I.
The thud of a small, distant explosion jarred Winter awake. She pulled open her sleeping bag and came up into a crouching stance—it was the best she could manage within the low-roofed Imperial survival shelter. She exited the small domed metal hut into the dim light of dawn. On the horizon, the sun was cresting the rough green ocean surrounding the cluster of islands.
Two days ago, she had discovered there was a lone island that was segregated from the two-dozen others in the Alderaanian internment camp. She had decided to make her home on the one immediately across from it—at least until she could figure out the story on what her neighbors called 'Mystery Island.'
The explosion she heard had seemed both distant and small, and she was not surprised to find that no one else had emerged from their huts to investigate. She might well have dismissed it also, had her ears not been attuned to small munitions fire. One of the countless benefits of my time spent with the Alliance, she thought to herself.
She walked briskly towards the edge of the cliff that faced Mystery Island. Like her own island, Mystery was a table-top mountain with sheer rock walls, and stood hundreds of meters above the ocean's surface. It was inhabited, but no one knew by whom, or why they were being isolated.
When she reached the edge, she found a small but heavy durasteel beam embedded in the dirt. Tied around it was a tightly woven metallic cable. The cable ran clear across the wide chasm between the raised islands, making a gentle loop down towards the water and then sloping back upward, all the way back to the surface of Mystery Island.
Her eyes followed the cable back to its exact source. Silhouetted against the rising sun at their backs, she could make out a small group of people standing near the edge of the far island, near some type of tubular apparatus that she could barely see.
They must have rigged up some kind of homemade cannon—from whatever they could scrounge together from the materials left by the Imperials.
As she watched them, one person began gesturing emphatically to her.
He's trying to make contact.
She waved in a wide side-to-side motion over her head. The person waived back, confirming that he or she had seen Winter. Then the person then began pointing downward. Winter shifted her focus down to the durasteel beam. It was then that she noticed a ration pouch had been jammed tightly into the center of the beam. She pulled it out and opened it. Instead of the usual protein bar, there was a handwritten note stuffed inside.
It read:
Urgent—we are Alderaanian political prisoners.
Please anchor cable SECURELY to a permanent structure.
When complete, hold both arms straight up over your head to signal us.
One of us will come across.
We are depending on you.
-Carl.
Carl? It was damned odd, but Winter could see no reason not to go along. It was always possible there was a good reason these people were being kept isolated, but she was not about to start trusting the Empire's good judgment on these matters.
Besides, if things really went bad she could always sever the cable.
Twenty minutes later, the cable line was secure at her end. Winter had pulled the line until it was taut across the two islands, and wrapped it around the trunk of a strong tree several times, finishing it off with a knot that would tighten under pressure.
She returned to the edge of the cliff and held both arms straight above her head, as if she were declaring a scored goal at a hoverball tournament.
Across the distance, a man sat on the cliff's edge, his legs hanging over the drop. As she watched, he took hold of the cable, and hopped off of his perch. His body was now fully suspended over the water as both hands gripped the cable. Going hand over hand, he began to traverse the gap between the raised islands.
Winter clenched her teeth as she watched him slowly advance, one arm length at a time, his legs swinging from side to side as he moved.
He must be incredibly brave. He's keeping a measured pace and not panicking. I'm not sure I could do the same.
She knew that, especially over an ocean, there could be a significant gust of wind at any moment. At this height, the odds of surviving a fall into the water were slim at best. And even if he did survive, the severe currents below would swallow him up or smash him into the rocky base of the island.
As he continued to advance, she could see that he was a barrel-chested man with—obviously—strong arms. As he passed the midway-point and was now closer to her side, she saw, to her surprise, that he was middle-aged—maybe fifty or so. He wore the light blue coverall of an Imperial military prisoner.
Of course, Winter realized. They've segregated the Alderaanian soldiers from the civilian population. These men would have the skills and the motivation to organize the people, and maybe even affect an escape plan. The Empire doesn't want the gundarks mixing with the nerfs.
As he finally reached her side, Winter grasped the cable with one hand and extended her free hand to him, helping to pull him up onto the embankment. He took her hand and crawled up onto the ground. He immediately flopped over onto his back, gasping from exertion. Winter pulled out her canteen, and he gratefully accepted a drink from it.
The man began speaking between heaving breaths. "How many," he started, "of us… are here? Total… population of… the camps?"
Winter squatted down next to him. "My best estimate is about thirty-thousand. They have us spread out over twenty-plus islands."
He nodded. "We have to… find a way out. Before the rest… arrive."
Winter frowned. "Do you know how many survivors there are from home?"
"About… forty-thousand." He took another drink.
She studied his weathered face. It was dripping with sweat, but somehow he seemed familiar. "Are you Carl?" she asked.
He closed his eyes and smiled. "General Carlist… Rieekan."
II.
Wedge Antilles sat alone in his quarters, looking down at a data pad that displayed a confidential file. Access was normally restricted to command-level officers, but Senator Organa had made it available to him, in the hopes that it would be helpful to all concerned. The title glowed dimly across the top of the screen.
PERSONNEL FILE: FLIGHT OFFICER TRASK, FENTON R.
He began reading.
About an hour later, Wedge stepped into the vacant room where Trask was being detained. The small cabin was totally empty. Trask was lying down on the bare deck, with his uniform jacket off and wadded up behind his head as a pillow.
He opened his eyes and looked up at Wedge. He exhaled loudly and closed them again. "I didn't start it," he said.
"Did you finish it at least?"
Trask snorted. "No. Wookiee tossed me over the mess table like a rag doll." He opened his eyes. "It's like everybody around here's got backup. Like now—you're here on Skywalker's behalf—saving him from having to deal with me. That scumbag smuggler jumped me on the kid's behalf." He shook his head. "I don't know how that farm boy commands so much juice."
Wedge raised his eyebrows. "Want to find out?"
Trask held up a hand. "Help me out, Antilles, and spare me any more of his jazzed-up tales of derring-frackin-do at Yavin. They barely feed me in here and I can't afford to throw up, you know I mean?"
Wedge sat down on the floor across from him. "Listen, whatever your issue is with Captain Skywalker, we need to get it fixed while we still can."
Trask rolled over, presenting his back to Wedge. "I can fit you guys in for group therapy on alternating weekends. Just don't make me tell you where my uncle touched me."
Wedge grabbed his shoulder and rolled him back. "Let me put it another way. Either you and me figure out a way to fix this today, or you're gonna spend the rest of this war sleeping in a locked broom closet. Now what's it gonna be?"
Trask came up on his elbows. Wedge saw the first signs of genuine emotion in his eyes. It was something akin to panic. "What the hell am I supposed to do, Antilles? I can't stand this kid. I mean, I can't stand the sight of him—the sound of his voice. It's everything I can do not to go off every time I see him." He grasped Wedge's arm. "You gotta transfer me out."
Wedge shook his head. "Can't."
Trask's tight expression slackened and became morose. "Can't or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
Trask released Wedge and sank back down on his back. He draped his thick forearm across his eyes. "Damn it," he whispered. He punched the wall with his other fist, and then brought both hands up to cover his face. "Damn it, damn it."
Wedge took a deep breath before starting again. "You mentioned your uncle—
"Holy crap, Wedge—I was kidding about that."
"I know," he assured him. "But I do think we should talk about your brother."
He slowly turned his head towards Wedge. "What about my brother?"
"Was he the reason you joined?"
He nodded, his eyes indicating that he was somewhere far away. "I'd told him not to go," he said. "Didn't listen. He never listened. He was stubborn—like me, but it was a killer 'cause he also wanted to be a man of the people, instead of just looking out for himself. I was only ever interested in looking out for two people—him and me. But he left, and I was left out of it."
"He went to Carida?" Wedge asked.
"Yeah." He smiled to himself. "Mister Academy. And while I bummed around from port to port, making trouble, getting arrested—you read the file?"
Wedge nodded.
"He graduated," Trask continued, "in the top quarter of his class. Got commissioned as a junior lieutenant—had his own platoon of stormies."
"Very impressive," Wedge agreed. "Local boy makes good—sets off on a solid career track."
Trask's eyes lost focus again. "Should've been."
Wedge looked down at the deck. "He was killed in the Lortan campaigns?"
Trask swallowed before speaking. "He was."
"Do you know what happened?"
"I do. It took some digging, but I do."
Wedge waited.
"The Lortans had a Tunroth city under siege—they had legions of men—I'm talking thousands—surrounding it. They had tanks, armor—you name it. The major commanding his regiment was a green suit—connected boy, straight out of Coruscant—you know the type. Graduated the year after my brother but went straight to a command position. He ordered a ground assault." His face contorted with anger. "But kept all the heavy armor in reserve."
"How many troops went in?"
Trask's Adam's apple bobbed inside his throat. His eyes pooled.
Wedge put a supportive hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, pal."
Trask blinked and the tears ran down his jaw line. "One battalion." His eyes blazed. "One. It was three-hundred troops against ten-thousand fanatics."
"Why?"
His big hand swiped away the tears. "I found out that there's a plaque on the wall at Carida. It quotes the Emperor, saying that one Imperial stormtrooper was worth a hundred criminals. Guess this silver spoon jackass took it for the literal truth."
Trask sat up and cleared his throat. "After his battalion was… gone… they sent in the AT-ATs and wiped out the Lortans. But because that moron was given authority he didn't deserve, my brother got killed."
And it all starts to come together, Wedge thought. "I'm sorry, Trask."
Trask sniffed. "Yeah."
"I just hope you realize that the Alliance doesn't spend lives foolishly."
"I know."
"And," he said firmly, "Luke Skywalker doesn't either."
Trask shook his head. "All my friends from the old squadron got killed at Lakaron—in one engagement."
"The munitions depot blew the planet apart," Wedge said. "Turned the whole system into an asteroid field—in the middle of a battle. No one could've predicted that."
"I just…" Trask made a fist and it shook in the air while he considered where to put it. He brought it down into his palm. "I can't shake it, man. I can't shake the feeling that Skywalker doesn't know what he's doing."
"Fine," Wedge said. "So what have you done to help him?"
"What?"
"What have you done," Wedge asked, "to help him learn? How have you shared your experience to make him stronger?"
Trask pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
"I get what you're feeling," Wedge said. "And why you're feeling it. It makes perfect sense. But you've been a destructive force in the squadron up to now. The way things are going, you're the danger. It's time to take those feelings and channel them into something positive. Be constructive. You know?"
Trask lay back down on the floor and closed his eyes. He rolled in towards the wall, leaving Wedge to once again face his back.
Wedge rose to his feet. "I'll let the guard know that you're free to go."
Trask didn't answer or move at all.
Wedge added softly, "Whenever you're ready." He then left the room, hoping Trask would soon choose to follow.
III.
Armand Isard knelt in front of the image of the Emperor being projected in his safe house on Eriadu. Rather than broadcasting a standard, true-to-life scale replica of himself, the Emperor chose to transmit an ultra-enlarged image of his face. It was shrouded by his cowl, of course, but all of the malevolence he could display with even the most subtle of facial gestures could now be experienced to the fullest by his subjects.
"What news of the rebellion?" Palpatine demanded.
"We have learned from our sources that the Alderaanian woman—Baroness Econa—has indeed reached the rebellion. We must assume that the financial holdings she was able to capture are now at the rebellion's disposal."
The thin line of Palpatine's mouth turned downward. "Then their pockets are no longer empty."
"I'm afraid not, Your Excellency."
"And what do you propose to do about this, Director?"
"The rebels will undoubtedly go to the black market to purchase larger ships—corvettes, star galleons—even frigates and capital cruisers. Such vessels would allow them to engage our forces in the type of warfare that has been impossible for them up until now."
The Emperor waited a long moment before responding. "And?"
"When they make their inquiries, they will find that no ships are available for them to buy."
Palpatine leaned forward. "So you empty our coffers to acquire every derelict garbage scow in the galaxy. You prolong a tiresome stalemate that has already lasted far too long." The Emperor's face contorted into a mask of disgust. "This is detestable."
"Your Excellency—
"Find them, Director." His ghastly white face slowly blossomed into a cruel, wrinkled smile. "Unless you prefer a mandatory—and untimely—retirement."
Armand bowed his head so low that his chin touched his chest. "If I may continue, Master, there is more to my strategy, and it will lead us to the rebellion's location."
Palpatine sank back into the dark recesses of his throne. "Then by all means, Director… continue."
"Each and every ship we have acquired is being outfitted with locator beacons and eavesdropping devices. Once the availability of these ships has been made suitably scarce, we will begin to release our trackable ships back into the marketplace. When the rebels buy one, it will lead us straight to them."
The Emperor thought for a moment, and then shook with a hoarse chuckle. "Very good, Director. It may lack the vicious passion I so enjoy, but your plan is practical. And I foresee it will be effective as well." He placed his cold hands together. "And so you live to scheme another day. I'm certain your daughter will be pleased."
Armand's head came up slightly, and his tone carried a note of surprise. "My daughter, Excellency?"
"She is one of your agents, is she not?"
"Yes, Master."
"A promising agent from what I have been led to believe. I trust we can expect great things from the progeny of Armand Isard?"
Armand stared hard at the floor as he spoke. "Perhaps, Your Excellency. Our young are entrusted to us—to be molded by us—and forged into something remarkable. We give them all that they need to become great." He swallowed before continuing. "But some children won't heed the wisdom that's been offered."
Palpatine nodded. "I am, of course, familiar with this phenomenon. A master brings so much to the table, provided his apprentice has the capacity to wield such gifts." His head turned slightly, as if he were looking into the distance. "Provided he does not turn his back on all you have given."
"In the end," Armand said, "we can't always protect them from their mistakes."
IV.
Ysanne sat on the outdoor balcony of her apartment on Coruscant. The night air carried the distinctly urban scent of factory smoke and airspeeder exhaust mixed with the cooking fumes of a thousand species. The summer wind was hot and filthy, but she'd grown up in the thick of it, and so it was home to her and something of a comfort.
She had been outside, in her favorite chair, for hours, trying to figure it out. Vader's offer played over and over again in her mind. And it was a damned good offer.
If we took down Alderaan Spirit and captured its staff, it would be our biggest post-Yavin intelligence win to date. With Vader reporting it directly to the Emperor, Father would have to acknowledge my role—and my worth.
It was a relatively easy decision from a career perspective, but there was the other perspective that, try as she might, she couldn't ignore. If I do this to my father, whatever glimmer of… family… we still have left will be gone. Probably forever.
She stretched her neck, letting her head roll back. Her long black hair draped over the back of the chair, and she wondered—again—why she kept going through this exercise. Why am I agonizing?
Her father's voice played in her mind. He had once said, 'If you can't stop thinking about a decision you're planning to make, then you haven't planned the right decision.'
She exhaled sharply. She felt her brow furrow in anger as she finally came to her conclusion. I can't stop agonizing about going with Vader because some part of me can't live with the outcome—the outcome where I destroy the marginal relationship I have with my father.
While it certainly was marginal, it was all she had in a very large galaxy. And while there would be other big career opportunities, no amount of will or ambition could build her a new life history. If I let our family die, I can never resurrect it. Not with the way my father is.
So she would put her own career on hold and ride out his insecurities and his petty anger. She would tell him about her meeting with Vader, and request instructions. She would be burning a profoundly important bridge where Vader was concerned, but she'd arrived at a crossroads where one of two bridges was going down, and she had to choose which.
One more time, she would place her loyalty and her destiny into her father's hands.
But this will be the last time, she promised herself. She stood up from her chair and turned to head back into her apartment. Father needs to drop this ridiculous punishment he's been putting me through, and put me back on a real assignment. Otherwise, I'm out.
She caught her reflection in the tinted privacy glass of her balcony door just before it slid aside for her. She stepped into her dark apartment.
I can't see a thing. I should've left the lights on.
A realization startled her and stopped her in her tracks.
I did leave the lights on.
She sensed motion in the darkness and, on instinct, dropped into a crouch.
She felt a small breeze on her face just as she ducked into the path of a knife slashing toward her throat. The blade struck her in the right temple instead, slicing off a section of her scalp and a hank of hair along with it.
She shrieked in pain as she dropped to the floor. From her back, she sent up a flurry of snap kicks, but none of them connected. Then a large hand snared her ankle and wrenched her over onto her stomach.
"Get the hell off me!" she cried. She managed to roll onto her side and, as the blood ran into her eyes, took a look back at her attacker. In the darkness, she could make out the outline of his long coat. He yanked her leg back towards him and then drove his knee down into her spine to pin her down.
She tried to swing her arm back at him, but she couldn't turn her torso enough to land the punch. She looked back again, and she could see a few specks of light reflect off of his swooper helmet and windscreen glasses. Recognition turned her instinctual fear into something different—a horrible sense of hurt and betrayal.
It's Agent Moss, she realized. Father gave him my address. Her eyes stung bitterly—whether from blood or tears, she would never know.
Moss' gloved fist rose above his shoulder, and though she couldn't see it, she knew there was a large knife clenched there.
He thrust it down.
To be continued...
