Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company (17 page)

PLANET SULLUST

Fifteen Days Before Plan Kay One Zero

SP-475 stood straight and stiff in her white armor, watching the lieutenant pace back and forth along the line. He stopped periodically to look a stormtrooper up and down: to examine a suit for scrapes or blemishes, catalog a soldier’s equipment and peripherals, or—in the worst possible scenario—call out a trooper for inattention.

When SP-475 had started as a cadet—barely a year ago, when she’d been Thara Nyende and nothing but—she’d dreaded inspections. Every time she’d been called out for her errors, she’d taken it as a personal insult. Anger and shame had burned in her guts for hours after-ward. As the weeks had passed, however, she’d gradually realized that faceless suits and alphanumeric designations ensured
no one
was singled out. If the lieutenant called on you, it wasn’t personal—you’d done something to endanger yourself and your comrades.

You corrected your error. The next day, it was truly forgotten. This was one of the reasons Thara loved the stormtrooper legion.

She’d joined with the intention of serving one tour of duty, making more money than she possibly could elsewhere and supporting her mother and cousins and uncle before returning to civilian life. Now she could see herself remaining forever.

“Command has issued a warning about the Cobalt Laborers’ Reformation Front,” the lieutenant was saying. He’d drawn back from the lineup and taken a position at the front of the small briefing room. “It’s easy to laugh, I know—they were barely able to organize a protest, and we estimate eighty percent of their membership is in custody. A few disgruntled workers with pipe bombs shouldn’t be a threat to the factories, to Pinyumb, or to Sullust.”

SP-475 resisted the urge to pull Cobalt Front data onto her helmet’s display.
Focus on the lieutenant
, she told herself.
He’ll tell you anything you need.

The lieutenant nodded to a droid, who obediently operated the controls to the holopit in the center of the room. Light flashed in the shallow recess, and images of human and Sullustan faces cycled through.

“But we’ve seen alarming indications that the Cobalt Front is attempting to cultivate ties with the Rebel Alliance,” the lieutenant continued. “And if the Rebellion comes to Sullust, we have failed at our foremost duty: to keep and maintain order.

“Memorize the names on display. Nien Nunb, Sian Tevv, Corjentain Malaqua … these are rebels with known ties to Sullust. They are potential infiltrators. They may be smuggling in arms and equipment for a full-on revolution.”

This was the part of the job SP-475 hated. She stared at the holograms, tried to lock the shapes of eyes and chins and ears into her brain. But on the street she’d be forced to make choices—take men and women into custody for hours or days because they looked
just enough
like her targets; waste their time and the time of interrogation officers …

She trusted the stormtrooper legion, trusted the lieutenant. She still didn’t trust her own judgment.

The lieutenant began to say more, but something made him hesitate. He turned away from the troops and cupped a hand over his earpiece.

Then the garrison alarms began to sound.

The stormtroopers were too disciplined to break ranks, but SP-475 saw her comrades shuffle and glance about uneasily. Finally the lieutenant turned back toward them, and as one they straightened again.

“Stormtroopers!” he said, voice crisp and shoulders tense. “The situation has changed.

“The enemy has attacked.”

The cavern-city of Pinyumb hid beneath the desolate surface of Sullust, on the southern side of Inyusu Tor—a volcanic peak shelled in black obsidian. Running from city to peak were sparking tram lines and hissing industrial lifts that led past the garrisons, past the aerial defenses, and up to the processing facility that crowned the mountain. Thousands of Pinyumb’s people rode ground and air transports to the facility each day, worked its mechanisms as it drew magma up from the mountain’s heart, filtered and sifted and purified molten rock to bring forth precious metals that would augment the Imperial fleet.

Despite a dozen levels of security—from stormtrooper-run checkpoints to worker psychological profiling to biometric scans—the facility’s machinery was inherently vulnerable. It might only take one person to stuff the wrong pipe with rags soaked in a chemical cocktail and cause the extractors to grind to a halt, the magnetic separators to plunge into the magma flow.

It
might
only take one person. But until that one person was identified, SP-475 had to assume the worst.

There were other teams, more experienced teams, that cordoned off the facility itself. SP-475 spent the day locking down Pinyumb, blocking streets and conducting searches of random civilians. Half an hour in, a flash on her heads-up display told her she was authorized to indefinitely detain anyone she deemed suspicious. It was an authority she hoped not to need.

Early in the afternoon, she began receiving raid warrants from the Security Bureau. When a signal came in, she’d scramble to a residential complex or a bathhouse or a market, surround it with whatever other troops had been assigned, and search for incriminating items within. Residents who cooperated could observe. Any who resisted were subject to arrest. SP-475 never found a weapon or a bomb; just spice, black-market holovids, and Cobalt Front pamphlets. Enough for a few detentions. She wondered if the raids were random, or if the bureau had leads on the terrorists she wasn’t cleared to know.

There were no further attacks.

Toward the end of her shift, she was assigned sentry duty at a tram station. She’d been partnered with SP-156. She’d worked with him before, trusted him as much as any colleague, though she didn’t know his real name.

“You think anyone died?” he asked. “At the facility, I mean.”

SP-475 winced inside her helmet. Nonessential chatter was against regulations while on duty, and the suits recorded everything.

She risked a brisk answer anyway and hoped the monitors would be lenient. “Not in the report,” she said. “Probably not.”

SP-156 nodded and shifted his grip on his rifle. “You think our side killed anyone? Down here?”

She wasn’t sure why he was asking. This time, it seemed safer to remain silent.

When her shift was finally over, Thara was exhausted. She wanted to go home, to collapse on her cot and fall asleep without a meal or a shower. She felt like her armor had been holding her together; she expected to ooze out of her civilian clothes and onto the streets of Pinyumb.

But she’d promised her uncle another delivery of food and medicine and soap and simple luxuries. She’d been making purchases all week, stashing them in her locker. The old men were counting on her. So she dragged herself to the cantina and put the day’s thoughts out of her head.

There was a crowd inside, packing the dimly lit tables and spilling onto the floor. She was surprised until she remembered the housing-block raids. The workers were drinking away the night because they had nowhere to go until the Security Bureau authorized their return. Thara winced at the thought and wished she’d planned better; she might have brought more food, a portable heater, fresh clothing.

She said as much to her uncle as he rushed over. He was smiling awkwardly. “It’s fine, Thara. You don’t need to spend your last credits on us.”

She passed her bag to him, still apologizing. He grasped it in both hands, held it a short distance from his body as if expecting it to bite. She realized the old men were watching her again.

They were afraid. She understood. There was nothing she could do. “I’ll go,” she said. Her uncle nodded, started to reach for her until he remembered he still held her bag.

She didn’t mean to scan the room as she walked back toward the door. But she’d spent the past twelve hours studying faces for infiltrators, looking for concealed knives or blasters. Her eyes jumped about the crowd and she saw gray Sullustan hands slip discreetly under tables, clutching silvery ration packs. She saw a human boy step halfway behind a large woman, concealing the fresh white bandage around his upper arm. She saw a cloth duffel bag, deflated and empty, lying beneath a table in the corner.

She was trembling when she made it to the exit and climbed the stone steps back out into the cavern. None of it was evidence, she knew—not yet, not
really
, and she wasn’t on duty anymore. She could even live with the fact that the workers hated her now—for no real reason, but she could take the blame and still help her family.

But if someone else was supplying the workers of Pinyumb—someone with money and resources the old men didn’t have—then it wasn’t something Thara could ignore forever.

THREE LIGHT-YEARS OFF THE CORELLIAN TRADE SPINE HYPERLANE

Fourteen Days Before Plan Kay One Zero

More often than not, there were no bodies involved in a Twilight Company funeral. Sometimes it was because there were no bodies to be found; air strikes and disintegrations had that effect. Usually it was because Twilight was a mobile infantry unit and the dead were decidedly immobile, too bulky to be carried while advancing or retreating.

So Twilight had developed its own traditions over the years to acknowledge the fall of a comrade. To recognize the eight killed in the freighter raid, Quartermaster Hober stood in the
Thunderstrike
’s vehicle bay reading the name of each man or woman slain. Those closest to the dead—friends and squad mates and, in rare cases, lovers—looked on, squeezed together between speeders and drop ships, smelling of grease and sweat. Others waited outside, listening to Hober’s voice broadcast across the ship.

“Sergeant Maximian Ajax,” Hober proclaimed.

Twitch shoved her way forward and stood before Hober. “Bleeding Roughneck till the end,” she said, sharp and bitter.

She raised a blaster power pack in a shaking hand. It was rusted and dented, ready to be tossed away or recycled. Hober took it solemnly, inserted it into the vehicle charging station, and drained its dying sparks. That done, he placed it in a small metal case and Twitch retreated into the crowd.

It wasn’t a long ceremony, and Twilight tradition ensured no one’s eulogy was more than a few words. It didn’t matter if you were a beloved veteran or fresh meat—you got one friend, one statement, and then the deed was done.

In death, all soldiers were equal.

The Clubhouse was always packed after a funeral. The card games had higher stakes and the contraband drinks were more plentiful. It wasn’t a place for private or somber grief—it was a place for distraction, and the impromptu wakes ended in brawls as often as not.

Namir had his own need for distraction, but the Clubhouse wasn’t providing it. He sat with his squad and forced a bitter smile when Roach asked when he was leaving.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “Howl, Chalis, me, Roja, and Beak. Wish me luck on the shuttle ride.”

“Beak is a fine soldier,” Gadren said, “and Roja is … Roja. There are worse comrades to have.”

Namir snorted. “They’re not who I’m worried about.”

“You going to meet the princess?” Roach asked. Her voice was even quieter than usual.

Charmer laughed. Brand shook her head. Gadren, however, gestured briskly for silence. “You mock,” he said, “but who here was not inspired by one of the great heroes of the Rebellion? Or if not of the Rebellion, heroes of times past?”

Charmer bowed his head, smirking. “Wish I’d been—” He stammered out the words, but maintained the smile. “—good enough to blow a Death Star when I was young. But I’m—too old for idols.”

“It was just a
question
,” Roach muttered. “I saw her on a pirated holovid once.”

Namir’s forced smile was becoming a grimace. Brand glanced his way and offered what might have been a look of sympathy.

“For my part,” Gadren said, his voice conciliatory, mediating, “I am merely glad the Alliance sees a future, even if I cannot. If Governor Chalis can provide a means to change the course of this war …”

That was the pattern of conversation for the evening. One by one, Twilight soldiers said their good-byes to Namir, wished him safe travels, and asked what he expected to find at the rebel headquarters. Men he barely knew speculated about the base’s location, told him rumors of an asteroid fortress or an underwater city before offering up their hopes for the future.