THANE WENT THROUGH the motions as blankly and automatically as his astromech droid: reach rendezvous point, input codes to receive location of the next rendezvous point, leap into hyperspace again, and finally connect with their new base ship, the Mon Calamari cruiser Liberty.

The Liberty was far larger and more sophisticated than most of the vessels in the motley rebel fleet. However, it was designed for the comfort of the Mon Calamari, not humans. Temperatures were higher, and the humidity in the air was so intense Thane’s skin grew damp within minutes.

He needed some distraction from the discomfort, Thane decided. Better not to be alone with his thoughts anyway. He kept seeing that TIE fighter tumble down, kept imagining Ciena dying in the heart of it—and he had to stop that somehow.

First he sought out friends. Wedge clapped Thane on the back, and Thane managed to smile as they congratulated each other on the walkers they’d taken down. But Wedge’s face fell when Thane asked about Dak Ralter. “Dak died during the battle. Their snowspeeder was hit; only Skywalker made it out.”

Only half a day before, Thane had been teasing Dak about hero-worshiping Luke Skywalker. Now Dak lay dead and abandoned on Hoth, his body crushed by an AT-AT.

The kid hadn’t even been nineteen years old.

“If it’s any consolation,” Wedge said, studying Thane’s expression, “Luke said Dak died from the blast. Instantly.”

“Consolation,” Thane repeated. “Right.”

Wedge looked like he might say more, but Thane didn’t want to hear it. He turned and walked through the launching bay, watching the activity around him as if he’d never seen any of it before. Pilots laughed and joked, because that was how you dealt with unending mortal danger: you pretended it didn’t exist. Only a handful of the rebels standing around showed any evidence of grief or shock.

They were probably imagining scenes as terrible as the one playing over and over in Thane’s mind—Ciena and Dak, both dead, their bodies broken as they lay on the surface of Hoth. Soon they would be covered by the snow, never to be seen again.

“Hey, are you all right?” Yendor fell in step beside him, his blue lekku hanging down his back.

“I’m fine.”

“If this is what ‘fine’ looks like for you, I really don’t want to see your version of ‘bad.’”

“Dak Ralter bought it.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Yendor said. “He was a good kid.”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t think you guys were that close, though.”

“We weren’t.” It’s not just Dak. I might have killed Ciena today—and I realize it almost certainly wasn’t her, but it could’ve been her and I’ll never know—“Skip it, all right?”

Yendor was smart enough to move on. “Consider it skipped. Come help me get the new recruits set up with some gear, why don’t you? A couple dozen of them were on their way to Hoth when the alert went out.”

“Sure,” Thane said. It was something to do.

He even had one pleasant surprise as he handed out helmets, blasters, and communicators to the rookies—a familiar face. “Look what the gundark dragged in,” said Kendy Idele, a broad smile spreading across her face. Her dark green hair hung in a long braid down the back of her white coveralls, a few damp strands clinging to her forehead. “Thane Kyrell. Never thought I’d see you here.”

“Kendy. I thought you were in the Imperial Starfleet for life.”

“Shows how much you know.” Kendy laughed out loud. She seemed a little happier to see him than he was to see her. It was good to find Kendy again, in some ways; they hadn’t been good friends at the academy, but he’d always admired her. In particular he remembered how deadly she’d been on the practice range, how she could take down three target fliers per second with her blaster. The Rebellion needed people who could shoot like that.

But she had been one of Ciena’s bunkmates and best friends. Thane couldn’t even look at Kendy without expecting to see Ciena at her side.

Nothing much would get done that day except taking names, taking stock, and sweating. Echo Base command center had been hit, which meant disorganization and uncertainty had taken over. Several vital personnel were missing, apparently. Not only had Luke Skywalker failed to show at the rendezvous point, but the Millennium Falcon had gone missing also, with Princess Leia Organa aboard. General Rieekan had called an emergency conference of the senior officers attached to this portion of the fleet, which Wedge got pulled into. That left the rest of them to fix damage to their starfighters, haul equipment into something vaguely resembling regulation, and wait for new orders and their next destination.

So it wasn’t that surprising when one of the transport pilots mentioned that they’d brewed a little engine-room hooch.

Making jet juice was one of those things the brass officially banned but in fact turned a blind eye to as long as neither the manufacture nor consumption interfered with duty. For the next day or two, before they migrated to their next location, they were as free from danger as it was possible for a rebel army to be: if the Imperial Starfleet had any idea where the rebels’ rendezvous points were, it would have immediately followed them in force. Any good officer knew soldiers needed a chance to blow off steam, particularly after a big battle—so nobody said a word when the cups started being passed around.

Thane gulped down his first so quickly his eyes watered. Whatever else engine-room jet juice might be, it wasn’t “mellow.” But as soon as he’d finished coughing, he held out his cup for a refill.

“Hitting it hard tonight,” Yendor observed, one lek quirking inquisitively.

“Why not?” Thane said. He didn’t meet Yendor’s eyes.

It wasn’t as if Thane never drank. He’d had a couple of cups of hooch on occasion, and he didn’t mind an ale or two. Over time he’d even developed a taste for Andoan wine. But heavy drinking had never interested him, not even when he was a kid on Jelucan and the other boys in his school would get completely wasted on festival nights.

He had never even tried any inebriates before that evening in the Fortress, with the flask of valley wine Ciena had smuggled in her robes. They had been no more than fourteen. Both of them had hated the sticky-sweet stuff and wound up pouring most of it out. Her full lips had still been stained berry dark as she had rinsed out the flask, laughing, saying they shouldn’t even have to smell it any longer—

Ciena. Always Ciena. Did Thane possess a memory worth having that she wasn’t a part of? Could he drink enough to blot out even the thought of her?

Apparently not. But he didn’t fail for lack of trying.

Another drink. Then another. Thane’s experience of the evening became fragmented and surreal. He knew Kendy had told the story of how her entire patrol had mutinied on Miriatin, and how only one-third of them had managed to escape with their lives. He remembered a game of sabacc but none of the cards he’d held. Maybe some guys from Ord Mantell had sung an obscene song about the unique pleasures each species could provide in bed. At some point, Yendor had asked Thane whether he didn’t want to lay off and go to sleep, but Thane had told his Twi’lek friend to mind his own business. When the room spun around him, Thane simply braced himself against the side of the nearest X-wing and kept going.

That was how he found himself, at some unknown hour of the night, stumbling through the unfamiliar base alone and trying hard not to fall flat on his face.

C’mon. You can figure out where the bunks are. They showed you earlier. But his drunkenness had folded the strange corridors of the Mon Calamari ship into even stranger angles. The walls kept showing up where the floor should be, and vice versa. Finally Thane decided sitting down would be a great idea.

As his back slid down the wall, he felt his stomach turn over, a threat of what was to come. He’d never drunk to the point of vomiting before. That was not an experience he’d been eager to try. First time for everything, he thought in a haze.

Then someone helped him to his feet, a woman he’d never met before—or he thought he’d never met before—but she seemed kind as she put one of his arms around her shoulders. That seemed as good a reason as any for Thane to tell her his life story.

“I mean, really I’m only—only telling you the parts about Ciena,” he mumbled as the woman steered him toward the nearest head. “But that’s pretty much my whole life. The good part of my life, anyway.”

“Sounds like it. Here, sit down.”

She poured him into a chair. Thane let his head droop backward. “I know I probably didn’t shoot her down today. But I could’ve done it. Or any of the other guys—they could’ve done it, and they’re on my side, you know? They’re my friends, and we all hate the Empire, but if I ever found out one of them had killed Ciena—and it’s crazy, because, you know, she turned me in to the Empire. Can you believe that? She gave me a head start, but she turned me in. Sometimes I think about that and I get so angry I could—but it still kills me to think about her getting hurt—”

“Shhh.” The woman laid some sort of cool, damp towel across his forehead. This was the best idea anyone had ever had. Thane decided she was some kind of genius.

So maybe she could help him figure out what was going on.

“What happens if—what if someday I’m in battle against the Empire again and I freeze up? What if I can’t fire because I know Ciena could be in any one of those TIE fighters? What if I do fire and she is in one of them?” Thane became aware that he was on the verge of tearing up and managed to stop. He might be a sloppy drunk, but he’d be damned if he’d break down. “I don’t want to kill her. And I don’t want other people to die because I’m afraid of hurting this one person in the entire Imperial Starfleet that I love.”

“I understand,” the woman said, putting a cup in his hands. “Drink some water. You’ll thank me later.”

After that, things became even blurrier. At some point, Thane must have found his bunk, because he dimly perceived crawling into it fully clothed, down to his boots. And that was where he woke up the next morning, hating life.

“This is where a lesser being would say, ‘I told you so.’” Yendor grinned as Thane leaned over the nearest bucket.

“Please shut up.”

“Not until I tell you that our squadron has a briefing with the top brass in, oh, half an hour.”

Thane rolled his eyes at his own stupidity, then winced. He hadn’t known rolling his eyes could hurt. “Can you get rid of hangovers by dunking yourself in a bacta tank?”

Yendor considered that. “Huh. You know, that’s not a bad idea? We’ll have to test it someday. Right now, though—you’re out of time.”

“Great. Just great.”

Through what felt like superhuman effort, Thane managed to shower and get into uniform. The dark circles under his eyes and the faint reddish stubble on his cheeks—well, people had showed up for roll call looking rougher than he did. The surgical droid 2-1B gave him an injection that would restore his blood chemistry to bearable levels within an hour or two. All Thane had to do was make it through the briefing.

When the entire squadron stood at attention, General Rieekan entered the room—but he wasn’t alone. Behind him walked a composed, majestic woman with dark red hair, dressed all in white.

“I don’t believe it,” Kendy whispered.

“Me either,” said Yendor, who stood by Thane’s side, a huge grin on his face. “We finally get to meet Mon Mothma herself!”

Mon Mothma. One of the only senators to openly defy Palpatine as he rose to power. “Most Wanted” on every list of criminals the Imperial Starfleet kept. One of the leaders of the Rebel Alliance.

And the woman who had spent the previous night listening to Thane spill his guts, literally and figuratively.

How could he have failed to recognize her? He’d been even drunker than he’d thought. Of course the news reports from the Empire only showed images of Mon Mothma from many years before; she had been underground for some time. But Thane had been too intoxicated to recognize the woman even when she held his head over a basin as he puked his guts out.

Great. Just great. If only he could have sunk into the floor and let it close back over him to hide any evidence that he’d ever existed—but Thane had to stand there and pretend everything was normal.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice as calm and steady as it had been the night before. “It is an honor to meet more of the warriors who have helped the Rebel Alliance stay strong during these dark times.”

Pride rippled through the squadron, even getting to Thane despite his shame. To think that the leader of the entire Rebellion would say it was an honor to meet them. He doubted the Emperor had ever said such a thing to any of his troops.

Mothma continued, “All of you understand that obviously we must be on the move soon.” Her eyes studied each of the pilots in turn; Thane wondered how a voice that gentle could belong to the same person as that steely gaze. “However, Corona Squadron, you will not accompany the rest of the fleet to their new rendezvous point.”

Everyone exchanged glances. Was it some kind of penalty for their carousing last night—or some other, more significant infraction? But they hadn’t done anything worth any kind of penalty, so far as Thane knew; in fact, they were one of the top squadrons in the fleet.

Mon Mothma then said, “We have…important tasks for you.”

No further words were necessary. She meant intelligence work. That also meant danger. But Thane hadn’t joined the Rebellion to play it safe.

“You’ve been chosen for this work even though many of you are new to the Rebellion. However, you have the right skills for the tasks to come.” Mon Mothma took a seat at the one desk in the small space. Somehow the sheer power of her presence transformed the room into a chamber of state.

She’s already the Emperor’s match, Thane thought, even if Palpatine doesn’t know it yet.

General Rieekan spoke up. “For the foreseeable future, Corona Squadron will remain based on the Liberty. You’ll get permanent bunk assignments within the next few hours.”

“Aw, man,” Yendor deadpanned. “I always hoped I’d get to live in a sauna someday.”

Rieekan raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, Private Yendor?”

“I meant, I always hoped I’d get to live in a sauna someday, sir.”

That made the others laugh, and even Rieekan smiled. Mon Mothma’s face remained impassive—but not disapproving. The same minor informality would’ve landed an Imperial officer in the brig; in the rebel fleet, discipline could coexist with humanity.

“Both group and individual assignments will be discussed as they arise,” Mon Mothma continued as smoothly as though there had been no interruption. “But you all deserve to know—the risks will be considerable, even greater than those you already face. It is possible that any or all of you may be asked to go on missions with little or no chance that you will ever return. If you feel you cannot accept such missions, speak now. There is no shame in doing so.”

Everyone remained silent and at attention, wordlessly accepting the danger. Thane kept his gaze straight forward, not directly looking at anyone in the room. But he could feel Mon Mothma’s gaze on him.

When the quiet had gone on long enough, Rieekan nodded. “Good. For now, get your new members up to date on our protocols”—that was accompanied by a nod toward Kendy, the newest of them all—“and await further instructions.”

“Thank you for your courageous service, officers,” Mon Mothma said. “You are dismissed.” As everyone turned to go, and just as Kendy leaned toward Thane to ask a question, Mothma added, “Lieutenant Kyrell, I’d like to have a word.”

And he’d been so close to making a clean getaway.

Thane turned around, again at attention, to face Mon Mothma. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of General Rieekan; the general seemed surprised. At least Mon Mothma hadn’t shared the tale of Thane’s drunken moping with the entire Rebel Command.

Not yet, anyway.

The doors slid shut after the last of the others left, and Thane was alone with Mon Mothma. Under most circumstances, junior officers waited for their superiors to speak first. Thane thought this might be an exception to that rule. “Ma’am. I apologize for my—impropriety last night. Obviously, I overindulged in our, uh, celebrations. It won’t happen again.”

Mon Mothma leaned back in her chair, mouth quirked. “Lieutenant Kyrell, if I drummed pilots out of the service every time one of them had a little too much of the engine-room hooch, there would be no Rebellion.”

“Yes, ma’am.” But why then had she singled him out? He remembered some of what he’d said last night about freezing up, and his horror deepened. “If you’re concerned that I’ll fail to do my duty on one of the special missions for Corona Squadron, you don’t have to be, ma’am.”

“My concerns are irrelevant,” she said crisply. “The problem here is that you’re questioning yourself. Self-doubt will cripple you more surely than fear ever could. I hear you’re an outstanding pilot, Kyrell. Moment to moment, I feel certain you’ll do your duty. However, if you fall apart after every major engagement, you’ll self-destruct before long.”

Thane could say nothing. He knew she was right.

She continued, “Many people in the Rebellion have friends or family who serve the Empire in some capacity, or on planets or ships that may fare badly in this war. You aren’t the only one with conflicts.”

Yendor sometimes spoke quietly of his son, Bizu, left behind on Ryloth. Kendy’s entire family back on Iloh would now be at risk because of her defection. “Yes, ma’am. I realize that.”

Mon Mothma rose to her feet, and as she stepped closer Thane saw in her expression the kindness he’d sensed through his haze the previous night. “It’s all right if you still love someone on the other side of this war—as long as you love what you’re fighting for even more.”

He had never thought of himself as fighting for anything. Thane had joined the Rebellion to fight against the Empire, not for the restoration of the Republic or any of the other grand schemes people talked about. As long as the Empire fell, he’d figured, the rest could sort itself out. Now, however, he finally asked himself what his decision really meant.

Fighting against the Empire meant fighting for galactic authority that valued justice and valor more than raw power, that treated the governed with respect instead of endless deception and manipulation. Fighting against the slavery of the Bodach’i and the Wookiees meant fighting for individuals to have the right of self-determination. Fighting against those who had callously and brutally destroyed Alderaan meant fighting for every other inhabited world in the entire galaxy.

Thane believed in all those things, enough to die for them, and yet he knew that wasn’t why he was in the fight. He’d joined the Rebellion to take down the Empire and remained unmoved by all those starry-eyed notions of the New Republic to come. Just because he thought the next galactic government would be better than the Empire didn’t mean he thought it would be good. In the end it would be another bureaucracy, another group dominated by the Core Worlds while the Outer Rim had to handle problems on its own—superior to the Empire in every way, of course, but that wasn’t exactly a high bar to clear.

So his answer was no. He didn’t love the Rebellion more than he loved Ciena.

But he could be willing to die for only one of those things, and he knew which one he had to choose—no matter how much it hurt.

Mon Mothma said, “Can you do your duty, Kyrell?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. Thane felt the full weight of his words. He had just sworn to do whatever it took, up to and including taking Ciena’s life.

Yet he knew he would never hesitate to fire in battle again.