Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company (31 page)

“
No
,” Gadren replied, and the word came out with forceful resolve. “He was a man of reason. But I cannot explain him, either.”

“Then I don’t suppose it matters,” Namir said, and finished the last of his drink. “Crazed zealot or inscrutable genius, we still don’t have a future without him.”

Namir had the cabin to himself that night. Roja was dead, and his other bunk mates had chosen to sleep outside. Without the sound of his colleagues’ breathing, the total darkness felt desolate. Like a tomb.

Like a collapsed tunnel on Hoth.

Half dreaming, Namir saw the armored figure in black murdering his comrades with a beam of light. He saw Chalis rise into the air untouched, heard the cartilage in her neck crackling like leaves.

Was that why the others fought? Was that the “profound evil” Gadren insisted threatened everything that existed? Utter depravity backed by inexorable might; an endless shadow passing over all the stars, shaped like a Galactic Empire. Darth Vader was only its leading edge.

Nothing in Namir was eager to confront that darkness again. But he was starting to understand why the men and women of Twilight Company wouldn’t turn aside when confronted with the hopelessness of their cause.

His thoughts drifted, bobbing on the sea of putrid wine he’d consumed. He remembered Chalis mocking the Rebellion’s fears of total desolation, and his days with the Creed—the first time he’d come to see his fellow soldiers as family. He remembered the last time he’d drunk heavily, with the rebel freighter captain on Hoth.

He’d made a promise to himself that night:
If you can’t get behind what they believe in, maybe it’s time to walk away.

They deserved better.

He loved them all. Gadren and Brand, Charmer and Roach, Twitch and Hober. Roja and Beak. The comm tech Twilight had never replaced. Pira.

He couldn’t turn aside, either. He couldn’t abandon them when they were bleeding in the dust of a planet like Ankhural.

By the morning, Namir’s head felt no clearer, but he was certain he had to act. He had to find the goal Gadren had spoken of, find Twilight hope in the wake of Howl’s death. Give the company a means to fight the Empire.

He had no idea how.

ELOCHAR SECTOR

Nine Days Before Operation Ringbreaker

Prelate Verge had devised the punishment himself. The crew members who had failed him against the
Thunderstrike
—the gunner who’d targeted the vessel too slowly; the scan officer who’d failed to anticipate the enemy’s jump to lightspeed; the Special Forces commander who’d assembled the infiltration team—would be used as calibration subjects for the interrogator droids until they confessed every act of disloyalty they’d ever committed.

In the week since the attack, only the gunner had been released. The scan officer was dead. The Special Forces commander still screamed.

Captain Tabor Seitaron did not dispute that punishment was necessary. Mistakes
had
occurred, and Governor Chalis, by all rights, should have been the one suffering under the droids’ apparatus. Tabor should have been home again, rolling his eyes at some cadet’s plagiarized essay on the Battle of Christophsis.

But Verge’s proclivity for gruesome torment would only instill more fear in his crew. Fear was like heat applied to steel: Applied correctly it might forge a blade; overused, it turned metal to slag.

“We are men of different eras,” the prelate said after breakfasting with Tabor outside the interrogation chambers. As they walked away, Tabor could still hear the commander’s screams. “You helped build the machine that is the Empire. You oiled its mechanisms, turned its wheels—you created order, and I commend you for that.”

“We did our duty,” Tabor said, “and tried to rise to the Emperor’s challenge.”

Since his assignment to the
Herald
, Tabor had found himself—to his own surprise, and against his better judgment—beginning to enjoy the prelate’s company. The boy’s enthusiasm for expounding on his own ideas, his desire to uplift those around him into his strange world, was surprisingly infectious. His familiarity and sincerity, his curiosity about Tabor, were similarly alluring—even Tabor’s most capable students had seemed more concerned with career advancement than with grappling with new ideas. Verge had already climbed higher than Tabor ever would, and yet he remained eager to unlock his own potential.

But there were limits to Tabor’s tolerance, and after a morning spent watching unspeakable acts while trying to digest pickled eggs and dumplings, his interest in conversing with Verge was at its nadir.

“Nonetheless,” the prelate said, “the machine was built. And—this is important, Captain—I believe that machine is why we don’t always see eye-to-eye.”

“Have we disagreed in some important matter?” Tabor asked, letting a hint of surprise into his tone.

“We have not,” the prelate answered, “but I know you’re not fond of my choice of disciplinary measures. You see more
efficient
ways to maintain the machine.”

Tabor focused his attention on Prelate Verge and squared his shoulders. This was not a time to be inattentive or sloppy; whatever relationship he’d built with Verge, he never forgot to be wary of the boy’s ire.

“I have my own habits, certainly,” Tabor conceded. “But this is your ship, and every leader commands his troops in his own way.”

The prelate’s lips twitched: a sure sign of growing impatience. “You’re not comprehending, Captain. I
acknowledge
your ways may be more effective in making the machine of the Empire run smoothly.

“But the machine is already built,” he went on. “The Emperor has constructed a new society, a new way of living. My duty is not to lay its foundation, but to live as our Emperor commands—as a member of the civilization that you so deftly engineered.” Verge frowned a moment and drew to a halt in the corridor. “What does the Emperor demand of each of us, Captain?”

Was the question a trap? Tabor wondered. But he chose not to second-guess himself. He would not, could not try to predict the prelate. “Our loyalty and obedience,” Tabor answered.

“
Total
loyalty,” Verge echoed, “and
total
obedience. That is correct.” The prelate smiled as he continued, turning to face Tabor in full. “In exchange, our Emperor rewards us with the privilege of extravagant actions empowered by our most puissant emotions. You were taught restraint, while I have learned the virtue of excess.

“For so long as our loyalty and obedience are absolute, our excesses can do no harm to our master. My generation will be glorious slaves, Captain, and while Lord Vader believes himself the Emperor’s first acolyte, I believe I am the first true child of the Empire.”

The words were proud to the point of arrogance. But there was a tremor in the prelate’s voice, and his smile looked stiff and forced.

“Then you believe,” Tabor said, wondering if his neglect for caution would be his downfall, “that so long as we’re fully loyal, failure is impossible?”

“I do,” Verge said. “Thus, any whim may be fulfilled, so long as we are true to our Emperor.”

And any mistake
, Tabor thought,
is tantamount to treason.

Tabor realized suddenly that the boy was terrified.

He forced himself to show no reaction. Instead he attempted to reassure the boy the only way he could conceive. “Then let us endeavor to remain true,” Tabor said, “by ensuring the capture of Governor Chalis.”

Verge pivoted and began to walk again, nodding briskly. “Of course,” he said. “Her ship is now in hiding. We won’t track it again, I think.”

“Then we determine her next move,” Tabor replied. “Darth Vader and his forces scattered Alliance High Command. That means she’s isolated now. What would she do on her own?”

“What indeed?” Verge said. “We’ll talk, Captain. We’ll study her options, and we’ll assemble a plan.” He slowed his pace and reached out to touch Tabor’s arm.

Tabor turned to look at the boy.

“This last failure,” Verge said, the tremor in his voice returning for a fraction of a second, “was the fault of our crew, and they have been justly punished.

“But there must not be a
second
failure.”

In that, Tabor thought, they were in agreement.

PLANET ANKHURAL

Three Days Before Operation Ringbreaker

The
Thunderstrike
’s communications array had melted in the attack on the flotilla.
Apailana’s Promise
wasn’t equipped for interstellar encryption. So Namir and Brand spent most of the morning combing through cramped shops and junkyards, searching for a dealer who would sell them the parts they needed to make contact with whatever was left of Alliance High Command.

They didn’t find anyone willing. Ignoring Twilight Company was one thing; the citizens of Ankhural seemed happy to turn a blind eye, particularly when a few credits were in the mix. But no one wanted to get
involved
, and Twilight’s engineers had already reported difficulty obtaining wires and tubing and scrap metal. Illegal transmitters and code sequencers were a step too far.

By noon, Namir and Brand had silently agreed to make do with someone
unwilling.
In a curio shop where animal tusks and vials of silver fluid were piled alongside datapads and retinal spiders, Brand whispered something into the proprietor’s ear while Namir held a scalpel-flourishing droid at gunpoint. The proprietor disappeared into the back before returning with a box of metal devices marked with the Imperial crest. He shouted something in an alien language as the two left the shop, the box safely nestled under Namir’s left arm.

“What did you say?” Namir asked.

“Something that will only work once,” Brand said, glancing over her shoulder as she led the way through the city’s back alleys.

It was more of an answer than Namir had expected. He decided to press his luck. “What did
he
say?” he asked.

“He thought we were a couple,” Brand said.

Namir laughed until Brand cast him an irritated look. His joy faded, however, as they approached the podracing track, and the fears and burdens that had claimed him the night before enveloped him like a shroud.

He still had no idea how to give Twilight Company what it needed.

Once the communications rig was in place, getting a response was a matter of patience and prayer. The
Thunderstrike
sent three messages to three separate Alliance relay stations, hoping one would be routed to a ship or a base that hadn’t been destroyed. That in itself was a risk—if the Empire had located the relays, there was a chance the messages could be traced. Namir didn’t understand the mechanics, but he trusted the word of the surviving bridge crew; ensigns or not, they were still Alliance navy, and that meant they’d read operating manuals for equipment with names Namir couldn’t even pronounce.

The senior officers traded comm duty for the rest of the day and into the night—any channel opened to the Alliance wasn’t likely to stay open long, and someone from Twilight had to be ready to seize any opportunity for communication, however brief. Namir had come to relieve Von Geiz early in the morning when he arrived in Howl’s office and saw the old doctor staring at a shimmering blue hologram.

“—most of High Command survived, but the fleet is scattered and the Empire is hunting strays.” The image pixilated, turned to static, reassembled into the upper body of a non-uniformed boy younger than Namir. His words were difficult to pick out; a droid would have sounded more human. “I can’t guess when they’ll reassemble.”

Von Geiz nodded slowly. “And the princess?” he asked.

There was a long delay before the boy answered. Namir couldn’t tell whether the cause was human or technical. “Gone missing. We know she’s alive—the Empire’s committed massive resources to finding her—but that’s all.”

Von Geiz nodded again and looked to Namir. Namir gestured to the medic, prompting him to proceed.

“Is there
anyone
,” Von Geiz asked, “with command authority who we can reach? Or a general order for surviving ships?”