EXOGORTH SQUADRON: CHAPTER ONE
Areha Duranna had learned to expect the sudden hushes, the looks of pity and sadness, whenever she met new people. She had not learned how to take it in stride. It had been seven years since her planet had been destroyed and in that time an Empire had fallen and a New Republic had risen from the ashes of the old. But people still fell silent, uncomfortable in the shadow of her shattered world. People still didn't know how to react to Alderaanians.
Part of that was doubtless because of the fact that there were so few of them now. Even those who traveled the galaxy's farthest lengths might reasonably go their whole lives without ever encountering one of the survivors of that disaster. Areha did not have any solid numbers on how many ex-pats and tourists had been off-world at the time her planet was targeted for destruction; she didn't think anyone knew, since the best source for records that would have let one calculate such numbers had been Alderaan itself and their central computer storage had been vaporized along with everything else. But everyone knew that there were not many Alderaanians left in the galaxy; knew that the number would only ever get smaller. There would still be people who could claim to be descended from Alderaan in the future, of course—but they would be the children of ghosts, of memories. Alderaan was gone.
And she was complicit in the destruction of its memory. Rather than honoring her planet and her past by dedicating her life to living the Alderaanian ideal as an example to the galaxy, Areha had chosen to turn her back on her people's culture and heritage and take up arms against a cruel and violent universe.
Sometimes she felt guilty about that.
Right here, standing in the middle of the sparse briefing room while her new squadronmates tried to stare at her without meeting her eyes, was not one of those times. That's right, Areha thought fiercely, take a good long look. This is what the Empire does to people. This is what we're fighting to prevent. How does that make you feel?
She glared out at all of them, her brown face pale and drawn, her sharp eyebrows knit together in a fierce glare. A few dared to meet her glittering green eyes for a moment but they flinched away anxiously when she returned their gaze. Most of them didn't even try. Areha raked her gaze across the half-filled chairs and almost jerked with surprise when one of the other pilots did meet her eyes. He was a young Rutian Twi'lek, his blue skin gleaming under the sickly artificial lights, his eyes steady. The tip of one headtail twitched. Areha knew that Twi'leks could communicate elaborate, specific ideas with the movements of their lekku but it was a language she had never studied. She wasn't sure what he was trying to say to her so she kept her face blank. She did jerk her chin slightly in what was almost a nod, not wanting to seem unsociable—at least not to someone who was bold enough to look at an Alderaanian without flinching. His lips curled in a thin, sharp-toothed smile and this time it was Areha who looked away first.
At a nod from the executive officer she took her seat, only becoming aware that her legs were shaking after the fact. She was glad to let the next pilot stand and face the scrutiny of their fellows now.
He was a human, like her, and like her he was a little shorter than galactic average; pilots tended to be small, at least the good ones, because a snubfighter's cockpit was cramped and smaller bodies made for more room in those tight confines. Unlike her he met the room with a smile, his bright teeth flashing like he was some kind of holodrama star. A scar that had to have come from a crease of blasterfire cut an angled line across one brow and disappeared into his hairline. The position that Areha was sitting at made it hard to tell whether the scar affected the growth of his hair; his skin was nearly as black as the small, neat braids that brushed the collar of his orange flightsuit and the harsh lighting of the briefing room hit his forehead like a planetary nimbus, obscuring the fine details of the old injury.
"Tanett Shenk," the X-O announced to the room, "Corellia. Communications Officer." Tannett gave his audience a sweeping bow. A few people laughed and the nervous tension that had gripped the room since Areha's introduction broke. She was surprised to hear he was going to be in charge of squadron communications; with his looks and swagger she had expected him to be a regular hotshot flyboy or at the least a sharpshooter, not a comm-tech.
Tanett returned to his seat with a languid, casual slouch. Oh, he's definitely a Corellian, Areha thought, rolling her eyes.
She turned with the rest of the room to look at the next pilot introduced: a pretty Zabrak woman with delicate purple-brown tattoos stenciled across her light yellow-brown skin. She had no eyebrows although she was one of the sub-species of Zabrak that did grow hair on their heads. Hers started halfway back on her head, past her short horns, and curled in a feathery pouf that ended at the base of her skull. She was small even for a pilot and her delicate, fine-boned features carried an air of fragility like fine ceramics, but when she moved to clasp her hands behind her back and give the room a stiff bow, Areha saw hard muscle shift beneath her flightsuit. The Zabrak's narrow golden eyes studied the room with the intensity of a born predator and Areha revised her opinion of the other woman's apparent delicacy.
"Kaden Lothar," the XO announced, "Iridonia. It's not an official role, but Lothar has volunteered to help with hand-to-hand training for those of you who want a few pointers. I've made her promise not to break any of you right before a mission. Other times, you're on your own." Areha glanced at the executive officer and was surprised to see that the woman was grinning. She hadn't realized that their XO had a sense of humor. A grim-faced, middle aged native of Coruscant, Captain Shenay Ortellan had according to base-rumor not set foot on her homeworld since joining the Rebellion fifteen years ago. Rumor also said that the reason she was only a captain, despite over a decade of service to the cause, was because she'd spent most of those fifteen years quietly feuding with first Davits Draven and later Airen Cracken himself. Areha wasn't sure how much credence to put on those rumors; she had met Cracken briefly and the man had not struck her as someone who allowed personal feelings to influence…well, anything. But she couldn't think of another reason why a woman with Ortellan's service record would be a mere captain, even if she had lost both of her hands while EVA during the Battle of Endor. According to more believable rumor, she had not demonstrated a high enough level of prosthetic cohesion to be rated as snubfighter-capable afterward, and that was why she now served Starfleet Command as an executive officer to fighter squadrons rather than flying in them herself.
Areha had no time to ponder Ortellan's history now though, because the XO was already calling the name of the next pilot as he stood: "Jaen Vao, Nar Shaddaa. Squad medic." It was the blue Twi'lek who had smiled at her. He stood, turned so he could face most of the room, folded his long fingers together gracefully, and gave them all a little bow—much smoother and more languid that the perfunctory gesture that Kaden had made. He was still smiling that thin little smile and didn't seem to hear the whispers that followed the announcement of his homeworld. Nar Shaddaa was known for a lot of things but a bastion of cutting-edge medical science it was not. Still, he could have trained anywhere; a person's homeworld did not always dictate their upbringing and Areha thought that he looked far too pleasant to be a hardened criminal. He looked a little too pleasant to be a field medic, too, but he probably hadn't started out patching-up soldiers on battlefields. Most of the New Republic's medical personnel had not trained as combat medics.
The next pilot called was another human, a female like Areha although they had little in common by appearance. This woman was tall for a pilot with thick, solid muscles and broad shoulders. Her sleeves were rolled up, displaying forearms that looked like they had been forged from durasteel cables. Areha could not help but gape, impressed and a little envious. While this woman doubtless found the confines of a snubfighter cockpit cramped she didn't look like there was much else in the galaxy that dared get in her way. Her ash-blonde hair was cropped close in a military buzz-cut and her tan skin sported a number of small white scars as though she had walked through a hail of shrapnel at some point in the past. Her cold blue eyes scanned the room as dispassionately as a droid's sensors and when she cracked a smile it looked like someone mimicking an expression they had seen on other people's faces without properly understanding. Areha felt a little flutter in her guts; she desperately wanted to impress this woman, or maybe even to be her someday. With her slight build more suited to an acrobat than a brawler she knew that wasn't a possibility, but her awareness of the reality of the situation did nothing to quench her sense of awe as she drank-in the sight of her burly new squadronmate.
"Treen," said Ortellan. "Agamar. Combat expert." There was something strange in her tone and Areha wrenched her eyes away from Treen's glorious physique to study the XO. Ortellan's eyes were bent over her datapad, although she had not had to refer to it for any of the other names she had called, and her expression was unfathomable.
Areha had no more time to fathom it; Treen gave a single curt nod and sat back down, her posture ramrod straight and her eyes fixed straight ahead, and then Ortellan was calling the next pilot to stand:
This was another Twi'lek, a female of a delicate purple hue. Areha wasn't sure what the term was for purple Twi'leks; she had never met one before. This woman was tall and athletic-looking even in her loose, rumpled orange flightsuit. She stood with her chin raised defiantly, her eyes glittering, and the smile on her face looked strained. Her lekku had been tattooed in brown ink with intricate, looping twists and spirals that sprouted delicate flowers at the intersections. More delicate twists and buds framed her eyes, curving across her high cheekbones. The tattoos on her right lekku were marred by an ugly, splotchy scar and Areha, who knew that lekku were extremely sensitive organs, winced at the sight.
"Sienn Saresh, Ryloth," Ortellan announced. "Sharpshooter." Areha turned back to stare at the Twi'lek; from the murmur of surprise that ran around the room, she wasn't the only one to be startled. While Areha knew that a person's skills could not be measured based on their birth or species, she also knew that the reality of the galaxy meant that many people found it hard to break from the traditions—or constrictions—of their roots, especially non-humans who suffered more at the hands of bigoted Imperials and oppressive Imperials laws. For a young Twi'lek female, especially one from Ryloth, to have acquired the skills necessary to be a fighter squadron's resident sharpshooter was rare indeed.
Sienn, doubtless hearing the whispers, raised her chin a little higher. Her brown eyes blazed defiance.
Areha decided she liked the Twi'lek girl.
The next to stand was a Rodian man. He was a little taller than Areha but he hunched his shoulders as if he wished he could take up less space than he did. He was a pudgy, green-skinned man with few of the bristly skull-ridge spines traditional to his species. His ears were wide and flared out on the sides of his head and his snout twitched nervously as he glanced around the room. His eyes were a light, watery blue, very large, and the scaling that ringed them was tinted almost yellow. His pebbly green skin looked more pallid than that of most Rodians that Areha had met. When the XO announced his homeworld, she understood why: "Gez of Clan Tanwa, Coruscant. Demolitions." Anyone who lived in the lower levels of Coruscant lived a life without natural sunlight. Since Coruscant had been under Imperial Control until recently, the likelihood of any nonhuman being wealthy and influential enough to afford to live on the upper levels—and furthermore to be tolerated there by their bigoted neighbors—was low. If Gez had spent his whole life on Coruscant, he could probably count on one sucker-fingered hand the number of times he'd actually seen the sun before traveling off-world.
The Rodian sat down, looking relieved, and a Cathar stood next. He had tawny, striped fur and a golden-brown mane that had been tied back in thick braids that reached nearly to his waist. Areha had never met one of the cat-people but she recognized him from the descriptions she had read. It was rare to see a Cathar outside their homeworld these days—at least, one who wasn't a slave. From the way the thickly-furred man's broad shoulders went back and his chin went up, the very picture of feline pride, Areha had a feeling that if anyone had tried to make this Cathar a slave, they had regretted it quickly. He had the sleeves of his flightsuit rolled up above his elbows and the zipper in the front open nearly to his naval, exposing a large swatch of off-white fur centered across his chest. Even beneath the thick fur it was obvious that he was muscular, although his build was more that of a lithe acrobat than the stout, solid bulk of Treen. There were more patches of that off-white fur at his ears and cheeks and his nose was a deep, reddish-brown. His teeth were bright white and very sharp. He spread his lips in a smile that was more teeth than anything else, although that might have simply been a trick of biology; when one evolved as an apex predator, it had to be difficult to grin in any fashion that wasn't predatory.
"Redun Hadar, Cathar," the XO said. Redun tossed his head and his braids rippled. "Flight Officer Hadar will be in charge of organizing most missions that require infiltration or exfiltration in natural, overgrown environments. If you're clumsy I suggest you find a way to butter him up for some private lessons." Redun chuckled as he sat down. Kaden flashed the Cathar man a thin smile but Gez looked nervous.
The next pilot to rise made everyone flinch. He was a short, stout human man with rough, ruddy skin and auburn hair that was going gray in streaks. It was the metallic mask that covered most of his face that made everyone's breath catch in their throats. He still had his natural eyes—a light, gold-flecked hazel—but from his cheekbones down his whole face, right down to the underside of his chin, had been replaced by a harsh metal prosthetic. It looked more like an exhaust grill than a mouth and reminded Areha a little of the foreboding facemask that the late Darth Vader had worn beneath his black helmet—not that she had ever met the Dark Lord of the Sith, but everyone knew what Vader had looked like. This man did not inspire the terror that Vader had, but rather horrified pity. When Areha could finally tear her eyes away from his ravaged face she saw that one of his hands had also been replaced with a blocky, dark gray prosthetic. With the baggy flightsuit he wore she couldn't tell if he had any other mechanical parts but she hoped not; a face and a hand were more than enough pieces for anyone to lose, she thought.
He raised his prosthetic hand in a jaunty, casual salute and Areha noticed his eyes were twinkling. While there was no expression to read on his mechanical face, she thought the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes looked more like laugh lines than anything else, and relaxed a little. She even managed a small smile for him when he glanced her way and she was rewarded by a flicker of one eye that she was almost sure had been a wink.
"Berjeleth Afneen," the XO said, her voice quite normal. "Harrin. Mechanic." While the sleek metal prosthetics that had replaced her arms were much less jarring to the eye than the blocky, disquieting ones that Berjeleth sported, Areha supposed that Ortellan must nonetheless be used to the idea—and sight—of mechanical limbs, regardless of what style they came in. She resolved not to let herself stare at Berjeleth anymore. She knew what it was like to be looked at with pity, and she didn't like it either.
Ortellan gave the room a moment to settle before she called the next name: "Leeso Voond, Duro. Sniper—if we need one." From the XO's thin smile she thought it a distinct possibility. "Lieutenant Voond also has the highest number of confirmed snubfighter kills in the unit, so if she offers you piloting advice I suggest taking it." The thin, dour-looked Duro woman did not swell with pride the way most pilots would over being so singled-out among their fellows. She stood with her hands clasped loosely in front of her, her posture relaxed, her face impassive. Areha had never thought Duros to have particularly expressive features but even in comparison with the rest of her species, Leeso seemed reserved. Her wrinkled, grayish-green skin looked blue wherever it fell in shadow and her bulbous red eyes were uncharacteristically narrow. Rather than looking around at her fellow pilots she stared straight ahead, unmoving until Ortellan indicated that she could sit down again. Leeso folded her long limbs up easily. She was the tallest of the squadron but something about her jerky, accordion-like motions told Areha that if the Duro found the confines of a snubfighter cockpit cramped, she would never admit that it caused her any difficulties.
The next to be called was also tall for a pilot, although considerably shorter than Leeso. He was a Mirialan man, his origins unmistakable even before Ortellan announced his homeworld: his yellow-tinted green skin could have belonged to any number of species, but his cheeks and chin were marked by the stark, geometric tattoos that characterized Mirial natives. The markings had some elaborate, important meaning in his people's culture but Areha had never studied the symbology; the number of Mirialans at large in the galaxy was not high, and from everything she had heard they did not expect outlanders to know their markings anyway. "Mondalnan Ulnee," the executive office announced and the man inclined his head in a polite nod to the room. "Mirial. Another combat specialist and," she grimaced, "not someone I advise playing Sabaac with." Everyone chuckled and Mondalnan's wide blue lips parted in a smile. His eyes were narrow, a strong molten orange color, and between those, his close-cropped black hair, and the tattoos, he had looked foreboding until he smiled; now his eyes crinkled up into deep folds and his stoic expression gave way to an infectious cheer.
Areha found herself smiling back at the Mirialan man until the next pilot rose and her smile was dashed off her face by the sight of his gruesome injury. It was obviously an old one, from the way the scorched flesh at the edges had faded to white, but it was a horrifying sight nonetheless. He was a Quarren and both of the tentacles on the left side of his triangle-shaped face had been burnt clean off. The short stubs twitched in what seemed to be an autonomous movement as his icy blue eyes traveled slowly between the staring pilots. Areha's stomach did flip-flops and she forced herself to meet his gaze rather than gape at the missing tentacles. She didn't know why he hadn't opted for prosthetic replacements; perhaps it was a cultural issue, or perhaps medical technology couldn't provide a suitable replacement for such delicate digits. Areha had met a few Quarren before but only in passing and she knew little of their social mores. Perhaps they eschewed prosthetics—or perhaps this man simply preferred not to hide what his fight had cost him.
"Lieutenant Lssk Drenko, Dac," the XO said. "Slicer and strategist."
"I look forward to flying with you all," he said, his voice gravelly. His eyes flicked toward the door and his beak twitched in an expression that Areha could not read, but whatever else he might have been planning to say he thought better of it and returned to his seat with a polite nod to Ortellan.
The commander of their new squadron walked in then. Areha sat straighter, her spine going rigid in automatic response to his presence; from the rustling of cloth she could hear around her, she wasn't the only one adjusting her posture. Two rows up, Tanett pulled in his languidly draped limbs and swung upright in his seat. Of the pilots she could see the only one who didn't move was Treen; the muscular woman was already sitting as rigidly as the human body could affix itself.
Areha studied their leader. He was a Mon Calamari of slightly less than average height for his species although the way he hunched his shoulders and lowered his tall head like a battering ram made him look shorter. His skin was a mottled grayish-blue with brown speckles. The bulbous eye on the left side of his face swiveled to let him look around the room without having to turn his head as much as a human would have; where his other eye should have been a deep divot had been carved out of his flesh leaving a jagged mass of pink scar tissue. A gleam of shiny black plasteel caught the light as he turned, evidence of some kind of ocular implant. Areha guessed that there had been too much damage to the nerves or even just too much muscle tissue missing to allow for a true, independently-swiveling prosthetic replacement to match his other eye.
If General Kiel Macklen found his disfiguring injury a handicap it didn't show in the grim, one-eyed stare that he raked across his new pilots. Areha couldn't help glancing sideways toward Lssk. She knew that Quarrens and Mon Calamari did not always get along, but Macklen must have been involved in approving all of his pilots if not outright in charge of their selection; surely he would not have chosen Lssk if he did not think he would be able to fly alongside the other man. The real question thus was how Lssk would react to having a Mon Cal for a commanding officer. While Areha was not an expert in the cultural clashes between the sentients of Dac, she knew enough to understand that the Quarren harbored a great deal of resentment toward the Mon Calimari. She couldn't imagine that taking the orders of one would be easy for Lssk if he shared his people's resentments but whatever he felt at the prospect, his beaked face was inscrutable to her eyes.
"Well," Macklen said at last, the barbells at his throat quivering, "you all know what we're here for. The Empire may be crippled but it isn't dead, and an ebbing tide hides treacherous currents. Worse, there are those who do not know how to read those currents who will try to convince you that the sea is calm. We know better than that." He slapped one broad hand against the other with a damp clap. "All of you, you were chosen for this squadron because of your skills, yes—but you were also chosen because you understand what is at stake. You understand the enemy. You have suffered at their hands. You will not let some barnacle-chewing peace-maker blunt your teeth and dull your claws. You are here because you will not stop fighting."
He paused, letting the ripples of his words fill the still pond of the listening pilots. Areha felt her heart thudding in her throat, her fingers trembling with the urge to press against the control stick of her snubfighter or the trigger of her blaster. Around her she could feel that same eager hunger rising from her new squadronmates. A distant part of her mind wondered idly what brutal lessons the others had learned; she of course was Alderaanian, and no one knew the pain the Empire caused better than the survivors of Alderaan. But from Macklen's words she was not the only one who had been dragged through hells by the Empire's black deeds; from the sound of things, everyone in this room carried some version of her pain. It would be interesting to know those stories; to know that for once she was not, entirely, alone in the ache of her loss.
Mostly though, she was dangling with anticipation over what would be his next words.
"That is what we need, what the galaxy needs. The New Republic is forging a bright, shiny new Senate out of the tangled seaweed of Coruscant—and that is good, the galaxy will need that. But I think they are acting prematurely. I think they are too ready to call the fight won when it is not over." He grumbled low in his throat and said, "Do you know, there are some on the Provisional Council who want to talk treaties with Imperial officers?"
A low growl met Macklen's incredulous words. Areha turned to see the Cathar's teeth bared. She smiled thinly. She lacked the voicebox necessary for growling, but Redun had expressed her sentiments perfectly—hers and, she suspected, those of most of the other pilots sitting in this room.
Macklen's lips parted in an approximation of a human-type smile. It was not, Areha had learned, a natural gesture of Mon Calamari faces, but most of the Mon Cals who had served with the New Republic—and before that, the Rebel Alliance—for any length of time had developed the habit. She wasn't sure if Macklen's smile was natural or deliberate; she was sure that either way it didn't matter. "Exactly my thoughts, Flight Officer Hadar," he said, chortling. "Exactly.
"So!" Macklen clapped his hands together again and started pacing back and forth across the front of the briefing room. Every eye was fixed to him with laser-sight intensity, even Captain Ortellan's. "What are we to do about this? I think the only thing to do is to take the fight to the enemy. To continue to take the fight to the enemy, as the enemy they are. This is war. Why dress it up in pretty speeches and shake hands with the people we ought to be shooting at? Whatever we call ourselves now, whatever trappings of legitimacy and political fripperies we dress it up in, we are a rebellion. So let's rebel."
Gez was the first to let out a whoop; he was not the last.
General Macklen indulged their high spirits for a moment, then waved the noise away. The pilots fell silent immediately, all of them tense and eager. Areha found herself sitting on the very edge of her chair, hands curled into fists on her knees. She felt like a manka cat ready to pounce.
"So," Macklen said again, quieter this time. Areha leaned forward as though it would help her hear his low, gravely voice. There was no other sound in the room as the grizzled Mon Cal general spoke. "We have seen that even the politicking, war-weary peace-makers of the Provisional Council have enough sense to recognize the merits of victory, even if they have lost the fire that once made them dare to order such battles themselves." He was speaking of the recent actions of Rogue Squadron in taking Thyferra, Areha knew; while the official story was that the mission had been sanctioned in secret, rumors that had filtered through the pilots' community said something very different. Areha was inclined to trust the rumors—and she was sure she wasn't the only one in the room who thought that way.
Macklen was still talking. "From that, we can draw only one conclusion: if we want victories, if we want to face the enemy, we must make these battles ourselves and let our erstwhile 'leaders' come in cheering for us afterward." He shook his head and his voice dropped still lower. "It will not be easy. It will certainly not be a path littered with promotions and parades. We will make enemies within our own ranks: those who do not like that we have slipped the leash, who do not like that we choose our own current. So be it! Are you pilots because you want promotions, or because you want blood?"
This time there were no cheers. There was silence, save for the creaks and shuffles of tense and eager bodies shifting on hard chairs, straining against the urge to fight and fly. Areha's teeth were bared in a predatory smile that mimicked the one Redun had given earlier. She didn't have to look at the pilots sitting on either side of her to know that in whatever way was appropriate to their species, they were all mirroring her expression. She was not, had never been, a fighter pilot for the sake of rank and recompense. She was here for Alderaan.
And whatever dark, ugly, burning pits of pain and loss motivated her fellow pilots, they were here for those and not for petty ambition.
A thin hand raised. "Question, sir?" asked Leeso. Macklen turned and nodded for the Duros woman to speak. "Are you proposing unsanctioned missions under the nose of the New Republic, or are you talking about going—well—rogue, if you will? Not that I have an objection to the latter, if that's what needs to be done," Leeso hurried to add, her voice as impassive as her face. "I just want to make sure that things are understood properly."
Macklen curled his lips in another artificial smile. "I see no call to abandon the Republic," he said. "They have not turned into the enemy; they have merely grown weak and tired of fighting." He lifted his shoulders in a shrug; another gesture copied from human discourse, impossible to tell if it had become so ingrained that it was a natural response or if he did it consciously to create a certain impression in the minds of his listeners. "I cannot blame them; it has been a long war," he said gently. Then his remaining eye narrowed and his voice tightened. "But that is exactly why we cannot roll over and let the undertow pull us into the deeps," he rumbled. "That is exactly why we must keep fighting, even if they do not want to; even if they do not want us to.
"The Empire cannot be allowed to retreat and lick its wounds; cannot be allowed to skulk off into the corners of the galaxy and extend to us the branch of diplomatic relations." He practically spat the words. "We cannot allow for their intolerable bigotry and terror to become normalized. Do you want to wait for the day when the Empire has a Senator of its own back on Coruscant, has a voice in our New Republic like they represent a legitimate government?" There were shouts of agreement and outrage but Macklen neither silenced them nor waited for them to finish, instead raising his voice so he could shout over them: "How many worlds left in the Empire's cruel fist of bondage is too many? Two hundred? Twenty? I say, even one world is too many! We will not, cannot, have peace with the Empire! I will not rest until they are destroyed down to the last white-shelled trooper and wedge-shaped starship. And you will not rest either! That is what you are here for, pilots! That is what I have formed this squadron for! To fight until the last foul trace of the Empire has been purged and the waters of peace can at last run clear and clean. Are you with me?"
Areha didn't remember rising to her feet, but she was standing suddenly; standing and cheering. The others were on their feet too, most of them: Berjeleth had not stood but he had his arms raised over his head and he was clapping enthusiastically. Kaden was hunched in on herself in a tight little ball, rocking back and forth in her seat, arms wrapped around her shoulders as though to hold herself together—or stop herself from going for a weapon. Her face was shining. Lssk was sitting back in his chair, nodding contentedly, as though he had been in on this little speech from the beginning and was enjoying the pay-off. Slowly the others sat down again, some of them looking embarrassed at their lack of decorum and others just looking happy, eager, ready to fight. Areha felt heat in her cheeks and knew she was blushing.
Macklen let the silence sit for a moment. Then he said, "Very well. Then I dub this Exogorth Squadron. Like the great space slugs of legend there will be many stories about our exploits, but none will know the truth. We will strike from the deeps and fade back into the darkness, leaving only blood and fire in our wake. We will be what the Empire wakes, shaking with fear over, in their secret dreams. We will be those who—to borrow a Corellian phrase—get our hands dirty with the jobs no one else dares to do." This time Areha knew that his smile came from his heart, not his head. "We will be the rogue wave that looms suddenly from the placid ocean and visits death upon those who deserve it."
A long pause followed his words and then Captain Ortellan stepped forward, pulling a datapad from her pocket. "I have everyone's wingmate assignments here," she said, her calm voice jarringly mild after Macklen's thunderous speech, "as well as your initial order packets. There's no sense in reassigning quarters now since we'll be departing at 0400 tomorrow morning. Take tonight to pack and meet again in Hanger Cresh Twenty-Seven with everything you don't want left behind and disposed of. Now, first pair: Voond and Treen…"
NOTE ONE: This story takes place within the Star Wars Legends continuity because that a) is the canon with which I am most familiar and b) is currently the canon that has the most details defined for this time period. I will attempt to make it accessible to both readers who are familiar with the Legends continuity and those who only know the New Canon, and will do my best to work in elements and cameos from both versions of the Star Wars galaxy to make everyone feel at home - but where details conflict I will defer to Legends continuity, in part because the New Canon simply does not yet have enough concrete details to build off of. If you are confused about any details or conflicts of canon please do not hesitate to ask (although please remember to sign-in first so that I can actually respond to your review with an answer!) and if you notice something that seems to be an error please point it out! It might be something that I altered on purpose or something that is caused by conflicting canon information...or it might just be a mistake, and if it's the latter I will be grateful to have a chance to fix it! Advice, suggestions, and criticism are all welcome.
NOTE TWO: This story will contain violence, both in snubfighters and on the ground. There will also be diverse interpersonal relationships although the focus of the story will be more on fighting than on romance. If you are familiar with the Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron books by Aaron Allston and Michael Stackpole think along those lines—although with characters who are a little bit more ruthless, a little bit nastier. These characters are the successors to Cassian Andor's harsh acts of necessity, not Luke Skywalker's bright and shiny heroism. Trigger warning: eventual character deaths.