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As the rescuing Pelta-class medfrigate approached his escape pod, Sergeant Crasher exhaled. The sound filled in the tiny space, painfully loud. His remaining cadets were quiet, rather than commenting or asking questions as they usually did. One shifted in his seat, but if not for that, Crasher might have thought himself alone. Outside the viewport, a dozen other pods hung in space, and the Jedi starfighters looped around them, overseeing the rescue. Crasher found himself anticipating an update from them via com. Instead, a vacuum filled the air, silence where sound should be, just like the gap in the row of pods where his missing cadets should have been.
He’d repeated the same tasks for the past half-hour: checking coms, scanning for a signal, checking visually if any nearby pod was dead in space. Even the Jedi went searching for the cadets, suspecting the Endurance’s saboteur was responsible. Was that true? It could have been a malfunction, but would a malfunctioned pod disappear so completely?
There’s nothing more you can do , he told himself.
A trooper’s voice came on over the comm: “ Escape pod D-One, this is medical cruiser Forty-Thirty-Seven. Do you have any wounded?”
Anxiety radiated off the cadets behind him. Crasher’s mouth felt dry. “Negative, cruiser. No wounded.”
“Roger. Stand by; you’ll be able to dock shortly.”
“Copy that.” Without a hangar, the frigate had to collect pods two at a time, unload all troops and supplies, then jettison the pods. Still, troopers were nothing if not efficient. The row shrank like a countdown. Empty pods drifted past, space junk, no more important than tin cans on the Coruscant streets. They would drift in darkness, the power draining until everything inside was dead. And with each new gap, the void intruded, compressing the air inside the pod. Soon, the rescue would be over. The cruiser had to report to the medical station as soon as possible. No more resources would be spared for a search.
A sick feeling stirred inside Crasher. Why would the saboteur target cadets? What use were they compared to an officer, or an adult trooper for that matter? The saboteur might have accidentally kidnapped the cadets when aiming for someone else. But their target seemed to be General Windu, and he had his own starfighter. So why an escape pod?
Maybe they had done this on purpose, using his cadets as hostages or sources of information. Would the four of them remember their interrogation training? How long would they last?
“ Escape pod D-One, proceed to the starboard docking tube. ”
“Copy.” Crasher realized his hands were shaking on the steering controls and tightened his grip. Asking why was useless. He knew from experience. With soft hisses, the thrusters activated, propelling them toward the ship.
Continuing an active search didn’t have a point, anyway. The Jedi had scanned the surrounding area a few times, but they couldn’t get even a power reading. Of course, the bridge would continue to scan, and if they found anything, they would notify Crasher. But the rescue of Admiral Kilian and the men trapped on the Endurance took precedence. Better to save the lives they knew they could than to waste time and resources on four cadets with unknown whereabouts and slim survival chances.
Crasher’s gut felt squeezed by an invisible hand. He focused on docking the pod safely.
A medic, wearing white fatigues and holding a datapad, waited inside the airlock. He visually scanned them. “No injuries?”
“No, sir.”
The medic motioned further inside the ship. “There are a few open barracks. Get some food and rest. If you have any problems, come to us.” His voice was crisp–honed and prepared for the emergency, doing what had to be done. Crasher had to do the same.
Following his mental map, Crasher headed for the bridge. His cadets trailed after him like lost lambs, and he didn’t bother to dismiss them. For now, he had to grasp the proper words for a report. Concentrate. They’re counting on you to maintain a solid front.
On the bridge, two pilots sat at the helm; one ordered another pod to begin docking. Captain Silver stood facing the star-speckled sky, inspecting a datapad. He turned as they approached, and Crasher’s spine snapped into automatic attention. “Sir. CT-Five-Two-Six, Sergeant Crasher reporting.”
Raising an eyebrow, Silver took in him and the four cadets. They snapped belatedly to attention. “Yes, Sergeant?” He also had a job to do: collecting information on the injured and saving those in the most critical conditions. Crasher had to be brief.
His throat tightened. “I’m here to report the loss of four cadets, sir. Cadet Eleven-Seventy-Four, Cadet Fifty-Thirty-Six, Cadet Twelve-Eighty-Five, and Cadet Three-Two-Seven. Their pod missed the rendezvous point. Attempts to raise them on the com channels and to use their locating beacon failed. It is likely their pod malfunctioned.” His voice, miraculously, betrayed nothing. The captain knew about the missing pod–Crasher reported it himself, and the Jedi verified it. This was only a formality, final confirmation. What was said here would be transcribed in the files.
Silver was watching him, expectant. The cadets’ eyes burned holes in Crasher’s spine. Even the pilots seemed to strain to hear what Crasher was supposed to say. Swallowing, he forced out the words: “I must report them…missing in action.”
Missing in action. A terrible phrase, more terrible because of its uncertainty. Wondering whether they lived, but knowing they would likely not return. Crasher’s training kept him at attention, his face blank and voice calm.
The captain tapped his datapad. “I’ll ensure their files are updated.” Crasher thought he saw one pilot glance over his shoulder. But the next moment, he was telling another pod to dock. Everyone was professional, composed, and intent on their duty.
Crasher’s head jerked in a stiff nod. “Thank you, sir.” He ought to have left, lead his cadets to the barracks. But his feet stalled, disobeying him.
Noticing, Silver let his own face soften. “I’m sorry.” His gaze strayed past Crasher’s face to the cadets.
Crasher didn’t hear them respond. The pressure in his chest increased. He dipped his head, the muscles so tense they creaked. “Thank you, sir.”
His feet worked again. He turned, and his cadets parted before him, not old enough, well-trained enough, to hide their pain.
They marched down the clean corridors, pressing against the walls to make way for the medics and their gurneys occupied by groaning troopers. The cries of the injured dug into Crasher’s ears and burrowed in his brain . He avoided the cadets’ horrified expressions. Let them stare . They’ll have to get used to this when they graduate . The thought did not carry as much firmness as it usually did.
The barracks door opened to a long hallway with beds built into the curved walls. Crasher stepped aside, motioning for his cadets to each take a cot. They obeyed, studying their hands or the far end of the room.
Say something. Teach them to move on. He cleared his throat. “Get some rest, men. I want you to get a few hours of sleep. We’ll meet in the mess around–” he checked his chrono; it was 01:30– “oh-six-hundred. If we’ve reached the hospital station and all the wounded have been unloaded, I may request we take a tour of the facility. If not, we’ll tour this frigate. We will see one or the other before returning to base.”
After a moment, Cadet 1227 lifted his head. “Sir?”
Crasher put his hands behind his back, one hand squeezing the other wrist. His pulse raced against his fingers. “Yes, cadet?”
1227 seemed to be bracing himself. “Sir, will we get replacement squadmates for this outfit?”
The others turned to Crasher. Cadet 1151, the only cadet without the standard crew cut, narrowed his eyes. Crasher recalled he was the one who had spent a lot of time with Cadet 1174 and Cadet 1285. Forcing himself to meet their eyes, he said, “Eventually, yes. Once we return to base, I will send a request for replacement cadets from Kamino, although you may be reassigned to other outfits. For now, we will work with what we have.”
1227 looked down. 1151 stood, fists clenched. “But Sarge, what if they’re alive?”
Crasher’s chest squeezed. “ It’s likely they aren’t,” formed in his mind, but couldn’t make it past his lips. His training rebuked him: war carried difficult truths, loss most of all. As their sergeant, his duty was to prepare them. They have to deal with it sooner or later. Tell them.
Crasher opened his mouth, but the words clogged his throat. Why couldn’t he get enough air?
This is part of war. This is part of their lives. Tell them.
His cadets’ eyes bored into him, full of pain and dread and a truth they couldn’t bring themselves to accept.
TELL THEM.
But… He closed his mouth, aware the longer he delayed, the less in control he seemed.
TELL THEM!
He wet his lips and took a slow breath. “Even if they are alive, their coordinates are uncertain. Unless they are found before this frigate jumps to hyperspace, it’s unlikely they will ever be.” A shaky sigh rose through his chest, but Crasher swallowed it. Stay calm.
1151 sat abruptly, shoulders slumped, face crumpled. The others sat in a silence as stifling as their escape pod. Did the missing cadets have enough oxygen? Or were they suffocating, like Crasher was?
No. He was better than this. It was his duty to keep his cadets focused on what mattered. Reaching for his training, he donned a sergeant’s collected posture like a mask. His voice came out strong. “Don’t worry about them; there’s nothing you can do. Let the pilots and the scanners do their jobs. In the meantime, I don’t want any distractions from your training.”
“Yes, sir.” One by one, they looked away.
Crasher retreated to the door, which opened automatically. Turning his back to them was a relief. “All right. Get some sleep. Remember, mess hall at oh-six-hundred.”
He left, taking hallways and corners at random, away from the company of his fellow soldiers. A voice broke his buzzing thoughts–the intercom: “This is Captain Silver. Prepare for lightspeed.”
So the Jedi hadn’t found the Admiral or Commander Ponds. Two more deaths in a long casualty list. The search was over; the lost cadets would remain lost. But it was best they leave now for the medical station. The wounded needed care, and Captain Silver was following the rule every trooper learned early: focus on the lives that can be saved. Crasher had to remember that. He couldn’t let this loss distract him from being the officer he was supposed to be.
Bracing himself against the wall, he felt the ship jump to hyperspace, hurtle billions of klicks away from the Endurance wreckage, into darkness.