Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company (14 page)

There was only one plausible explanation.

As a precaution, Namir ordered extra security around Everi Chalis’s cell. He doubted anyone would make an attempt on the governor’s life—as satisfying as the thought was, not even Corbo seemed so reckless—but scared people did stupid things.

“I hear that three Imperial battle groups have abandoned rebel engagements to hunt us. Would you like to confirm or deny?”

The droid’s voice sounded like rust: a harsh, grating, electrical noise that made Namir grind his teeth. Or maybe it was M2-M5’s left claw that soured his mood—the jagged metal picks and assortment of mechanical tools that whirred, extended, and retracted from the thing’s “wrist” seemed like the toy box of a torturer.

Namir didn’t like droids. He’d never be comfortable with technology that could
think.
But M2-M5 was the best mechanic in Twilight Company, and Namir had been told—in so many words—to “get over your qualms and trust the walking scrap heap.”

“Is that why we have engine problems?” Namir asked. “Because you’re listening in on bridge communications when you’re supposed to be working?”

“We have engine problems,” the droid said, “because my ship keeps being attacked. And my ship keeps being attacked because we have engine problems.”

Namir scowled. “Meaning?”

The droid trundled through the cramped engine compartment. Namir had to stay close to hear its voice over the noise of the hyper-drive. “You recall the strike made on us shortly after you brought your Imperial friend aboard?”

“I almost burned to death. I remember. And
I
didn’t bring Chalis aboard. Howl decided—”

M2-M5 was waving its claw in front of a sealed hatch. A green light on one of the droid’s instruments turned red. “You see?” it said. “
That
indicates a hypermatter particle leak. The damage is at the microscopic level, likely localized to one of several hundred radiation refractors in the
Thunderstrike.
It is not enough to impact efficiency—but it could leave a trail for Darth Vader to follow.”

“We don’t know
Vader
has anything to do with it. Don’t listen in on Chalis, either.”

The red light flickered rapidly. Namir suspected it was the droid equivalent of a shrug. Or an obscene gesture.

“You think the damage occurred in that first attack?” Namir asked.

“It is likely. I suspect even the Imperials did not identify our trail until Coyerti. Regardless, I do not have adequate equipment to render repairs.”

“So cannibalize yourself for parts,” Namir said, and stalked toward the nearest ladder out of the compartment. “Send a full report to the captain,” he called. “This is going to be a problem.”

Howl had the senior staff assembled an hour later. Namir stood in the back of the conference room, along with Chief Medic Von Geiz and Quartermaster Hober; the place reserved for Twilight members invited out of courtesy, who weren’t expected to contribute to the discussion. Around the table sat Lieutenant Sairgon, bridge crew from the
Thunderstrike
and
Apailana’s Promise
, and Everi Chalis—who had chosen to occupy the captain’s seat, sipping tea from a tin cup while Howl paced around the perimeter.

The first proposal to abandon Chalis came from Lieutenant Sairgon, mere moments after Howl had summarized the situation.

“We’ve been lucky so far,” Sairgon said. “The Empire hasn’t had forces positioned to do more than harry us. But they’re closing in, and we can’t survive against a Star Destroyer—”

“A Super Star Destroyer,” Chalis interrupted with a bitter smile. “Vader has a new flagship. But please proceed.”

Sairgon didn’t look at Chalis. “We send the governor out in a shuttle, odds are she won’t survive—but the Imps won’t keep chasing us with everything they have, either. I don’t
like
the plan, but I don’t see a way to hold on to her and live.”

Chalis nodded sagely, as if she’d been expecting precisely this.

“No,” Howl said, gaze dancing between his officers, making eye contact one moment, then breaking it the next. “I asked for your opinions and I appreciate your candor, Lieutenant. But we are not abandoning this woman.

“Talrezan Four. Hope Station. Unroola Dawn.” He struck the tabletop with each name. “All lost while we were escorting the fleet out of the Mid Rim. General Amrashad is dead. Even Commander Skywalker can’t blow up a Death Star every month.

“Our decapitation of Coyerti’s bioweapons program is the only real victory the Alliance has seen lately. Chalis gave us that opportunity, and she’s nearly finished her report delineating the Empire’s entire logistical network. Once we have that, everything changes.”

Then he smiled broadly, straightened his back, and spread his arms wide. “More suggestions? Keep them coming.”

The discussions and arguments began in earnest then. Two crew members from
Apailana’s Promise
wanted to head for Baskron Pirate territory and strike a deal for materials to repair the
Thunderstrike.
That would be a harrowing journey at best, even assuming the pirates were keen to negotiate. Commander Paonu,
Thunderstrike
’s naval captain, reluctantly spelled out his plan to transfer Chalis and select personnel to
Apailana’s Promise
and split the
Thunderstrike
from its escort; the Empire would pursue Twilight Company, perhaps obliterating it, but Chalis and key figures could flee to safety. Even Von Geiz offered his input, asking if Twilight could lie low for days or weeks in a nebula or the atmosphere of a gas giant—somewhere that might scramble Imperial sensors while the company waited for enemy search parties to disperse.

Namir listened and tried to follow along. At first, he racked his brain to remember what little he knew of the sector map and hyperdrive mechanics. But his knowledge was too superficial, and even the terminology eluded his grasp. His skills were on the ground, limited to guns and people who carried guns. When his attention started to wander, he fixed his gaze on Howl, who nodded and asked his staff questions and never showed impatience. He looked utterly unworried, entirely in control.

You have no idea what to do
, Namir thought.

“Your ship,” Chalis said, “is compromised. Commander Paonu had the right idea.”

Everyone at the table watched the governor, some with interest and many with suspicion. Sairgon started to interrupt but Chalis waved him off.

“I propose we locate an Imperial cargo transport. I can get us within range, and your soldiers—” She cocked her head as she uttered the word, looking directly at Namir. “—can board it. Once the vessel is under our control and all personnel transferred, you abandon this wreck and we resume our journey.”

Sairgon shook his head. “And when we enter shooting range, how do we avoid damaging the transport? If it’s supposed to be our new home, we can’t afford to hit something critical. That’s assuming the enemy captain doesn’t wipe his ship’s computers or rig it to self-destruct once he realizes—”

“Do you want me to plan the attack
for
you?” Chalis asked, suddenly leaning forward, eyes keen. “I thought you people liked a challenge.”

The conference degenerated from there, voices rising until Howl pounded the table with a fist. He didn’t allow the discussion to pause, however—he began gesturing to officers seemingly at random, prompting them to offer opinions and counterarguments. It was obvious there was merit to Chalis’s idea, despite its crust of impracticality.

Howl’s roving finger pointed to Namir. “Sergeant?

Can it be done?”
Can
what
be done?
Namir wanted to ask. He gnawed on his lower lip, running scenarios in his mind. “If you can get boarding parties over there,” he said, “we could probably take a small transport. Wouldn’t want to hold it, though, with Imps hiding in every closet and setting traps.”

Howl nodded carefully and began to turn away. It wasn’t a solution, but it was the truth.

So why, Namir wondered, was Governor Chalis staring at him expectantly, as if Namir had held back something essential?

“We could get in and out, though.” Namir was talking again before he fully realized what he was proposing. “Take a section of the ship, hold open a corridor, and get an engineering team inside.” He glanced at the quartermaster, then to Howl. “Could we strip an Imperial engine for parts, use them to patch up the
Thunderstrike
?”

Howl’s lips quirked into a smile. “I don’t know. But it’s
certainly
an interesting idea.”

Chalis mimed a slow clap, leaning back in her seat. No one else appeared to notice, and it slowly dawned on Namir that he’d said exactly what she wanted him to.

“You never visit anymore, Sergeant.”

The strategy session was over. Half the officers lingered in the conference room to speak to Howl or one another, plotting details for the raid. Namir had expected Chalis to remain with them; instead she followed a step behind him down the corridor toward the mess.

“Maybe because every time you talk, my people end up in danger,” Namir said, not looking back. “Charmer got shot. Maediyu was breathing smoke. On Coyerti—you’re a curse on the company.”

Chalis made a noncommittal sound, not denying the charge before answering, “A curse on the company … you really are from a primitive world, aren’t you?”

Namir had never said a word about his background to Chalis. She kept speaking before he could interject. “If it helps,” she said, “I really did want you to survive the Distillery. It would’ve been bad for my defection if your team had come back covered in pustules.”

Now he stopped walking and turned to face her. He considered how hard he could slug her without leaving a mark. She wouldn’t be the first prisoner of war he’d ever hurt; just the first that belonged to Twilight.

The things the Creed would have done to you …

Chalis let out an exasperated sound and shook her head. “Since you so clearly loathe me, I’ll get to the point: If we’re really raiding an Imperial transport, you’re going to need me aboard. With my authorization codes, I can get your droids into the ship’s computer in half the time. So this time, I
share
the risk.”

The reasoning made sense. Namir wondered what he was missing. The governor didn’t seem the type to volunteer.

“Why tell me?” he asked.

“I want you to keep me alive.” Chalis’s gaze was locked on Namir. The arrogance and disdain in her voice had curdled into bitterness. “I’m appointing you my security escort for when we’re aboard.”

That, too, took Namir by surprise, and he made an effort to keep his expression neutral. He wanted to tell her she didn’t get to
appoint
anyone. He wanted to ask what she thought she’d achieve by using him. But she’d played him in the strategy session, prompted him to put forth the idea he was certain she’d had first. She’d known capturing a cargo transport was impossible, and she’d known a raid would sound better coming from someone other than her.

Namir was tired of fulfilling her expectations.

Instead, he kept his voice low and said, “You really shouldn’t trust me.”

“Everyone on your ship—Captain Evon excepted—wants me dead,” Chalis said. “My choices are limited. My standards for
trust
aren’t what they used to be.”

The Redhurne system was a charnel house adrift with the corpses of planets. Its sun had gone supernova centuries earlier, burning worlds to cinders; now no sign remained on those planets’ ravaged surfaces of life or civilization. The remnant of the Redhurne star, a collapsed post-nova fragment that glowed white with seething intensity, exuded radiation deadly to any unshielded creature.

But Redhurne was not empty. When the planets of the inner system had cracked open, their cores had been exposed to the star’s toxic rays and been transmuted into exotic new materials—the building blocks of hypermatter fuel. Thus, in the waning days of the Republic, Redhurne had become host to parasites: scavenging drones that crawled across its planets and carried their bounty of volatile minerals and gases to orbital mining stations operated by skeleton crews.

Those stations still remained to feed the Empire. They were not Twilight Company’s target.

Instead, the
Thunderstrike
and its escort lurked at the edge of the Redhurne system, nestled in the crescent of a shattered moon where neither scanners nor visual inspection could easily detect them. They awaited the transport that Governor Chalis promised would come—a freighter that would siphon off the mining stations’ hoard and carry the day’s take to more hospitable galactic climes.

The question that hung over Twilight Company was this: Which would arrive first—the
Thunderstrike
’s prey, or its pursuers?

It had been a full standard day since the last attack. Cornered as it was within the grip of the moon’s gravity, the
Thunderstrike
was vulnerable—it would not be able to jump to hyperspace from its hiding spot, not without maneuvering into open space first. Howl had agreed to wait in ambush for four hours and no more; after that, the company would need to seek prey elsewhere.

Namir loathed the plan and he loathed his part in it.

He’d spent the last hours working with squad leaders to devise strategies and run drills. The boarding parties were all experienced in zero-gravity combat, EVA procedures, proper use of space suits and oxygen masks—everything required in case things went horribly wrong. This was a day not to test the fresh meat, but to put veterans and ex-stormtroopers and former pirates to work. Namir’s own squad wouldn’t be present—with the exception of Charmer, who’d participated in more boarding operations than Namir had ever seen. When Namir had warned him not to get shot again, Charmer had only grinned his horrible, scar-faced grin.

That left Namir alone on the
Thunderstrike
’s bridge, sweltering under layers of armor and gear while his fellow soldiers gathered several decks below. He would have no part in the initial insertion.

Howl had approved Governor Chalis’s request. Namir was playing bodyguard for the day.