Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company (9 page)

CARIDA SYSTEM

Day Ninety-One of the Mid Rim Retreat

Captain Tabor Seitaron felt an internal buzz of distress as he stepped off his shuttle into the hangar of the Imperial Star Destroyer
Herald.
His boots seemed to cling to the polished floor and his intestines felt as though they’d been compressed under a stone. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d experienced the tug of artificial gravity—perhaps four years ago, during the test flight of the
Rueful Confession
?—but he knew it hadn’t always afflicted him so.

He felt
old.
He should have been on Carida, teaching military history to cadets who’d mastered the art of appearing attentive in class. Instead, he’d spent the morning being ferried from Academy to spaceport to hangar without the barest hint as to why.

“Captain Seitaron, sir! Welcome aboard.”

Tabor looked to the ensign who stood stiffly at attention. His posture was adequate, his uniform neatly pressed, though his eyes were bloodshot and sunken. The boy—the man, Tabor supposed, though junior officers always seemed like boys nowadays—was backed by two stormtroopers whose arms were locked rigid at their sides.
At least
, Tabor thought,
they’re following protocol.

“At ease,” he said. The trio relaxed their shoulders only a touch.

“We’re grateful you could come,” the ensign said, and began to lead the way out of the hangar—briskly at first, then abruptly slowing his steps to accommodate Tabor. “If you have anything stowed on the shuttle—”

“Nothing,” Tabor said. “I was told the prelate wanted to see me?”

“He’ll be ready for you shortly,” the ensign assured him. “This way, please.”

The stormtroopers fell in behind Tabor and the ensign as they braved the depths of the ship. Tabor had served aboard Star Destroyers even before they’d earned the name—during the darkest days of the Republic, when shipwrights used to building merchant vessels and gilded yachts had scrambled to learn the arts of war. He’d seen the ships evolve from overwrought behemoths barely able to power their frames to the greatest weapons in the Imperial fleet, each capable of transporting thousands of soldiers or laying waste to continents and orbital platforms. The
Herald
was one of the later designs, postdating Tabor’s active service; though he knew its specifications, he didn’t recognize the high-pitched hum of its engine or the droids that scurried among its data terminals.

Nor did he recognize the path the ensign followed through the cavernous hallways and operations rooms. As they walked, the ensign kept up a polite but incessant patter, pointing out the ship’s features—its complement of walkers, its updated turbolaser targeting systems—and making a point to inform Tabor where to find the officers’ mess, the crew quarters, and the bridge. He related the ship’s upgrades to triumphs in Tabor’s own career—“I’m sure that extra ten percent efficiency would have been useful at the Battle of Foerost!”—and Tabor humored the boy, nodding approvingly and asking the obvious questions. But his mind wandered.
He’s giving me the whole blasted tour. How long does he think I’m staying?

“When were you assigned here?” Tabor inquired, barely hearing himself as they marched past duty stations.

“Four months ago, along with most of the crew.”

Four months? That surprised Tabor. The ensign wasn’t the only man who looked exhausted. Officers flinched as Tabor walked past, tapping at their consoles frenetically. He saw others slump their shoulders the moment they thought he’d looked away. He recognized a mixture of diligence, fatigue, and suppressed terror typical of men who’d spent
years
behind enemy lines.

He could have made delicate inquiries, asked about the ship’s recent missions and the background of the officers aboard. Perhaps he still would—it rankled Tabor to see morale in such a state—but that could wait until he was home. The
Herald
was not his ship or his responsibility.

The tour was mercifully truncated when the ensign left Tabor alone in the conference center with an assurance that the prelate would join him shortly. Tabor took the opportunity to wipe his brow and ingest a tablet the medics had prescribed to calm his innards. He checked the time on a nearby console; at the Academy, it would soon be time for lunch.

It was nearly an hour before Prelate Verge finally arrived.

If the ensign had been a boy, the prelate was practically a child—barely twenty years old, at a generous guess, with gleaming sapphire eyes and flowing black hair. He wore an outfit of deep-gray cloth, augmented by a cloak in the style of the Serenno nobles and a single bejeweled brooch. Tabor was left with the impression of someone who would have been at home in the Republic Senate, gaudy and elegant and alien all at once. Yet aboard the ordered refinement of a Star Destroyer, the prelate was chaos personified—unconstrained by regulations, a singular persona in the midst of diligently enforced uniformity.

Tabor had heard of the prelate before his summons to the
Herald
, if only vaguely: the youngest member of the Imperial Ruling Council, a rising star among the ministers and advisers who gossiped and played politics on Coruscant. Emperor Palpatine himself had supposedly granted Verge his title, though what
prelate
actually signified, Tabor could not guess.

Prelate Verge strode into the conference room with a broad smile, reaching out to clasp Tabor’s shoulder with harsh enthusiasm. “Captain,” he said. “Welcome to my ship.”

Your ship?
Tabor thought.
You’ve never spent a day in the Imperial Navy.
But he nodded politely and said, “Thank you, Prelate. She’s a fine vessel”—Verge released his grip; Tabor continued before the prelate could reply—“but I’m not sure why you brought me here.”

The corners of the prelate’s mouth twitched. Then his smile tightened and he backed away. “Of course,” he said. “It’s been a long journey for you, and you must be eager to begin.”

Tabor wondered
what
, exactly, needed beginning, but this time he refrained from prompting Verge.

“I’ve been appointed a task,” Verge said, “by our beneficent Emperor: the capture of Everi Chalis, former emissary to the Imperial Ruling Council and honorary Grand Architect of the New Order—now defector to the Rebel Alliance. I believe you knew the traitor, and I need someone at my side who understands how she thinks.” He flashed a smile before adding, “So much as any true Imperial can comprehend the thinking of a traitor.”

Tabor tried to keep the confusion from his face. Chalis had struck Tabor as capable in her way, an adequate successor to the genius of Count Vidian but better at promoting herself and outplaying her foes than anything truly remarkable. Had anyone asked Tabor whether Chalis might betray the Empire, he’d have denied the possibility altogether; such a woman had neither the courage nor the will to turn on her masters.

“With due respect,” Tabor said, “you overestimate my understanding of the woman—we haven’t spoken in years.” He racked his brain, tried to remember the endless meetings and receptions on Coruscant; remember who had worked with Chalis and, of those, who hadn’t yet retired or passed on. “Perhaps Tiaan Jerjerrod or Kenth Leesha could be of more use?” he tried.

Again, the prelate’s mouth twitched. “I chose
you
,” he said, “as the Emperor chose
me.
Chalis is dangerous, and this is not the time for humility.”

Boyish fingers closed into a fist and reopened. Verge’s voice fell to a whisper, and Tabor had to strain to understand. “You were once a great man; you served our Emperor and our age with distinction. Now you waste away at the Academy, and I am offering you the chance to serve truly once more.”

With his final words, he raised his voice again. His tone was cold and lifeless. “To refuse this privilege would be as incomprehensible as Chalis’s own acts.”

Tabor stared at the prelate as he parsed the knot of verbiage.

He’d been in his own world so long he’d forgotten the language of the court: how polite men accused each other of treason.

Defiance rose in his throat. He banished it like he had the buzzing in his stomach. “I apologize,” he said. “I meant no offense to the Emperor. I’d be proud to serve at your side.”

Long-forgotten rumors surfaced unbidden in Tabor’s mind. He recalled stories of a child of one of Emperor Palpatine’s viziers, groomed for the Ruling Council, devoted to the Emperor’s service above all else. That same child had embraced Palpatine’s doctrine with a zealous fervor, sought to prove himself the embodiment of his Emperor’s New Order.

People had
mocked
Verge to Tabor. They called him deluded and self-important. They said he’d built a manor on Naboo, the Emperor’s homeworld, with a private shrine to Palpatine’s glories. They said he’d once tried to
maim
himself, to scar his face as the Jedi had done to the Emperor. Perhaps they were correct.

If nothing else, Prelate Verge was a true believer.

Verge nodded stiffly, proudly. “Good,” he said. “You and I will achieve great things—I’m certain of that.”

Tabor offered a smile that felt more like a grimace and wondered when he would see his home on Carida again.

PLANET COYERTI

Day Ninety-Seven of the Mid Rim Retreat

Swaths of green and brown and yellow raced past the open bay doors of Namir’s drop ship. The roar of the wind and the fury of the engine combined into an inexorable howl that overwhelmed any other sound; so long as Namir fixed his gaze ahead, he seemed alone inside a hurricane.

A hand tapped his shoulder. He turned to see Brand hold up two fingers. Behind Brand stood Gadren, while Roach clung to one of the handrails, swaying with the rocking of the ship. In the recesses of the bay, two more squads of Twilight soldiers were crammed together on narrow benches, checking their blasters and their armor.

Two minutes until drop.

Namir nodded to Brand and turned back to the doors. The streaks of color were slowing with the drop ship, resolving into masses of broad-leafed trees spotted and drooping with disease. A heavy, vegetal aroma filled the humid air, along with something acrid Namir couldn’t place. It wasn’t the worst-smelling planet Namir had been to, but he guessed it would grow distasteful fast.

He cinched the strap of his rifle and adjusted his helmet. The masses of jungle now became individual trees as the drop ship descended toward the ground. One minute to go.

A faint, tinny voice sounded as Brand yelled in his ear. “TIE fighter incoming. Do it fast.” Namir nodded again.

The ship descended farther until tree limbs and wet leaves slapped its underside. One branch leapt in through the bay doors before snapping off and falling away. Then the foliage cleared and Namir could see the tarry mire that served as Coyerti’s surface.

With a fierce smile, he jumped.

The fall was less than five meters—short enough to survive or high enough to kill, depending on how one landed. Namir could feel the heat of the drop ship engines as he went down, but it was gone a second later when his feet struck the ground. He bent his knees as the dark soil compressed and his boots sank, then he fell forward and tried to roll. In another moment he was up again, filthy and sore but unharmed.

He surveyed the clearing. Brand was up already, as covered in mire as Namir. Gadren was rising with a groan a stone’s throw away. Roach was on her back, and a jolt of concern ran through Namir before she sprang up, panting and grinning.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Namir called. “You ever try a rocket-assisted landing, you’ll break your ankle.”

“Assuming,” Gadren added, “we keep you around after Charmer recovers.”

Assuming you’re alive
, Namir thought, though he caught himself before saying it aloud. Better not to demoralize the fresh meat.

In the distance, in the direction the drop ship had flown, Namir thought he heard the sound of laserfire. He winced inwardly; if the drop ship went down, it would take the squads still aboard with it. There wasn’t anything he could do now.

He pulled out a datapad and checked his coordinates before waving the squad together. “Come on,” he said. “We’re five klicks from our target. In this jungle, it’ll be a long walk.”

According to Howl’s briefing, Coyerti was one of the Empire’s military research outposts—a planet so rich in plant and animal life that it served as the perfect testing and development ground for biological weapons. On Coyerti, the Empire regularly deployed everything from neurotoxins to defoliants, manufacturing the most virulent poisons on-site for shipment across the galaxy and leaving Coyerti itself a rotting morass of half-dead trees and composting debris.

Yet the Empire hadn’t gone unopposed. Native to Coyerti was an intelligent species that resisted occupation and had proved too hardy to wipe out. The same biodiversity that made the planet useful as a laboratory also shielded the Coyerti people from the Empire’s custom plagues. What they weren’t naturally immune or resistant to they were able to cure, and every attempt on their lives made the Coyerti angrier. If they’d been more populous or technologically adept, they might have reclaimed their world; as it was, they’d spent the past decade forcing the Empire to expend resources in an endless little war at the edge of the Mid Rim.