Coming off the ramp, pushing an empty grav-lifter, is another SpecForce commando: a goat-snouted, three-eyed Gran by the name of Margle. Jom knows him a little. He’s like Jom: good with heavy ordnance. “I hear something about a fight?” the Gran growls. “I’m in!”
“Cool it,” Dayson says. “Nobody’s throwing fists today. And you’re right about the bureaucracy. You start making noise here I might have reports to do—and damn the stars, I hate filling out reports”
“Dayson. Sergeant—”
“Stow it, Jom. You want in on this mission? Fine. I got an extra jump seat. You want to do your part, I’ll say you came aboard and hid in the head until we were pushing hyperspace. But after that, I won’t stand for you. You come home, they might have a court-martial or a dishonor badge for you. That weight’s on your shoulders and I won’t carry it.”
“Thanks, Sarge.”
“We leave in five. Step to it, commando. The war won’t wait.”
—
War is coming.
And Temmin wants to be there. He steps in front of Wedge and drops his hastily packed rucksack on the ground with a thud. Wedge looks at it and arches an eyebrow. “What’s this?” he asks the young man.
“I’m enlisting.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Tem.”
“I don’t care. I want to go to Jakku.”
“You’re a boy.”
“Not anymore. You were training me to be with Phantom Squadron. I can fly an X-wing.”
Wedge sets down his datapad. All around him, the hangar buzzes with activity—already, most of the starfighters and their pilots have gone on to join the fleet massing above Chandrila, soon to fly on to Jakku. But all the same, that’s just the first wave. They have to prep more fighters, more pilots. Prime torpedoes, test weapons systems, get the next set of pilots ready. There’s a lot to do and he tells Temmin as much:
“You can fly a training simulator. Kid, I’ve got work to do—”
“I’ve piloted the Halo. I’ve piloted the Falcon. You even let me do a few rounds in an X-wing. I can fight. And I will. I’ll steal a ship if I have to. I’ll steal a flying brick cargo loader and crash it into the front deck of a Star Destroyer. I’m going to Jakku. And I’d rather you be there with me.”
“Phantom Squadron is shut down.”
Temmin steps over his sack and looks up at Wedge. The young man’s eyes flare with eager fury. “Then bring it back from the dead! Nobody has to know we’re doing it. Nobody has to see us coming. We can be like real phantoms, Wedge. Not heroes in the books, but who cares about being in the books?” Now tears shine in Temmin’s eyes. “My mom is there. My droid, too. I want them back. You don’t want to help me get them? Fine. But then I’ll know who you really are, and it isn’t the guy who flew against two Death Stars and all the Empire. I’ll know you’re not a pilot anymore. You’re just some hangar-monkey, some tired old sir-yes-sir game-leg who cares more about docking ledgers than he does about actual people.”
Now it’s Wedge’s turn: Anger and grief rise up inside him, the anger like fire, the grief like smoke. He wants to tell Temmin how wrong he is, but he can’t. Because the kid isn’t wrong, is he?
Again Wedge is reminded of the Rebel Alliance. And Kashyyyk. And all the sacrifices made on behalf of the New Republic.
Sometimes doing the right thing wasn’t the same as following orders.
“Ah, forget it,” Temmin says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. His lip trembles. “I should’ve known you were out of the game.”
“Wait.”
Temmin pauses in picking up his bag. “Why should I?”
“Meet me in Hangar Forty-Seven on the north side in two hours.”
“What’s in Hangar Forty-Seven?”
“Phantom Squadron.”
—
War is coming.
It waits out there in the black. Commodore Kyrsta Agate stands on the bridge of the Concord, the first Nadiri Mark One Starhawk commissioned for the New Republic, and not the last—two more Starhawks hang out there in the space above Chandrila. They wait with dozens of other capital ships: the Alderaanian Sunspire; the Corellian Redeemer, an assault frigate; and of course, their flagship, the Mon Calamari’s Home One.
Her hands are shaking. As they do.
In the glass of the viewport, though, is a ghost hovering amid the fleet, a ghost with a ruined face. Half the face is smooth and plasticky, fitting poorly against the other, more natural half. That plastic has none of the blemishes associated with flesh: no moles, no marks, no crow’s-feet by the eyes, no curving lines carved around the side of the mouth. It is an imperfect fit, as well—around the eye, the skin ends prematurely, yielding the dark, turning mechanics that support the mechanical eye.
That eye glows red. It telescopes as the aperture opens and it focuses on its own reflection, for the face of the wraith is just Agate’s own mask.