Alphabet Squadron (Star Wars)

Chapter 1\nSituational Awareness\n“I was eighteen kilometers above sea level when they caught me,” she said.\nThe droid measured her heart rate from across the room (sixty-two beats per minute, seven above her baseline) and stored her voiceprint for post-session analysis. It performed a cursory optical scan and noted the scrapes on her lips and forehead; the sling supporting her right arm. She had begun to regain muscle mass, though she remained—the droid permitted itself a poetic flourish—frail.\n“You remember the precise altitude?” the droid asked. For this interaction it had chosen a masculine voice, bass and hollow. The sound projected from a speaker on the underside of its spherical black chassis.\n“I have an extremely good memory.”\nThe droid oriented the red lens of its photoreceptor as if to stare. “So do I.”\nThe woman met its gaze. The droid readjusted the lens.\nThis is the story she told.\nEighteen kilometers above the surface of the planet Nacronis, Yrica Quell fled for her life.\nThe siltstorm raged outside her starfighter, blue and yellow mud roiling against the faceted viewport. A burst of wind lifted the *’s port-side wing, nearly sending her into a spin; she adjusted her repulsors with her gloved left hand while the right urged a rattling lever into position. The * leveled out, and the comforting howl of its twin ion engines rose to a screech as six million stony granules entered the exhaust. Quell winced as she bounced in her harness, listening to her vessel’s agony.\nEmerald light shot past the viewport, incinerating ribbons of airborne mud. She increased her thrust and plunged deeper into the storm, ignoring the engines’ scream.\nHer scanner showed three marks rapidly closing from behind—two fewer than she’d hoped for. She moved a hand to the comm, recalibrated her frequency, and called out two names: “Tonas? Barath?” When no one answered, she recalibrated again and tried, “This is TIE pilot Yrica Quell to Nacronis ground control.” But Tonas and Barath were surely dead, and the locals were jammed, out of range, or ardently inclined to ignore her.\nAnother volley of emerald particle bolts sizzled past her *. Quell maintained her vector. She was a fine defensive pilot, but only the storm could keep her alive now. She had to trust to the wind and the blinding mud to throw off her enemy’s aim.\nHer comm sounded at last. “Lieutenant Quell?”\nShe leaned forward, straining at her harness, trying to peer through the storm as her teeth chattered and her hips knocked against her seat. A ribbon of blue silt streaked by and she glimpsed, beyond it, a flash of white light: lightning ahead and twenty degrees to port.\n“Lieutenant Quell? Please acknowledge.”\nShe considered her options. She could head toward the lightning—toward the storm’s center, where the winds would be strongest. There she could try to locate an updraft. Reduce her thrust, overcharge her repulsors, and let the draft and the repulsors’ antigravity toss her * high while her pursuers passed below. If she didn’t black out, if she didn’t become disoriented, she could dip back down and re-engage her enemy from behind, eliminating one, maybe two before they realized where she’d gone.\n“You are hereby ordered to reduce speed, eject, and await pickup, detention, and court-martial.”\nShe couldn’t imagine that the man on the other end of the comm would fall for such a maneuver. More likely she’d be shot down while she spun helplessly through the sky.\nOf course, she’d also be shot if she ejected. Major Soran Keize was a good man, an admirable man, but she knew there would be no court-martial.\nShe changed course toward the lightning and pitched her * incrementally downward. Toward the ground, she reminded herself—ground, like atmosphere and gravity, was a challenge she normally flew without. Another flash of emerald suggested her foes were getting closer, likely attempting to catch her in their crossfire.\nShe let the wind guide her. She couldn’t outfly Major K