Victory's Price (Star Wars) Read online

  In their time away from Shadow Wing, Devon and Quell had both learned that the New Republic was not a forgiving place. While Devon had returned to the 204th upon learning of the tragedy at Pandem Nai—a New Republic aggression that had killed Colonel Shakara Nuress and nearly destroyed a planet—Quell had been left rotting until she’d given up all hope of starting a new life under Chancellor Mothma’s regime. She had escaped, she’d told Soran, and located Shadow Wing in Cerberon.

  Since then? He’d vetted her story as well as he could, finding it plausible enough. There were gaps, to be sure, intentional omissions and obfuscations suggesting a more complicated truth. Yet he perceived a core of sincerity in her, and she remained his responsibility.

  He’d offered her a place as his aide. She was a pilot at heart, but first there had been no TIE available for her to fly; then, when three damaged TIE strikers had been salvaged and added to the unit, she’d claimed that other pilots were in greater need of the vessels. She was clearly traumatized and avoiding combat. Soran didn’t hold that against her, yet he didn’t understand the extent of how she’d changed, or what his own changes meant for their relationship as mentor and student.

  “They’ve begun the show trials,” Soran said. He was unsure how long he’d been musing. Quell showed only polite interest. “Fara Yadeez is being paraded before a court and accused of gross violations of sentient rights—as if being the last governor of Cerberon requires she bear the burden of all her predecessors’ sins.” He lowered his gaze to his terminal again, skimmed a dozen lines of news copy and code. “I don’t doubt there are Imperial soldiers who’ve done appalling things—but what are the odds that the rebels can judge the fates of their enemies fairly?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” Quell asked.

  “It’s not. You’ve been closer to New Republic justice than I have.”

  She acknowledged this with a grimace. “I’m not sure what fair or just mean under the circumstances.”

  “Do you believe that the Empire was just?” Soran asked. He might have added: That the destruction of Nacronis or Fedovoi End is just? but it would only have injured Quell, not enlightened her.

  “No,” she said.

  “Then you must believe that fairness, justice—whatever they are—represent more than the mere whims of whatever political power dominates.”

  “I suppose I must,” she conceded. “I can’t think of what.”

  “Then focus on the question: Can the rebels judge the fates of their enemies fairly?”

  Quell’s expression shifted from resignation to bitter amusement. It was the look of a woman who’d lost a game while admiring the artistry of her defeat. “No. I don’t think they can.”

  “Yet they will judge us nonetheless, and as we attempt to elude their justice we will make of ourselves—” Soran raised a hand, about to gesture to the bulkheads and the stars beyond and the pointless atrocity taking place on the planet. Quell watched him with a keenness bordering on longing, but though he knew she was sick of bloodshed, oversaturated with death, he no longer knew her well enough to trust her with words that might be treasonous.

  He was spared the choice by a sound from the corridor. The cabin’s lock hummed and the door slid open its two centimeters. Quell stood from the bed and Soran gestured for her to remain as he rose and stepped to the doorway.

  He saw nothing through the crack. There was no further sound. With a quick, forceful move, he pulled the door aside and revealed a figure in a red robe with a fractured plate of glass in place of a face. One arm dangled at its side, severed midway between elbow and shoulder. The figure was utterly still except for the robe’s hem, which swirled lightly above the floor around absent feet.

  As if revealed by lightning, a withered face flickered into view behind the faceplate before vanishing. “Defiance,” a voice shrieked. “Defiance. Defiance.”

  The face had been the face of the dead Emperor Palpatine, but the voice had not.

  “What does it want?” Quell asked.

  “Nothing it can tell us,” Soran said. “If the Emperor’s Messenger still carries a message, it is locked within the thing’s synthetic brain.”

  The machine remained in the doorway for another moment. Then, as if insulted, it turned and drifted down the corridor.

  Soran felt his heart pumping and let out a hiss of breath. Once, he had believed himself rid of the Messenger—the herald of Operation Cinder, the embodiment of everything corrupt about the Empire as it had been, haunting Shadow Wing since the Battle of Endor. He had believed himself rid of it but it had come back. When he had succumbed to fury and cracked its faceplate it had done nothing.

  Though it was small solace, he was grateful his people were too consumed by their mission to treat the machine as an icon of worship anymore. (He recalled the sight of Nord Kandende aboard the Aerie spilling blood before the Messenger in a perverse offering.) The trials of Cerberon had refocused the unit on survival, and since then the work of Cinder—the grueling, everyday work of serving the Empire, of reuniting with allies and taking part in the fleet’s grand strategy—had distracted idle minds from superstition, at least for the time being. Isolation had brought confusion; hierarchy brought clarity.

  How readily Shadow Wing had accepted the new Cinder, he thought—they were too grateful for direction to doubt the nature of their tasks for long.

  “Go,” Soran said to Quell.

  “Sir?”

  He stepped away from the open door and forced the barest hint of a smile to indicate that Quell wasn’t at fault for his abrupt shift in tone. “You should rest. If Fedovoi End is as straightforward as it appears, then it’s an opportunity to recuperate. There are other missions coming. They will be more challenging.”

  Quell watched him. He half expected her to ask: What missions? But she nodded at last and strode past him into the corridor. Soran shut the door behind her.

  There was a great deal that deserved his attention: the updates, rumors, and decaying newsfeeds from across the galaxy on his screen; the massacre happening beyond the bulkheads of the Yadeez; the question of Quell and what to expect from her.

  But all he could think about was the voice of the machine saying: Defiance. Defiance. Defiance.

  CHAPTER 3

  “THE KHUNTAVARYAN FALL” (BALLAD, UNKNOWN PROVENANCE)

  I

  “This is Colonel Soran Keize of the 204th Imperial Fighter Wing and the carrier Yadeez. In response to the Yomo Council’s treasonous actions—its defiance of Grand Admiral Sloane’s order to direct assets to the D’Aelgoth sector, its refusal to acknowledge the Empire’s rightful regent on Coruscant, and its alliance with the Shiortuun Syndicate, among others—we have been sent to bring retribution to your world.”

  The speaker’s dark hair framed an angular, thin-lipped face, and his voice had the timbre of a coroner reciting an autopsy report. Hera Syndulla barely watched him. She’d seen the holorecording three times already, and what mattered was how the rest of the room reacted to its horrors.

  Seated around the dark conference table were Wyl Lark, Kairos, Chass na Chadic, and Nath Tensent—the remaining members of what Caern Adan had called the “New Republic Intelligence working group on the 204th Imperial Fighter Wing.” Each was silent, face lit by the holo’s blue glow. Hera peered at them as if the intensity would allow her to penetrate their skulls—to understand why Wyl and Nath sat so far apart; why Chass na Chadic clenched her jaw so tight while staring blankly into space; why Kairos’s outstretched hand twitched, as if she were a blind woman tracing the contours of Keize’s face.

  She didn’t doubt they were disturbed, but she needed to know whether they were ready.

  The recording pronounced its final threat and the holo flashed out of existence. The lights of the Deliverance’s conference room rose. The pilots shifted and strai
ghtened, and Hera broke the silence. “That recording is now three days old,” she said. “It was repeating on a channel we accessed through that Imperial convoy we found—like someone left it as a warning. We haven’t received word on the status of Fedovoi End, but we can only assume Shadow Wing has come and gone.”

  She went on, suppressing the outrage she felt and keeping her voice level. “At last count, Fedovoi End housed half a million troops and their families. It was primarily a military outpost, it’s true—but we haven’t seen slaughter of this sort since Operation Cinder.”

  Nath grunted, as if none of it surprised him. Kairos flattened both hands a centimeter above the tabletop.

  “The Empire is eating its own,” Chass said.

  “Yes,” Hera agreed. “The loyalists have gone to war with the breakaway factions—civilians caught in the cross fire be damned.”

  “Soran Keize,” Wyl said. “We’ve heard that name before.”

  He wasn’t grieving. He was focused. Good, she thought. I know it’s hard.

  “We have,” Hera began, but Nath raised a finger and she prompted him with a nod.

  “Intelligence sent over the files about an hour ago,” Nath said. “Soran Keize, Colonel Shakara Nuress’s second-in-command. Ace pilot, been in the game close to twenty years, trained most of the Shadow Wing lifers. Last we’d heard he was Major Keize, but…”

  “…but we also thought he was dead,” Wyl finished.

  Nath grunted again. “That’s what Quell told us. Back at Pandem Nai he definitely wasn’t around—taking out Nuress really did leave the unit headless. What we didn’t know was that Adan had a lead suggesting Keize was alive and elsewhere.”

  Suggesting Yrica Quell lied about her mentor, the same way she lied about participating in Operation Cinder. The thought came to Hera with a pang of frustration and resentment, along with the weight of grief. Whatever Yrica Quell’s failings—and they had been many—she had been Hera’s charge, and Quell’s involvement in the genocide of Nacronis had been revealed only hours before her death. Hera didn’t know what she’d have done if she’d been on the scene—whether she’d have embraced the woman, imprisoned her for her crimes, or both.

  And if that’s what you’re thinking, imagine how the others feel.

  “Adan knew?” Kairos asked, barely loud enough to hear.

  “He had people looking into Quell’s background,” Nath said, “and they stumbled on to Keize. Apparently, he left Shadow Wing after Nacronis, around the same time Quell did. They traced him to a mud heap of a world called Vernid, I think. He’d changed his name, took up work on a dig-rig…we never figured out what he was up to. When Intelligence caught up with him, he killed a pair of agents and disappeared.”

  Nath shifted his bulk, folding his arms across his chest. “We don’t know when he rejoined Shadow Wing, but Nasha Gravas and her people have been sifting through evidence from Troithe. Street cam footage, bio traces, anything from when Shadow Wing was grounded. Put it all together and it’s pretty clear Keize was in charge at least that far back.”

  Chass arched her brow. “So we can blame Keize for everything that happened? Blowing up the Lodestar, shooting my ship?”

  “Seems like,” Nath agreed.

  “So we can also blame Adan for leaving us in the dark? About Keize? About Quell?” Chass’s eyes glinted. “Or maybe we just blame Quell for not mentioning that her mass-murdering boss was still around?”

  “Chass—” Hera began. Scolding the woman would only make tempers flare, but she didn’t like the direction the briefing was headed.

  Wyl cut in. “On Vernid, could he have deserted? Was Keize trying to go straight?”

  Chass laughed. “He sure isn’t now.”

  “Suppose it’s possible,” Nath said, “but I agree with Chass. Vernid was a while ago, and at the moment—” He waved a hand, as if to sum up the holo’s message.

  The conversation dissolved into chaos. Nath leaned back in his seat and speculated about Keize’s connections to the main Imperial fleet. Chass sneered about Quell’s secrets and those of New Republic Intelligence. Wyl asked how Keize’s presence might change the 204th’s tactics even as he surreptitiously pulled up data on Fedovoi End and its population centers.

  “It’s happening again,” Kairos said, and no one seemed to hear but Hera. Nath and Chass kept talking.

  “It’s happening again,” Kairos repeated, this time in a hoarse shout.

  The others fell silent.

  Hera nodded slowly. “They’re killing worlds again. Yes.”

  This acknowledgment appeared to satisfy Kairos. She stared at the tabletop.

  “How many?” Wyl asked. Now Hera saw he was giving in to grief, and she couldn’t blame him. “Do we know? Is Fedovoi End the first?”

  “We don’t have confirmation, but Captain Misk—the convoy leader—suggested at least three planets have fallen.” Hera rose to her feet. The meeting was hers again, though she wasn’t sure she wanted it. “Dybbron Three, Kortatka, and now Fedovoi End. They’ve all gone silent, they fit similar profiles, and they’re practically in a straight line for anyone traveling through this region.”

  “Do we know where they’re going next?” Wyl asked.

  Nath attempted to answer. This time Hera didn’t allow it. “Not yet,” she said. “The comm network is unstable this far outside the Core—makes it hard to pull updates from New Republic worlds, let alone Imperial ones—and we don’t have enough recent intelligence. But we can assume Shadow Wing will continue their mission to wipe out any planet occupied by breakaway Imperial factions, and to that end—” She drew a breath and released it. “—our mission is now to stop them. To save the lives of their intended victims.”

  She watched their expressions as they began to comprehend.

  “All right,” Wyl said, soft and resolved. “But what about Fedovoi End, and the others?”

  “The ships we left in Nythlide were scheduled to rendezvous with us after operations there wrapped up. I’m rerouting them to look for survivors,” Hera said. “That means the Deliverance is on its own for a while.”

  Hera saw Nath look to Chass, then Kairos. The Theelin was shaking her head as if swaying in a gentle breeze. Kairos was tracing invisible lines above the tabletop, describing what might have been star systems and hyperlanes. Nath finally shrugged and said, “This plan have Senate authorization?”

  Wyl started to say something, but Nath wasn’t finished. “We’re talking about swooping in to defend Imperial strongholds. Risking our forces to protect an enemy.”

  “To hell with that,” Chass muttered.

  “There are civilians on those planets.” Wyl’s voice was calm but insistent. “Even if there weren’t—”

  Chass kept speaking under her breath. “Civilians who’ve stood with the Empire for the entire year they’ve been—”

  Wyl spoke over her. “—we’d still have an obligation to—”

  “I wasn’t arguing,” Nath said. “Asking a question, is all.”

  “Worlds bleed,” Kairos whispered. “Stars bleed.”

  “Enough.” Hera was still standing, and the snap of her voice demanded the others’ attention. “This isn’t a discussion. I command this unit, and we’re not going to stand by while Shadow Wing commits new massacres or recruits fresh forces.

  “The plan is this: We head straight past Fedovoi End, picking up the trail based on our best guess as to the next target and any fresh intel that comes in. You all need to start working toward that goal and be ready to fly.”

  No one argued, which was about as much as Hera could’ve hoped for. Five minutes later the conference was over and she was slumping down with her elbows on the table.

  She’d avoided the worst outcome through bluster and force of will. No one pointed out that she hadn’t a
nswered Nath’s query about Senate authorization, or asked what sort of intelligence she was expecting that would lead them to Shadow Wing.

  As to the first: Hera believed in democracy, in the New Republic Senate, and in Chancellor Mon Mothma. But she also knew that expending New Republic lives to save unrepentant Imperials would cause controversy at the capital. She’d take the consequences as they came.

  As to the second: New Republic Intelligence had brought them into this area of the galaxy thanks to lucky comm intercepts. Expecting continuing good fortune to stop Shadow Wing was a fool’s game…but luck was the only weapon in her arsenal right now.

  At least, she thought grimly, Soran Keize wouldn’t be a problem if they couldn’t catch the 204th at all.

  II

  Chass na Chadic left the conference room as soon as she was able, standing fast enough to induce vertigo once Syndulla had finished her speech. Outside, she shouldered her way past complaining engineers and flight officers and dataworkers, then stabbed the turbolift button at the corridor’s end a dozen times over.

  Screw the Star Destroyer. Screw Syndulla. Screw Colonel Keize and Shadow Wing and Yrica Quell and everyone who stands with monsters.

  She was on a garbage mission working for garbage people on a warship built by an Empire that seemed more like the New Republic every day; an Empire they were, apparently, now fighting to protect.

  One oppressor is the same as another, a voice said inside her mind. She thought at first it was her voice, but it wasn’t. It smelled like attar and petrichor; like fungus blooming on a perfumed face. But that’s not what you’re angry about.

  She was in the turbolift now, waiting for the car to activate. “I don’t need something to be angry about,” she mumbled. “It’s what makes me so lovable.”

  The turbolift hummed. She pictured Colonel Keize’s head on fire and found it less satisfying than she’d hoped. The voice in her mind said: The Force wants the flourishing of life, tranquility, community—yet the ruling powers only fight, and lie to you, and eat one another alive. Where is your community, Maya Hallik?