Chapter 2

For the past seven months, the Avenger has hovered in orbit over the remains of the Rebel base on Yavin 4. ISB Investigators continue to poke at the rubble of the base, in search of clues as to where the Rebellion is currently cowering. Slake knows that if they were going to find anything of value, they would have already.

When Slake first signed up for the Academy, her recruiter had told her the Empire was much like the Star Destroyers that embodied its naval superiority. "It's immensely powerful, unrivaled in its ability to dominate a head-on fight. But it takes a long time to change direction."

Nine years since that first day and Slake understands what the man—whom she found indiscreet at the time—had meant. Still the Avenger hovers, as though the ship itself can't quite move on from the devastating loss of Grand Moff Tarkin and his Death Star.

She's heard rumors that a replacement weapon is being constructed in some remote system. She hopes that the gossip is unfounded. She stands now at the edge of the hangar, watching the other, lesser squadrons conduct their patrols and training exercises. Countless fighters zip in and out of the hangar's blue containment field. Even now, in the shadow of their greatest defeat, it's clear that the Empire does not have a power deficit.

It's prudence that's in short supply.

Tav approaches her from behind. She knows the measured cadence of his footsteps.

"Excellent flying today, Amara. Three of the six kills were yours."

"You had two, sir."

"Bah," he says humbly. "Missile kills. Targeting system does most of the work. I watched the debrief footage. Did you dumbfire yours on that last A-wing?"

Slake tries to control her blush. "Umm, yes, sir."

"Fabulous, Slake. Really."

"It was against regulation. I could have wasted ordinance." Slake stammers, thinking again of what was really in the transports they destroyed.

"I dread the day you learn how to take a compliment. I doubt I hold onto the squadron much longer after that."

Slake redirects. "It's a shame about Rikas. We'll need a new pilot for our interceptor group."

"Credenzo already radioed me about it, on the way in," Tav smirks.

"She doesn't waste much time, does she?"

Tav doesn't respond. The heat of embarrassment rolls up Slake's spine. She said too much.

"Some advice, Amara? Be careful with your words. Our subordinate has powerful friends."

"Understood, Major," Slake kicks herself. How could she have been so careless? Tav is her commanding officer, not some gossiping confidante painting her toenails.

"Good. That said, I'll leave it to you to determine who should be promoted into Rikas' vacancy."

"Does that mean Credenzo?"

"No, Slake. It means that it's your choice. Pick who will help us win this war." He pauses to watch another piece of the Death Star catch fire and burn up in Yavin's atmosphere. "Squadron debrief in five minutes."

"Yes, sir."

When Slake arrives in the briefing room, she sees her major sitting in the corner of the room, poking at his datapad. Slake has run all Obsidian briefings since being named a Baroness of the Empire, and every time it feels harrowing, as though she's one well-placed question away from completely crumbling in front of her junior pilots.

As she approaches the podium, the pilots and mechanics stand at attention. She sees familiar faces: Price's studious focus, Credenzo's ambitious sneer. The bomber pilots all grinning at some joke whispered at the last second by the sole surviving rookie. Obsidian Eleven.

Eleven is annoyingly handsome. He has pale skin and iridescent blue eyes. Light stubble on his jawline and too long, greasy blonde hair, tied back in a stupid, sloppy bun that is a total affront to Imperial personal appearance code.

Chen, Obsidian Seven in the bomber group, seems particularly smitten with the new pilot, continuing to glance over at him during attention. She grins flirtatiously at him and pins her shoulders back to highlight the curve of her chest.

"Let's try this again," Slake growls from the podium. "Attention."

The group straightens up, steals away any remaining mirth.

"We lost four pilots today. I don't ever want to see this degree of disrespect for our dead again. Is that understood?"

Tav raises an eyebrow from his seat then returns to his datapad.

"Yes, Captain," says the squadron, dialed in now.

"Good," Slake burns a glare into each of them. Reminds herself to breathe slowly. "Now, at ease."

The squadron does as it's commanded.

"Obsidian Eleven, what is your name?"

"Roddy, Cap."

"Roddy. Is that a surname? A birthname?"

"Um, nah. It's actually Roderick. Kell Roderick. I go by Roddy, though."

"Officer Roderick, you will not address me as 'Cap.' You will address me as Captain Slake or Baroness. Furthermore, your outbursts on the comms today were unacceptable and in flagrant violation of Imperial Code. You'll do well to shut your mouth, follow orders, and let your flying do your speaking for you."

Slake scowls at Roderick icily. He struggles to contain a nervous smirk.

"Yes, Captain," he says. Then he winks at her.

Rage bubbles up in her. "Roderick. Stand right here." Slake points at a spot next to the podium. Her heart races as she has no idea what she's going to do next. She's never had to dress down any of her pilots to this degree before. They've always been too intimidated by her skill to do much more than whisper behind her back. She must make an example of this buffoon. To err here will be to lose her reputation.

She deliberately avoids looking at Tav while Roderick saunters to the podium. He's not yet chastened.

Slake gets right in his face. Up close, she smells his cologne. It's lovely. Irritating.

"Do you think you're special?"

"No, Baroness."

"But you must. You evidently believe that you're above decorum, respect, and regulations. And yes, you flew well. For one mission. Did you know that in the past year, there have been fourteen pilots with the designation of Obsidian Eleven? Most of them had one good mission too. Some of them were even better than you. Would you care to hazard a guess as to where each of those other thirteen are now?"

His smirk fades. "I have an idea."

"Of course you do. You're not stupid. You're merely disrespectful and ignorant. Those thirteen pilots are with Rikas, Vonroy, Offesco, and Mygs. Dead and left frozen in space. Just like you'll be soon. And, sure, the squadron will tell a couple of stories about you and what a cheeky prat you were. And they'll laugh, and it will be onto the next mission. Onto the next Obsidian-11. And you'll be nothing. Forgotten."

His eyes meet hers, finally humbled. Roderick is taller than Slake by twenty centimeters, but in this moment, Slake is very much larger than him.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Captain."

"You'll be spending the next five nights in the brig. That's one demerit on your record. No one gets a second. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, Baroness."

"Return to your seat. Right now."

High on adrenalin, Slake speeds through the debrief. When she closes with the funeral times for the four KIAs, she exits the briefing room. She steers clear of Major Tav and heads straight for her quarters.

After her shower, she watches more footage of the mission on her datapad. Roderick's attack vectors and power management are impeccable. Gorman owes his life to this idiot.

Slake decides that when Roderick gets out of the brig, she will promote him to the Interceptor group.