"Better the death you know."
—Spacer's proverb
Cole mounted the access ladder to the Ebon Hawk's upper turbolaser turret, adrenaline purging the residual grogginess left by his interrupted nap. The sickly blue incandescence of hyperspace churned around him as he strapped himself in, donned the targeting visor, and switched the controls on.
"ETA ten seconds!" Atton barked through the com. "Cole, you ready?!"
"You know I am."
Cole still wasn't all that fond of danger, but on balance he was glad that they'd finally found some. The Sith had stolen his R&R, and between this mission and the last, he would be spending half a standard month straight on the Ebon Hawk. The mere thought of dishing out some payback brightened his mood.
The warp of hyperspace shredded itself to starlines, which snapped into stars, and Cole's scanner display chittered as new data came in.
MS1-2962 was a lonely pocket of space marked only by a white dwarf star and the four lifeless planets over which it kept a dim watch—a dead system, of which the galaxy had no small supply. Far more impressive was the nearby Ferrous Aurora Nebula, which mottled half the starfield with gigantic drifts and strands of charcoal-red light. The Denarii was visible too, as big as Cole's open hand.
"We're locked onto the source of the signal," said the disembodied voice of Kaevee.
"Okay, then. Hold tight, boys and girls."
Stars and nebulae blurred as the Ebon Hawk banked and came about, homing in on the distress signal they had picked up at the previous waypoint. It was a burst transmission from one of the missing kolto freighters, under Sith attack—the third one they had found since the Kanton IX a week earlier.
Cole's eyes lost focus as he stared down the twin barrels of the turret. Kolto? I should've found a way to get in on that. Better than spare parts or foodstuff... And way safer to handle than illegal merch, long as you're in Republic space. But you'd have to get a contract—
Kaevee broke through his daydream. "I've got the Errant VI, dead ahead. It's under fire... One target. A corvette, Foray-class."
Checking his displays, Cole first saw a diagram of the first ship: a thin, vaguely shovel-shaped section of hull seemed an afterthought compared to the huge brick of a cargo module it had underneath.
They had entered the gravity well of one of the dead planets. From the looks of things, the Errant VI had been coasting low over the barren surface, using it as cover from long-range sensors. Now it was making a break for it with half-functioning sublights. The Remnant corvette was on its tail, turrets ablaze.
"The freighter's about to lose shields," Kaevee went on. "Looks like their guns aren't operable, either."
By this point, Cole's enthusiasm was already punctured. He'd been hoping for a small fighter patrol, the Obith-class interceptors that went nova after just a few shots. Not a capital ship, regardless of its class.
Realizing that somebody had to be sane and fearing it could only be him, Cole spoke up. "Well, that corvette's a lot bigger and meaner than us. What's the plan?"
Too quickly, Atton replied, "It's simple, Cole. You know what the best place to shoot somebody is? In the back."
The vac-brained nutcase went on, detailing instructions, and Cole resigned himself to it all; another day, another suicidal stunt. One of these fracking days...
Atton punched a few keys, syncing the Ebon Hawk's lower turbolaser turret with the dual cannons on the wingtips. In total, the ship had twice the legal firepower for a freighter of its size; whoever made those modifications, they'd obviously known the value of a good sucker punch.
Against the red glow of the Ferrous Aurora, the one-sided skirmish came slowly into visual range. Green turbolaser bolts scattered into white shimmers as they strained the Errant VI's deflectors. From many kilometers away, the deadly exchange, each flash carrying more than enough power to turn a man into vapor, had the casual beauty of a firefly blinking in a nighttime field. It filled Atton with grim anticipation. Cool as a dew-streaked meadow on Alderaan, he adjusted the Ebon Hawk's speed and course, syncing with the Remnant corvette's flight path so that they'd be right on its tail when they entered weapon range.
Coiled up like a steel spring in the co-pilot seat, Kaevee dealt with energy distribution as her console tolled and squawked warnings at her. It was straining the reactor to dump full power into engines, weapons, and the sensor scrambler all at once, but there was no sparing them, especially not the last one. While a scrambler was nowhere near as reliable as a genuine cloaking device, under proper conditions it fooled even military-grade sensors, as long as you kept your distance. So in general it was good for ambushes, and essential if the ship you were ambushing was six times your size and had three times as many guns.
Atton's finger brushed the firing trigger. The targeting computer began to sing, but he already knew it was time. "Light it up, Cole!"
Scarlet bolts fountained across vacuum to pound into the deflector shields over the corvette's engine bank. Atton brought the Hawk into a slight dip as they neared, letting Cole score a few extra hits from the upper turret as they sped past.
Kaevee switched off the now-unneeded scrambler, silencing the power alarms. Atton whipped the Hawk back around for another pass, landing another full burst on their target—but by then the fun time was over. The corvette lurched away from the Errant VI, laser and point-defense cannons swiveling. They'd just jabbed a firaxan shark, and now it was angry.
Emerald beams cut space into fragments; glancing hits shook Atton in his chair and rattled the teeth in his skull. He wove his way through the incoming fire as best he could, keeping a firing arc open for the upper turret.
"Gimme a shot at the aft! The aft!" Cole shouted through the com. "Can you fly this damn thing or not?!"
Atton only snarled and banked the Ebon Hawk into a half-loop around the corvette, giving his gunner what he'd asked for. They'd sliced a layer off the shields back there already; might as well keep going and blow the corvette's engines.
He lost himself in a gauntlet of laser fire, taxing the inertial compensators and the strength of his crash webbing as the Ebon Hawk darted and spun through the battlefield, no doubt putting on a show for the Errant VI's crew. He hoped they were enjoying it; that's what he was doing, anyway. Death was close enough to smile at Atton through the transparisteel viewport, and he smiled back.
"That corvette's breaking off!" Kaevee reported in astonishment.
A glance at the target display told why: its aft shields had been hammered down to fifteen percent, which was not a sure defense against turbolaser fire. Atton was now treated to the sight of the corvette pulling ahead of the Errant VI, racing its erstwhile prey out of the gravity well to escape to hyperspace. The thought of its crew, panicked and humiliated that a piece of garbage like the Ebon Hawk was forcing them to retreat, was giddying.
"Flandon's teeth, I wanted to kill somebody today," Cole whined through the comlink.
"Don't give up hope yet," Atton told him as he brought the Hawk around and lined up another shot. Again, he barely looked at the targeting computer, because just about everything it could tell him was already tingling in his hands as they guided the controls. He fired, making sure Cole's turret had an angle too, and a flash of flame graced the stars as red fire knifed through the corvette's shields, poured the heat of a star into its aft hull, and tore its engine bank apart from the inside.
Peeling off, Atton opened his mouth to gloat, but the corvette proved itself a sore loser with a parting fusillade of cannon fire. A thunderclap tore through the Ebon Hawk's interior as the ship was whipped into a corkscrew, turning the starfield ahead into a black-red smear. Atton wrestled the ship back under control and sped away from the disabled corvette, his ears ringing like the inside of a screamer gong. "How bad are we hit?!"
"Shields down." Kaevee spat the words as if she blamed him for it. "I'm trying to get them back online... The starboard cannon's gone. Explosion in the garage."
"Ecksee, Remote, get over there!" Atton barked over the intercom.
"More ships coming in," said Kaevee. Even as she read off the coordinates, Atton spied a Hammerhead cruiser coming into view, loosely tracing the Errant VI's flight path while skirting the barren planet even closer than it had. Leading the cruiser was a full starfighter squadron, visible only by the glows of their sublights, blazing at maximum throttle.
Atton glanced at the Ebon Hawk's damage readout, noted the flashing reds and yellows, and couldn't decide whether to laugh or to offer a sample from his repertoire of vulgarities so colorful that it would keep Kaevee up at night for weeks. Of course the cavalry would show up right after he'd already saved the day—and gotten a bloody nose for his trouble.
Except that a funny feeling told Atton he should have another look at the cavalry, which he did. The Hammerhead was as attractive as a dead Hutt, its hull gunmetal gray rather than the usual white with accents. And the fighter squadron racing ahead of it—those engine glows weren't yellow like Republic Aureks or Chelas; they were blue-white. Like Obith-class interceptors.
He'd just opened his mouth to offer the vulgarities when Kaevee stated the obvious. "Atton, I'm getting that ship's transponder. Hammerhead cruiser Impetus—it's Sith."
"Cruiser," Cole echoed. "A cruiser?! Is that enough to make us think twice now?"
"Cole, shut up. The Republic needs that kolto," Atton heard himself say, then to his co-pilot: "Get me shields back."
Kaevee's face stiffened as she went about her task, and Atton brought the Ebon Hawk about, studying the sensor readouts, trying to play out the battle in his head, figuring what the cards added up to. Even with the Hawk's upgraded firepower, minus the lost gun, that cruiser was untouchable; Cole was right about that much.
Him with minimal shields versus a squadron of Sith fighters...
"Atton, more incoming from the ecliptic. Friendlies!"
And they were—six Aureks, to be exact. No sooner had Atton switched on the subspace radio than an ice-cold voice filled the cockpit. "—is Commander Archibald of Yellow Squadron, Deneba Section. I say again, identify yourself."
"This is Captain Atton Rand, Republic SIS. You're a little late to the party, flyboys."
"We came as soon as we picked up the distress signal, Captain, and there's more help on the way. The Errant VI reports they've restored hyperdrive power, but they won't clear this gravity well for another five minutes. Can you help keep them covered until then?"
"Look at my starboard wing. That's what I've been doing."
"Then it shouldn't be a problem. Form up with us, Koros Star. Can you cover Yellow Four?"
"Yeah, sure." Atton's monitors chittered as data from the new friendlies came in. Having never been a starfighter jockey, he wasn't sure what Koros Star meant, but no one corrected him when he found a spot in the Aureks' formation. With a few judicious key-taps, he dialed the Hawk's turbolaser power down a bit; he'd need more juice for sublights and maneuvering jets. Remembering Kaevee, he gave her a glance; she was alert at her station, but her jaw was so tight it didn't look like it would ever open again.
"Clipper, what've you got on those fighters?"
"Positive on their targeting, Boss. They're all gunning for us. Recommend proton torpedoes as soon as we're in range."
"They have us two to one—nothing for it. Yellows, ready torps, fire on my command... Now!"
The torpedoes soared ahead, two from each Aurek, trailing streaks of blue fire that spiraled in every direction as their targets broke formation. Seconds later the two sides closed in, and dotted lines of emerald and scarlet sliced the void into ribbons. Through the phantasmagoria, Atton picked out a vector of red fire spiraling in on Yellow Four—his ward, apparently—traced it back to one of the Obith interceptors, and fired. The Obith's shields collapsed under the barrage and it peeled off; meanwhile one of its friends was having a disagreement with Cole over the Ebon Hawk's upper hull. Yellow Four took a potshot into the enemy squadron, then whipped hard to port. As Atton followed, a golden glow washed the cockpit before disappearing—a pair of torpedoes detonating, hopefully along with their mark.
The two formations dissolved, and Atton found himself riding Yellow Four's tail through a blister gnat swarm, rolling as best he could to keep targets in Cole's sights. The comm thickened with chatter as the Republic pilots coordinated, but nobody wasted a breath; same as on the ground, there was no telling how many you still had.
"Ebon Hawk." That was Yellow Four. "Bogey at point seven-five; let's scissor it."
"Right." Least I know what that means, thought Atton as he spied the Sith fighter on the monitor. He veered away from the target, threading the Ebon Hawk through a lattice of crossfire before zeroing back in. Four mirrored him and they stitched chains of light that met on the interceptor; its shields flared out in time to take the Hawk's turbolasers in the main hull, and the whole thing went up like a firework.
Atton couldn't so much as grin before laser blasts raked the Ebon Hawk's lower shields, triggering a fresh alarm. He picked a random angle and corkscrewed off. "Who the hell's covering me?!" he snarled.
"Hang on, Rand—draw them to point one-two..."
"Three, I've got two on me!"
"Boss, break left!"
"Atton, gimme a frackin' angle!"
The comm was an avalanche of voices. Atton ignored Commander Archibald's suggestion, instead jinking out of the way of a swerving Aurek fighter before punching the throttle. The Hawk's sublights roared, putting some klicks between it and the melee, but Atton eased up before they could burn out. Two Obiths were in pursuit, a few seconds behind but eager to catch up—too eager. Cole pulverized one as soon as they were in cannon range, and the other broke away and ran.
Off in the nebula-matted void he spied the corvette from before, drifting helplessly with its engines still gone—but still armed, and Atton felt like it was too soon to say hello again, so he looped back toward the dogfight. Checking the readout, he counted three Aureks—Yellow Four wasn't among them—and five Obiths. Framed against the stark surface of the planet, their lost numbers drained none of the furious speed with which they chased each other. Meanwhile, Errant VI was still plodding its way toward the gravity well's edge, with the Impetus gliding along behind like a spaceborne leviathan. The dark-hulled Hammerhead cruiser might not enter firing range in time—but then Kaevee adjusted the sensors, and they picked up a cluster of new signatures crossing the gap.
"I'm reading four Spitewasp fighters, with active warhead signatures," Kaevee reported grimly. "They're going for the Errant VI."
Atton pulled up the bulk freighter on his monitor, noting its now-absent deflectors. Easy prey for a couple of Spitewasps; bearing much resemblance to the ubiquitous Obith interceptors, they retained their cousin's maneuverability despite the added bulk of a two-man cockpit, belly-mounted cannons and warhead launchers, and a hyperdrive unit. "Must have launched while we were tangling with their friends. They're twenty seconds from torpedo range. We can't let them fire."
Chatter from the Republic pilots was still straining through the comm. Kaevee eyed the speaker as though the voices were accusing her. "They're getting shredded."
He glanced at her pointedly. "Is our mission to save them or that kolto?"
"How about saving ourselves?" demanded their gunner.
"Cole, cover our six." Atton drew out the words tightly. "I thought that bastard said we're getting reinforcements," he added under his breath.
His instructions were warranted, because two Obiths had already left the dogfight and nearly cut Atton off from his target. He strained the Hawk's engines again to close in on the Spitewasps from above. They were flying in a tight diamond; drawing a smattering of fire across the four of them was easy as hitting the broad side of a nerf—but the assault fighters were hardier than their cousins and just took the barrage. Meanwhile spirals of interceptor fire were lancing past the cockpit and pounding what remained of the aft shields, and the sublights were still burning close to maximum. There was no time for Atton to line up another good shot, or reach for the throttle and pull it back in order to peel off.
So instead he took the Ebon Hawk right through the middle of the Spitewasp formation, grating at least two of their deflectors with his own. Cole bellowed a curse that would have reached the cockpit even without the speaker, but Atton didn't blink and looped back around toward the assault fighters. Two looked to have taken some friendly fire, and one had panicked and swerved out of formation.
Over and over he strafed them, his face rigid and his mind empty of feeling. Explosions bloomed and energy bolts dazzled the cockpit. The Hawk thundered as it took fire, breaking up Cole's maledictions and a sputtering damage report from Ecksee and the Remote. When the haze lifted, Atton found himself dancing with two damaged Spitewasps and a lone Obith. Something was wrong with the ship as he maneuvered it; the controls felt clumsy and drunken, and the throttle wasn't responding well. It was almost the piloting equivalent of a dream where one is trying to run, but the air is thick as water.
A glance across the monitors cleared things up: the engines had been damaged. From the back of the ship he could faintly hear the heavy, spraying hiss of a fire suppressor.
Kaevee piped up then. "I can't get shields back. The generator's been hit."
"So we're flying naked."
"Atton, we've got to get out of here."
"Maybe we do." Glancing at sensors, he spotted the two remaining fighters of Deneba Section en route, and the looming shadow of the Impetus—
And the Errant VI.
Still there.
"Get me that freighter on comms." When Kaevee did so, Atton snarled, "Errant VI, you've cleared the gravity well! What the hell's going on?!"
"Our hyperdrive's malfunctioning," sputtered a voice. "We're trying to—"
Atton stabbed the transmit button, cutting him off. A moment later he got a Spitewasp in his sights and squeezed the firing trigger hard.
Nothing happened.
The starboard cannon was gone, of course. Meanwhile the port one and the lower turret needed to recharge. Only the upper one had any juice left.
The assault fighter slipped out of view, heading back to the Impetus along with its friends. The Yellows were fleeing the opposite way.
"Get clear, Ebon Hawk! That cruiser's almost on top of you!"
"Working on it," growled Atton. The battered freighter lurched as its propulsion systems labored to point it toward the Errant VI, and the edge of the gravity well. That wouldn't do any good, though, if it turned out that the Ebon Hawk's hyperdrive was down. They might have a better chance running for the dead planet's surface and looking for a place to hide. Then again, it was a long way down there...
"Can you get the scrambler online? Might buy us a minute before that cruiser can get a lock."
"Working on it," Kaevee said through her teeth.
For Atton, there was nothing left to do but stay in that chair, strangling the steering yoke and willing more life into the engines. The air felt hot, stifling. The edge of his vision wavered with a vague, filmy redness.
Then the proximity alarm wailed as eight corvettes emerged from hyperspace in a drumfire of flashes, creating a phalanx above the Errant VI's dawdling bulk. Atton's heart dropped into his guts when the massive beaked hull of an Interdictor cruiser filled the formation's center.
Until it registered that streaks of royal red accented the behemoth's gray hull, and the Galactic Roundel emblazoned its command tower in the same color.
"It's the Dauntless," Kaevee said quietly.
Indeed, it was proudly broadcasting ID, as were the corvettes, and the six Aurek fighters sweeping out of its shadow to rendezvous with the two survivors. The rest of Yellow Squadron, Atton realized.
It was no surprise when Atton checked on the Impetus and found that it was already making a run for it. It was a funny reversal, or should have been; Revan's navy hadn't used many Hammerheads during the Jedi Civil War, and her Sith had stolen nearly all of the Republic's Interdictors at Foerost.
When he was satisfied that nobody was going to take a shot at the Ebon Hawk, Atton killed the sublights and turned around on maneuvering thrusters.
Waves of green fire swept from the Impetus's port turbolaser batteries as it banked hard, now caught in the same mass shadow that had imprisoned the Errant VI. If it could clear that fast enough, it might stand a chance of jumping out before the Dauntless could activate its gravity well projectors—but then, the Dauntless looked to be pounding that ship for all it was worth. First pure light played across the turncoat cruiser's span, then clouds of flame.
Atton watched the fireworks, distantly conscious that he should have been feeling triumphant and smug. In fact, though, he didn't feel much of anything.
The spectacle ended with no climax, no completion—only the Impetus drifting in space, its port side blackened and engines dark.
Pilot and co-pilot regarded each other. Kaevee looked like she had just sprinted fifty kilometers: drenched in sweat, tufts of wild ginger hair stuck to her forehead, her whole body limp as a ragdoll. There was almost no expression on her face, only a weary tightness.
Even so, somehow she looked furious.
"It looks like they surrendered," she remarked.
Atton turned back to his console and pulled up the damage readout. "Smart move."
Kaevee crawled about the Ebon Hawk's engine room with a floor sweeper, carefully clearing the deck of debris—shards of metal and other materials which had been burnt beyond recognition. The port engine's outer casing was freshly marked with carbon scoring, as was the hyperdrive unit. The starboard engine featured a jagged black-toothed hole the size of Kaevee's head. An acrid stench lingered even with the air scrubbers on at maximum.
X-C88 and the Remote hovered about, beeping and chittering in low tones as they opened maintenance panels and sheared away ruined bits of machinery with the latter's cutting laser. Though they were not finished assessing the damage, it was clear that several days of work would be needed, once they had the benefit of a proper repair facility.
Atris was standing in the doorway, tight-lipped and motionless. The two men were arguing.
"You saw what the hull looked like, and you see that," Cole said, stomping past Kaevee to thrust a finger at the damaged engine. He'd been only slightly more livid during the combat itself. "If we took one more hit in the same spot, it would've gone through and turned this room into a giant hole! But no, you just had to get your kicks in and prove what a crack pilot you are."
Atton clapped his portable scanner onto the hyperdrive unit and faced him. "You know, if I wasn't a such crack pilot, we wouldn't have even taken out that corvette, let alone survived everything else. No need to thank me or anything."
"Thank you for taking us up against million-to-one odds? For almost turning us into space dust?"
"If the odds were good enough for those fighter jockeys, they were good enough for us. Why don't you go find them and give 'em a piece of your mind?" Cole threw up his hands, pacing away, and Atton went on. "Don't know if you remember this, but beating odds like that is our job. That's what we're here for, because we can do it—and it's why you're not in a prison cell right now."
Kaevee kept her head down as the room's temperature rose. Mere hours had passed since the Errant VI's rescuers had been rescued. Both the Impetus and the Remnant corvette's crews had surrendered to the Republic. A capital ship tug had arrived to tow the Errant VI to Indosa, under escort from the Dauntless. Since its hyperdrive was damaged, the Ebon Hawk was along for the ride in one of the Interdictor's hangar bays.
As for the issue being argued over, Kaevee felt herself pulled by both sides. Taken in isolation, she thought Atton's argument was correct; they had been given a mission, and extreme risk was bound up with their very nature as a team.
What she felt, however, was that Atton was crazy, a hotheaded, reckless fool, and that they were all fools for trusting him with their lives. It was hard to believe he was the same man who had gotten them and Sulen Tusser off of Vaal in one piece, with a plan that was hastily assembled but nonetheless remarkably clever.
Even his stunts on Malachor V hadn't outraged Kaevee like this; at least then, Atton had gone out of his way not to endanger anyone else.
Let him do what he wants! If he's so bent on getting himself killed, you can't stop him. Cole had said that in Singularity Base, railing first against Atton's suicidal heroics, then Kaevee herself for insisting on going after him—a decision which had nearly cost her life. Just months later, that decision felt like something out of a dream or a story about someone else, something she couldn't imagine herself doing now.
It was strange to be so angry at Atton again, and even more so because it was giving her common ground with Cole, of all people. In fact, part of her felt a vicarious satisfaction in hearing him castigate their pilot.
Really, though, she didn't care who was right—not then and there, not at that moment. What she wanted more than anything was to visit the refresher, change out of these disgusting clothes—she thought she'd sweated an ocean in them—and retreat to the dormitory to sleep for a day straight.
"Besides, what were we supposed to do?" Atton was saying. "Just let the Sith steal all that kolto or blow it up? We were told to step in in exactly this kind of situation."
"Right. Us in a smuggler's crate, a ship designed for running, up against a corvette, a fighter squadron, and a cruiser. I'm sure that's the kind of situation the admiral had in mind."
Atton rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, I didn't hear you raise any objections when I took us in."
The spacer stalked toward him, his fists clenched, and Kaevee looked up in alarm. "No, of course not, because I know that when you get an idea into that suicidal vac-brain of yours—"
"Gentlemen, enough." Atris's words knifed through the foul air as she stepped into the room. Cole backed off a step, but Atton stood his ground, and Kaevee got to her feet.
The old woman's tone kept its edge, and Kaevee was relieved not to be on its receiving end. "I believe you've made your point, Cole. Now I will make mine: one way or another, our mission for the admiral seems to be concluded. There is little point in discussing it further. Perhaps, then, we can turn ourselves to more productive things—rest, if nothing else."
She glided away down the port corridor, leaving an icy silence that Atton finally broke. "Look, I've got things under control in here. If you two want to be useful, go check out the damage to the starboard hull."
"I think I've been useful enough for one day," Cole sneered, and went off.
Kaevee sighed, turned off the floor sweeper, and set it down in a corner. Avoiding Atton's eyes, she headed for the refresher, leaving him alone with the machines.
Atton picked up his scanner and went back to the starboard engine, shaking his head. The droids hovered about nearby, still fussing. The sound of X-C88's repulsorlift still wobbled and undulated; it hadn't been a priority.
"Ecksee," Atton said quietly, not looking up from the screen. "Why don't you go starboard and check things out."
The probe droid floated from the room, mumbling as it went, and its counterpart joined Atton as he inspected the engine. Melted wiring, punctured shielding, components out of alignment—he'd have to crawl under there for sure.
Accusations lingered in the air; spoken and unspoken, young and old, they surrounded him like a swarm of mailocs. He could deny them out loud to someone like Cole or even Atris, but not in his head, not to himself. And not when one of them was an actual ball of circuitry and servos, bobbing and rotating within arm's reach as it employed its sensor package.
Flying had left Atton ragged, drained, and clammy, but he stayed on his feet in the engine room. The droids could finish damage assessment on their own, but it was his ship, even if he hated it, and he would make sure it was done right. He wasn't going to leave that room until he'd absolutely burned himself out.
Otherwise, he wasn't sure he'd sleep.
The next cycle after breakfast found Atton back in the garage, staring at the outer wall. A thrust manifold had exploded when the starboard cannon got blown off, setting fire to nearby HCCs and the swoop bike before Ecksee and the Remote had put it out. The loose debris was cleared away by now, leaving only the warped gaps in the machinery. It wasn't too bad, he told himself. He remembered when that entire wall had been cross-sectioned with reinforcement scaffolding, traced with magnetic seal patching, and half-covered by auxiliary conduits and circuitry. Bao-Dur and his Remote had been married to that wall.
"Captain Rand, report to the deck at once. Repeat, Captain Rand, please report..."
The voice blared from the hangar bay's intercom and in through the Ebon Hawk's open hatch. Frowning, Atton headed outside to meet a Human soldier in the familiar red armor, who handed him a logpad. The screen flicked on and read:
Flight Cadet Loman Svung – Yellow Three Flight Cadet Tarc Sodervall – Yellow Four Flight Cadet Kaytee Mott – Yellow Six
Atton read it twice, then slowly lowered the pad. On his face he wore a question which he did not need to ask.
The man looked him straight in the eyes while simultaneously giving no evidence of humanity. "The commodore wants a word with you. Come with me."
The hull of the Dauntless may have been painted in friendly colors, but inside it was all leaden, hard-angled metal, just as Revan and Malak's Interdictors had been—Republic Sienar Systems' particular flavor of brutalism. It was surreal to walk through one for the first time in a decade, especially with the crew in Republic array.
Atton remembered switching uniforms. Once they'd gotten gray ones, they started calling enemy soldiers redjackets.
Commodore Ulric Gortescue was a dark-furred ronto of a Bothan with ocean-colored eyes. He remained seated behind his desk like it was a battlement, and did not offer Atton a seat. "Captain Rand. I've received the after-action report from Deneba Section—what's left of it."
Atton gave a slight nod and waited.
Those deep-ocean eyes narrowed. "The report describes your... flying in considerable detail. It was apparently quite impressive. In some ways. Tell me, did you ever serve in the Starfighter Corps?"
Army, actually. "No, sir."
With a nod, Commodore Gortescue indicated the logpad still held in Atton's right hand. "Those are the pilots of Yellow Squadron that we lost," he said clinically. "And we may yet lose Commander Archibald; he managed to eject as his fighter was destroyed. Right now he's in medbay. Critical condition."
He laid it out over the next few minutes, and it was what Atton had expected from the moment he laid eyes on the logpad. By testimony of its surviving pilots, Atton had put Deneba Section in jeopardy by breaking formation and then ignoring the commander's instructions to return. Gortescue made it thoroughly clear that he agreed with their assessment. At no point did he challenge Atton to justify his actions during the battle; Atton, therefore, didn't bother trying. The commodore didn't leave his chair, and no voices were raised, but if looks could shoot blaster bolts, Atton knew he'd be full of holes.
The truth, though, was that he already was. Already had been. He'd just forgotten for most of the past year.
One more hole, he supposed, for Tarc Sodervall—Yellow Four, who had been unlucky enough, or dumb enough, to count on him. Gortescue's righteous carbonite-cold fury as he hung Sodervall's death around Atton's neck was formidable and yet also struck him as pitiable. The Bothan knew exactly two things about him, his current name and his rank in the Strategic Information Service. Atton couldn't help but darkly wonder if this officer would even know what to say, if he knew the half of what Atton could be blamed for in the course of his life.
Somewhere inside, Atton—not in the best part of him, but somewhere—liked to think it would shut him up.
"You know," Gortescue said finally, with a hint of weariness, "I've heard about SIS agents for years. I've prayed that neither I nor anyone under my command would have to cross paths with you. Obviously my faith was misplaced."
A short list of rejoinders compiled itself in Atton's brain—It sure was, I could've told you that, pray harder next time, life's a bitch, bring a skifter next time—but being in this man's office turned Atton halfway back into a soldier, and none of them came close to his mouth. He understood, though, that in spite of Gortescue's composure, the Bothan's need to express his fury was all this conversation really came down to.
During recruitment, Atton had been appraised—in very bland and bureaucratic terms—of the special status enjoyed by the Strategic Information Service's agents. They were subject to all the laws of the Republic, and were as accountable as any soldier, intelligence agent, or other functionary for any misdeeds. At the same time, in order to ensure the discretion needed for the successful completion of their assignments, and to protect state secrets, it was necessary to limit the actual power of holding them accountable to a particular selection of officials.
Namely the handler of the agent in question, the Director of the SIS, and the Office of the Supreme Chancellor.
Gortescue went on and took a few more cracks, some circumspect, others direct, but it was no use, and if he had heard of the SIS before, he must have known it would be so. He could not force Atton to divulge the name of his handler, and considering that it was a fellow naval officer, it was really for his own good.
When he'd had enough, Atton drew himself up and said, "I am sorry about Commander Archibald and his pilots. But with all due respect, I don't report to him, you, or anyone else on this ship, sir. If you have a problem with me or any of my teammates, you can send a complaint to Director Malanheimer on Coruscant." That spiel made him sound like a droid, even to himself. "Now, unless there's anything else I can do for you, I've got a broken ship that needs fixing."
"Very well." The commodore skewered Atton with his eyes. His ears folded back. "This director of yours will be hearing from me, I can assure you of that. In the meantime, you and your teammates had better stay in that hangar bay until we reach Indosa, Captain. You're not welcome in the rest of my ship."
The same guard showed Atton the way back. After boarding the Ebon Hawk, he went straight to the garage and tossed the logpad into the first bin he saw, looking away as it clattered into place among the junk.
He already had enough names to remember.