Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company (6 page)

No one else spoke. Chalis seemed to take that as a cue to continue. “I offer my full cooperation to the Rebellion. In return, I expect to be rewarded for my bravery in turning against our terrible Imperial oppressors.”

Von Geiz finally cleared his throat, but Howl interrupted first. “We’ll talk,” he said. “But so far we haven’t even heard what you have to offer.”

Something tightened in Namir’s chest. Not because the question was the wrong one to ask, but because he knew it was one Chalis had been waiting for.

“I’m not a fleet admiral,” she said, and leaned forward, shoulders low as if she were ready to pounce. “I’m not here to share some weak point in a Star Destroyer’s defenses.
My
knowledge is the Empire’s lifeblood—everything that courses through its veins, everything that nourishes it. Food, raw materials, manpower … I know why a slave revolt on Kashyyyk spells doom for outposts along the Kathol Rift, and why General Veers can’t afford another thorilide shortage along the Rimma.

“I know the monster the Empire has grown into. I understand its biology. Every hyperlane carries oxygen to its limbs. I know where to pinch to make it sputter and suffocate.”

Howl nodded and tapped his knuckles on the desk. “You’re a logistics expert.”

The lieutenant said quietly, “Before you were governor, you did what? Ran labor camps? Starved planets if they didn’t meet their quotas?”

Chalis was still staring at Howl and leaning in. She smiled at the question. “I was an
adviser.
I
advised.
My predecessor—Count Vidian—was the one who liked getting his hands dirty. I’m more interested in the big picture.

“Of course, none of that matters so long as you’re on the run. The Rebellion needs to put some distance between its armadas and the Mid Rim—now that you’ve abandoned it—or you risk being overtaken. I’ve got suggestions for
that
, too.”

Then she moved. Namir couldn’t stop her. If the office had been larger, if the desk hadn’t been the flimsiest of barriers, Chalis couldn’t have pulled herself forward and leaned in to put her head beside the captain’s. The brandy bottle tipped to one side and fell to the floor. Chalis’s lips moved as she whispered something outside Namir’s hearing.

Namir’s hand was on her shoulder an instant later, dragging her back into the chair while she laughed. Howl appeared unfazed and certainly unharmed, eyes half lidding in thought. Von Geiz and the lieutenant looked on with bitterness and concern.

“I think,” Howl said, as Namir’s fingertips dug into the governor’s suit, “we should end here. We all have a lot to think about. I’ll speak to you later, Governor.”

Chalis smiled and bowed her head.

If Namir’s role in the meeting had been to protect the captain or the company, he felt profoundly certain he’d failed.

After doling out the supplies stolen from Haidoral to the rest of the rebel battle group, the
Thunderstrike
peeled off with the Dornean gunship
Apailana’s Promise.
The
Promise
was a mean, compact dagger of a ship that had run with Twilight previously; its crew of a few dozen Alliance navy veterans collectively owed the soldiers of Twilight Company nearly fifty thousand credits, according to a running tally on the door of the starboard barracks. The
Promise
also bore a pair of X-wing starfighters on its undercarriage; their pilots had earned a special infamy for never deigning to set foot aboard the
Thunderstrike.

Howl hadn’t announced Twilight Company’s new assignment since leaving Haidoral, and the bridge crew and senior officers were staying tight-lipped about the ships’ destination. Neither was unusual, but where there was no hard information, rumors took the place of facts. The engineering crew studied the
Thunderstrike
’s course and declared it en route to Wild Space, racing to escape Imperial territory by plunging headlong into the unknown. Veterans from the Chargona campaign murmured about a coming last stand against a blockade of Star Destroyers along the edge of the Mid Rim. It was telling, Namir thought, that no one spread rumors of imminent victory.

Still, wartime gossip was as good a distraction as any for bored soldiers crammed into a metal box with nothing to do but wait. The rumors wouldn’t have bothered Namir if not for the presence of the new recruits: Trainees didn’t focus well when they thought they were doomed.

Twilight Company had picked up twenty-eight volunteers on Haidoral Prime. It was a good haul, though a third of them weren’t fighters—they’d serve as medics or engineers or crew for the
Thunderstrike
, and they weren’t Namir’s problem. The others needed to be put through their paces before being assigned to squads. As first sergeant, Namir had that special pleasure.

“You all know how to use a blaster?” he asked, after marching into the mess hall where he’d ordered the fresh meat to assemble. He had a fully charged rifle slung over his shoulder.

The nineteen remaining recruits sat around steel tables in the otherwise empty mess. The men and women looked at one another and nodded awkwardly in response to Namir’s question.

“Good,” Namir said. “I’m not here to mother you. Find a friend to take you to the weapons range, learn how to use the DLT-20A. A rifle isn’t a pistol—it’s got more kick and it’ll burn your face off if you hold it too close. The twenties have a couple extra modes, but I don’t want you spraying bolts everywhere until you can hit a target.” As he spoke, he held up his rifle with one hand and swapped out the power pack with the other. It was a rote exercise, and he had to remind himself to slow down for his audience. “You get a Twilight soldier to vouch for you, tell me you can handle the basics? That’s all I need.”

Again, the awkward nods. Namir strode to one of the occupied tables, set the rifle on the tabletop, and sent it spinning toward the recruits at the far end. “That goes for more than just shooting, though. If you can’t find one of my guys who’ll trust you with his life, I really don’t care how good a sharpshooter you are or what your grades were at Dirtrag Academy. You don’t set foot on a planet until someone clears you. If you’re too shy to partner up on your own, fine—come to me, I’ll assign you a buddy.”

He’d given variations on the same speech over a dozen times. At the start, he’d tried to train every recruit personally. It had been arrogant and stupid—the mark of a man who didn’t yet trust the competency of Twilight’s veterans—and he liked to think he knew better now. He paced across the mess floor, ensured he’d made eye contact with all the recruits, then flashed a half smile. “Also, you’ll probably share a squad with whoever you con into saying you’re ready. Try not to pick someone you want to strangle.”

Nervous laughter. That was good—they were paying attention.

Or most of them were. At the corner of one table sat the red-haired girl Namir had seen fighting in the plaza on Haidoral. She was looking past him, staring at the wall, and her hands were vibrating against the tabletop. Namir stepped around her, slapped a hand on her shoulder, and felt her flinch like she was ready to jump and throw a punch. That she wasn’t stupid enough to
do
it counted for something.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The girl scooted in her seat until she could look up at Namir. “Roach,” she said.

Namir watched her. Her jaw was set. She no longer twitched. “That what you want to be called?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Namir laughed louder than he’d intended. “More advice,” he called as he glanced at the others. “If you’ve got friends back home you want to protect or you just feel like starting fresh? Now’s a good time to pick a new identity. No one in Twilight cares who you were, but once you make us learn a name, you better keep it.”

At least it wasn’t another Leia.
Half the fresh meat that joined up tried to call themselves after one rebel hero or another. They got relabeled by their comrades fast. Most of them died shortly after, victims of their own enthusiasm.

He turned back to the kid. “Roach,” he said. “Tell me something: You read your field guide yet? The
White Book
?”

Roach stared up at him. “Yes, Sergeant,” she said.

Namir cocked his head. It wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “So you can tell me about the four-phase training process?”

Roach’s teeth were chattering, but she didn’t hesitate. “First two phases are same for everyone. Different phase three for ground and space forces. Phase four is special units.”

“And what does the
White Book
say about recruits who can’t pass training before deployment?”

This made Roach pause. “They start again at phase one,” she said. “Unless an officer says they can’t?” It was a guess, not a statement.

Namir let his amusement show. “I have no clue,” he said. “Good for you, reading all that, but the bad news is you wasted your time.

“You all need to understand that the
White Book
—all those procedures and regulations High Command vomits at us—it’s cooked up by generals who think they’re running a government instead of a rebellion.” He shrugged and retrieved his rifle, slinging it back over his shoulder. “Maybe Alliance Special Forces takes it seriously; I don’t know. Out here, when someone above you gives an order, you
follow
it. When someone tries to teach you something, you
pay attention.
When someone shoots at you, you
shoot back.
Don’t smuggle alcohol or spice aboard, don’t be stupid, and if you have a problem with another soldier, come to Lieutenant Sairgon or me. We’ll set things right.

“Short version: Twilight Company takes care of its own. So long as you remember that, you don’t need regulations from on high.”

Namir saw the older recruits nod in understanding. The younger ones, the ones who still weren’t sure about what they were giving up, looked less certain. Many of them had grown up in an Empire that was nothing but rules and order. That was okay. They’d get there.

He wrapped up the orientation briskly, listing which sections of the
Thunderstrike
were off limits and answering the usual questions about pay (“stash what you’ve got under your bunk and pray the Banking Clan joins the Alliance”) and comm network access (“put in a request, but don’t get your hopes up”). By the end, he’d memorized the names of about half the recruits. If the others survived, he’d learn their names, too.

Namir was first out of the room. The others dispersed behind him, heading toward their assigned barracks or the weapons range. He noticed Roach tailing him, but he didn’t turn to look back until she said, “Sergeant?”

“What do you need?” he asked.

Roach fell in at his side. Namir’s boots hit the metal floor hard. The girl walked silently, and he saw she was still in footwraps appropriate for Haidoral’s flooded streets and not much else; he made a note to ask Hober about finding her something,
anything
more combat-appropriate.

“I lied,” Roach said.

Namir stopped, turned to Roach, and waited for her to elaborate.

“I don’t know how to use a blaster.”

Namir shook his head and tried not to smile. “Two hours,” he said. “Meet me at the armory. We’ll get you sorted.”

He didn’t wait for an answer before he resumed his pace. He didn’t expect a thank-you. He’d voted Roach in on Haidoral. The least he could do was try to keep her alive.

The
Thunderstrike
’s makeshift brig was a secondary air lock along the ship’s aft, plated with thick armor to repel boarders and fully controlled from the bridge. Its internal access panels had been welded shut. The exterior door remained functional; a prisoner could, in theory, be launched into space at the touch of a button, though Howl had made it clear that such a thing was never to be done. Namir had made it equally clear—many months earlier, in private, to select crew—that prisoners didn’t need to
know
about Howl’s squeamishness. Twilight Company’s jail was naturally intimidating; why give up that advantage?

Namir doubted Governor Chalis was intimidated, but he could hope.

No one but the captain and his closest advisers ever saw Chalis, who remained in her air lock twenty-three hours each day. Periodically, the governor met with Howl in private. Chief Medic Von Geiz personally delivered Chalis’s meals and brought her whatever she required for comfort—or at least whatever was available. In this way, Howl was able to keep the identity of Twilight’s prisoner a secret from most of the company for a full two days.

Namir didn’t know how word got out, but he wasn’t surprised or bothered when it did. The presence of a captive was too tantalizing a mystery to last for long, and it seemed a healthy distraction from constant speculation about the rebel flight from the Mid Rim. Instead of wondering whether they’d survive to see planetfall again, soldiers debated what Chalis’s presence meant. The recruits from Haidoral told stories of the governor’s fickle tastes: how she would summon chefs and artists to her mansion only to return them to the streets hours, days, or months later. The turncoats—those Twilight Company soldiers, like Charmer, originally trained as Imperial cadets, who had switched sides after being armed and set loose—recalled older rumors of a woman who whispered to the Emperor’s viziers, whose true talent was in manipulating her foes and converting them into allies.

The company’s fascination with Chalis went too far only once, when one of the fresh meat—a squat, muscular young man named Corbo who had a harsh red birthmark covering half his face—found his way to the air lock with a galley knife clenched in both hands. Corbo didn’t resist when a passing technician urged him safely away, and Namir confronted him in private afterward.

“Any special reason you wanted to see her?” Namir asked.

“She killed my felinx,” Corbo said.

“I don’t know what that is.”

Corbo shrugged. “Pet. Doesn’t matter. Governor thought too many were turning feral, making the city look bad.”

“That the worst thing she did?”

“No,” Corbo said. “But it’s what I can’t forgive.”

They were both silent awhile.

“I wasn’t going to do anything, I don’t think,” Corbo added. “I just wanted to see her.” He balled and unballed his fists. “I’ll leave the company, if that’s what you need.”