Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company (43 page)

PLANET VIR APHSHIRE

Day Four of Operation Mad Rush Nineteen Years After the Clone Wars

Private Hazram Namir had been in his bunk disassembling and reassembling a DLT-20A blaster rifle when word about Alderaan came down. It hadn’t meant anything to him. Only the fact that Howl had announced it over the
Thunderstrike
’s intercom indicated the planet’s destruction was anything out of the ordinary: In the two months since Namir had joined Twilight Company, he’d seen weaponry that could melt gleaming cities into slag, fought beside more species than he could name, heard stories of a Galactic Empire that held millions of stars in its grip. If he’d been told that planets were a common casualty of war, he’d have believed it without a second thought.

In the mess hall that night, however, he’d seen the bitter faces of his comrades and heard their stunned oaths. Whatever had happened, it was something new.

“You said they’d bombed and gassed planets before,” he’d asked Gadren. “What’s different about this one?”

Gadren had looked at Namir with his alien eyes and said, “This is the difference between the hope of life and absolute death.
Everything
that was Alderaan is now gone.”

He hadn’t understood entirely, but he grasped enough. He’d seen the Malkhanis and the Creed and others eradicated, purged until only the tattoos of the exiled and the dead remained.

Days later, when word came of the destruction of the Empire’s planet-razing battle station, Namir was manning a trench in the honey fields of Vir Aphshire. He heard laughter down the line, someone shouting, “They blew up the damn Death Star!” and the raucous cheers that followed. He hadn’t shared in his comrades’ terror and astonishment, but he shared in their joy.

He was coming to know the people of Twilight Company. He had no stake in their war, but they deserved a victory.

Vir Aphshire fell to Twilight shortly thereafter. The boost in morale might have played a role, though the Empire’s decision to burn the hives and abandon the world entirely probably had more impact. Namir took no special credit, though it was the first campaign in which Twilight permitted him command of a recon group. He’d felt the bounty hunter—Brand—observing him, second-guessing him from the shadows as she’d been doing since Kor-Lahvan. Either she didn’t trust him or she’d recommended him for the position and wanted to see the outcome. Maybe both.

Regardless, the battle was won. Namir was alive. The orchards and hives of Vir Aphshire belonged to the Rebel Alliance, whatever that meant.

The evening of Twilight’s triumph, Namir was on watch when Sergeant Fektrin returned from scouting the nearest settlement. The creature passed him a report and told him to run it to Captain Evon. “Everyone needs to meet Howl sometime,” Fektrin said, shrugging his tendrils.

Namir didn’t ask how Fektrin knew he hadn’t already met the captain. He felt confident the answer would be unsatisfying.

Namir had seen Howl from afar once or twice, heard his rare declarations over the
Thunderstrike
’s intercom, but all his knowledge of the captain came from the stories of his colleagues. The troops possessed a reverence for their commander, a faith in his decisions unshaken by the actual outcome of battles. Namir had seen such reverence before, more than once. He’d
felt
it before, though he’d been barely more than a child then.

It was strange, to see veterans like Gadren and Norokai acting like newly recruited Malkhani clansmen. They might claim cynicism, yet they still believed in the myth of their commander.

It would have bothered Namir more if Howl’s grip on the company had been more demanding. But there were no rallies under his watch, no war cries in his name. He was the cornerstone of Twilight, yet ask the troops why they fought, and none would answer,
For Captain Evon.

So for two months, Namir had had the luxury of ignoring the captain. That was no longer the case.

At the command tent, Lieutenant Sairgon directed Namir back along the tessellated, papery walkway toward the clay hills of the hive. He found Howl at the outer perimeter of the camp and handed over Fektrin’s report, explained that the scouting party had seen neither damage nor fortifications at the civilian settlement. The captain nodded, studying the report briefly before looking back down the path.

“Private Hazram Namir,” Howl said, enunciating each word as if savoring it. “Walk with me.” He started moving without waiting for acknowledgment, and Namir hurried to keep up. At nearly a head taller than Namir, Howl forced a brisk pace.

“The ‘Song of Lojuun,’ ” the captain said, “has been rattling about my brain for the past thirty-six hours.” He tapped his skull to emphasize
brain.
“I can remember less than half the lyrics, and the entire opera is banned by the Empire. I’ve searched and searched and can’t find a single copy.”

Namir kept his face forward, his expression flat. “I’m not sure I can help with that,” he said. No one had ever suggested the captain might be dangerous—eccentric at worst—but he intended to pick his way carefully through this conversation. In Namir’s experience, power made men unpredictable.

Howl gestured sharply, dismissively. “You’re helping already—nothing triggers buried memories like clean air and new perspectives. With any luck, I’ll be recalling boyhood lunches with my aunts by the time we finish talking.” He was grinning, though whether in humor or mere enthusiasm Namir couldn’t guess. “I hear good things about you, Private. Sairgon informs me you keep saving the new recruits’ lives. And those of some older soldiers, too.”

“I’ve been doing this longer than most of them,” Namir said. “Still having trouble judging firing ranges, though; not a lot of artillery on Crucival.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret: It’s a rare individual who can tell at a glance how close to the enemy he can afford to get. You’ve got the instincts. You’ll pick up on the facts.”

“Yes, sir,” Namir said.

The walkway began to squelch underfoot as the landscape turned to yellow-gray clay. Howl looked about thoughtfully, as if assessing the hills for some hidden purpose, and slowed his pace. “We’ll be leaving the system in a day or two. Given your experience, I’d like to hear your thoughts on what we should do in the meantime.”

It was a test, of course. The captain had no interest in the advice of a private two months out of Crucival. Namir saw no profit in games, however, and chose to take Howl at his word. “Threat seems pretty well contained. We could go hunting, but the enemy’s on the run. No need to get our people killed backing Imps into a corner.

“I’d say keep it simple. The
Thunderstrike
is short on supplies. So we send a few squads to that settlement, grab all the food and equipment we can get. Don’t think we’ll see resistance.”

Howl began to laugh. Namir wanted to bristle, but the sound was too guileless, too warm to give offense. After a moment, Howl turned to him and grinned brightly. “That,” he said, “is exactly the sort of fresh perspective that sparks neurons in a man’s brain. I think I just remembered my first schoolyard crush—pretty Twi’lek girl, name of Iania.”

“You think I’m too harsh?” Namir asked, voice maintaining its even keel. He’d come to realize that the rebels really were convinced of their own righteousness, their claims to be fighting for
the people of the galaxy.
He hadn’t expected their captain to share that particular delusion.

Howl’s voice became sober. “I think you misunderstand this war. Treating civilian settlements with respect isn’t about mercy versus pragmatism—it’s a precondition of victory, no more or less.

“Twilight Company is fighting a battle for the heart of the galaxy.” His voice softened to a whisper, as if he were sharing a secret. “For the spirit of every ordinary man and woman and Imperial stormtrooper. Stealing food won’t help us win. Killing enemies won’t, either. Against might on the scale of the Empire, conventional victory is impossible—when our objectives become purely military, we’ve already lost the larger fight.”

It sounded like the contorted justifications Namir had heard inside the Creed: a philosophy meant to disguise its own hunger for war. Yet looking at Howl, Namir believed the captain was sincere. And somehow, Howl had kept Twilight alive through conflicts that had decimated other rebel companies.

He forced himself to smile. “Of course,” he said. “No riling up the locals, then.”

Howl clapped him on the shoulder and laughed again. “Good enough for now. You’ll figure out the rest in time.”

PLANET SULLUST

Day Two of the Siege of Inyusu Tor Three Years Later

The first sensation that came to Namir was the feeling of cool stone against his cheek. After that came a sudden and intense wave of nausea and the realization that his arms had been yanked behind his back. He tried to lift his head, to fight against the pull, but he wasn’t sure he moved at all.

“You sure he’s worth taking in?” a voice asked. Low, male, with a static hiss behind it. “He’s been under rubble at least an hour. If he dies on the way to holding, it’s a waste of everyone’s time.”

“He’s not as hurt as he looks. Stunned, I think.” A second voice. This one was a woman’s, but the static was worse, garbling the words. She said something more that Namir didn’t understand.

He’d been attacked. He remembered the ambush, being separated from Chalis, Roach, and Twitch.

He’d been out for an
hour
?

He groaned and forced his eyes open as he was lifted to his feet. The cavern roof glimmered far above him and white silhouettes gripped his arms, half throwing him into the open bed at the back of a large landspeeder. He tried to sit up and once again failed. He tugged at his wrists and felt a sharp electrical shock. He was bound in stun cuffs.

“This is SP-Four-Seven-Five,” the woman’s voice said. “We have a rebel prisoner incoming.”

The man—a different man, maybe? Namir wasn’t sure—cursed softly. “Protocol twenty-four is now official. Soon as we make delivery, it’s on to door-to-door searches and roundups. Random arrests, lethal force authorized against any resistance. Let’s hope this isn’t an uprising.”

Rough, gloved hands pulled at Namir’s body, set him upright in the speeder bed. The city streets blurred past him and the gentle vibration of the vehicle set his guts on fire. Two white stormtrooper helmets stared at him.

“They didn’t even make contact with anyone. Far as we can tell, they were a search party.” The woman again, speaking to her partner. “Do we really have to—” The rest of her sentence was too garbled to make out. Namir saw that the lower corner of her helmet had been burned away.

He suspected she could thank Twitch for the damaged vocalizer.

He wondered if Twitch was still alive. And Roach and Chalis…

He couldn’t help them now.

The woman removed her malfunctioning helmet, revealing a young face etched with hard lines. She gripped Namir beneath his shoulders, hoisted and propped him higher. He could have kicked her if his legs had been cooperative, but what then? He needed to escape, but he also needed a plan.

“Hey!” the stormtrooper said, her voice no longer scrambled. “Rebel! You want to keep the bloodshed down, tell me what you’re doing.”

Namir shook his head, confused. He started to pull at the cuffs again when instinct kicked in. He flinched reflexively instead of taking the shock.

The woman scowled. “If there’s an attack planned,” she said, overly emphatic as if trying to demonstrate her tolerance, “you should tell us now. You people signed up to die. The rest of this city didn’t. Don’t get everyone caught in the crossfire.”

“Even if we were planning something,” Namir said, his lips stinging with the words—
did I fall on my face?
—“I still wouldn’t tell you.”

He expected the woman to strike him. She didn’t. The speeder abruptly stopped and he slid half a meter forward in the bed as he heard shouting at the front. He tried to make out the details. Something was blocking the road.

Then he heard the sounds of blasterfire and a stormtrooper screaming.

The two troopers near him were looking out to the road now, ignoring Namir. Praying he wouldn’t pass out or vomit, he lurched forward, bowling over the still-helmeted trooper with his shoulder while keeping his body low. The woman started to turn to him, but then crimson bolts swept over the speeder bed and Namir was no longer her most urgent problem.

He didn’t see whether his captor survived the volley. He swung his legs down to the street, ran in the direction of the blasterfire. He hoped to spot Roach or Twitch, glanced up and saw the shots were coming from the roof of a low building. By the time he made it to the structure’s wall, the shooter was already dropping down and gesturing for Namir to follow.

The shooter was a Sullustan: It had a broad, hairless head with mouselike ears, eyes like two globs of black oil, and jowls that gave its face the appearance of a helmet. This was the closest Namir had been to one of the creatures, though he’d seen them among the workers when Twilight had captured the processing facility.