Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company (15 page)

So Namir waited. He watched Chalis and the captain and Commander Paonu speak quietly to one another, observed the bridge crew tap at consoles and adjust levers. He’d never liked spending time on the bridge; when he was elsewhere on the ship, he didn’t have to think about how it worked, about the mechanics at play and the naval officers who’d learned the difference between acceleration compensators and null quantum field generators—the officers whose expertise meant the difference between life and death in a sucking void.

Namir didn’t mind space travel, but he bristled at reminders of his ignorance. The mere
existence
of the bridge needled him.

The
Thunderstrike
had been lurking for two hours when alarms went off and the bridge crew scrambled to see what had arrived from hyperspace. The officers’ voices were nervous and giddy when they reported what appeared to be an Imperial heavy freighter, lightly armed and ponderously slow. The captain smiled tightly but showed no other sign of pleasure.

The Imperial vessel was a rugged durasteel cylinder that stretched half a kilometer long, bristling with ejectable storage pods and maneuvering thrusters. It might have been a warship once, before decades of use had left it obsolete and a hundred retrofits had stripped it of its might. “Ships,” Chalis said softly, as if quoting someone else, “like men, must be used until they break.”

The second scanning station reported that the freighter wouldn’t pass near the
Thunderstrike
’s moon on its current course. That was unsurprising. Chalis took the bridge communications terminal and rapidly entered a series of authorization codes before opening a channel.

“Imperial freighter,” she said. “We have been monitoring ion-storm activity in this system. For your own safety, please alter your approach vector as follows.”

Chalis read out numbers. Namir watched the crew.

The freighter did not change course.

“If they knew who we were,” the captain mused, “they’d raise shields. They’d run. Instead they’re ignoring us.”

“What if it’s a trap?” Namir asked.

“Then I expect we’re doomed anyway,” Howl said.

Chalis repeated her message, more forcefully this time. Again, the freighter did not respond or change course.

We need to go
, Namir thought.
Or we need to take a chance and attack. But we need to do
something.

He didn’t speak. He wasn’t on the bridge to advise the captain. Chalis slapped a palm on the communications console, her voice suddenly louder: a snarl of perfect arrogance. “Imperial freighter,” she said, “this is Governor Everi Chalis. If you do not adjust course within fifteen seconds, I will deal with you as I dealt with the crew of the
Mandible
during the Belnar Insurrections. That will be my gift to your superior, Commodore Krovis, before I have him tried for gross incompetence.”

She cut off the signal and, with it, the sneer on her face. Arrogance dropped away like a mask, and she stared at the scanners with all the tension of a soldier awaiting battle.

“It’s changing course,” an ensign said.

“Ready the boarding pods,” Howl called, and the bridge went into action.

Apailana’s Promise
and
Thunderstrike
emerged together: the latter from its hiding space in the shadow of the broken moon, the former from behind an asteroid that had once been part of a planet. Flanked by two enemies, the freighter made the obvious choice, angling away from the weapons-laden gunship toward the
Thunderstrike.

Its shields and weapons were fully charged by the time
Thunderstrike
came into range. This was not a problem; for all the damage the
Thunderstrike
had accrued over the previous days, it could still hold its own against a freighter. The squadron of TIE fighters that the freighter disgorged would prove more troublesome, but
Apailana’s Promise
could pick the starfighters off one by one—if it could get a clear shot.

Sickly green bolts flickered across the gap of space, splashing against the
Thunderstrike
’s englobing shields like raindrops in iridescent oil. The rebel vessel returned fire in periodic crimson volleys, causing the freighter’s own deflectors to shimmer and coruscate under stress. As the
Thunderstrike
maneuvered ever nearer, the freighter began to pull back—but by then it was too late, and velocity was on the side of the attackers.

As if a countdown had reached zero, the
Thunderstrike
’s boarding pods shot free toward the freighter. Each had been adapted from an escape pod—capsules originally designed to save lives—by trading their maneuverability and fuel storage for hardiness and launch power; by reinforcing them further; and by equipping them with magnetic grapples and laserdrills. Each pod carried a squad of Twilight Company troops, rattled and crammed together with only minutes’ worth of air.

As the pods rocketed toward their target, the
Thunderstrike
’s gunners took on the task of protecting the pods from the TIE fighters. The destruction of a single pod would represent a loss of manpower and technology Twilight Company could ill afford. The loss of multiple pods would thwart any boarding attempt and force a withdrawal.

But the pods struck home. Their drills sparked to life and began the process of carving open the freighter’s hull.

Namir reached out, grabbed Chalis’s neck with a gloved hand, and tightened the rebreather mask over her face. “Just keep it on,” he said. “If we get sucked into vacuum, I won’t have time to help you.”

“Of course,” Chalis said, her voice muffled. “Anything else?”

The boarding pod was shuddering, jostling Namir against the sealed door as the laserdrill burned into the freighter. Chalis was barely a hand span away. Behind her, two more soldiers cradled their rifles.

Namir drew a blaster pistol from his belt, holding it out to Chalis in both hands. “It’s a DH-17,” he said. “Leave the settings the way they are and don’t even think of switching it to automatic. Point and shoot if it comes to that.”

Chalis turned the weapon over and smirked. “I have used a blaster before. You’ve
seen
me.”

“You’ve wiped out whole ships before, too,” Namir said. “Doesn’t mean I want you commanding mine.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Namir placed a palm on the door, trying to judge the rocking of the pod. “ ‘I will deal with you,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘as I dealt with the crew of the
Mandible.
’ ”

Chalis laughed and shook her head. “The
Mandible
was an accident,” she said. “A drunk captain ferrying volatile cargo. I got credit because—well, if you were the Empire, what rumor would you rather spread: That one of your captains was grossly negligent and got his men killed in a mishap? Or that a ruthless, high-ranking officer saw incompetence on her watch and executed those responsible?”

The pod stopped rocking. The sound of shearing metal echoed in the chamber.

“I’ve noticed how you handle the recruits,” Chalis continued with a shrug. “Tell me you wouldn’t scare them much the same? Assuming you could get away with it.”

Namir barked a laugh and raised his rifle. “I’d do a lot of things if I could get away with them. Be grateful I can’t, and step away from the door.”

Chalis obeyed as well as she could in the cramped space. Namir tapped the door’s keypad with his elbow and two half circles of solid metal slid out of view, opening the way to the freighter’s interior.

Two sounds dominated the corridor: the distant reverberation of blaster bolts and the roar of air whipping down the passage. Namir’s pod had been the last to leave the
Thunderstrike;
one of the earlier arrivals must have cracked the freighter’s hull worse than intended, opening a leak into space. The corridor itself was tight, packed with heavy-duty piping along the walls and floored with black metal gratings. Not an ideal place for a fight.

But then, that’s why Namir had come with Chalis late. The first soldiers to board an enemy vessel were always cannon fodder.

Namir signaled for the rest of his boarding party to emerge. The two soldiers took up stations in opposite directions down the corridor while Namir announced his arrival over his comm. A series of curt responses assured him that the other squads were active, along with the engineering specialists. One of the freighter’s aft command stations had been secured, at least temporarily. That was where Governor Chalis was needed first.

Namir gestured for Chalis to follow. She nodded and tapped off her own earpiece. The other boarders stayed behind to protect the pod.

The rush of air was warm—almost
hot
, as if spewed forth by a furnace upwind. Namir was sweating as he crept down the corridor, his armpits moist and his gloves tight over his fingers. He kept his body in front of Chalis, trying to ensure he’d be the first target if they were spotted. He had to fight his training, keep himself from sprinting to cover; he’d played escort for civilians before and barely suppressed his instincts then, but for Chalis? Playing bodyguard seemed
unnatural.

“It’s the shield generators.”

“What?” Namir shook his head, baffled.

“The shield generators,” Chalis said. “They’re right next to the oxygen units, and they overheat under stress. That’s why it’s summer in here.”

“How do you know?” Namir rounded a bend, swept the corridor for enemies and saw none. The blasterfire was getting louder.

“I served on a ship like this a
very
long time ago. Part of my
apprenticeship.
” Again, there was bitterness instead of arrogance in her tone. Then she added idly, “You know that stormtrooper armor has environmental controls? Internal cooling options?”

On the floor ahead, three dead stormtroopers were splayed across the grating.

Chalis kept talking. “You’d think it would be luxurious, but cooling drains power. Use in noncritical situations is a punishable offense. So many cadets try it anyway, thinking they won’t be caught …”

Namir nudged a body with the toe of his boot, then stepped over it. He relaxed his shoulders and bit back a smile. “The Empire’s famed discipline cracks in the heat?”

“That’s the difference between our forces,” Chalis said. “Imperial troops all make the same mistakes, and they never make them more than once. I can only assume Alliance troops are more creative and less agreeable.”

Namir snorted. “Not
that
creative. It’s the same garbage with every batch of fresh meat. I could tell you stories.” Realizing what he’d just said, he winced: The woman
was
good at making others lower their guards.

“I’ll take you up on that—” Chalis began. Then there was the sound of another shot, and a red particle bolt flashed across a branch in the corridor ahead.

“—another time,” she finished, and raised her blaster.

Two quick bursts with the rifle. Namir aimed down the corridor, but he wasn’t worried about hitting any particular target. He just meant to discourage stormtroopers from coming around the bend and peppering the hallway with plasma. There wasn’t room to dodge. He didn’t have the firepower to win. If the enemy pushed forward, the only option was to run.

He crept backward with Chalis a short distance behind him. They’d lost almost ten minutes maneuvering through the freighter and trying to circumvent the worst of the fighting. Repeated calls to the other boarding teams had been of little help—the freighter crew was intermittently jamming transmissions, and the squads Namir could reach had their hands full. That left it up to him and Chalis to take the long route to the command station alone, and Chalis’s paranoia hadn’t helped.

“Half the sections in this ship,” she’d snapped, “can be opened to space or flooded with toxic gas. I’d rather avoid a preventable death.”

Namir had agreed. But he still didn’t like the delay.

A white form appeared at the end of the hallway. Namir’s rifle jumped as he fired a pulse. His opponent sprawled on the floor. He crept backward another meter, felt his shoulder brush metal and lurched away. The wall was hot, scorched by stray bolts.

“You all right?” Chalis asked. She stood to one side, pressed to the opposite wall and working the keypad to a blast door.

“Fine,” Namir snapped, gesturing in frustration to the portal. “We going?”

They went, racing down another set of passages before reaching the command station rendezvous. Sergeant Fektrin met them with a trio of engineers, an astromech droid, and two more soldiers. The numbers didn’t add up right; Namir realized Fektrin had lost a squad member along the way.

Fektrin dragged the corpse of a young Imperial woman out of a chair and gestured Chalis and the astromech over with a sweeping gesture. Chalis scowled at the squat, boxy droid when it beeped incoherently, but she joined it at the dead woman’s terminal.

Fektrin led Namir to the door and took up a sentry position across from him. Namir felt lighter the moment Chalis was out of reach, as if her mere presence had been oppressive.

No. That’s not right.

Chalis wasn’t oppressive. She was callous and manipulative, but Namir never felt personally threatened by her. His
responsibility
for Chalis—her life, her safety—was what weighed on him.

Why did Howl agree to this?

“Yours are at the pod?” Fektrin asked.

It took Namir a moment to understand. “Keeping an exit route. How about yours?”

“Cappandar took half a dozen shots before he hit the ground.”

Namir knew Cappandar by name and reputation, but the alien hadn’t spoken Basic—something about the way his lungs worked—and so they’d never been able to talk. He’d been one of the longest-serving members of Twilight; part of why Namir had approved him for the mission.

“One more to drink to when we get back,” Namir said.

Fektrin’s voice lowered. “Can she get us what we need?”

Namir spared Chalis a glance. She was arguing with the droid at the terminal and gesturing to the screen for the benefit of the engineers.

“She wants to get out alive,” Namir said. “She’ll do her best, for what that’s worth.”