Republic Intelligence officer kidnapped off Troithe,” Quell said.

  Nath elaborated. “The one you sold. We want to know who the buyer was.”

  “I don’t know!” the Utai said. “I don’t know. They were Imperial, but I didn’t sell him—I was there to buy. My fellowship was outbid.”

  “Bet you can help us out,” Nath said, and the Utai agreed.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE ILLUMINATING BRILLIANCE OF STARLIGHT

  I

  Soran Keize considered himself a soldier first and a pilot second, but his purest joy was the melding of those two art forms. It had been too long since he’d flown a combat mission, and even with his cannons offline and their computer-simulated replacements lacking the electric buzz and resonant kick of true weapons, he reveled in the experience. His life aboard the Edict and the Aerie seemed meaningless as a dream; even his brief, intense existence as the wanderer Devon seemed clouded by gray apathy as his TIE fighter skimmed above the icy ring system of a nameless moon.

  “Adjust vector. Prepare for attack run.”

  He spoke unhurriedly into his comm, though he was sweating under the thick material of his flight suit. He monitored the squadron’s reactions as twelve fighters dived together, subdividing into two-TIE elements as they navigated the frozen field. He could have put the pilots through the same maneuvers from the Aerie, even recorded it all and reviewed the results at his leisure, but he would soon be flying again himself. He needed to remember his skills.

  He needed to restore Shadow Wing’s faith that he could lead.

  They emerged from the ring, plunging toward the Edict. The Star Destroyer was unlit save for a few glimmers on the dagger’s port edge—it was too obviously underpowered to fool any enemy, but even now the crew was making modifications to the vessel. The cadets were tearing apart bulkheads, rewiring turbolaser batteries, and chaining targeting computers; wh
en they were finished, a handful of weapons officers would be able to wield the vessel’s full ruinous potential. The point-defense stations—the Destroyer’s primary counter against starfighter attacks—would remain nonfunctional without the hundreds of individual gunners required to operate them, but that was an acceptable trade-off. The Edict would serve well in the assault on Cerberon.

  “Move on your assigned targets,” Soran declared. “Weapons free.”

  The TIEs raced across the Edict’s hull, simulating dozens of strikes against critical systems. Soran loaded false sensor readings into the squadron’s scanners, calling out instructions to evade New Republic X-wings or incoming missiles. He noted Vann Bragheer’s aversion to zero-thrust turns and Karli genFries’s habit of only firing well after closing range. He admired Ran Chorda’s perfect alignment with her flight leader. Palal Seedia showed no sign of the worrisome aggression she had displayed against the New Republic. In the days ahead he would discuss these things with the pilots’ commanders; in some cases he would need to make time to advise the pilots themselves.

  First, however, he was going to put the squadron through a final test. He punched a new program into the computer and distributed it among the others.

  “All pilots: We are beginning another exercise. The Edict is no longer in play. Your only goal is to eliminate me.”

  First he was going to enjoy himself.

  * * *

  —

  When the turbolaser adjustments aboard the Edict were complete, Soran’s next task for the cadets was the repair and reprogramming of the TIE training drones. The Star Destroyer carried a full squadron rigged for autonomous operation—poorer fliers than even the droid fighters of the Clone Wars, but largely functional and potentially useful for the coming fight. He set the crew an impossible deadline and hoped they would rise to the challenge.

  No one questioned his leadership of the unit. If he could balance vision and pragmatism—the iron fist and the comforting hand—along with demonstrating personal competence, he hoped no one would.

  It was his pilots to whom he devoted the most attention. The combat-readiness of the squadrons pleased him—in the mock battle, he’d whittled his twelve enemies down to three before a simulated shot had finally disabled his ship. Not his ideal outcome, yet that performance wasn’t notably worse than what he’d seen at the 204th’s finest hour. His people hadn’t dulled their skills while he’d been away, nor had his own abilities atrophied beyond repair.

  So when he briefed the wing—not in the ready rooms, as per protocol, but walking among the fighters in the Aerie’s hangar—he focused not only on the mundane matters of battle scenarios or the Cerberon system’s anomalies, but on the opponents they chose to face. He played back holos of Hera Syndulla in her personal combat-modified freighter, a ship she called the Ghost. He analyzed the tactics her battle group had applied at Pandem Nai—the risks she had taken and her willingness to apply all the force at her disposal, nearly leading to the planet’s annihilation.

  “General Syndulla is not the only individual combatant we’ve identified from Pandem Nai,” he said as he walked among his pilots. The squadron commanders had heard it before, and observed their subordinates. The rest watched Soran. “We believe at least two of the ships at the vanguard of the attack were piloted by the rebels who battled the Aerie in the Oridol Cluster.

  “The B-wing pilot is unknown, but we’ve compiled a profile I expect you all to review. He is an able marksman, easily baited into solo flight, and highly capable with his ship. Still…highly capable only goes so far in a B-wing, so long as we keep in mind our advantages.

  “More intriguing is the A-wing pilot, a man who introduced himself over an open channel as Wyl Lark and who attempted to undo the catastrophic damage at Pandem Nai—too late to save many, but we can appreciate that his effort was greater than that of his peers. Based on his flying and his accent, I believe that Lark is one of the Hundred and Twenty—Polynean terrorists, expert pilots all. Study the footage you’ve been sent.”

  Soran had encountered a Polynean a year prior to Endor. He recalled the fight now, thirteen minutes that had felt like days weaving through the Cataract of Moons; felt an impossible, lingering soreness in his arms. For the benefit of the pilots before him, knowing he’d yet to secure their loyalty, he did not allow himself to smile.

  He tapped a remote and cycled through holograms of the other ships in the vanguard: The U-wing, whose pilot was bold and almost animalistic—a talent whom he suspected had never received formal training. The Y-wing, a modified BTL-A4 model that had been piloted by its astromech for a stretch midway through the Pandem Nai mission; after Soran had pointed out the droid’s role, one of the ground crew had taken an interest in the footage and asked permission to examine it more closely. The X-wing had gone down after Pandem Nai’s atmosphere had ignited; Soran spent the least time studying its owner, recognizing the idiosyncrasies of a former TIE pilot but focusing his attention elsewhere. Syndulla’s people were many, and he was one man.

  He attempted to judge his audience as they reviewed the data—he wanted them dedicated, determined, purposeful, but if vengeance began to become an all-consuming passion then he would lose them as surely as if they had no purpose at all.

  “Lark referred to his unit as Alphabet,” he told them. “Given its composition we may safely assume it was assembled by Syndulla to counter the 204th at Pandem Nai, though we cannot confirm whether it remains intact. Its pilots are priority targets due to their knowledge of our operations. However, every unit in Syndulla’s battle group will be familiar with the 204th.

  “Next we have the squadron identifying as Hail—”

  Lieutenant Seedia rose to her feet. “Sir?” she said. “About Wyl Lark?”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I was in the Oridol Cluster,” Seedia said. “I have an idea.”

  * * *

  —

  It was Teso Broosh who presented Soran with the rank pins, one evening after dinner with the squadron commanders. The meal had been a spirited one, the lot of them presenting options and debating plans and laughing as much as they sniped. Gablerone was as intolerable as always, and Darita as clever, but they had a common cause now.

  Afterward, Broosh had lingered and they’d discussed the well-being of Squadron Five. It was only after Soran had begun stacking meal trays that Broosh said, “The other commanders and I—we decided it was time,” and held out the colorful uniform plaque.

  “Colonel Soran Keize?” Soran asked.

  “Special adviser no longer. Whether you earned it or not,” Broosh said, “it’s the role you have. Even those of us who don’t like it know the pilots need to respect you. Live up to it, will you?”

  Soran took the pins and slid his finger over the red and blue squares. He laughed softly as he affixed the plaque to his uniform and clasped Broosh’s shoulder with one hand. “I will try. I swear it.”

  They parted, and Soran returned to his quarters feeling lighter than he had in weeks. He sat at his desk and reflected on the woman who had come before him—reflected on Colonel Shakara Nuress, whom he had considered a friend and realized now had been doomed the day the Emperor died.

  You could never have survived this galaxy, he thought, and that was the tragedy of it: that a woman as brave and brilliant and loyal as Shakara Nuress could not have adapted to the anarchy now gripping the cosmos; that none of the commanders of the 204th were true Imperials as she had been, because no true Imperial could last. Nuress would have resisted employing guerrilla attacks and seen the gutting and rebuilding of the Star Destroyer Edict as a sort of desecration. She would have broken a crew of cadets, not nurtured them. She would have stood against the New Republic fleet like a cliff against the ocean until she finally crumbled.

  Soran had so admired her steel certainty.

 
He was recalling their conversations together—almost all of them focused on military matters, whether reviews of logistical data or discussions of personality clashes among the crew—when his desktop blinked to indicate that a message had been relayed from the bridge.

  He expected another desperate Imperial communiqué—some plea for help on obsolete frequencies broadcast to every allied vessel in the sector. Instead a hologram appeared depicting the worn face of Colonel Madrighast of the Unyielding. Colonel Nuress, Soran recalled, had always disdained Madrighast; yet Soran had found amusement in his bluster.

  There was no bluster in his voice now. Soran strained to understand words through the hiss of distortion.

  “—whether you survived Pandem Nai. But if any vessels from the 204th Imperial Fighter Wing remain intact, I offer an invitation.”

  The image disappeared in a blur of static and did not return. The audio popped and quieted but returned to intelligibility a moment later.

  “—that Admiral Rae Sloane has taken command of the fleet. I have no confirmation at this time but we are attempting to rendezvous at the enclosed coordinates. I do not believe this is a rebel trap, but nor do I believe the journey will be easy. We have information about rebel interdiction blockades along the hyperlanes—”

  The audio degenerated again until nothing remained but an oscillating warble. Soran waited through twenty seconds of noise before the recording ended.

  If he’d been asked to guess which single leader would unite the Imperial fleet, Admiral Rae Sloane would not have made his short list. Her reputation was one of a loyal and competent retainer—at best she was known for a spark of genius she’d rarely had opportunity to stoke. Soran associated her with neither charisma nor political power, but if she had risen above the fray to take the command chair? He harbored no objections.

  He did not believe she—or anyone else—could reforge the shards of Empire.