A SHIP SLICED THROUGH the shale-gray sky overhead, so quickly it was no more than a line of light and a distant screech almost lost in the wind.

“That’s a Lambda-class shuttle!” Thane Kyrell pointed upward, jumping with excitement. “Did you hear it? Did you, Dalven?”

His older brother cuffed him and sneered. “You don’t know what the ships look like. You’re too little to know.”

“Am not. It was a Lambda-class shuttle. You can tell by the sound of the engines—”

“Children, hush.” Thane’s mother never glanced back at them. She concentrated on holding up the hem of her saffron-colored robe so it wouldn’t trail in the dust. “I told you we ought to have brought the hovercraft. Instead we’re wandering down to Valentia on foot like valley trash.”

“The hangars will be a madhouse,” insisted Thane’s father, Oris Kyrell, with a contemptuous sniff. “Thousands of people trying to land whether or not they’ve got a reservation. Do you want to spend our whole day fighting over docking rights? Better to do it this way. The boys can keep up well enough.”

Dalven could; he was twelve years old, long-limbed and proud to tower over his younger brother. For Thane, the downhill trek through the uneven mountain paths was harder going. So far he was shorter than most boys his age; the large feet and hands that hinted at his future height were, for now, merely awkward. His reddish-blond hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, and he wished his parents had let him wear his favorite boots instead of these shiny new ones, which pinched his toes at every step. But he would have made a more difficult trip than that to finally see TIE fighters and shuttles—real spacecraft, not like some clunky old V-171.

“It was a Lambda-class shuttle,” he muttered, hoping Dalven wouldn’t overhear.

But he did. His older brother stiffened, and Thane prepared himself. Dalven never hit him very hard when their parents were nearby, but those lesser shoves or punches were often a warning of worse to come later. This time, however, Dalven did nothing. Maybe he was distracted by the promise of the spectacle they would see that day—the display of flying power and fighting techniques by vessels of the Imperial fleet.

Or maybe Dalven was embarrassed because he’d realized Thane had identified the ship when he couldn’t.

He says he’s going to the Imperial Academy, Thane thought, but that’s just because he thinks it will make him important. Dalven doesn’t know every single ship like I do. He doesn’t study the manuals or practice with a glider. Dalven will never be a real pilot.

But I will.

“We should’ve left Thane at home with the housekeeper droid.” Dalven’s voice had become sulky. “He’s too little for any of this. In another hour he’ll be whining to go home.”

“I won’t,” Thane insisted. “I’m old enough. Aren’t I, Mama?”

Ganaire Kyrell nodded absently. “Of course you’re old enough. You were born in the same year as the Empire itself, Thane. Never forget that.”

How could he forget when she’d reminded him at least five times already that day? He wanted to say so, but that would only earn him another cuff from Dalven—or, worse, a new barrage of insults from his father, whose words could cut deeper than any blade. Already he could sense them staring at him, waiting for any show of defiance or weakness. Thane turned as if he were looking down toward their destination, the city of Valentia, so neither his father nor Dalven would see his expression. It was always better when they didn’t know what Thane was thinking.

He wasn’t worried about his mother. She rarely noticed him at all.

The wind tugged at his blue-and-gold-embroidered cloak, and Thane shivered. Other worlds had to be warmer. Brighter, busier, more fun in every way. He believed this despite never having visited another planet in his life; it was impossible to think that the vastness of the galaxy didn’t contain someplace better to be than here.

Jelucan had been settled late in galactic history, probably because nobody else had been desperate enough to want a nearly uninhabitable rock at the very edge of the Outer Rim. Nearly five hundred years before, an initial group of settlers had been exiled here from another world, equally obscure. They’d fought on the wrong side of some civil war or other. Thane didn’t know the details. His parents had told him only that those first settlers had gotten themselves mired in the valleys, in nearly total poverty, and had barely been able to keep themselves alive.

True civilization had only come later, a hundred and fifty years ago, with the second wave of settlers, who had come here voluntarily in hopes of building their fortunes. They’d managed to establish mining, engage with galactic commerce, and lead modern lives—unlike the people from the valleys, who behaved more like pre-technological nomads than modern people. Of course they were Jelucani, too, but they were unfriendly, isolated, and proud.

Or maybe it was only that the valley kindred were still mad about being dumped on this icy rugged rock of a world. If so, Thane didn’t blame them.

“A pity the Emperor himself won’t be able to attend,” his mother said. “Wouldn’t it have been something to see him for ourselves?”

Like the Emperor would ever come here. Thane knew better than to say that out loud.

Everyone was supposed to love Emperor Palpatine. Everyone said he was the bravest, most intelligent person in the galaxy, that he was the one who had brought order after the chaos of the Clone Wars. Thane wondered if that was all true. Certainly Palpatine had made the Empire strong, and made himself the most powerful man within it.

Thane didn’t really care if the Emperor was nice or not. The Empire’s coming was a good thing, because it brought its ships with it. All he wanted was to see those ships. Then, later, to learn to fly them.

And, finally, to fly far away from here, never to return.

“Ciena! Your eyes on the path or you’ll fall.”

Ciena Ree couldn’t stop staring into the gray sky. She could’ve sworn she’d heard a Lambda-class shuttle, and she wanted more than anything to see one, too. “But, Mumma—I know I heard a ship.”

“It’s always ships and flying, with you.” Her mother, Verine, chuckled softly and picked up her daughter, then placed her on the wide furry back of the muunyak they were leading uphill toward Valentia. “There. Save your strength for the big parade.”

Ciena buried her hands in the muunyak’s shaggy hair. It smelled agreeably of musk and hay. Of home.

As she peered upward, she saw a thin line in the clouds—already disappearing but evidence that the shuttle had been there. She shivered with excitement, then remembered to take hold of the braided leather bracelet around her wrist. Pressing the leather between her fingers, Ciena whispered, “Look through my eyes.”

Now her sister, Wynnet, could see it, too. Ciena lived her life for them both and never forgot that.

Her father must have heard her, because he wore the sad smile that meant he was thinking of Wynnet, too. But he only patted his daughter’s head and tucked one wayward black curl behind her ear.

Finally, after two hours’ trek upward, they reached Valentia. Ciena had never seen a real city before, except in holos; her parents rarely left their home valley and certainly had never taken her with them when they did, until today. Her eyes widened as she took in the buildings carved into the pale white stone of the cliffs—some of them ten or fifteen stories high. They stretched along the side of the mountain as far as Ciena could see. All around the carved dwellings stood tents and awnings, dyed in a dozen brilliant colors and draped with fringe or beads. Imperial flags fluttered from poles newly jabbed into the ground or mounted in stone.

Thronging the streets were more people than she’d ever seen together in her eight years. Some were hawking food or souvenirs for the great occasion—Imperial banners or small holos of the Emperor smiling benevolently, translucently, above a small iridescent disc. Most, however, walked along the same crowded roads as she and her family, all headed toward the ceremony. Even a few droids rolled, hovered, or shuffled through the crowd, each of them shinier and obviously far more modern than the one battered cutter droid in her village.

Those people and droids would have been far more fascinating if they hadn’t all been in her way.

“Are we going to be late?” Ciena said. “I don’t want to miss the ships.”

“We won’t be late.” Her mother sighed. She’d said so many times that day, and Ciena knew she needed to be quiet. But then Verine Ree put her hands on her young daughter’s shoulders; as soft as the gesture was, the muunyak knew to stop walking forward. Mumma’s faded black cloak blew around her too-thin body as she said, “I know you’re excited, my heart. This is the biggest day of your life so far. Why shouldn’t you be thrilled? But have faith. The Empire will be waiting for us when we finish traveling up the mountain, whenever that may be. All right?”

Mumma’s smile could make Ciena feel like she’d stepped into a patch of sunshine. “All right.”

It didn’t matter when they finished climbing. The Empire would always, always be waiting for her.

As Mumma had promised, they reached the paddock in plenty of time. But as her parents were paying for a day’s corralling and feed, Ciena heard the laughter.

“They rode that filthy muunyak to the Imperial ceremony!” yelled a teenage second-wave boy. The livid red of his cloak reminded Ciena of an open sore. “They’re going to stink up the entire place.”

Ciena felt her cheeks flush warm, but she refused to look at the kids taunting her any longer. Instead she patted the muunyak’s side; it blinked at her, patient as ever. “We’ll come back for you later,” she promised. “Don’t be lonely.” No taunts from some stupid big kids could make her ashamed of the beast. She loved it and its smell. Stupid second-wavers didn’t understand what it meant to be close to your animals, or to the land.

Yet now that she saw hundreds of second-wave folk in their long silken cloaks and richly quilted clothing, Ciena looked down at her light brown dress and felt shabby. Always, before, she had liked this dress, because the fabric was only slightly paler than her skin, and she liked that they matched. Now she noticed the ragged hem and the loose threads at the sleeves.

“Don’t let them affect you.” Her father’s face had become tense, pinched. “Their day is over, and they know it.”

“Paron,” whispered Ciena’s mother as she clutched her husband’s arm. “Keep your voice down.”

He continued with more discretion but even greater pride. “The Empire respects hard work. Absolute loyalty. Their values are like ours. Those second-wave folk—they don’t think about anything but lining their own pockets.”

That meant making money. Ciena knew this because her father said it often, always about the second-wavers who lived in the highest mountains. She didn’t see what was so bad about making money, really. But other things were more important…especially honor.

Ciena and every other resident of the Jelucan valleys were descended from loyalists cast out of their homeworld after the overthrow of their king. One and all, their people had chosen exile rather than betray their allegiance to their leader. Hard as life on Jelucan was, unceasing as their labor and poverty had been ever since, the people of the valleys still took pride in their ancestors’ choice. Like every other child in her village, Ciena had been raised knowing that her word was her bond and her honor the only possession that could ever truly matter.

Let the second-wavers strut around in their new coats and shiny jewelry. Ciena’s plain cloak had been woven by her mother, the wool spun from their muunyak’s fur; her leather bracelet was rebraided and expanded as she grew so it would remain on her wrist her entire life. She owned little, but everything she had—everything she did—contained meaning and value. People from the mountains couldn’t understand that.

As if he could read his daughter’s thoughts, Paron Ree continued, “We’ll have different opportunities now. Better ones. We’ve already seen that, haven’t we?”

Ciena’s mother smiled as she wrapped her pale gray scarf more tightly around her hair. Just three days before, she’d been offered a supervisory position at the nearby mine—the kind of authority the second-wavers tended to save for their own. But the Empire was in charge now. Everything would change.

“You’ll have more choices, Ciena. You have the chance to do more. To be more.” Paron Ree smiled down at his daughter with stern but unmistakable pride. “The Force is guiding this.”

So far as Ciena could tell from the few holos she’d ever been able to watch, most people in the galaxy no longer believed in the Force, the energy that allowed people to become one with the universe. Even she sometimes wondered whether there could ever have been such a thing as a Jedi Knight. The amazing tales the elders told of valiant heroes with lightsabers, who could bend minds, levitate objects—surely those were only stories.

But the Force had to be real, because it had brought the Empire to Jelucan to change all their futures, forever.

“People of Jelucan, today represents both an ending and a beginning,” said the senior Imperial official at the celebration, a man called Grand Moff Tarkin.

(Ciena knew that was his title and his name, but she wasn’t sure whether his title was Grand Moff and his name Tarkin—or whether his name was Moff Tarkin and he was very grand indeed. She’d ask later, when no second-wavers were around to mock her for not knowing.)

Tarkin continued: “On this day ends your isolation from the greater galaxy. Instead, Jelucan begins a new and glorious future by assuming its rightful place within the Empire!”

Applause and cheers filled the air, and Ciena clapped along with all the rest. But her sharp eyes picked out a few people who remained silent—elders, mostly, who would have been alive since before the Clone Wars. They stood there, still and grave, more like mourners at a funeral or witnesses to public dishonor. One silver-haired, pale-skinned woman bowed her head, and a tear ran down her cheek. Ciena wondered if perhaps she’d had a son or daughter who died in the wars and seeing all these soldiers had reminded her of the loss and made her sad on such a happy day.

Because there were so many soldiers—officers in crisp black or gray uniforms and stormtroopers in gleaming white armor. And there seemed to be nearly as many ships as troops: hard-cornered TIE fighters black as obsidian, assault cruisers the same gray as mountain granite, and high above in orbit, twinkling like the south star at morning, a few specks that she knew were actually Star Destroyers. Each and every Star Destroyer was bigger than the entire city of Valentia, they said, two or three times over.

Just the thought of it made Ciena’s heart swell with pride. Now she had become part of the Empire—not only her planet but she herself, too. The Empire governed the whole galaxy. The Imperial fleet’s power exceeded that of any other fighting force in all of history. Seeing the ships fly overhead in precise formation, never deviating from their prescribed paths, thrilled her to the bone.

This was strength, grandeur, majesty. This was the kind of honor and discipline she’d been raised to value, but taken to heights of which she’d never dreamed. Nothing could be more beautiful than this, she thought.

Unless someday she could actually fly one of those ships herself.

Grand Moff Tarkin kept speaking, saying something about Separatist worlds that made everybody seem uncomfortable for a moment, but then he went back to how great the Empire was and how proud everyone had to be. Ciena cheered when the others did, but by then she was wholly focused on the nearest ship, a shuttle just like the one she thought she’d seen in the sky. If only she could get a closer look…

Maybe after the ceremony she could.

When the speeches and music ended, the Kyrells had a private reception to attend with Very Important Officials, and they told Dalven to keep an eye on Thane. As they said the words, Thane silently estimated how long it would be before Dalven ditched him to go hang out with friends. Five minutes, he thought. Five or six.

For once, he’d overestimated Dalven, who’d abandoned his little brother after only three minutes.

But Thane could take care of himself. More important, he could get a lot closer to the Imperial hangar on his own.

Although most of the Imperial ships had already zoomed back to their Star Destroyers, or to one of the new facilities being built on the southern plateaus, a few remained in the Imperial hangar. The nearest was a Lambda-class shuttle, just like the one Thane was certain he’d seen in the sky earlier.

Sure, the signs said to stay back. But sometimes people assumed little kids couldn’t read signs. Thane figured he was still young enough to get away with that excuse if anybody caught him.

All he wanted to do was look at the ship up close—maybe touch it, just once.

So he crept around to the back of the raised stage erected for the day’s speeches, then ducked under it. Although Thane had to keep his head low, he could run beneath it all the way to the hangar itself. When he emerged, he smiled with pride, then saw to his disappointment that he wasn’t the only one who’d had that idea. Several other kids he knew from his school had gathered nearby, too—slightly older boys, ones he’d never liked—and one other, a skinny girl dressed in shabby clothes that marked her as someone from the valleys. Next to the brilliant crimson and gold of the boys’ robes, her brown dress reminded Thane of an autumn leaf about to fall.

“What are you doing here, valley scum?” said Mothar Drik, the grin on his broad face nastier than usual.

The awestruck smile faded from the girl’s face as she looked from the shuttlecraft toward her new tormentors. “I just wanted to see the ship. Same as you.”

Mothar made an obscene gesture. “Go back to your sty and slop out the dung. That’s where you belong.”

The girl didn’t budge. Instead she balled her hands into fists. “If I were slopping out dung, I’d have to start with you.”

Thane laughed out loud. A few of the other boys saw him, then. One of them said, “Hey, Thane. Going to help take out the trash?”

They meant that they were going to beat up the girl from the valleys. Six of them, one of her: Those were the kind of odds that only appealed to a bully.

Growing up with Oris Kyrell as a father had taught Thane many things. It had taught him how strictly and harshly rules could be enforced. Taught him that his brother responded to their father’s cruelty by being equally cruel to Thane, if not worse. Taught him that it didn’t matter who was really right or wrong—because the rules were set by whoever held the cane.

Above all, it had taught him to hate bullies.

“Yeah,” Thane said. “I’ll take out the trash.” With that, he charged straight at Mothar.

The idiot never saw it coming; his breath went out in a whuff of surprise as he landed on his back, hard. Thane got in a couple of punches before someone towed him off Mothar, and when he saw another of the boys reaching for his collar, he prepared for the inevitable fist to the face—but the skinny girl flung herself onto his attacker, pulling the boy’s arm back. “You let him go!” she yelled.

Two against six still wasn’t great odds, but the girl fought hard. Thane knew he did, too, mostly because, thanks to Dalven, he’d already learned how to take a hit and keep going. Still, the two of them were getting herded toward a corner, Thane already had a bloody lip, and this wasn’t going to end well—

“What’s going on here?”

Everyone froze. Only five meters away stood Grand Moff Tarkin, surrounded by Imperial officers and white-armored stormtroopers. At the sight of them, Mothar fled, his toadies at his heels. That left Thane and the girl standing there alone.

“Well?” Tarkin said, strolling closer. His face could have been etched in a quartz crystal, with its hard, pale lines.

The girl stepped forward. “It’s my fault,” she said. “The other boys were going to beat me up, and he tried to stop them.”

“Very silly of you,” Tarkin said to Thane. He seemed amused. “To fling yourself into a fight you would have lost? Never go up against superior forces, lad. It doesn’t end well.”

Thane thought fast. “It did today, because of you.”

Tarkin chuckled. “You realized an even stronger force would be along shortly, then? Excellent strategic thinking. Well done, my boy.”

They were off the hook now, but the girl from the valleys didn’t seem to know it. “I wasn’t supposed to be in the hangar,” she said, head bowed. “I broke a rule. But I didn’t mean to do anything dishonorable. I only wanted to see the ships.”

“Of course you did,” Tarkin said, leaning down a bit closer to them. “That tells me you’re curious about the galaxy beyond Jelucan. And you two stayed when the other children ran. That tells me you’re brave. Now I want to see if you’re intelligent. What kind of ship do we have here?”

“A Lambda-class shuttle!” they said in unison, then looked at each other. Slowly the girl began to smile, and Thane did, too.

“Very good.” Tarkin held out one hand toward the ship. “Would you like to look inside?”

Did he mean it? He did. Thane could hardly believe his luck as one of the stormtroopers opened the hatch for them. He and the girl ran inside, where everything was black and shiny and lit up with a hundred small lights. They were shown into the cockpit and even got to sit in the pilots’ seats. Grand Moff Tarkin stood just behind, rigid as a flagpole, his boots gleaming as brightly as the polished metal surrounding them.

“Show me the altitude control,” he said. They both pointed to it instantly. “Excellent. And the docking guide? You know that one as well. Yes, you’re both very bright. What are your names?”

“I’m Thane Kyrell.” He wondered if Grand Moff Tarkin would recognize his last name; his parents insisted that the Imperial authorities would know them well. But Tarkin’s face remained only vaguely curious.

The little girl said, “I’m Ciena Ree, sir.”

Sir. He should’ve thought to call Tarkin sir, too. At least Tarkin didn’t seem to mind. “Wouldn’t you like to serve the Emperor someday, and fly ships like these? Then you might become Captain Kyrell and Captain Ree. What would you think of that?”

Thane’s chest swelled with pride. “That would be the best thing ever. Sir.”

Tarkin laughed softly as he turned to one of the junior officers standing just behind him. “You see, Piett? We should never hesitate to use the lash, when necessary—but there are moments when the lure is even more effective.”

Thane had no idea what that meant, and he didn’t care, either. All he knew was that he could no longer imagine any fate more glorious than becoming an officer in the Imperial fleet. From the grin on Ciena’s face, he could tell she felt the same way.

She whispered, “We’ll have to study hard.”

“And practice flying.”

His answer made her face fall. “I don’t have any ships to practice with, and our only simulator is old.”

Of course they didn’t have good simulators in the valleys, and probably only one person in fifty of the valley kindred owned their own craft. Thane felt bad for a moment, until inspiration struck. “You can come practice with me, then.”

Ciena’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Sure.” Lots of maneuvers could only be performed with a copilot. He would need a partner if he wanted to learn to fly well enough to get into the Imperial Starfleet someday.

Besides, Thane could already tell—in spite of all their differences, he and Ciena Ree were going to be friends.