The skies of Orion IV glowed a breathtaking magenta as morning came into full bloom. The color was like nothing Kentamine Farwanderer remembered from Tatooine, but at times it reminded him of home nonetheless. Something about its intensity on a cloudless day like this. The sky was pure and electrifying, empty yet bursting with life and possibility in its own way.
In realty, though, it was just another mission zone.
Nothing to get too excited over, he assured himself. Nothing to get lost in. Keep her steady.
So with a twitch of the flight stick, Kentamine brought his X-wing level; it had tilted a tiny fraction of a degree. His two wingmen couldn't possibly have noticed the deviation, but he was a stickler, and he saw things that other beings missed.
"This is Rookie One," he said rotely into the comm, surrendering once again to reputation and convention. "Time Index Choofa-3. Diamond Flight, how are we doing?"
"Diamond Two, skies are clear, all systems nominal," said the voice of Tlymatt Pamajja.
"This is Diamond Three. Same here, sir." Chukk Goripfinthak was a Duros, and he had a thicker voice than near-humans.
"Bleepooweezeepoo, durzee zurneepa!" That came from Kentamine's astromech, R2-U2, who sometimes went by Sparky.
Kentamine nodded to himself. "Acknowledged. Diamond Flight, continuing patrol."
For some time after the X-wings glided along, and there was nothing for Kent to hear but his sublights, the steady beeps of his instrument panels, and the occasional sensor report from Sparky—nothing happening, as usual. Far below, Orion IV's otherwise bleak surface looked enchanted by the reflected refulgence of its sky. Small civilian habitations were dotted throughout the region—Searchlight Station, of course, being one of them.
Several standard days had passed since Diamond Flight witnessed the departure of the assault transport Bloodshark. Naturally it was logged as merely another civilian vessel going about its business, but Kent knew better. The Bloodshark would only leave Searchlight if it was needed for a major Bryar Force operation, likely one involving most of its personnel. It was exciting to think about, but the rigors of operational security as well as his demanding position as Diamond Flight Leader had kept him out of the loop. He didn't even know if Kyle Katarn's mission to the Rebel Hospital Platform had succeeded, let alone what was going on now.
It was kind of frustrating, but Shaparo had made Kentamine's duties clear to him, and he took them very seriously. He had to make sure Diamond Flight's mission zone remained within response distance of Searchlight Station, and to discreetly keep an eye on Admiral Krane. Neither task was proving difficult. In the meantime, though, he could have no direct contact with the Bryar Force outside of emergencies. Curiosity, then, had to stay in the aft storage compartment.
It was Chukk Goripfinthak who broke the silence. "Hey, boss. You read that last dispatch? Command thinks the Empire might be making a move here in the Tion somewhere."
"Sure, I read it," Kentamine said.
"What are you thinking, Three?" Tlymatt interjected. "Hoping we'll see some action? I didn't think you'd get bored of patrol this quickly."
"Negative—I'm thinking the opposite. I'm hoping nothing will happen. If things turn out so that our laser cannons are never needed, that's for the best for the civvies here at Orion."
Kentamine chuckled into the comm.
"What's so funny, Rookie One?" asked Chukk.
"You sound like my old CO, back when I was in Blue Squadron."
"You mean Simms? Merrick Simms?"
"One and the same. He always talked like that, wishing there was a way to avoid battles. The way he saw it, innocent people always suffered at least a little, even when it was us fighting for them. Even when we won. But when time came to fight...let me tell you, Blue Leader could fly rings around me."
Tlymatt scoffed. "Don't put yourself down, Diamond Lead. I've seen your simulator score. And I've heard the stories about Yarin."
Sparky whistled jovially as they passed one waypoint and the navicomputer updated, pointing them to the next. As one, the three pilots banked and adjusted course, alone in the bright, sleepy sky.
Kent's rebuke was as gentle as it was serious. "Well, whatever you heard, it was wrong. Yes, I—I did take over Blue Squadron when Merrick was shot down, but there was nothing heroic about it. We barely made it through without him. Most of what I know about taking down TIEs, I learned it from flying with Merrick Simms."
The channel was silent for a few seconds until Tlymatt said, "I'm sorry to bring it up, sir."
"You don't have to say that, Two. He was a good man who died for the Rebellion. One of many."
On they went. Kent maintained focus, steady switching between the various ranges and frequencies of his starfighter's sensor array. But a part of him kept glancing back through his previous tours of duty—moments in time, bits and pieces. He was pleased that he'd been able to name his new unit the Diamonds, and to give the X-wings icy-blue markings. It was his way of paying tribute to his days in Blue Squadron.
It was true, he had led the Blues to victory at Yarin after Merrick was shot down, and Kent had commanded the squadron for a while after that. He took pride in doing his duty, but he would gladly have traded all his medals if it could bring Merrick back. The same for Turland Hack—another great man, an unsung hero for the Rebellion if there ever was one.
There's always some casualties. No avoiding that. But the Rebellion fights on...
Kent blinked and chastised himself for the daydream, though he'd only been at it a couple seconds. Double-checking their patrol vector, he observed that they were starting to skim the outskirts of one of Orion IV's actual cities. That was why the navicomputer had them flying so low now—low enough to skim the head of an Imperial chicken walker. While this planet was friendly to the Rebel Alliance, Rear Admiral Krane and the rest of Orion Base Command preferred that they not be too open about their presence here.
An idea popped into his head. "Sparky, show me topography scans of this sector.
"Dizzinoo bleep-oo-wee," the astromech said as data was fed to one of Kent's screens. He looked ahead for the next few klicks to see if he remembered it right—then smiled and switched on the comm.
"Hey Diamonds, you in the mood to shake things up a little?"
"Shake them up how?" asked Chukk Goripfinthak carefully.
"Nothing too exciting. Just a little flight maneuvering practice, like I used to do at Anchorhead Base. Stand by to receive new navicomp data...Sparky, plot an adjusted course for us down that canyon at six-three-esh, mark five."
The droid did as it was told. Kent guided his X-wing to the right, gently increasing the throttle to pull ahead of his wingmen.
"New course received," reported Tlymatt Pamajja. "This doesn't look too bad."
"Nah," Kent told him. "This is nothing compared to Beggar's Canyon. Stay tight, follow my lead, and stay clear of the walls."
"I copy, Rookie One. Lead the way."
The gray rocks of Orion IV split into a long, jagged gorge, and Kent's starfighter soared into it. He hadn't lied; this canyon really was easy. No sharp turns, no sudden dips or spikes. Even if there had been, an X-wing was a lot more maneuverable than a patched-together, rickety old skyhopper. The canyon walls gently curved this way and that, and he wove back and forth to match. It didn't give him the same thrill as his final trials at Anchorhead zipping along after Merrick Simms—but then, it didn't need to.
A slightly nervous laugh from Chukk Goripfinthak filtered through the comm. "Now, this isn't so bad!"
Kent's laugh, by contrast, was warm and relaxed. "You should've trusted me, Three. I wouldn't spring something dangerous on you all of a sudden."
"Oh, I—I never thought you would."
"Copy that. Look, we're already at the end. Get ready to pull up...mark!"
The line of X-wings shot out of the gorge like toko birds, then returned to normal formation. Kent could have contrasted the experience with other canyon runs he'd done. His toughest one, in terms of sheer maneuvering skill, had to have been the time Admiral Krane had trained him in a captured Imperial TIE Fighter. Unfortunately, that had training for his top-secret mission to take down the Phantom TIE Project, and it wasn't exactly something he could talk about with just anyone.
Not because it was still top-secret, but because Krane had told him not to go spreading word that they'd worked together. The last thing I need is people to think there's a teacher's pet here at Orion Base. You got that?
Kentamine had assured the admiral that he got it.
"Diamond Flight," he began, "proceeding to waypoint—"
R2-U2 cut him off excitedly. "Beepadoo weepadoo zeepadoo-dee!"
Kent's eyebrows knitted as new data piped into his readout. "What...? Hang on, I'm picking up something on transceiver. Looks like an emergency distress beacon. It's on a civilian channel. Tracing the signal..."
His mouth went dry as he read out the coordinates.
"That's on the planetary directory," commented Diamond Two. "Looks like a small research facility—Searchlight Station."
Kent swallowed. "Sparky, patch it through."
Interference stabbed into his ears, so thick that it was hard to recognize the voice behind it. "This is Searchlight Station to the Rebel Alliance or—or anyone who can hear us! We are under Imperial attack! Requesting immediate assistance! Repeat, we are under attack by Imperial TIE Fighters!"
"Imperials here?!" exclaimed Diamond Three. "How is that possible?!"
Kentamine had no idea. Orion Base was not a fully-fledged stronghold, but they had satellites in orbit, as well as nav buoys farther out. It should have been impossible for an Imperial fleet to approach Orion IV, much less launch an attack, unless...
Possibilities blazed through his mind. Sabotage? Some new stealth technology? Or had a few Phantom TIEs survived Imdaar? They were hyperspace-capable, making them ideal for long-range strikes. But if the Empire was launching an attack at all, why not target the Rebel base?
He shook his head sharply. Speculation was useless. He had to act. Now.
His finger stabbed the transceiver toggle. "Base, this is Diamond Flight. We've just picked up a distress call from civilians at Searchlight Station. They report they're under Imperial attack. Permission to respond?"
"Rookie One, this is Orion Base Tac-Comm Control. We read you loud and clear. Maintain your current course and stand by for new orders."
Seconds passed. The Tac-Comm officer had been professional and calm—too calm for Kentamine. The flight stick creaked under his grip.
"Orion Base, are you there? This is Diamond Leader, requesting permission to engage Imperial forces!"
The voice returned. "Negative, Diamond Squadron, negative. Orion Base Command has initiated Code Silver. Your orders are to return to base immediately. Do not engage."
Now it was Kent who kept Tac-Comm waiting. Code Silver was a system-wide contingency order, essentially requiring all Rebel forces to play dead—hunker down in the nearest friendly facility or, failing that, in the nearest hole, and shut down any tech that could be picked up by Imperial com-scan. It was typically used when Imperial forces appeared in a system unexpectedly and were thought to be unaware of the Rebel presence.
"Toodoo woo zooroo?" asked Sparky in a low tone.
"Base, please repeat," Kentamine said slowly.
"Admiral Krane has determined that the Imperials are unaware of our presence, and we need to keep it that way. Repeat, we are under Code Silver. Return to base, fly low, and do not engage those TIEs."
"Base, I—w-w-we—we can't do that." The words were tumbling out before Kent could stop them. "Sir, that's a civilian station over there! They have no weapons, they can't defend themselves. We can't just let the Imperials slaughter them!"
All at once, the layout of the compound whistled through his mind—all of its weaknesses and inadequacies. If Searchlight was under aerial attack, they didn't stand a chance on their own.
Tac-Comm's voice hardened a fraction. "Diamond Squadron, be advised this order comes directly from Orion Base Command. Protocol requires that—stand by, patrol."
Kent bit his tongue in frustration. The situation was unbelievable. He was being ordered to allow innocent people—civilians, as far as the Rebellion knew—to be blasted to smithereens by the Empire, when he could easily fly to their rescue. Searchlight was only minutes away at full speed.
He had received difficult orders before. Orders he disagreed with. Orders that seemed callous and contrary to the principles the Rebellion rested upon: the Galactic Constitution and the intragalactic principles that dictated what was just in war. Nothing like this, though; none of those difficult orders had seemed so starkly, so blatantly, so viscerally wrong. The quadanium steel discipline which years of service had grafted into him, his respect for the chain of command—these were the only things keeping him from breaking off course right now.
A different but familiar voice came over the comm—calm like the Tac-Comm officer, but sharp as a vibrosword. "Rookie One, do you copy? This is Rear Admiral Krane."
That tone brooked no dissent, no disobedience, not the slightest iota of hesitation or disrespect. "Yes, sir," Kentamine heard himself say.
"I understand you're experiencing some confusion about the strategic situation, so let me clarify things. We cannot allow the Empire to discover Alliance forces in the Orion system. Your patrol is to return to base immediately. Do not answer that distress signal. Do not engage those TIE Fighters. Is that clear?"
Sharp as a vibrosword, but also heavy as a proton bomb. The words sank into Kentamine, effortlessly scooping the strength out of him. He felt like he was being dissected. "But sir, the...those are civilians."
"I'm sorry, kid. There's nothing we can do for them. These decisions have to be made in war. The base cannot be discovered."
Hearing Krane call him a kid—for the first time since being stationed here—was strange. Everything that was happening was strange. Kentamine rallied; he had to convince the admiral somehow.
"I understand, sir," he began, "but if we hit those TIEs fast enough—if we can take them out before they send a transmission—"
Krane's vibrosword voice cut him off; instantly the man's hint of sympathy was gone. "I've already considered that, and the risk is too great—request denied. Diamond Squadron, you have your orders. Will you comply, yes or no?"
Tlymatt Pamajja and Chukk Goripfinthak didn't miss a beat.
"This is Diamond Two; roger, will comply."
"Diamond Three, orders acknowledged."
"Squad lead?" Krane's voice had risen toward a shout. Every word was clearly enunciated and fell like a physical blow. "You have your orders. Do you copy?"
Kentamine didn't move a muscle. Beneath him, Orion IV's surface, the graveyard of many Rebels, rushed by. Overhead, the purple sky was clear and beautiful. Kilometers away, the Bryar Force was in deadly danger.
Questions bombarded him—too many, too fast. There had only been rumors that the Empire was considering a new operation in the Tion sector. Where had this attack come from? How had TIE Fighters gotten into Orion IV's atmosphere without being spotted? Why were they attacking Searchlight Station, of all places?
Again, all his questions availed him nothing. Only one question still mattered, and it wasn't even his.
In service to the Rebel cause, you've already put your life on the line many times, Shaparo had said to him in that cramped, smoke-filled office. I am asking you for more than that. I am asking if you are prepared to sacrifice not only your life, but your career, your reputation, your legacy—if you are willing to accept complete immolation. Because if you join us in the Bryar Force, if you step into the shadows of the Rebellion, I can all but guarantee there will come a day which demands of you just that.
All at once Kent saw that today was that day. Shaparo had warned him, and he had tried to expect it, to be ready for it. Now it was here.
"Lead...we've got to do what he says," Diamond Two whispered.
"He's right, boss," Three added forlornly. "We don't have any choice."
But Kent knew that he did. Turning his head, he glanced at one wingman, then another. He felt no anger toward them, no disappointment. He wasn't even surprised. Diamond Flight was still new, virgin—no combat kills since being formed. He couldn't expect them to jeopardize their careers, to break a Code Silver, for a commanding officer they'd barely known a standard month. Kent knew a fire-forged band when he saw one, and Diamond Flight wasn't it. Now he knew it never would be.
He couldn't blame them for that. Only one thing bothered him: ever since Yarin, even more since Imdaar, whenever he had to fly straight into certain death, he always found himself wishing that Ru could be with him...
Still.
Kent was used to flying solo.
He reopened the comm to the admiral. "Base, this is Rookie One. That's a negative from me. I'm going in."
Without waiting for an answer, he cut the transmission. Taking a deep breath, he eased the flight stick back. His wingmen closed the gap as his X-wing rose above theirs. Then he banked hard and slammed the throttle forward. The glow of his fusial thrust engines surged into quartet of scarlet halos as he roared away over the sloping gray hills. S-foils spread to attack position with a dangerous whine.
R2-U2 tootled into the cockpit, sounding alarmed.
Kent had no time for the anxiety of his astromech. "I know what I'm doing, Sparky. Now cut the chatter and get me linked up with the nearest satellite. I want to know what's going on in orbit."
While Sparky got to work, he calibrated the sensor array and directed it toward his destination. It would take only a few seconds to get a read on Searchlight Station as well as the attacking TIEs. Before that happened, though, Sparky reported that the satellites were ignoring its hails. The Code Silver must have put them into standby mode.
Just great. There could be a Carrack cruiser up there or an escort carrier...a Star Destroyer, or a whole sector fleet, and I won't even know until I'm right under them!
"Acknowledged, R2. Keep your eyes peeled."
Kent reactivated the comm and calibrated it to the distress signal. It came in clearer, but also louder and more frantic: "Repeating, Alliance forces—please assist! We're under Imperial attack!"
He thought he recognized the voice now. "Troomis! Is that you?!"
"Rookie One?! Kriffin' hells, it's about time you showed up!"
"Sir, I'm coming in at seven-four-three, mark two. What's your status?"
"Rookie One, we—" An explosion of static interrupted him. "We've got three TIEs in the skies doing strafing runs on us! Their first barrage broke right through our shields! We were able to get them back up, but—but they're pounding us like a Wookiee dinner gong! We've got wounded here. Shaparo..."
Troomis's voice cracked—something Kent had never counted on hearing. "They hit the command center. Shaparo's hurt pretty bad. We're trying to get him stabilized so we can move him to the shuttle, but there isn't enough time! You've got to get those TIEs off us!"
Kent squinted through his flight helmet's polarizing visor. Dead ahead, a spot on the horizon smaller than his thumbnail glittered with blasts of emerald. Searchlight was on sensors now, and so were the three targets—flying in a tight V-escort formation, just as Diamond Flight had been in moments ago. On each flank was a standard-line Imperial TIE, but the lead fighter was a rare breed: its solar collector wings were bent like the TIE Advanced x1, but tapered to points toward the back. Nicknamed "Fin" by Alliance fighter pilots, its proper name was the TIE Aggressor. As well as forward cannons and warheads, the Aggressor came equipped with a rear dual laser turret, which the pilot could control by computer or turn over to a gunner.
Sparky urgently pointed out that it wasn't just the Fin who was special; sensors were picking up active warhead signatures on all three targets. TIE Fighters and Interceptors were not known to carry missiles or torpedoes, but they had modular fittings where launchers could be installed for special mission circumstances. This ran against the Empire's standard fighter combat doctrine, but it was more common than people wanted to believe. Too many Rebel pilots had tragically lost their lives after foolishly underestimating the firepower of an enemy TIE flight group.
Meanwhile, Searchlight Station was doing as badly as Troomis had said: flames and smoke poured from a stitchwork of jagged holes traveling up the compound's main building. Its deflector shield dome showed twenty-nine percent strength—until the TIEs made another run, dropping a barrage of deadly blasts that knocked it down to nineteen.
"Augh!" Troomis yelled. "We can't take much more of this! Get those TIEs off of us!"
A powerful feeling of dread moved along the edge of Kentamine's mind: cold and inevitable, like an ice-asteroid twenty klicks across. The hills of Orion IV flowed beneath his X-wing like gray waves. His teeth felt ready to crack. It was Anchorhead Base all over again, the specter of his first and most agonizing failure...except the stakes were higher and the odds were as rotten as they come. Time and distance, firepower, strength in numbers—everything was against him. If he failed here, the Bryar Force would lose its leadership, its only base of operations, and practically all of its resources—and he was the only one who could save them.
"Acknowledged, Searchlight. Hang in there. Moving to assist."
The lone X-wing cleared a knot of rock formations and rose to match its targets' altitude. With two clicks of the flight stick's side buttons, Kent armed laser cannons and set deflectors to double-front.
The two TIE Fighters smoothly broke away from the Aggressor, rolling opposite ways before rejoining in a backslash formation, one to the side and somewhat above the other. Now they were on an intercept course, flying head-on toward Kentamine. The TIE Aggressor went on, preparing to strafe the compound again.
A chattering alarm warned of hostile missile locks. With all of his discipline, Kent locked down all emotion and brought his targeting computer online.
He did not truly understand his gift—what it was, how he used it, where its limits were, or even if it was simply a figment of his imagination. But he was alone here, playing for all the borgleballs. If the Force had ever been with him, he needed it now.
The alarm went from staggered beeps to a single shrill tone. The targeting computer blinked as it gave four prompts in rapid succession:
Incoming missile! Key to target?
Incoming missile! Key to target?
Incoming missile! Key to target?
Incoming missile! Key to target?
New icons flashed on the readout. Proton torpedoes, four of them. Kent armed his own torpedo launcher, switched to dual-fire as he lined up a shot, and let fly. He had no choice but to fire them dumb; with two standard seconds at most until cannon range, there was no way he could get a proper lock.
They closed in. Paired cascades of green energy sliced the purple sky. Kent jinked hard to port, then harder starboard, his quadruplet guns firing red as he swept his field of fire. The cockpit rattled and screamed, lasers skimming and scattering against forward deflectors. Torpedoes burst into scintillating spheres of fire—one two, three of them. A fraction of a second later, another explosion haloed a twisting spread of metal. In a flash, Kent recognized a crescentic fragment of a TIE Fighter's cockpit before another piece of it smashed against his upper port wing. The X-wing went spinning, its pilot inside wrenched by the impact like a toy, carelessly thrown by a child.
Struggling, Kent managed to level out as he emerged from the flame-cloud. Meanwhile, the shots and the collision had taken his deflectors down to two percent power, and—as his squealing astromech was explaining—he'd only gotten three of the incoming torpedoes. The last was turning to track him.
"I see it, I see it," Kent breathed. He threw his starfighter into a vertical loop, ignoring the gupflies in his gut. Rotating on thrusters, he spotted the blue-white afterglow of the torpedo as it began to home in on him again. A short burst of lasers, and it blew up nearly a kilometer away.
Then he spotted the other TIE, and noted the craft's superior speed had worked against its pilot. The two had intercepted Kent too quickly, and this survivor had been forced to waste precious seconds decelerating before coming back around. By the time the H-shaped profile was clear again, Kent had already gotten a torpedo lock. Again, he did a dual-fire; he had to end this quickly. He should have gotten both these TIEs in the first pass, and now—
Yellow flame flashed in Kent's starboard viewport. Glancing past his wings, he saw a glowing cloud billowing up where one of Searchlight's secondary structures had been.
"ROOKIE ONE, HURRY!" shouted Troomis. "We can't take another hit!"
Kent had no chance to reply. Ahead, the TIE Fighter was opening fire. A curling stream of green energy blasted both of his torpedoes to bits and raked the X-wing's belly. Kent replied with a quad-burst of lasers, but they missed by a kilometer and the TIE screamed past him.
Sweat ran down Kent's forehead as he whipped around in pursuit. Noticing deflectors were down, he opted to divert power from the shield generator to engines; speed was everything at this point. His sublights kicked up a notch, rumbling gratefully, shooting him after his nemesis.
Beyond his immediate target, Searchlight Station was still burning. The TIE Aggressor passed within half a klick of its wingmate as it started to circle back.
Troomis stammered over the comm, his tone breathy and hushed. "He's coming around again. We're in bad shape here, kid. Y-you'd better get over here..."
Kent blinked. Since when did Troomis call him kid? He was talking exactly like Hack in his final moments...
No, not again. Not this time.
Ahead, the TIE Fighter that had passed him feinted upward, then dove into an under-loop. But Kent had seen that trick before—A-wing pilots loved it, actually—and nailed him with a quad-blast. The TIE blew into a vertical cone of fire, and Kent swept through, angling up for the last target. He saw the bent wings and axe-blade hull, sharp and black against the sky—
"Rookie One, come in," cried Troomis. "I'm reading a proton torpedo lock! That TIE's aiming for the main reactor—he's firing! AAAAAAAAA!"
Kent was still lining up his shot when the Aggressor sent another salvo of bolts that smashed through layers of ferrocrete and ripped deep into the compound's central edifice. A pair of glowing blue proton torpedoes streaked into that gap and disappeared through.
Troomis's final scream cut out as the flash overwhelmed Kentamine's visor. Instinctively the pilot veered away. When he looked a moment later, a mushrooming pillar of gold flame and and superheated gas was billowing out from the site where Searchlight had been. Falling debris swept over the surrounding field in a torrent of black hail.
Kentamine Farwanderer stared down into the end of the universe. Into hell.
He didn't so much as blink until Sparky gave a tentative chip.
He checked his sensors. The TIE Aggressor was making a run for it—not climbing, not making for orbit.
Kent dumped laser and shield energy into the engines, then went full throttle. Gradually the TIE grew from a dot to a silhouette. The astromech went on talking, warning about damage, asking if pursuit was a good idea. Kent ignored it. In that moment, he wanted to fire himself at that Fin.
His mouth wouldn't open—he wasn't sure if he'd ever speak again—but inside he raged and seethed and cursed as no pirate or scoundrel of any species in all the galaxy ever had. He wanted to scream and demand to know where the Force was now. There were no words for his shame, his despair—nor for his wrath. He had failed to save the inner circle, but there was still a chance to avenge them.
And if he failed in that too, Kentamine Farwanderer swore to himself he wouldn't leave that cockpit alive.
Time seemed to accelerate. Blood tinted the magenta sky. He lined up his reticle on the TIE Aggressor, locked on, and fired a pair of torpedoes. Watched them fly through the tainted heavens, felt his heart thundering as he anticipated the impact.
But the torpedoes were still closing in when bursts of green fire hit them head-on, detonating them far short of their target.
Kentamine gasped in dismay as his fighter sliced through the smoke of the explosion. The red film over the sky was gone, and he could think clearly again. And he realized he was an idiot as well as a failure.
The TIE put on a burst of speed, banked into a loop, and came screaming in back toward its pursuer.
"Oh, now we're really in for it, Sparky," Kent hissed, frantically setting the shields and cannons to recharge. The hull, he noticed, had taken some damage. And thanks to his stupidity, he had just wasted the last of his torpedoes. Meanwhile, his opponent...
Truth be told, he wouldn't eagerly jump into an aerial duel like this, even in a fresh X-wing. Fins were not as nimble as TIE Interceptors, but they had deflector shields as well as that rear turret. Dogfighting alone against a TIE Aggressor would be like tangling with a Cygnus Spaceworks escort shuttle, if it was less than half the size and three times more maneuverable.
If Ru was with him, Rookie One knew she'd have told him not to pick this fight. Would have told him it was a stupid, hotshot stunt. But he was flying solo, and he knew better than anyone that nobody was more dangerous than a fighter jockey who had nothing left to lose.
Corkscrewing, cannons blazing, the starfighters strafed one another. Green fire collapsed the X-wing's forward shields scorched the starboard hull along the torpedo launcher, but Rookie One scored a hit as well. They passed each other so close that he was almost deafened by the scream of the Fin's ion engines. Sparky gave a squall of warning, and Kent dove evasively. Bolts from the Aggressor's turret flashed barely an arm's length beyond the viewport.
Adjusting power distribution with his free hand, he wheeled back around for another joust. Another second of gut-wrenching joy and terror, and he scored a quad-hit on the the TIE's cockpit. They looped and reenacted the contest twice, three times, four times. Kent whittled the Fin's shields down to twenty percent. In return he took another hit in the main hull and got his lower port cannon blasted off.
After that the TIE Aggressor broke off and headed back toward the ruins of Searchlight. Kent knew the bastard was leading him on, but stayed on his tail. His one saving grace was that the Fin's turret was dorsal and couldn't point more than a couple degrees below the main hull; by juking and spiraling, he could slip out of its field of fire, forcing the enemy pilot to rotate. Based on the firing patterns, he also had a hunch the turret was computer-controlled, without a gunner. This really was a proper pilot's duel, one man against another.
A huge shaft of black smoke crested the horizon: Searchlight Station's ethereal memorial. The TIE Aggressor feinted a dip, then climbed sharply in a twisting loop—an inverse of the trick one of his wingmen had pulled. This time, though, Kent failed to see it coming, and once again they faced off. Scarlet and emerald lightning tore the sky, the X-wing's cockpit shook, and Kent thought he heard someone screaming. A flash of orange flame. He'd finally struck hull! Again the fighters ripped past one another.
Fresh alarms went off. More hull damage. A bigger chunk of the lower port wing was gone—and wasn't all. Seeing sparks reflecting in the forward transparisteel, Kent glanced over his shoulder. Where R2-U2's red-marked dome had been, there was now a jagged trunk of melted metal. The scream he had heard was Sparky's final lament.
Kent gritted his teeth and checked the targeting computer as he came about. Even without the readout, he could tell the TIE Aggressor's thrusters and ion engines were damaged. It was still circling back on him, but more sluggish, not so smooth.
They entered cannon range. Green blasts skimmed Kent's fighter and ripped the last of his deflectors away, but he held off on shooting back. Let the other guy think he was malfunctioning. With seconds to go, he started to pull up. When the TIE swooped low, he rolled hard on thrusters, putting the sky under his feet, and fired all three of his remaining cannons at once.
He was on target. The Aggressor's turret and rear stabilizers were sheared away in an arc of plasma and sparks. Flames erupted from the wound. The fighter went down belly-first, cutting a groove into Orion IV's surface as long as a blockade runner before it came to a stop.
Kentamine Farwanderer eased up on the throttle and circled the area. Sweat had drenched his flight suit. The inferno of Searchlight Station's reactor still burned, but its glow was mostly shrouded by the thick smoke. The crashed TIE Aggressor lay about three hundred meters beyond its perimeter, intact but indisputably totaled.
Gazing victoriously down at the wreckage, he felt more lost than he'd ever been in his life.
After what felt like several minutes, a switch in his brain flipped, and he was back to being an Alliance pilot. He'd been trained, and there were procedures to follow in every situation. He locked his s-foils back into closed position and, hopeless though it seemed, calibrated the sensor array to look for survivors.
Only then did he notice the blinking light on his comms console.
He opened the channel. "This is Rookie One. Go ahead."
"This is Orion Base Tac-Comm Control, pilot. What's your status?"
"Status..." Kent glanced at his readouts. "Made contact with three Imperial fighters. All hostiles destroyed. Searchlight Station was lost. Looks like there were no survivors."
But there might have been, if you'd let my wingmen come with me. He wanted to say that too; there was no reason to keep it to himself, but he was too drained from the skirmish.
"Acknowledged, Rookie One. Return to base immediately for debriefing."
Kent's mouth was opening to reply when a low chime came from the sensor readout. It had picked up a life sign below.
Not at Searchlight, but in the crashed TIE Aggressor.
His body froze as he mind struggled to work, to fit together all the pieces of what he had experienced.
The attack.
The Code Silver.
The TIEs. Three TIEs, and no more. No signs of other Imperial forces.
Three TIEs. TIEs which flew using tactics he recognized from flying X-wings and A-wings. Tactics like the feint-loop maneuver and the backslash formation.
When he was able to talk again, what he said surprised even himself a little. "Uh...negative, Orion Base. I've taken damage here. Couple stabilizers are out and I'm leaking sublight coolant. I don't think I'll make it back to base. I'll have to put down here."
There was a beat. "Acknowledged, Rookie One. Activate your emergency beacon, and we'll send a shuttle to pick you up. Remain in your fighter until it arrives. Understood?"
"Understood, sir. Will comply. Over and out."
Kent completed his circle, then switched over to repulsors. He set the X-wing down a short distance from the crashed TIE, beside the channel it had cut into the earth. The smoke billowing out from the ruins of Searchlight had swelled into a black column, obscuring the sun and leaching color from Orion's sky.
The X-wing's engines coughed and sputtered as they went to sleep; maybe they actually wouldn't have gotten him back to base. Kent retrieved his snubnose DH-17 from the emergency compartment and checked the power cell. When he looked up, he saw that the TIE Aggressor's circular hatch was opening. As he watched, a black-suited figure clambered from the downed fighter's ball cockpit and stood on its still-cooling hull. The Imperial pilot hesitated, then stepped forward and fell more than jumped out of sight.
With pulse racing, Kent opened his own cockpit, dropped to the ground, and approached as fast as he dared. Hot, ashen winds troubled the parched landscape. He wished he had landed closer. There were still a good thirty meters to go when the other man shuffled into view, facing away. The sight of Searchlight's ruins seemed to absorb him. A blaster pistol hung loosely from one hand.
He started to turn around. Stopping, Kent raised his DH-17 and shouted, "YOU THERE, FREEZE! DROP YOUR WEAPON!"
The other man froze. His head was profile, and Kent realized now that he'd taken off his helmet.
Seconds passed. "I SAID DROP IT! YOU'RE A PRISONER OF THE—"
The Imperial pilot whirled, raising the blaster. Kent fired and struck home. His enemy sent a single shot into the air as he fell onto his back.
Kentamine cautiously drew near and kicked the fallen man's weapon from his hand. He stared at the glowing wound, saw that the bolt had ripped perfectly through the heart, and knew his foe was a goner.
He lowered his DH-17. It had become unaccountably heavy. Everything was heavy now. Everything became dead weight, from his flight suit to his boots to his helmet; even the choking sky above looked strained, taxed to its limits, ready to fall on him at any moment. He wasn't sure he would mind if it did.
Shaparo and his inner circle were dead. The Bryar Force was lost, and it was his fault...
He shook himself, violently forcing those thoughts away. The man who had killed them wasn't dead yet. Maybe there was information he knew about the conspiracy, something Kent could learn from him, and thereby atone in some marginal way for his failure.
When Kent finally looked into the dying Imperial pilot's face, though, his galaxy shattered.
Because it wasn't just any Imperial pilot.
It wasn't an Imperial pilot at all.
Brown face, brown eyes, crew cut, stubbled jaw—
The familiar jaw smiled in agony. "Rookie One...I'll be damned..."
That voice.
The voice he hadn't heard in almost a year, since he left Blue Squadron.
That voice with the thick Maldrood sector drawl...
The voice of Blue Flour.
"Gotta say...Rookie One..."
"No," said Kentamine, shaking from his feet to his crown.
"Nice...nice shootin'..."
Thurlow Harris's eyes rolled back in his head, and his final breath left him.
Kentamine Farwanderer removed his helmet, which fell from nerveless fingers along with his DH-17. He slammed to his knees, his mind swallowed by an endless scream.
Thurlow Harris, Blue Four, his wingman, a Rebel Alliance pilot, flying a TIE Aggressor, destroying Searchlight.
How...
Why...
Why...
Minutes passed as his mind struggled to thaw. He was locked away inside his own body. At some point he started feeling a need to do something.
What was there to do, though? The galaxy he thought he knew was gone. He'd stepped into the shadows of the Rebellion, hoping to help save it, only to find that he really hadn't. He couldn't step into the shadows because there wasn't anything but shadow. Nothing but dark. Endless dark where nothing made sense and nothing mattered.
The stifling wind rolled over him, carrying smoke and dust, and...a voice? No, more like a droid talking, repeating a simple sequence over and over...
"Burburroo ree. Kwurdoo zee. Reedoopoozoo reee."
He looked up. A burned, pocked, red-and-white astromech droid was wobbling toward him, exuding sparks and smoke from damaged joints and warped paneling. Kent stared, dumbfounded, until finally it registered: this was R2-Q8, Shaparo's droid. The last survivor of the inner circle.
It was saying, Danger. Alert. Please assist. Danger. Alert. Please assist.
Kentamine leaped to his feet, found his legs rubbery and unsteady. He started to swoon. It took all of his discipline to keep his head on.
Thurlow Harris, a Rebel pilot, had destroyed Searchlight. Now a Rebel shuttle was coming to take Kent back to the Rebel base, where he would be debriefed, no doubt, by Admiral Krane, who had ordered him not to defend the station.
And here was R2-Q8, who might be carrying information. Who might know why this attack had happened, how the Bryar Force had been discovered. Who might be able to help Kyle Katarn and the others decide what to do, once they returned.
Kentamine turned in circles, looking around wildly.
But the droid—they'll—they'll want to—
But I can't let them, I have to hide it—
Hide it where, though?
What do I do, what do I do?! He thought, glancing back at his landed, damaged X-wing a short distance away.
Kent had to work fast, but he pulled it off.
A few standard minute later the shuttle arrived and took aboard the Rebel pilot Kentamine Farwanderer, as well as what they assumed to be his astromech droid, R2-U2, which had been damaged in the recent skirmish.
Of course, when the droid underwent maintenance and repairs, it would come out that it was not Kentamine's astromech at all. And if anyone thoroughly investigated the crashed TIE Aggressor, it was likely they would find some of the debris strewn near its ruined engines had once belonged to an R2 unit, the remains of which had been destroyed using the detonation pack which was included among the standard equipment stored in every X-wing's emergency compartment.
The shuttle, when it arrived, came with no medical personnel (droid or otherwise), nor guards or any other kind of passengers.
"Glad to see you're in one piece, Rookie One," called the Gungan pilot from the cockpit.
Kentamine muttered a thank-you, strapped himself in, and did not say a single word for the rest of the trip.
A quarter standard hour later, the shuttle touched down in Orion Base's main hangar. Grimy, clammy, exhausted, drained in every conceivable sense, Kentamine trudged down the ramp like a drenched Wookiee. He heard R2-Q8's damaged treads grinding as it plodded along after him. He wasn't anxious or worried. He was completely numb, empty of thought.
At the bottom of the ramp he stopped and raised his eyes. Before him stretched a wall of Rebel soldiers in full combat gear: blast helmets and armor, A280 rifles, DH-17 carbines, and Z2 stun batons.
Rear Admiral Xero Krane stood at the front of them with hands at his back, his gray hair parted down the middle. His face was as blank as Orion IV's sky had been, and yet when Kentamine met the admiral's smoke-colored eyes, something pierced his all enshrouding, exhausted numbness and filled him with a sensation that he had never, ever before felt outside of combat; Kentamine felt in his bones that he was already dead.
"Fit that droid with a restraining bolt and take it down to maintenance."
"Yes, sir."
"Welcome back, Rookie One. That was some impressive flying out there. I hope you enjoyed being a hotshot today—because you're never going to sit in a cockpit ever again." Krane's voice was nonchalant, but his gaze never left Kentamine's face. Boots clamped as soldiers closed in on every side. "Take him away."
CHAPTER COMPLETE
PASSWORD: DORSK