Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company (49 page)

She winked back, and Namir began to laugh.

The squads on the facility roof were tasked with occupying the enemy’s portable artillery and heavy-weapons teams. So long as those units couldn’t engage, the Imperial infantry would be forced to funnel through the mazes, into the facility entrances and Twilight’s kill zones. Even the total destruction of the facility was no longer an option—not unless the Empire was prepared to sacrifice its trapped army along with the facility itself.

It was mostly stormtroopers who’d survived the climb up the mountain, and it was stormtroopers who began fighting their way inside. Twilight’s makeshift barricades didn’t last long against a barrage of blasterfire and grenades, but even rubble slowed the enemy down. As Twilight squads lost their cover, they fell back to the rear and let the next row of teams become the defense’s vanguard.

Namir fired into the storm of blaster bolts until his rifle was drained of all power, switched to his sidearm and kept shooting until someone tossed him a battery pack. He was lying on the metal-plated walkway leading to the mouth of the facility; he rose to his knees only as long as it took to sight a foe and pull the trigger.

It was the sort of battle he’d been fighting since he was a child. It felt as natural as breathing.

Although squads withdrew and soldiers fell, although the stormtroopers kept coming, Twilight did not relinquish the entrance. For every company member who died, a dozen Imperials died in turn. Attrition was taking its toll on the once-massive horde that had climbed the mountain. The Twilight squads seemed to instinctively understand their success—shouts of encouragement and triumph rose up as, together, the soldiers realized they might actually win.

As Namir withdrew from the burning wreck of the loadlifter into the facility’s main hallway, he cast one last look toward the sky and the distant battle between the Star Destroyer and
Apailana’s Promise.

The ground battle could be won. Namir was proud of that.

The aerial battle could not, and Namir had no cards left to play.

It was conceivable that the rebel cell would take the city’s defensive cannons. But even that scenario almost certainly wouldn’t occur in time to save Twilight. The residents of Pinyumb had more pressing concerns, and by the time they could turn weapons on the Star Destroyer it would be much too late.

As soon as the
Promise
was destroyed, the Star Destroyer would return its attention to the processing facility. It would see that the Imperial army had failed. It would realize that sparing the facility was no longer possible under any circumstances. Unless a miracle transpired, it would obliterate the entire mountain peak.

Yet Namir had done his best. He’d given the spirit of Twilight Company its due.

He would die with a grin and a battle cry.

PLANET SULLUST

Day Three of the Siege of Inyusu Tor

It had been too long since Captain Tabor Seitaron had last tasted victory.

He’d forgotten the exhilaration of a proper battle: the joy of calling orders and encouragement to a proud and dedicated crew, the tense thrill of suddenly fathoming an opponent’s gambit. The arrival of the rebels’ gunship had amused him—he’d foreseen it as a possibility, albeit an unlikely one—but the weaponization of Inyusu Tor’s lava had come as a genuine surprise. Governor Chalis and her allies were cleverer than he’d expected.

Not that the outcome was in doubt. He watched the gray sky through the viewport of the
Herald
’s bridge, saw X-wings flash by in clouds of sparks and smoke. The Star Destroyer wasn’t built for atmospheric maneuvering; but neither were the enemy ships, and they lacked the firepower to be more than an irritant. As soon as the gunship and its starfighters were gone, the
Herald
would deliver a fresh infantry battalion to reinforce the bleeding and battered army trapped on the peak and the forces suffocating brushfire rebellions in Pinyumb. The siege would be broken, the Sullustan governor’s precious mineral processing facility would be saved, and Prelate Verge would recover the object of his quest.

Verge himself seemed an admixture of nervous and eager energies. Where Tabor stood at the center of the bridge, Verge paced above the control pits calling commands to the gunners. Tabor did not interfere; the boy’s orders were unnecessary but sensible enough, and Tabor had seen worse battlefield commanders.

“Prelate, sir? Captain Seitaron?”

Tabor turned to the communications officer expectantly.
Barcel
, Tabor thought.
Competent lad, overeager but young enough to have an excuse.
Verge cast a backward glance in the man’s direction, waved permission to speak.

“There’s a shuttle lifting off from one of the transport stations,” Barcel said.

“Escaping the lava, I presume,” Tabor said. “Is it broadcasting clearance codes?”

“Yes, sir,” Barcel said. “The ones you said to watch for.”

Tabor chuckled and caught an approving smile from Verge. “Let this be a lesson to all of you,” Tabor called. “You may trick a wise man once, a fool twice—but no one falls for the same treachery three times.”

Governor Chalis had used her security codes to approach an Imperial transport in the Redhurne system. The rebels had used them again to bypass the blockade of Hoth. For her to try a third time—to flee her own battle in a shuttle—seemed an extraordinary act of hubris.

“Bring the shuttle in with a tractor beam,” Verge said, “before it leaves the atmosphere. Keep it intact, please; we’ll meet it in the shuttle bay.”

Verge was striding toward the turbolift before he had finished the sentence, yet he pivoted when Tabor didn’t follow. After a moment, Tabor grimaced and left the viewport for the prelate’s side. He kept his voice low as he spoke. “You don’t need me for this. One of us should remain here.”

He feared he might anger the prelate, but the boy only shook his head and squeezed Tabor’s shoulder. “Do you truly think we’re needed for this battle? Our real triumph is in the hangar. I want you at my side.” It was almost a plea, like a child might make to his father.

Tabor wanted to refuse, to state sternly that so long as men were dying under his watch he could not walk away. Even victory had a price, and though the
Herald
was unassailable, casualties were mounting below. To bear witness was a matter of respect.

Yet he knew Verge well enough to guess what the boy would think of
respecting
one’s underlings above all else.

“I have my link,” Tabor called to the control pits. “The moment anything changes, inform me immediately.”

“The enemy at last,” Verge murmured as they boarded the lift. “Do you suppose she knows the end has come? Will she acknowledge that her own disloyalty inevitably led to failure?”

“She’s a bottom-feeding rat, Prelate,” Tabor said. “I wouldn’t expect gravitas from this confrontation.”

“Then we will bring meaning to it,” Verge said, “in the Emperor’s name.”

The tractor beam delivered the shuttle to the tertiary hangar bay. Scanners showed only a single life-form aboard; if Chalis was the passenger, as Verge so clearly believed, she’d come alone.

To Verge’s amusement, Tabor chose two fleet troopers for security: Zhios and Cantompa, both men whom Tabor had come to appreciate during his time aboard the
Herald.
They’d watched Verge torment their peers, attended Tabor when he’d taken sick from the change in his diet, stood outside the tactical center in their crisp black uniforms and helmets for hours on end. Tabor trusted them—and if there was any honor to be gained in Chalis’s final capture, they deserved to share it.

“Do you expect her to storm out, rifle blazing?” Verge asked as Tabor’s escort preceded them through the durasteel door into the shuttle bay. At least, Tabor thought, the prelate wasn’t openly snickering.

“I expect a bit of caution does no harm,” Tabor said.

One of the men called an all-clear, and Verge led Tabor into the hangar—the same one, Tabor recalled, where he had first disembarked aboard the
Herald.
The shuttle inside had already lowered its boarding ramp. The guards had their rifles aimed at the entrance.

With slow, almost ceremonial deliberation, the shuttle’s passenger descended. She wore the black uniform of an Imperial Army captain, though her boots were nonstandard. A breath mask hung unused around her neck. Her arms were spread wide, her palms up, in a gesture that might have indicated either surrender or welcome. Her features broadly matched Tabor’s memories, but she appeared haggard and thin, exhausted despite the cruel smile that played across her lips.

“Forgive the outfit,” Governor Chalis said. “I borrowed it from one of your men to access the shuttle.”

She turned her hips slightly, and Tabor saw the fabric was frayed and burned in one spot on her torso. The mark of a blaster bolt. He stiffened and scowled.
To murder a man and then make light of it …

“Not one of
my
men,” Verge said. “One of the Emperor’s nonetheless. Another treason for your tally.”

But Chalis turned to Tabor first, eyes widening in exaggerated surprise. “Captain Seitaron,” she said. “You came out of retirement for me. Your mistress must be jealous.”

He’d forgotten about her accent—that awful, exaggerated, schoolgirl Coruscanti, as if she might fool anyone into thinking she hadn’t been born in the bowels of a colonial backwater. Count Vidian had been a clever man, but Tabor couldn’t imagine why he’d gone to such trouble to uplift Chalis.

“I hoped to keep my mind sharp—” he began.

“And you must be the prelate.” Chalis cut Tabor off and turned to Verge, looking the stern-faced boy up and down.

—but you hardly gave me the opportunity
, he’d intended to finish. He bristled at the interruption, forced his irritation down.

“Truly,” Chalis continued, “you must be an extraordinary individual. To have been granted a new title by Palpatine himself—not made a moff or minister or vizier with all those duties and responsibilities, but a
prelate.
”

Tabor couldn’t tell whether Verge understood he was being mocked. The boy eyed Chalis with disdain, looked at her as if her very existence were a personal affront. “So far as you are concerned,” Verge said, “I am the agent of our Emperor in this place. You have not done well by our lord and master.”

Chalis laughed, a sound that might have been light and joyful if it weren’t for a guttural hoarseness behind it. “You’re very keen on styling yourself the Emperor’s favored servant, aren’t you? Is it true that you built a shrine to him on Naboo? That you like to shock yourself late at night to see if you can endure what he endured to earn his scars? Maybe if you wore a mask, he’d treat you more like he does Vader.”

Verge took a single step forward, and Tabor saw his body trembling. The thought of what Verge might do to Chalis didn’t concern him—was she looking to bait him into giving her a swift death?—but if Verge’s anger grew too great, if he lashed out at others …

“You needn’t listen to this, Prelate,” Tabor said. Verge didn’t appear to hear him.

“I apologize,” Chalis said, and half bowed. “I congratulate you on your defeat of me. I’ve come to make you an offer.”

“An offer?” Verge said. It was nearly a whisper.

“I’ve learned more than any spy about the inner workings of the Rebel Alliance: its leadership, its plans, its vulnerabilities.” Chalis’s voice had suddenly lost its playfulness and dropped an octave. “Grant me a pardon for my crimes, and I’ll share it all with you.”

Verge’s trembling increased. His lips half parted as he drew long, hissing breaths. Tabor found that his own jaw was sore and clenched; he glanced to his guards to see if they, too, feared what their prelate might do. Although both aimed their weapons at Chalis, their eyes were on Verge.

All at once, Verge’s trembling stilled. His muscles seemed to relax. Casually, confidently, he stepped up to Chalis and reached out to dig his fingers into her cheek and chin—as if he might tear off her face as he would a mask. Chalis gasped in pain but did not struggle. When Verge wrenched at her, sent her toppling to the floor, she rolled but did not rise again, looking up from a face streaked with shallow cuts.

“The Emperor,” Verge said, flicking his hand as if he’d trailed it through mud, “has no need of a woman like you. And in your defeat, I have proven myself worthy of a place alongside Vader.”

Chalis looked small and crumpled on the floor. Tabor did not pity her.

“If you say so.” Her voice was now rough and cracking. With one hand, she reached into one of the pockets of her pants and withdrew a small, flat device with a single button.

Stop her
, Tabor wanted to shout, but it was too late. He saw her thumb flex, heard the tiniest of clicks.

For an instant, nothing happened.

Then the shuttle seemed to come ablaze with a blinding aura of blue-white light. Electrical arcs leapt over its surface and the shuttle bay echoed with the sounds of sparks and current. Popping noises emanated from control panels around the hangar as arcs of lightning touched tractor beam generators and docking clamps. A noxious smell of melted metal and plastoid caused Tabor to gag and shield his nose with his sleeve.