Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company (33 page)

“This is the Alliance’s moment of weakness,” she began. “The Emperor intends to deliver the killing blow at last, hunting down the scattered members of Alliance High Command as they flee deep into the galaxy’s Outer Rim.

“But in the Emperor’s would-be triumph, there is also an opportunity. High Command and the rebel flagships are dispersed, not destroyed. Princess Leia Organa is the target of an unprecedented manhunt.”

For a moment, Chalis’s lips froze into a smile. Namir recognized the bitterness he’d seen the previous day. Then it vanished and she continued. “Emperor Palpatine, the moffs, Darth Vader—they’ve done what they do best, deploying overwhelming force to scour the Outer Rim of their enemies. And to cover those vast territories, they’ve moved whole fleets out of position. For the first time in years, the Core Worlds’ defenses are enervated.”

There were murmurs about the room. Carver spoke up, openly skeptical. “How do you know?”

Chalis flicked her hand dismissively. “I was at Hoth,” she said. “I recognized the ships they brought to bear. I’ve also been monitoring whatever unsecured broadcasts make it to this sandpit, and—most important—I know what resources the Empire has and what it doesn’t. Pulling fleets from active war zones or the Mid Rim border is too risky. Drawing from the Core Worlds for Vader’s operation just makes sense.”

To Namir’s surprise, she waited for a counterargument. Carver offered none, and she continued.

“This vulnerability,” she said, “isn’t a license for conquest. If we try to strike at the Imperial Palace on Coruscant, we’ll be obliterated before the drop ships hit atmosphere. But I know how the Imperial war machine functions. I want to make its gears grind and shatter.”

She snapped her fingers. The holo-droid bobbed over the table and its projectors flared, generating the image of a planet Namir failed to recognize. The planet appeared ordinary enough, covered in clouds and water and land; it might have been any of a hundred worlds Namir had visited already, except for the single ring that circled its equator.

Were terrestrial planets supposed to have rings? Namir tried to remember what Gadren had taught him.

“This is the planet Kuat,” Chalis said. “Its shipyards are the primary source of the Empire’s Star Destroyer fleet. I propose we destroy them.”

The holographic image flickered and resolved on a magnified portion of the ring. Up close, it appeared to be an immense scaffold in space, bridged and augmented by enormous habitats bristling with machinery. Inside the scaffold, like prisoners caged and left for dead, were the skeletons of wedge-shaped ships, their metal skin only half covering their bodies. Tiny bright dots drifted to and from the skeletons, alighting on the ships or returning to the habitats.

“If we succeed,” Chalis went on, “our attack will cripple the Empire’s fleet-building capacity and deny repairs and upkeep to current vessels. Star Destroyers may be nearly indestructible, but they’re the most resource-intensive ships this galaxy has ever seen. Kuat possesses the
only
shipyards capable of supporting and maintaining more than a handful at a time.

“Furthermore, stopping the production and repair of Star Destroyers will inhibit the Empire’s capacity for fast infantry deployment. No longer would one ship be able to carry thousands of stormtroopers and a full squadron of armored transport walkers. The Empire’s strategy for planetary containment would need to shift.”

Namir watched the senior staff. Some were checking their data-pads, taking notes or cross-referencing data. Others watched Chalis or the hologram. Von Geiz spoke up. “The Alliance tried to attack Kuat before,” he said. “We’re only two ships …”

“Kuat’s defenses are oriented toward space combat,” Chalis said smoothly, as if she’d been expecting the question. “We’re an infantry company, and no one’s ever tried a ground invasion of the shipyards.” She snapped again, and the hologram magnified further, showing tram tracks and enclosures against the backdrop of space. “The orbital ring has a total inhabitable area of less than three hundred thousand square kilometers—smaller than a typical planetary subnation, and susceptible to unique forms of attack. Imagine urban warfare in a city where you could sever whole blocks from the mainland at the touch of a button; where any damage to the infrastructure was a blow to the enemy. Yes, it will be bloody—but I believe Twilight can succeed.”

Namir sensed a wave of discomfort in the room, though no one argued openly. He tried to picture what Chalis was proposing and found it meant nothing to him. Even the numbers were beyond his comprehension.

“All that said,” she went on, “the Kuat star system’s space-based defenses are formidable, even with fleet elements diverted to the Outer Rim. We need to soften them further in order to safeguard the
Thunderstrike
’s passage to the shipyards.”

The droid’s projection changed to a star map. From a point near the bottom, a line zigzagged toward an upper dot Namir could only assume represented Kuat.

“To that end,” Chalis said, “we must take an indirect path to Kuat and strike these designated targets. No sieges, no prolonged attacks—these are surgical strikes against logistical hubs. We destroy these, and the Empire
must
react by reassigning ships and officers—either to repair the damage or to compensate by bolstering efficiency elsewhere. Directly or indirectly, these reassignments will cannibalize Kuat’s own defenses.”

“You can’t possibly know that, either.” Carver again, voice steady despite his confrontational tone.

“I understand the flow of resources within the Empire better than anyone alive,” Chalis said. “It’s why Captain Evon accepted me. It’s why Alliance High Command needed me. I
absolutely
know it.”

She gestured at the droid and the hologram flickered out. The conference room seemed dark without the azure glow. “Sergeant Namir and I have been discussing this plan since we fled Hoth,” she said. “It will be risky. We’ll need to move fast, both on the ground and in space, just to give ourselves a fighting chance. We’ll need to maintain operational secrecy so that the Empire doesn’t anticipate our true goal. And once we reach Kuat, everything could go wrong—I can’t predict the future. But if you want to turn this war around, I believe this is our best chance.”

She didn’t look at Namir when she said his name. It came out so casually he might have missed it if not for the others glancing toward him. He knew if he didn’t deny his ownership of the plan immediately, any attempt later on would cost him all credibility.

And if he
did
deny he’d been involved, Chalis would be branded a liar and her whole presentation would be thrown into doubt.

He chose to say nothing.

He barely listened after that. The senior staff began to argue. Hober inundated Chalis with questions about her targets, about Kuat’s shifting defenses, and—after a coughing fit that ended only when Von Geiz intervened—she answered them readily. Mzun and Gadren and Carver debated the tactics of a shipyard invasion. The second in command of
Apailana’s Promise
, there to represent her ship, shook her head silently in the corner.

Namir thought about the promises he’d made. He thought about Gadren’s words and about Hoth. He thought about Kryndal, the idiot Alliance Special Forces soldier he’d fought with at Echo Base, and wondered if his lunatic plan to take Coruscant was any less practical.

But then, this wasn’t the plan of a mad ideologue. Even if it looked the part.

“Do we have any alternatives?” he asked. “Any better plans at all?” The chatter around him quieted and stopped. The senior officers watched him. In those seconds of silence, he prayed someone would answer in the affirmative.

“Would you leave the room?” Gadren asked Chalis. His voice was stern, almost too deep for clarity.

Chalis nodded politely and exited, the droid floating behind her.

“Howl trusted her, at least in part,” Gadren said, now facing Namir. “Howl trusted
you
more than you realize. And all of us respect your service to this company. So I ask you: Is this what we must do?”

I don’t know
, Namir thought.
How could I?

“Yes,” he said.

“Then you have my support,” Gadren replied. “Though if we are voting, I will remove myself and thank you all for your forbearance.”

“Do we need to be that formal?” Von Geiz asked. “Technically command falls to me, after Howl and Sairgon and Paonu and—well. Sharn, would you object to a voice vote?”

The
Promise
’s second in command shook her head. “Your company, your show. The
Promise
will back you either way.”

“In that case,” Von Geiz said, “all in favor of the assault on Kuat?”

There were sounds of assent—forceful and determined, reluctant and soft—throughout the room. Only Hober, Mzun, and Gadren remained silent, and all three maintained neutral expressions. Namir couldn’t read them.

“The vote is in favor,” Von Geiz said.

Namir felt no relief. Twilight Company would have died without a plan, but that was no guarantee it would survive with one. Still, he made himself smile. It was
his
plan, apparently, and now wasn’t the time to show doubt.

“I suggest we break for a while and start preparing for takeoff,” Hober said. “But there’s one other thing we should decide first.”

Namir looked at Hober quizzically, before the quartermaster’s intent struck him. Beneath his stony expression, he fumed and wondered just how thoroughly Chalis had choreographed his fate.

Waves of silica crashed against the wall of the amphitheater, spilling dust toward the shrinking tent city. Namir’s sleeves flapped in the wind as he tried to shield his eyes and mouth. If the
Thunderstrike
wasn’t prepped for departure within the hour, it would be caught in the fast-approaching windstorm; the company would be stuck on Ankhural another night.

Much as he was coming to loathe the planet, he wasn’t sure he minded that idea.

He turned away from the wall when he heard the sound of leather striking leather—the slow clapping of gloved hands from a few tiers down the aisle. Brand looked up at him, lips curled in amusement.

“Congratulations, Captain,” she said.

Namir grunted and began to descend the steps toward the track. Brand fell in at his side.

“Still first sergeant,” he said. “Temporary command only, since they sure as hell weren’t putting the governor in charge.”

“It’s her plan, then?”

“Yes.”

Brand shrugged. “It’s yours now.”

Namir glanced over and saw that she’d raised her mask. “You think it’s the wrong call,” he said.

“The plan?” Brand shrugged again. “I have no idea. People have a lot of doubts, but they always do. And the troops trust you. It’s good for morale.”

Namir laughed. “So I shouldn’t worry about a mutiny?”

“Not even a little,” Brand said.

They crossed the podracing track together toward a cluster of soldiers carrying tents and generators back to the
Thunderstrike.
A few saluted Namir and laughed, but they kept their distance. Over the wind, Namir could hear the low moan and whine of the corvette’s engines coming to life.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For saving the company.”

“My pleasure, Sergeant. You’ll do right by it.” Her tone was steady, serious—but then she reached out suddenly and gripped his shoulder, and he thought he heard a note of humor in her voice.

“Who knows?” Brand said. “With luck, maybe we’ll even win.”

PLANET MARDONA III

Four Days into Operation Ringbreaker

The
Thunderstrike
and
Apailana’s Promise
flew in such tight proximity that their shields bumped and clashed, coruscating through the visible spectrum and releasing enough energy to atomize any TIE fighter that passed through their field. Any squadron that attempted to weave between the rebel vessels was destroyed as surely as if it had been crushed between their hulls.

But for every starfighter that disappeared in a green-white cloud of burning oxygen and Tibanna gas, a hundred more swarmed into the rebels’ path. The
Promise
had already pulled its X-wings out of the fray rather than sacrifice them in an unwinnable dogfight. Twilight’s volleys could only thin the enemy masses, not disperse them; and if there was hope for the two vessels that plunged toward the blue-gray oceans of Mardona III’s southern hemisphere, that hope lay in speed, not firepower.

The
Thunderstrike
’s bridge trembled and bucked as it skimmed atmosphere. Namir gripped the railing of the command platform until the knuckles of his dark skin began to pale.

Chalis smiled tightly at his side, her own arm looped more casually about the rail. “You look nervous,” she said.

“I’m normally on a drop ship for these things,” Namir said. “It’s a lot more worrying when you can see what’s causing the bumps.”

“You should’ve been on the bridge during Coyerti,” Chalis replied with a shrug. Namir thought he heard an edge to her tone, and wondered if she was feigning calm for him or for the crew. “We’ll be fine—won’t we, Commander?”