Flaming Water, Frozen Earth
Chapter Two
-DOCUMENT START-
INFORMATION AVAILABLE FOR PUBLIC DISCLOSURE:
DOCUMENT#: KKY22310
ALLIANCE GRAND MEMORIAL LIBRARY, CORUSCANT
SQUADRON PERSONELL ROSTER: 57th Scouting Corps Tactical Air Squadron.
12 Incom Corporation T-47-11 Combat Airspeeders (winterized).
24 pilot-gunners (human).
FLIGHT ONE:
GREEN LEADER: Cmdr. Erwin Smith (CO) (pilot) / Cpt. Mike Zacharius (gunner)
GREEN TWO: Cpt. Levi (pilot) / Lt. Cmdr. Hanji Zoë (XO) (gunner)
GREEN THREE: Cpt. Erd Jinn (pilot) / Cpt. Gunther Schultz (gunner)
GREEN FOUR: Flt. Lt. Petra Ral (pilot) / Flt. Lt. Auruo Bossard (gunner)
FLIGHT TWO:
GREEN FIVE: Flt. Lt. Armin Arlert (pilot) / Flt. Officer Mina Carolina (gunner)
GREEN SIX: Flt. Officer Hannah Hermann (pilot) / Flt. Officer Franz Müller (gunner)
GREEN SEVEN: Flt. Lt. Mikasa Ackerman (pilot) / Flt. Officer Eren Jeager (gunner)
GREEN EIGHT: Flt. Officer Connie Springer (pilot) / Flt. Officer Sasha Braus (gunner)
FLIGHT THREE:
GREEN NINE: Flt. Lt. Jean Kirstien (pilot) / Flt. Officer Marco Bott (gunner)
GREEN TEN: Flt. Officer Ymir (pilot) / Flt. Officer Christa Lenz (gunner)
GREEN ELEVEN: Flt. Lt. Reiner Braun (pilot) / Flt. Officer Bertholt Hoover (gunner)
GREEN TWELVE: Flt. Officer Thomas Wagner (pilot) / Flt. Officer Dazz Zusak (gunner)
-END OF DOCUMENT—
Captain Solo had visited many worlds.
Shivering at the sudden draft as the door leading to the hanger opened, Han Solo reflected that the frozen corridors of Echo Base almost reminded him of a particular ice palace resort back on Corellia. If it weren't, of course, for the absence of wealthy patrons, golden waitstaff droids, sabaac tables, or even decent interior lighting.
A group of ground crew technicians approached the door, wheeling a hovercart piled with power supply units, and Han stepped aside to let them pass. One of the mechanics, a Bothan, grinned at him as they maneuvered their cart past. "Thanks Captain Solo. Good to see the planet hasn't made an icicle out of you."
"Not yet," Han replied with a half-smirk.
Well, at least he was beginning to forget the stench of disemboweled tauntaun.
Shooting a smuggler's alert, instinctive glance around the vast hangar, Han stepped forward into the sea of deliberate activity swirling around the crowd of transports, fighters, and warships. Now that Luke was in stable condition, it was time to attend to a matter that had been neglected for far too long.
As he walked along a row of parked Y-wing bombers in the direction of the Milennium Falcon's berth, a number of the pilots and soldiers looked up and waved in his direction. A sudden stirring of unease materialized deep inside him, and Han elected to nod back at the gathering before increasing his pace across the hangar floor. He looked determinedly at the floor as he passed other groups of ground crewmen walking in the other direction. These rebels were always so friendly, so quick to laugh and smile. Unlike the suspicious squint of a veteran smuggler or a fugitive's defensive glare, their eyes shone bright with idealism. They innocently believed in their revolution, and furthermore, they even saw him as their brother. Damn them.
They weren't making it any easier for him to leave.
Han passed a Galofree-class transport, its underside lit by the flare of a dozen fusion cutters. A day before Luke's unlucky wampa encounter, he'd given the lead technician in charge of repairs a word of advice about hull plate replacement. A week ago, he'd found himself in a conversation with a squad of Alliance commandos, exchanging views on optimal blaster rifle power settings for defeating stormtrooper armor. Three years had passed since the destruction of the Death Star over Yavin. During that time, he'd eaten, slept, fought, and flown side-by-side with the Alliance soldiers and pilots in a dozen battles, all while looking over his shoulder for Jabba's bounty hunters and assassins. He'd stuck around with the Alliance far longer than he'd ever intended to, hadn't he? What else could a penniless starship captain with a price on his head hope to do?
At that moment, Han's ears picked up a new, familiar set of footsteps behind him. A paw smelling of oil, coolant, and fur landed heavily on his shoulder as Chewbacca growled a greeting. The Wookie slowed to match his stride.
"Hey Chewie,"
They walked side-by-side down the ranks of starships as they had in a thousand spaceports across the galaxy.
Chewbacca was midway through describing a prioritized list of repairs to Han when the two of them rounded a utility vehicle and came face-to-face with the angular bow of the Milennium Falcon. There it sat, dirty and battle-scarred as ever, the glow of the hangar lights reflected dully by its white-grey plating. Partly due to Chewbacca's emphatic insistence, the old Corellian freighter had been placed in an area largely to itself to avoid the risk of collision with other craft as they came and went. At any rate, Alliance mechanics had learned to give her a wide berth after a few of them had learned, thankfully without injury, just how protective Chewie was of the ship. Sometimes, Han had to wonder just who his Wookie companion had sworn a life-debt to—him, or the Falcon?
Faulty maintenance of the Falcon had once caused her to suffer a near-catastrophic drive failure mid-jump. Ever since, Chewbacca had vowed that only he and Han would ever be allowed to service the freighter. On two occasions, Han had saved hapless, well-meaning spaceport crews only by physically throwing himself in front of the enraged Wookie. As for the most recent time that a spaceport dock worker had attempted to perform repairs on the ship, Chewbacca had torn three arms off the guilty alien. Only a hefty bribe and the fact that the victim's species was capable of rapid regeneration had saved the two of them from life sentences.
Han's first thought was that he'd never learn to understand why he always felt an immense upwelling of affection every time he laid his eyes on the freighter. His second thought was that the starboard-most landing strut looked worn, and ought to be serviced. His third thought, however, was interrupted by a charged bellow of rage that froze his blood and sent his hand immediately to the holster at his hip. That was when Han saw the woman standing underneath the Falcon, turning in shock as she lowered the tool she'd been using on the ship's underside.
Spinning, Han saw Chewbacca charging forward, letting out another battle yell as he rushed at the intruder with fangs bared. Cries of warning rang out around them as other ground crew members realized what was happening. In front of Chewie, a repair droid failed to get out of the way in time and was sent flying across the hangar floor by several hundred pounds of Wookie flesh.
Han suddenly became aware of the cool polymer of his blaster pistol's grip underneath his palm, and he froze.
Han was reacting far too late to intervene. His own blaster was useless—he'd long ago removed the stun setting in order to boost its power and range. Worse, its touch reminded him of a terrible fact that he'd learned long ago.
A Wookie's nervous system was incredibly—sometimes fatally—sensitive to the powerful neurological shock delivered by a stunning blaster bolt.
Chewbacca's target was a waiflike girl with blond hair, short and slender even by human standards. Her eyes were wide with surprise as she stared at the Wookie charging her, and her own hand had moved to the small blaster at her hip.
An overwhelming fear for his copilot's safety overrode Han's indecision, and he screamed, "Chewie! Cool it! LEAVE HER ALONE!" Desperately hoping that this was all just a nightmare, he yanked his blaster pistol from its holster and wondered if he dared risk a shot aimed at his companion's legs.
Across the floor, Han could see Alliance personnel sprinting towards them with horrified expressions. Their mouths opened and closed, but their yells were hopelessly drowned out as Chewbacca continued to roar as he ran, promising death and endless pain for the human that had dared to touch his ship.
The girl technician's face was white with terror, and she seemed rooted helplessly to the ground at the sight of the massive alien charging her.
At the last moment, Han lifted his pistol and fired a shot into the ceiling. It had no effect; his copilot either ignored the sound or didn't hear it. Out of options, Han leveled the blaster and prayed to the Force that he wasn't about to kill his best friend.
Chewbacca closed to striking distance and lunged.
In that instant, the girl finally moved. Gone was the stationary victim. Suddenly, the human was dropping to avoid Chewbacca's left-pawed swipe. In a flash, she cut to the right—out of the Wookie's path. Her left arm rose automatically to deflect the surprised Wookie's instinctive attempted grasp. Simultaneously, the girl pivoted, then threw the entirety of her not-very-substantial weight into her opponent's back and hip. Chewbacca grunted in astonishment as he twisted, carried forward by his own weight and momentum to crash, sprawling, upon the ground.
In the time it took Han's jaw to drop, the mysterious technician had bounded several paces away before turning again to face her assailant. Chewbacca clambered onto one knee and raised his head only to find himself staring into the snout of the girl's snub-nosed blaster.
The weapon's barrel wasn't even quivering.
Han shakily lowered and holstered his own pistol, suddenly aware that the hangar had fallen silent just as instantaneously as it had erupted into chaos moments before. He could feel his heart pounding beneath his vest, familiar battle adrenaline still surging through his bloodstream. The faint smell of ozone and expended blaster gas hung in the air, lingering from the single shot he had fired. Dozens of Alliance mechanics and supply workers stood motionlessly around them, some with their blasters drawn, a few with comlinks half-raised to their lips. Half of them were still tense and ready for action, watching Chewbacca nervously. The other half gaped, some of them mouthing silently in shock to themselves. Dumbfounded at what he had just witnessed, Han joined them in staring openly at the woman who had just floored an adult male Wookie.
At a second glance, it was clear that she wasn't a tech at all. Instead of an assortment of repair tools, her belt was fitted with a bizarre blend of tech devices and practical infantry equipment: comlinks, datapad, vibroblade, blaster holster, power packs, a broad-spectrum comm scrambler/descrambler, and what looked like a silenced slugthrower. Han would have tagged her as a common smuggler or information thief were it not for her clothing. Her uniform was an unusual dark blue design that Han wasn't familiar with, and the patch on her shoulder bore the horned yatta-beast insignia of the base's Interior Security Brigade.
Even had she been wearing a mechanic's garb, her combat experience was obvious. The girl's stance was far too clean—her feet spread for balance, her grip on her blaster perfect. Most of all, however, her eyes betrayed her identity as a fighter. Steel blue and focused behind her fringe of blonde hair, they spoke of hardened martial training.
Chewbacca had risen to his feet. He too, cocked his head at the strange female, emitting a low curious growl. From the look of it, his rage had been completely replaced by total bewilderment.
Han couldn't repress a chuckle as he turned to his embarrassed copilot.
"You really need to work on first impressions, fuzzball."
Around them, the crowd continued to watch the scene, though most of those that remained seemed progressively more convinced that the situation was on the road to a peaceful resolution. A supply officer was speaking into his comlink to one side, cancelling his prior request for a tactical reaction squad. An orange-clad pilot called out to the woman. "You allright, ma'am?"
Chewbacca's adversary responded silently by straightening from her firing stance and returning her blaster to her belt. Slouching slightly where she stood, she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.
Han frowned, deciding that her nonchalant attitude irritated him. Turning to the girl, he stuck a finger at her "You're lucky Chewie didn't put you on the medbay's priority list for limb replacements. What in the galaxy were you doing to my ship, anyway?"
"I noticed something dripping from an access panel in your hull," she answered. "I thought to take a look."
Han inspected the ventral surface of the Falcon, and sure enough, a steady drip of water was seeping from the panel below the ship's galley. Damn plumbing, he thought. There had to be a leak in the freshwater pipes again. For that matter, water shouldn't even be leaking from the seal around that access point. It looked like he and Chewie would have to run a hull integrity check again.
What a piece of junk indeed.
"Yeah? Thanks." Han replied guardedly, "Next time, send someone to tell one of us instead of risking death by Wookie."
The girl shrugged.
Chewie growled, giving the would-be meddler a stern warning for the future.
New sets of footsteps clattered against the ground. Han looked behind him to observe a group of newcomers just arriving at the scene. A squad of five rebel soldiers was slowing to a halt and shouldering their weapons. They glanced between him and Chewbacca, looking somewhat disappointed that they had missed the show.
At the same time, an Alliance pilot in full flight uniform was suddenly standing at Han's shoulder. He clutched his helmet beneath one arm with the same cocky ease as any of the base's other fighter aces. Yet, in contrast to the mature confidence of his posture, the pilot's blond hair was cut like a child's and tangled from hours spent beneath flight headgear. The human flier's expression was earnest and friendly.
"Everything all right here, Captain?" the pilot asked with a broad smile.
"Ask Chewie," Han quipped. Chewbacca rumbled a guarded greeting.
Han gave the newcomer a rapid evaluation. That accent, beyond any doubt, indicated a homeworld somewhere within the Galactic Core. Flight Lieutenant's insignia on both shoulders and checkerboard patches on the sides of the flier's helmet identified him as a veteran of at least one major campaign. Short of stature and clean-shaven, the youth couldn't be older than twenty-two at most by Han's estimation.
"X-wing pilot?"
"Yessir. 57th Tac Air. We were out looking for you this morning." The youth beamed and offered his hand. "I'm Armin Arlert."
Han accepted the handshake. "Pleasure, flight lieutenant."
The two of them watched casually as the newly arrived soldiers interviewed Chewbacca and the woman from the Interior Security Brigade in turn. Seemingly satisfied that the risk of violence had abated, the squad leader gave orders to post a permanent guard detail around the ship, earning a hum of approval from the Wookie. When the sergeant turned to ask that the girl apologize, however, he was met with narrowed eyes that seemed to dare him to repeat the request.
Han chuckled. The girl's expression had led him to think of another young woman who could deliver a similar icy glare at the drop of a coin. Leia was also well capable of taking care of herself in a fight too, as he well knew, though Han conceded that he doubted that she would be able to fend off an enraged Wookie.
Well, that was what a rogue like him was around for, right?
His heart, buoyed by the princess's image in his mind, suddenly constricted as he remembered again that he was leaving her too. He clenched his hands into fists.
At his side, the pilot frowned, noticing the smuggler captain's sudden tension. Han hurriedly crossed his arms to hide his earlier gesture, and the two of them stood side by side amidst an uncomfortable silence.
In a transparent attempt to defuse the atmosphere, Armin Arlert nodded in the direction of the Millennium Falcon. "She's a beautiful ship." He smiled nervously. "You should hear some of the stories some of the other pilots have been telling about what you and Chewbacca have accomplished."
Han snorted. "I've heard most of them," he said dismissively. "You shouldn't believe everything people tell you."
"I think a few of them have been confirmed by quite reliable sources," Arlert replied. "Rescuing the Princess from the Death Star…"
Han shrugged semi-modestly, and didn't mention the fact that he'd had to be convinced to attempt the rescue in the first place.
Unaware of the truth, Arlert was gazing at Han with open admiration.
In many ways, this kid was representative of the Alliance military as a whole—young and eager to fight, yet mature and aware of the magnitude of the herculean struggle they faced. It didn't seem to matter how many Star Destroyers and stormtrooper armies the Emperor commissioned… the rebels would fight against the odds all the same. Idealistic and selfless, they would rather die than live in a galaxy that was anything but free.
Han had, however, just come across at least one Alliance soldier that didn't seem to fall into the same personality category. He frowned, and nodded towards the girl standing a short distance away observing them dispassionately.
"That woman… she just…" he began, swallowing as the memory of the incident with Chewie replayed once again in his mind. Finding his voice again, he finally asked Armin Arlert "Who the hell is she?"
The pilot laughed, and his blue eyes flickered over to settle on his fellow soldier. "That's Annie. She's a field agent with our counterintelligence unit."
Han gave her a third glance out of the corner of his eye. Young, probably around Arlert's age. Pretty, though quite plain in any fair comparison with the princess, at least in Han's opinion. More than anything, though, she seemed to radiate an attitude of disdainful independence.
"What's that, a Commando unit?"
"Espionage," Arlert corrected him, then added softly, "She's ex-Imperial Intelligence."
Han raised an eyebrow at that. Well that explained a lot, particularly the attitude. "Ex-Imperial Intelligence?"
Armin Arlert noticed the look in his eyes and replied hastily, "most of Alliance Intelligence is ex-Imperial. Otherwise, we wouldn't have a chance at understanding how to secure our communications from them or how to prevent spies from infiltrating us." The pilot frowned. "There have been betrayals… but we don't have much of a choice. As for Annie, she's on our side for certain, anyway."
"Yeah, well…" Han growled, unsatisfied. "I've heard stories of Intelligence officers being ordered to kill one another to establish cover identities."
The youth nodded. Something in Arlert's eyes, however, indicated that he trusted his deadly comrade deeply. After a moment's pause, the pilot took a deep breath and stated, "She's genuinely a part of the Alliance. Her father is a sector head of espionage in the Imperial Navy."
Han didn't have to have the implications clarified further for him.
A number of the Alliance's rarest and most valuable recruits were members of the galactic elite—generally young, often highly-placed and well-connected—led by compassion for the Alliance cause to throw away all of that power and wealth, to risk their lives by placing themselves and their secret knowledge at the rebels' disposal. The consequences of defection were grave. The poor girl likely had a death price on her head in the millions of credits, and would undoubtedly never see her family again in her lifetime.
Who were these people, who dared to give up everything for a fool's chance of a rebellion, for some dim hope of founding a new, republican, egalitarian galactic order…?
The hubbub of voices, machinery, and power tools had arisen once more, returning the hangar to its natural atmosphere of industrious activity. Annie was leaving the scene now, walking away slowly without a backward glance. Her measured pace as she passed pairs and trios of Echo Base personnel made it seem as though nothing had occurred at all, as though she were just another humble, unremarkable soldier in the service of the Rebel Alliance.
"The Empire doesn't forget or forgive." There was a strange sadness in Arlert's expression as he stared blankly down the row of starships after her. Suddenly, the youth turned to Han and looked the older man directly in the eye.
"You know you can't go just go back to the way things were before—to being an unknown smuggler again."
He knew they were leaving? Han started in surprise, caught off guard by the revelation that word of his imminent departure had spread. Unprepared, he found himself unable to respond.
His shock must have registered in his eyes. Armin Arlert shook his head slightly, as though rebuking himself for having gone too far.
For an instant, neither of them said a word. Then, with an unspoken implication that he understood and respected Han's decision, the pilot extended his hand a second time and gave the smuggler a small smile. "I'm glad I could introduce myself before you took off. Thank you for everything that you've done, Captain Solo. We'll miss having you around."
"Thanks." They shook hands, and Han added sincerely, "Watch your six out there, kid."
The youth's blond head nodded.
Han recognized a familiar nervous haste in the posture of the pilot's shoulders as Flight Lieutenant Armin Arlert hurried off in the direction the girl had gone.
So that's how it was, Han thought to himself. He smirked. Kid probably didn't even know it himself yet.
Well, good luck to him.
Han watched the orange flight suit vanish into the sea of activity swirling around the hangar floor. He stood there a moment longer, his mouth thinned, and then he turned back towards Chewbacca and the Millenium Falcon.
A decade later, Chewbacca would find himself bested in hand-to-hand combat for the second time in his life by a certain alien assassin in the skies above a planet called Honoghr. In the following days on that strange world, he would recall that cold morning in the main hangar of Echo Base and the puny human female who had neutralized his headlong rush without batting an eye. Stretching his long limbs, staring up at an unfamiliar sky, and frowning at the aches and pains from a dozen past battles, he would think back across the long years and wonder to himself, briefly, what her fate had been.
OOOOO
"Annie, you're being a really mischievous person today, aren't you?"
Armin had caught up with Annie just as she was passing from the main hangar to the supply depot. Ducking around a cargo vehicle piled high with foodstuff containers, he ran the last couple of steps until he was walking beside her.
"Armin." She acknowledged him without so much as a nod or a glance. Usually, Annie's voice remained in a deadpan monotone, filled with seeming disinterest. When she had just spoken, however, her speech had slipped briefly into a mode almost musical in pitch, almost as though his name was a fragment of the lyrics to some song.
Registering the odd tone, Armin wondered briefly if she was still mocking him after the incident earlier that morning. Well, he was glad someone had enjoyed the joke she'd pulled—those had been real laser and concussion missile batteries, for galaxy's sake. Half-seriously, Armin decided that Annie probably needed a hobby. Ideally, a hobby other than thrashing sparring droids, other soldiers, and full-grown Wookies into submission with her bare hands.
They walked past a freshly-arrived array of ground sensor equipment. Armin watched Annie's eyes briefly scan the devices and saw her brow furrow as she inspected them with an expert's gaze.
Simultaneously, Annie cleared her throat. "I'm surprised. You haven't reported me yet for arming twenty sets of antiaircraft weapons without authorization."
"Well… I… You—"Armin sputtered. "—I knew you didn't mean it at the time."
"I did mean it." Annie lifted her head from the sensor shipment. "I was bored. And it sure didn't sound like you thought I wasn't serious." He could barely hear her voice over the whine of servomotors filling the equipment depot.
Armin flushed at the memory and felt heat rise to the surface of his cheeks despite the chilly base atmosphere. "I could recommend you some good extranet novels if you're so bored…" he offered.
Annie narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion, and Armin promptly shelved that suggestion.
"You're not supposed to access the extranet without direct permission," Annie reminded him. Armin further remembered that she had the authority to ground him from flying as punishment for the infraction, and he bitterly reflected that she might well be bored enough to be amused by ordering an investigation into his datapad usage patterns.
Annie shrugged, however, and Armin interpreted the gesture to mean that she wouldn't pursue his breach of data discipline any further.
They moved from the supply bay into one of the transit corridors themselves, headed in the general direction of the central base. Armin still needed to stow his flight suit in the pilot ready room. Annie, he supposed, was bound for the canteen for her customary post-duty cup of caf.
Unlike the cavernous, crowded hangar and cargo bays, the halls of Echo Base were dark and claustrophobic. Droids and base personnel crowded the passages, shuffling awkwardly past one another through the regular bottlenecks at doors and corners. Up ahead, a contingent of rebel freighter crewmen late for their ship's scheduled departure jogged towards them in the opposite direction, calling out to be let through. Annie stepped aside first, and Armin squeezed himself next to her against the side of the corridor to make room for the group. The icy surface at his back dug painfully into his flight suit, its chilly touch a sharp contrast to the faint warmth where Annie's shoulder was briefly pressed into the side of his arm. The burly spacefarers barreled past, one of them turning with a shout of thanks. As the sound of footsteps against the durasteel floor plating trailed off into the distance, Annie was the first to push herself away from the wall and resume navigating through the crowd. Armin transferred his flight helmet to his other arm and followed, muttering an apology as he cut through a pair of infantry officers.
As they stepped into the hallway's dim lighting, they passed a tall, white-furred Talz soldier headed in the opposite direction, and Armin suddenly remembered why he had wanted to catch up to her in the first place. "I saw what happened earlier at the Millenium Falcon," he began. "You know, you might end up being almost as famous as Captain Solo once people find out that you sent Chewbacca to the ground in hand-to-hand fighting."
Annie broke into a rare ghost of a smile. "That kind of trick only works once. I had the element of surprise because he underestimated me."
"Did they teach you that technique in Intelligence School?" Armin asked.
Annie's eyes flashed briefly, and he feared for an instant that she was about to respond by giving him the silent treatment, or worse. To his surprise, however, she relented and answered.
"We were informed as trainees that rebel groups and warlords liked to look for powerful alien brutes as enforcers and soldiers. When they taught us unarmed fighting, they focused specifically on ways to surprise stronger nonhuman species."
Annie's face hardened as she spoke, and Armin realized that she was unconsciously slipping into the persona she cultivated for sparring and marksmanship practice. Behind her blue eyes, he could see her visualizing martial techniques—the traps and escapes, the footwork, the evasions and deflections.
Once again, Armin was left to wonder at Annie's past.
Annie had only joined the Alliance military a short time before Armin's arrival, but rumors had already begun spreading by then about how the first soldier who had tried patting her on the shoulder had ended up in sickbay for a week, or how she had bested the crew of an entire frigate in a blaster pistol competition. Indeed, she had cultivated quite the reputation at Echo Base for her martial skill, her enigmatic character, and for her tendency to cause trouble every once in a while.
There was also the matter of her background. He shuddered. Armin felt cold suddenly, and the frigid halls of Echo Base were not entirely to blame.
Imperial Intelligence was infamous for a training regime that dehumanized and indoctrinated its recruits to the breaking point, stripping them of their natural inhibitions and moral conscience in order to mold trainees into loyal, unquestioning servants of the Empire. The ideal graduate was a blank slate, a mask without any remaining shred of the person they had once been. Of the many other Intelligence agents that found their way into the Alliance military, many encountered difficulties socializing or adopting a normal lifestyle, and most favored a reclusive existence, interacting only with their immediate superiors and colleagues within the rebel movement's counterintelligence and espionage departments. That said, it was quite plain to Armin that Annie's personality had very much survived her time in Imperial service. Her dark sense of humor, her cynicism, and her fierce pride in her own capabilities were clearly marked by her past, but her experiences, whatever they had been, seemed to have left the core of her personal identity unharmed. Annie worked well enough with others, and she appeared to be at home with the everyday pulse of base life. Sure, she was generally quiet, and preferred observation to participation in conversations and social activities—but these were her own choices, not the remnants of old training.
Like the tunnels of an anthill, the interior of Echo Base snaked erratically through the rock of the ridge it had been carved into. Sections of passageways narrowed without warning, or transitioned into steep inclines as they walked deeper into the complex. To the left, an open set of double doors led into the naval officer's lounge, and Armin briefly caught a glimpse of the famed starfighter ace Wedge Antilles, dressed in a casual uniform, sprawled across a soft chair and conversing with two of Rogue Squadron's other senior members. Spotting Armin's orange pilot's suit in the hallway outside, the veteran pilot turned to face the door and gave him a small wave, an expression of vague recognition behind his eyes.
Armin waved back hurriedly, then they were past the brightly lit doorway, marching further down the passage.
"Have you thought at all about what you'd do after all of this, Annie?" Armin chose that moment to ask. "After you leave the military?"
Annie frowned. She inclined her head ever so slightly in Armin's direction as she replied, sending a faint puff of condensation into the air in front of her as the moisture on her breath cooled. "After all of this?"
Armin nodded.
He was taken aback by the biting question she aimed at him in return. "Are you really so hopeless, Armin?" she began. "Do you really think that, at the end of all this fighting, there is a future where a normal life is possible for us?"
Armin's eyes widened, then he frowned. "What do you mean? Of course—don't trillions and trillions of individuals live normal lives across the galaxy?"
This time, Annie turned her head completely and gave Armin a long, evaluatory look.
"Armin, this rebellion will never be over within our lifetimes," she said, sighing. She returned her gaze to the passageway before them. "And if it is, then the end of the war will have come about because the Empire will have defeated us."
A vision materialized in Armin's mind of wrecked Rebel fleets and shattered bases, of a cackling Emperor announcing the end of the upstart rebellion to thunderous applause and the roar of fireworks from the balcony of the Galactic Senate. Tendrils of fear shivered through his body as he realized that such a future was disconcertingly easy to imagine.
"Annie, does that mean you don't even think that we can win?"
Suddenly, Annie stopped, and Armin realized that they had reached the door to the base canteen. The smell of cooked vegetables, meats, and caf emanated past the threshold, causing Armin's stomach to stir impatiently. Instead of entering, however, Annie lifted her chin and rested her eyes on the Alliance starbird crest painted above the entryway.
"Does it even matter what I think?" she retorted. "The Death Star was nothing. The Alliance hasn't even managed to permanently liberate one world with a population of over ten billion. Instead, the Empire has driven us back from system after system, crushing uprisings in weeks and months..." Armin opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off, adding, "If we're going to win the civil war in the end, why are we hiding in a place like this, on the edge of the galaxy, hoping that we'll survive a few more years because we've gone somewhere too cold and too distant to be noticed?"
Some of the base personnel eating at the tables closest to the door raised their heads upon hearing what Annie was saying. When Armin noticed them, they quickly averted their glance, staring back down at plates of food as though unaware of the conversation. Two of the women at the closest table exchanged looks briefly, one of them squinting at Annie out of the corner of her eye.
Armin chose too to pretend that nobody was listening as he took his chance to reply. "It's obvious that we're outmatched," he protested, gesturing at their surroundings with a gloved hand. Snaking bundles of power conduits, light fixtures that sputtered and glowed dimly, and ice-shrouded walls were encompassed by the sweep of his arm. "I think we all know that it's not going to be an easy war."
"We're weak and short on supplies, and we can't fight a straight battle, but at the same time the Empire is overstretched and growing more unpopular every year. The rebel movement is more than just the Alliance, more than just us soldiers… The harder the Imperial military tries to stamp out freedoms, the more difficult they make things for themselves. They can hurt us, but they can't kill us all…" Armin paused. "—and that means that one day, we'll end them eventually."
Annie rolled her eyes. She took a step backwards to lean against the doorframe. Crossing her arms, a wave of golden hair fell across her forehead as she lowered her head. "Okay. So the Empire stamps out the rebellion in corner after corner of the galaxy, only for it to burst into flame somewhere new. Then, the war never ends… not for decades, maybe centuries even…"
For a moment, her words trailed off. Briefly, Annie raised her head, meeting Armin's eyes with her own. "If that's the case, how many millions and billions of lives are you willing to sacrifice before you decide that the rebellion isn't worth it anymore?"
As a shiver traveled down Armin's spine, Annie looked back down to the ground. "Hundreds of billions of people are dead, Armin. Some were just bystanders in the wrong place during our battles, others were killed in the millions in retaliation as punishment for rebellions… all because a group of hopeless idealists like us are willing to fight a war for the sake of a galactic democracy that may not even work."
"…might not even work?" Armin echoed weakly. "Annie… are you saying what I—"
Annie cut him off, crossing her arms. "The galaxy is a dark place." Her expression darkened as she frowned, staring moodily at the dirty floor at Armin's feet. "Do you think that anyone will even remember your name a hundred years from now?"
Armin felt a fire growing inside him, an anger at Annie's words that threatened to burst out with the force of a grenade. He suddenly realized that his fists were clenched, the material of his pilot's gloves creased tightly by the force of his fingers. His words trembled as he finally brought himself to reply. "It doesn't matter if we're forgotten. It doesn't even matter if we lose." Armin took a deep breath. "Annie—what matters is that on the day that the Empire reached out to strangle the freedom of hundreds of trillions of people, somebody fought to save it."
Out of the corner of his eye, Armin could see some of their fellow rebels seated around the mess hall tables nodding at his words, their faces set in agreement. The guard standing at the other side of the doorway seemed to be standing taller and straighter, his blaster rifle held at a prouder, more defiant angle to his body.
"Right now, a million beings are being vibroknifed in back alleys, or getting executed for crimes they didn't commit, or starving to death with their entire families." Annie's eyes were suddenly soft and unfocused as she spoke, and her stare seemed to penetrate the floor plating and the rock beneath, through the other side of the planet and into the vast, infinite space beyond. Her voice, too, was surprisingly gentle. "It's admirable to want to do something, to try and make the galaxy a better place… but when a single person's efforts just get swallowed up and forgotten, is it so wrong to be self-centered and settle for what you have?"
"Is it such a bad thing, to live a selfish life?" she finished.
Armin looked at her. Her dark gray uniform jacket fit her as though made for her. Her equipment belt sat across her hips at just the right angle for a rapid blaster draw. Navy blue trousers thrust into her combat boots completed the picture of a deadly Alliance operative, an efficient, seasoned officer and soldier.
When Armin spoke again, his voice had lost its earlier tremor. "Annie…It's not such a bad thing. But, if that's what you think, why did you join the Alliance at all then?"
Annie's head shot up. This time, their eyes met as if by accident, and Armin was stunned as, for a moment, he witnessed waves of anger and hurt crashing in the sea of her blue pupils. Gone was the cynicism, the guarded glare, and Armin looked for an instant into the heart of a soul just as lost and haunted by ghosts as his own.
She must have recognized something in turn, and she widened her own eyes briefly before looking away across the banks of tables filling the canteen. When Armin looked again, her face had outwardly reassumed its normal expression, yet something seemed to be ever so slightly different in the pose of her neck, in the lines of her lips.
"I was curious."
Armin was surprised by her words until he remembered that he had asked her a question.
Annie crossed her arms, "I wondered what kind of people would give up everything for nothing."
Her voice became so quiet that even Armin had to focus in order to hear her at all. "They showed us holovids of live, real interrogations in training. We could all see that these were real people, no different from us… they cried out for their parents and begged—but there was something else…"
For a long time, Annie said nothing more. A minute must have passed before she continued softly, "something else led them to resist… to say nothing for days no matter what methods the agents used… it took weeks before…" He saw her swallow.
Finally, Annie said, "When I defected, I wanted many things, but one of the things I wanted was to meet these people, and to find out if I was at all like them."
Armin thought back to his own path, the sequence of events over the months and years that had brought him to this remote part of the galaxy, placing him in this uniform with a lieutenant's pips on his breast. He remembered the crisis that had led him to first question his passive tolerance of the galactic regime. He remembered the dark, tormented night when he'd made the decision at last, the months of careful searching, avoiding the lethal Imperial traps for would-be Alliance recruits, the merciless weeks-long rebel investigation into his own background upon his initial recruitment. He remembered the pilot training program, the accidents that had claimed friends and comrades. He remembered his first mission, his first flight through a storm of starfighters and laser fire, surviving more by luck than due to any skill or training. It passed through his mind in a blur, leaving him feeling far older than his twenty years.
"I know what you mean," he finally replied, and he meant it.
She looked back to him briefly, and Armin was forced to wonder if he had just imagined another ghostlike smile.
"See you around, Armin." Annie gave him a tiny wave, then stepped into the cafeteria towards the caf machine.
The old memories that Annie's words had conjured up, once summoned, could not be so easily dismissed. Lost in thought, Armin walked the remainder of his journey in a daze, barely registering the groups of soldiers, support personnel, staff administrators he passed. He was faintly aware of passing the whine of engines being tested in the maintenance halls, then the muffled blasts from behind the heavy doors leading to the blaster rifle and pistol range. Finally, he reached his destination. Armin smiled emptily at the greetings of his squadron mates, excusing himself as he punched the door controls on the other side of the junior pilot officer's common area. He stepped into the warmth of the pilot's ready room, his feet leading him by memory until he faced his own name, inscribed across the face of his equipment locker.
ARMIN ARLERT
FLIGHT LIEUTENANT 1ST CLASS
57 SQN (SCTAS)
As he grasped the edge of the locker door to open it, Armin's thumb briefly touched the grooves of a fourth line of text engraved just below the first three. Even though he had seen the sign hundreds of times, Armin glanced for a long moment at that final set of characters and briefly felt the familiar stirrings of loss and sorrow etch fresh cuts into his heart. Older memories, half-forgotten, floating to the surface of his mind, Armin determinedly averted his eyes from the words and swung the locker completely open, hiding the plaque from sight.
The final line read:
SHIGANSHIMA, ALDARAAN