PART I
Chapter 1
Captain Amara Slake, Baroness of the Grand Imperial Navy, sits in the cockpit of her TIE Interceptor and watches the blue clouds of hyperspace churn around her starfighter.
Here, with her Interceptor attached to a lightspeed-capable Gozanti Cruiser, hurtling through this artificial reality, she is relaxed and ready. Safe. Nothing bad can happen to her in hyperspace. For Slake, the real world has been where danger and pain lurk.
But if she's in her interceptor, Slake knows that she's the most dangerous element in any given situation. She has a host of medals that speak to her success in battle. Her commanding officer, Major Tav, tells every dignitary who visits their squadron's home Star Destroyer, Avenger, that if Slake had been at Yavin, the Rebels would already be crushed. Slake appreciates Tav's words, but they are fulsome, political. Each compliment he pays her is just another step he uses to climb the ranks.
Tav only speaks of her talent in the context of how he sagely deploys it. He never remarks on the work she puts in.
On Slake's first night at the academy, nine years ago now, she sneaked out past curfew and slipped into a fighter simulator. She didn't take the sim for a spin around an asteroid belt or engage AI hostiles. Instead, Slake practiced turning on the electronics and warming the engines. She spent a couple of hours just flipping the switches and building the muscle memory. When she could do it unconsciously, she moved on to a new aspect. Repulsor modules, take-off and landing procedures, activating the "slam" function to flood the engines with the stored energy from the laser generators.
Despite her accolades and experience, Slake never misses a day doing these exercises.
She believes that this work is what separates her from her peers. She's simply faster on the fundamentals. In the heat of battle, she doesn't panic when managing her internals. It's all reflex, as though her TIE Interceptor isn't a machine she operates, but rather an extension of her will.
An alert pops on Slake's Heads Up Display: five minutes until her Interceptor group's Gozanti emerges from hyperspace. Two other cruisers fly behind her group, one loaded with Lieutenant Drome's TIE Bombers and the other with Lieutenant Credenzo's standard TIE Fighters.
Tav, in the lead Interceptor slot next to Slake's, beams a holocomm to her. He isn't wearing his helmet. A regulation violation, Slake notes to herself.
Tav is a white human with sharp features. He's 41 years old and, in Slake's estimation, a very good, if somewhat tentative, pilot. But he has no enthusiasm for his role. His ambitions lie elsewhere.
"Captain Slake, would you address the squadron?"
"Yes, sir," Slake says, her voice cracking. It's been hours since she's spoken. "Anything in particular you want me to highlight?"
Tav's hologram waves its hand. "Oh, the usual, I suppose. Tight formations, call out threats. Don't die."
"Affirmative," Slake says. She opens the squadron's radio channel, and a bead of sweat trickles down her back. For her, public speaking has always been a more elusive skill than flying an Interceptor.
"Obsidian Squadron. We're four-and-a-half minutes from emergence. When we jump in, Rebel fighters will almost certainly be deployed. Bomber group, focus on the transports with the arms shipments directly. My Interceptor group will engage the resistance and keep you clean. Credenzo, keep your Fighter group close to the bombers, take on any threat that slips through the Interceptor group's attack. Communicate, coordinate, stay alive. Clear?"
"Clear," says Lieutenant Drome in his gravelly vocal fry. He's a great shot but a middling pilot. Slake has never believed Drome should be leading the group, but at 25, he has the most seniority. All the better options have already been killed by the Rebels. Drome is a true believer in the Imperial cause. He named his bomber "The Fist of Order," and the other Bomber pilots frequently share human supremacist memes on the Obsidian Pilots group chat.
Slake once overheard Drome commenting on her skin color. He was telling the other bomber pilots that he was surprised Slake was so articulate for "a black."
Slake's father was white (is still white? She doesn't know the tense to use with him). But she felt no need to correct Drome at the time. She was eavesdropping, and besides, in the Empire, humans are humans, and that's all that matters. Taking issue with someone being insulting about your melanin concentration is not the way to earn the respect of your squadron.
Slake does not personally care for Drome, but he is reliable and brave and Slake can appreciate him for those qualities.
"Clear, Baroness," repeats Lieutenant Credenzo, kissing ass. Again. The leader of the TIE Fighter group is the same species of political animal as Major Tav, but she has none of Tav's charm. Credenzo hails from a very wealthy family on Canto Bight. Slake knows that her father pulled strings to get an additional layer of armor welded to his daughter's TIE. For the past two sorties, every other TIE Fighter in Credenzo's group has been killed.
Slake must give credit where credit is due, though: Credenzo always survives. Today, she leads another group of nameless rookies, fresh from the Academy as of this morning.
"Yes, very super-duper crystal clear, our Holy Baroness, hallowed be thy name." says an unfamiliar voice in a rock-hopper's brogue. Whoever it is, they're picking at Credenzo's overwrought flattery. Slake cuts her mic before she can chuckle and checks the radio designation. Obsidian-11. One of the new pilots. He's fresh off the shuttle, and already disrespecting his direct supervisor. Slake checks the comms report and sees a channel immediately open between Credenzo and Ob-11. The rookie is getting his ass chewed for certain.
Major Tav re-opens his holocomm to Slake. "Do you know Ob-11?"
Slake never bothers learning the names of the rookies until they survive at least three missions. "No, sir. He's a fish."
"You will reprimand him if he lives." The subtext is clear. Credenzo's family is powerful: his connection to them must be maintained; thus Credenzo needs to feel as though she is supported.
"Copy that, sir."
"I don't much care for how he addressed you." Tav signs out. He's trying to get a rise out of her so that she will correct Eleven with vigor. But any idiot would know that the jape was at Credenzo's expense, not her own. Slake is often annoyed by Major Tav's impulse to explain every situation to her with his own personal spin.
"Baroness" is technically an address that subordinates can use with Slake. It's more a decorative title than an actual rank but Slake can admit that it does come with perks. Across the entirety of the Imperial Navy, there are only three pilots who have the designation. Each of the pilots, including Slake, received a brand new, advanced version of their fighter of choice (classic TIE Fighter, Interceptor, or Bomber) with a custom crimson and black finish designed to strike fear in the hearts of the Rebels.
She received a medal for the Baroness title in a ceremony on the Avenger three years ago. All hands were in the hangar to see Lord Vader himself pin the matte ruby Imperial Crest to her lapel. She still remembers him leaning in close, a pleasant smell of new electronics wafting off of him.
"I've observed your flight logs," Vader said. His deep voice quiet, so only she could hear. "Most impressive."
Vader sat next to her at the reception after the ceremony. Those were the only words he ever spoke to her. She thinks about them every day.
Slake watches the seconds tick down to emergence. A peculiar glee always takes hold of her in these moments, despite the very real chance she could die. TIE Interceptors, while blazing fast, don't have shields or armor, so a stray turbolaser shot could end it all. But that fear pales in comparison to the sense of control that Slake feels in combat. She thrives in the simplicity of a fight. Kill or be killed makes so much more sense to her than anything else in the galaxy, where she never quite knows what people want, or what they're willing to do to get it.
Slake's parents were spice addicts. She'd spent her childhood on Corellia, barefoot and homeless, trailing the wasters who sired her from squat to squat.
Even if she died today, she would prefer it to going back there.
Four. Three. Two. One. Emergence.
The hyperspace tunnel fades into quickly contracting starlines, and Slake's radar pops with klaxons. She counts the opposition: two Corellian Corvettes, four X-wings, four A-wings, all bunched up within two klicks of each other. They're running escort for three small, privately owned freighters to three Rebel transport ships, Muurian class. Transferring munitions, Tav said in the mission briefing.
"That's Rogue Squadron," says Sergeant Gorman, Obsidian-6 from the bomber group, his voice shaking.
Before Slake can scold him to cut unnecessary chatter, Obsidian 11 jumps on the channel. "Don't worry, baby. Back on The Avenger, we'll be knocking a few back, saying 'that was Rogue Squadron.'"
Slake cuts in. "Shut up, both of you. Do your jobs."
"Got you covered, Six," says Ob-11 quickly, "Promise."
The docking locks release on the Gozanti cruisers with a thick ker-chunk. The cruisers kill their velocity and all twelve Obsidian fighters drift forward on the momentum.
Slake speaks over the channel. "Interceptors. Fire engines."
Slake watches the A-wings bank around the transports from three klicks out. The Rebels are coming. Slake opens the Obsidian channel. "No head-on attacks. They have shields, you don't." She kills comms and goes about the satisfying work of flipping the switches that set her power routes. Full juice to engines, she feels the vibration of energy storing up in her Interceptor's boost reserves. Alarms fire in her cockpit, telling her that a pair of A-wings are locking on with their missiles.
"Do it," she smiles from inside her helmet. "I dare you." The more that lock onto her, the more fighters in Obsidian would be free to overwhelm the Rebels.
The A-wings let their concussion missiles fly, bright orange streaks across the void of space. One missile on Tav, one on Drome, two on Slake herself. They must have seen her Interceptor's crimson and black livery and went for the money ball right away.
Tav and Drome both break too early, giving the Rebel missiles time to shift trajectory. But not Slake. She calmly maintains her heading, watching the dual orange death-glows close the distance. She knows that concussions are fast, but not nearly as fast as she is. At 100 meters, she fires her boost and breaks downward. The missiles don't have the maneuverability to maintain their lock. They spin out and burn the rest of their fuel, hurtling toward the space Slake had just occupied.
Slake accelerates toward the Rebel transports, then breaks starboard to draw off the escorting A-wings. Checking her radar, she sees Tav deploy his chaff, and the missile with his name on it explodes to dust.
Drome, on the other hand, is having trouble. His dual-hulled bomber has slipped the locked missile a few times, but as it draws closer to his tail, Slake sees he's clearly out of boost. "Need some help here, Captain!" he radios.
Before she can break, Slake sees the missile explode suddenly. Just as she's about to field promote Gorman to lead of the bomber group, the rookie in Ob-11 screams into the channel. "Yeah, you like that!?"
The kid shot the missile out of the sky.
"You're out of formation, Eleven," Slake says, making a mental note to check the combat footage later. One in twenty pilots can tag a missile with their lasers. Later, she'll evaluate if Eleven is a talented novice or merely fortunate.
She sees the A-wings regroup after all four of their missiles failed. The X-wings are gearing up to go on the offensive. Slake calls an audible. "Interceptors, Major Tav, burn hot toward the transports and draw the A-wings. Credenzo, take your fighter group and swarm that X-wing leader. Bombers, stick to the script."
"On it, Cap." Eleven again. Slake grits her teeth. His constant prattle is deeply irritating.
"Radio silence, Eleven. Now."
On her approach to the A-wing leader, a private channel pops on her HUD from Eleven, his voice flirtatious. "Hey, whatcha think of that shot?"
Wildly inappropriate. This rookie will be sleeping in the brig tonight. If he survives.
Slake shakes off her annoyance and fixes her eyes on the A-wings. Rather than hunt the bombers, the Rebel snub fighters bend toward Slake's flight group, taking her bait. They have to. Interceptors are too fast, and the Rebels know that allowing them to operate freely is a death sentence for their little munitions transfer.
Rookies like Eleven think starfighter combat is all kills and speed. But it isn't and that's why Slake has lived longer than most. This work is about methodically removing your opponent's options until desperation forces them into a mistake.
This is that moment.
The A-wing leader fires their boost, and in response, Slake throws her power to her laser cannons, executing a graceful drift that maintains her trajectory, locking her reticle directly onto the A-wing's committed path. The Rebel waits for her to curve back to the transports and it's the last thing they ever wait on again.
Slake pulls her trigger and splashes the A-wing leader in fire.
Rebels are overly sentimental about losses. The other A-wings momentarily stop their weaving, struck by sudden grief. She always reminds the pilots in Obsidian of this Rebel habit: After that first kill, that's when you can stack the rest of the enemy squadron. Be ready.
Her interceptor group is prepared. Tav, ever the opportunist, quickly breaks on the second A-wing in the formation and dual fires his concussions. Both connect, and the A-wing explodes in a brief explosion that's snuffed out by vacuum.
The remaining A-wings are no slouches. They juice their shields and absorb laser salvos from Price and Rakis, Obsidian Three and Four respectively. The A-wings fly past and flip their side cannons on their axes, so that they face behind them.
Together, the A-wings pour rear-facing laser fire directly into Rakis's cockpit, and her radar blip goes dark. She'd flown in the Interceptor group for nearly two years.
Later this evening, the Avenger's administrative staff will cast Rakis' empty coffin into space. At the funeral's closing, anyone who attends will mindlessly utter the phrase, "For the Empire." Slake does truly appreciate the order of Imperial protocols. Regular meals, set schedules for sleeping and waking, the ships always run on time. But she could do without all the theatrics.
She won't attend the ceremony.
Slake's radar alerts her to a pair of X-wings chewing up the TIE-Fighters. The Bombers scramble as much as they can to shake the neon blue proton torpedoes fired from the X-wing back line. She notices that Obsidian 10 and 12 are already dead, as well as Vonroy, the weakest pilot in Drome's bomber group.
Eleven is still among the breathing, still mixing it up with the X-wings. Slake feels relief at this, and then is immediately appalled by her own feelings. Why should she care for some mouthy rookie? She breathes in, refocuses, radios Tav. "We need those A-wings down now. I'll separate them, I'll take Rogue 7, you take Rogue 8."
What goes unsaid: Rogue 7 has hit far more of its shots than 8. Tav, her commanding officer, needs to target the weaker pilot.
"Copy that, Baroness," says Major Tav.
Slake fires her boost in measured intervals, pivoting her interceptor between each burst of thrust in seemingly random patterns. The A-wings attempt to draw a bead on her, but it's too difficult aiming in the opposite direction from which they're moving. She closes the distance between her and the aft of both fighters. With a final boost, she drifts between them, positioning her cannons at the weak spot in the portside A-wing's shields. The pilot senses her there and banks out of formation, flipping its cannons forward and evading Slake's killshot.
Slake chases, and her target's wingman blinks out from her radar. Tav made his kill and now boosts toward the bombers to escort their attack run. This is a vote of confidence in Slake. She can handle this final A-wing on her own.
For ranking third in their flight group, this Rebel is very good. Slake figures that, whoever they are, they must struggle controlling their emotions. Otherwise, they would be a leader. Perhaps they are either very young or very old. Someone on the tail end of a remarkable career, or a prodigious neophyte like Eleven.
The way they move and shake target locks is seamless, thoughtful. They are at one with their starfighter, smooth and confident. Tailing them through their evasive maneuvers, Slake would wager that the pilot's heart rate isn't all that elevated. The A-wing weaves and hesitates, weaves and hesitates. It's trying to lure Slake into her predatory nature, make her lose perspective on the larger battle, get tunnel vision.
It's trying to frustrate her and it's doing a good job of it.
Slake narrows her gaze, slows down, thinks. The pilot is setting a pattern. Just before Slake's targeting system achieves a lock, the A-wing banks starboard after a clever little juke. They've made the maneuver twice, and Slake knows on a third attempt, it will kill its engines and execute a portside drift to take Slake off the board.
Slake feels this. In her bones.
The A-wing performs its set-up waggle and Slake tweaks her Interceptor's nose portside. The Rebel shifts course and executes a loping flip to the port just as Slake dumbfires two concussion missiles without a lock. The A-wing flies directly into them and explodes, likely never aware that they were cooked. Slake feels a degree of pity mixed with a flare of professional respect. They were a very good pilot.
Whoever they may have been.
Slake routes all power to engines and accelerates back to her squadron.
On her holo, Slake receives a transmission request from one of the Corvettes guarding the transports. Of course they reach out, now that their escort is mostly flotsam.
"Imperial squadron, this is Lieutenant Dav'Oso of the Rebel Alliance." His voice trails off on the last two words, as he realizes he's seeking clemency. He will find none.
"We are transporting refugees from Felucia. Farmers and technicians. I don't know what you think you're attacking, but you're killing civilians. Please disengage. We'll allow you to inspect our cargo."
Tav breaks from combat with the three remaining X-wings as Slake joins the fight. Despite losing a third of their twelve pilots, the odds have now decidedly swung in Obsidian's favor. The pair of Corvettes attempt to fire dissuading shots at the bombers, but even those dual-hulled Imperial hulks are too nimble to get clipped. Drome and his team approach the Muurian transports with ease.
Tav responds to the Bothan. "Rebels, if you're so innocent, why do you continue to fire at us?"
"We're defending civilians!"
"Silence!" Tav snaps back. "This is a Rebel operations illegally smuggling weapons for distribution to terrorists. You'll have no quarter from us."
"Listen, just scan our transports. You'll find about 80 lifeforms in each cargo hold. You know for a fact that you've rendered their planet inhabitable, and—"
"I've heard enough," Tav says, killing the comms for the whole squadron. "Bombers, open fire. Transports first, then the corvettes. Gozanti cruisers, close distance. These Rebels pose no threat.
Slake finds her way to the tail of an X-wing that's used up its boost evading Price and Eleven. She fires her quad lasers and tears through its shields and cockpit, killing the pilot instantly. Five hundred meters away, the Bombers achieve their target lock.
"Shall I give chase to the freighters?" Credenzo asks over the comms, her obsequious tone betraying her bloodlust.
"Absolutely not, Lieutenant," says Slake. "There are still two X-wings. Imperial code dictates that hostiles take full targeting priority during missions. Not escaping transports."
"Very well, Baroness." Credenzo growls.
"On 'em." Eleven says as he breaks toward the remaining X-wings. Price is a touch ahead of him—likely because she's not chattering incessantly on the radio—and gets her first kill, veering her Interceptor into a Rebel's flight path. Reflexively, the X-wing banks too close to a Corvette's thrusters and burns itself to vapor.
"Well flown, Three." Slake calls out.
"My gratitude, Captain."
The bombers fire their payload. The blue glow from the proton torpedoes sizzle across the black of space. Slake has seen this enough times to look away when they make impact. The flash can fry retinas.
She closes her eyes and, for the briefest moment, hears the screaming of hundreds from inside the transports.
These were not munitions.
Did Major Tav know?
"Mission successful, Obsidian." Tav announces as the last remaining X-wing evades Eleven's shot and leaps to hyperspace with the Corellian Corvettes and the civilian freighters. Slake logs the civilian transponder codes to share with the ISB in their post-mission interrogation. Wherever they dock next should be the criminals' final stop.
"On me, Obsidian," Tav says, taking control of the squadron back from Slake now that the threat has been eliminated. Slake and the rest of the squadron fall into formation, four fewer ships than the group that jumped in just five minutes prior. As missions go, this outcome is acceptable to Slake. Losing Rikas will be an inconvenience. She was a strong pilot, but Eleven seems a promising candidate to replace her in the Interceptor group.
On to the next mission. Slake makes a note to learn Eleven's name.
As Slake's interceptor locks into the Gozanti cruiser for the trip home, she hears those screams again, echoing through the empty black.