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Fox can feel a migraine assembling behind his left eye.
This one has nothing to do with treason, reconditioning, or whatever damaged section of his brain reacts badly when he thinks too hard about disobeying the Republic.
This migraine is entirely Colonel Meebur Gascon’s fault.
Fox sits behind the desk in the Sentinel’s secondary briefing room, staring at a military officer he has never seen before, while five droids crowd the opposite side of the table and argue in Binary.
One is Skywalker’s astromech.
Of course it is.
R2-D2 whistles something rude at the pit droid standing beside him. WAC-47 responds by climbing onto the table and announcing that his leadership was crucial to the mission.
Gascon slaps one tiny hand against the tabletop.
“Corporal, get down.”
“I am illustrating the tactical environment.”
“You are standing on the official record.”
Fox looks toward Thorn.
Thorn stands near the door in full Guard armor, helmet beneath one arm. The burn scar running from his jaw into the collar of his undersuit is still vivid, but he is back on full duty and already regretting it.
A clone commando is attempting to hide behind him.
Gregor is broader than Thorn, wearing battered Katarn-class armor, and failing spectacularly.
Two Sentinel medics wait in the corridor beyond the open door.
One of them waves.
Gregor withdraws farther behind Thorn.
Thorn closes his eyes.
Fox looks back at Gascon. “Start again.”
The colonel straightens in his chair.
“As stated, D-Squad was assigned to infiltrate a Separatist dreadnought and recover an encryption module.”
“By whom?”
“The Jedi Council.”
“Which member?”
“Master Windu authorized the squad.”
Fox taps the black datapad on his desk. A silver stylized vulptex glows beneath the mission number.
“I have no authorization record.”
“The mission was classified.”
“I have Clearance Level One.”
“It was very classified.”
Fox’s headache adds a second construction crew.
Thorn looks down at his own copy of the report. “You took four astromechs and a pit droid onto a Separatist dreadnought.”
“Five highly specialized operatives,” Gascon corrects.
WAC salutes.
R2 makes a noise that needs no translation.
Fox scrolls through the personnel list.
R2-D2, property of General Anakin Skywalker.
QT-KT, assigned to Jedi General Aayla Secura.
U9-C4, military engineering unit.
M5-BZ, assigned to Master Tera Sinube.
WAC-47, pit droid and apparent punishment from the universe.
“Every one of these droids was pulled from another active command,” Fox says.
“The encryption module was critical.”
“I agree.”
Gascon brightens.
Fox continues. “That doesn’t explain why the Chief of Defense wasn’t informed that strategic assets were being redistributed during four simultaneous sector offensives.”
Gascon’s expression dims again.
Thorn scrolls farther. “Then you crashed.”
“A comet struck our shuttle.”
“You crossed a comet field?”
“We were escaping pursuit.”
“In an unarmed Maxillipede shuttle.”
“It had excellent handling.”
R2 releases a long, deeply judgmental whistle.
Gascon points at him. “Your modifications affected the steering.”
R2 rotates his dome away.
Fox presses two fingers against his temple.
He has spent the past month reviewing battlefield requests marked critical. Every front is critical. Every general insists their campaign requires immediate reinforcements, more medical transports, more cruisers, and three battalions taken from someone else.
Umbara had consumed the 501st and 212th until barely ten percent of their combined forces survived.
The Separatists are attacking supply routes faster than the Republic can replace them.
Somewhere within that disaster, the Jedi Council apparently looked at the available personnel and decided the only viable special-operations team consisted of five droids and a colonel Fox had never heard of.
The truly offensive part is that the plan worked.
“After the crash,” Fox says, “you crossed Abafar on foot.”
“Yes.”
“Droids don’t have feet,” Thorn says.
WAC lifts one leg. “I have two.”
“Not helping,” Gascon tells him.
“And during this crossing,” Fox continues, “you discovered CC-5576-39 working in a diner.”
Gregor leans slightly out from behind Thorn.
“I was washing dishes.”
Fox looks at him.
Gregor looks back.
Before his disappearance at Sarrish, Gregor had been one of the few brothers their sisters openly admired. They hadn’t understood the concept of a crush then. They simply reported that Gregor was aesthetically pleasing, unusually competent, and should conduct more training exercises without his helmet.
His return has made the problem worse.
He is now an elite commando who survived a catastrophic battle, memory loss, involuntary servitude, an explosion, and a hijacked cruiser.
The Sentinel’s medical staff learned he was aboard eleven minutes ago.
Gregor has been hiding from them for nine.
“The diner owner found him after Sarrish,” Gascon explains. “Gregor had no memory of his identity.”
Thorn’s expression loses some of its amusement.
Fox feels the headache retreat beneath colder anger.
“What did the owner do?”
“Provided employment and lodging.”
Gregor shifts behind Thorn. “He kept my armor, lied about finding me, charged me for food and housing, and paid me less than the debt.”
Fox looks toward the door.
“Thorn.”
“I’ll have Investigations locate the owner.”
“Alive.”
Thorn glances at Fox.
Fox keeps his face neutral.
“For questioning.”
“Of course.”
Gregor studies him with sudden interest.
“At least nobody was reconditioned,” Fox mutters.
Gascon pauses. “What?”
“Continue.”
Gascon explains how R2 identified Gregor from his genetic profile and recovered his commando record. Gregor retrieved his armor, fought through a Separatist installation, and remained behind to cover D-Squad’s escape.
“I was told he died in the explosion,” Fox says.
“We thought he had,” Gascon admits.
Gregor raises one hand from behind Thorn. “So did I.”
Fox stares at him. “Explain.”
“My armor sealed before the blast reached me. It threw me into a ravine.”
“And the squad found you how?”
Everyone looks at R2.
The astromech whistles proudly.
Gascon sighs. “R2 detected Gregor’s emergency transponder after takeoff. He commandeered the controls and turned the shuttle around.”
“Commandeered?”
“He locked me out.”
WAC raises his hand. “I assisted.”
R2 shocks him.
WAC falls off the table.
Fox watches the pit droid twitch on the floor.
Nobody moves to help.
“Then,” Fox says slowly, “you loaded an unconscious commando aboard an overcrowded shuttle.”
“Yes.”
“Left Abafar.”
“Yes.”
“Discovered the Republic cruiser Renown.”
“Yes.”
“Boarded it.”
“Yes.”
“Found it under Separatist control.”
Gascon hesitates. “Yes.”
“And discovered it had been packed with explosives and aimed at the Republic strategy conference.”
“Yes.”
“The conference I was attending.”
Gascon’s eyes flicker toward Fox’s dress-black jacket hanging beside the door.
Fox had been aboard the Valor station with Cody, Wolffe, and Neyo. It had been pleasant seeing all three of them without a brawl, military disaster, or disciplinary hearing occurring.
Then a Venator tried to become a bomb.
Fox had suspected Skywalker.
Finding out Skywalker was only responsible for one of the droids involved is almost disappointing.
“R2 destroyed the explosives,” Gascon says. “The conference was saved.”
R2 whistles.
“Yes, you were heroic,” Gascon replies. “You have mentioned it.”
Fox looks at the rebuilt paneling on R2’s dome.
“You detonated the cruiser around yourself.”
The astromech chirps cheerfully.
“Skywalker’s influence,” Thorn says.
“Clearly.”
Fox turns to Gregor. “You were still aboard?”
Gregor nods. “Unconscious in the cargo hold for most of it.”
“Most?”
“I woke when the cruiser started shaking.”
“What did you do?”
“I followed the droids.”
“That was your first mistake,” Thorn says.
Gregor looks at Gascon. “The colonel was shouting louder than the alarms.”
“I was commanding the mission.”
“You were being carried by the pit droid.”
“That was a tactical transport decision.”
WAC, still lying on the floor, gives a weak affirmative beep.
Fox lowers his head into one hand.
The fronts are collapsing under too few soldiers and too many objectives. Jedi are stripping resources from active commands. Clone battalions are being ground down faster than Kamino can replace them.
The Republic has reached the point where five droids, one unknown colonel, and a recently amnesiac commando can vanish for days without the strategic command office receiving notice.
Fox can use this.
He opens a blank memorandum.
Thorn recognizes the expression on his face. “What are you doing?”
“Revising Guard deployment doctrine.”
Gascon blinks. “Because of D-Squad?”
“Because every new critical battlefield pulls personnel from another critical battlefield. If the GAR cannot spare an organic special-operations team for a mission involving Separatist encryption, the Guard can no longer remain limited to Coruscant.”
Thorn’s brows rise.
Fox begins dictating.
“Coruscant Guard units will receive full Pre-Rusaan Marine certification. Boarding actions, shipboard security, atmospheric insertion, orbital defense, hostile-terrain operations, and independent logistics.”
“We already do half of that,” Thorn says.
“Unofficially.”
“So this is how you justify making it official.”
“This mission is evidence of a strategic personnel shortage.”
Gascon sits straighter. “My team succeeded.”
“You succeeded after crashing, becoming stranded, recruiting a missing commando, boarding a hijacked cruiser, and nearly exploding the Republic’s senior military leadership.”
“Yes,” Gascon says cautiously.
“Excellent evidence.”
Thorn smiles.
Fox’s migraine remains, but it has become productive.
One of the medics leans into the room.
“Chief, we need Captain Gregor for assessment.”
Gregor grips the back of Thorn’s armor with both hands.
Thorn looks over his shoulder. “Stop that.”
“No.”
“You’re a commando.”
“I know.”
“You fought an entire droid installation alone.”
“They have scanners.”
The medic steps inside.
Gregor shifts with Thorn, keeping him between them.
Fox watches a legendary commando use a Guard commander as mobile cover.
“Gregor,” Fox says.
Gregor flinches and straightens.
Fox immediately regrets the command tone.
“You need medical clearance.”
“I feel fine.”
“You survived an explosion.”
“I’ve survived several.”
“That is not medically useful.”
The second medic appears beside the first. She has brought a scanner, an injector, and the unmistakable expression of a sister who has found Gregor aesthetically pleasing since Kamino.
Gregor looks betrayed.
“There are two of them.”
“There are always two,” Thorn says. “One blocks the exit.”
Gregor glances toward the room’s other door.
A third medic is already standing there.
He lowers his head.
“This ship is a trap.”
“Welcome to the Sentinel,” Thorn says.
The medics close in.
Gregor finally releases Thorn and allows himself to be escorted away, though he looks back twice as if hoping Fox will countermand medical authority.
Fox knows better.
Scalper commands the Medical Corps.
Chief of Defense is a powerful title. It does not protect anyone from her.
Gascon rises. “Is the debrief complete?”
Fox looks at the droids.
R2 has plugged himself into the briefing table and is downloading something he has not been authorized to access. QT-KT and U9-C4 are racing around Thorn’s boots. M5-BZ is attempting to repair WAC, who is offering contradictory instructions.
“No,” Fox says. “But I’ve reached the limit of what I can process without medication.”
Gascon salutes. “D-Squad stands ready for further service.”
Fox feels genuine fear.
“Do not leave this ship without written authorization from my office.”
WAC’s head rises from the floor. “Is that a new mission?”
“No.”
“D-Squad accepts.”
“That wasn’t a mission.”
R2 whistles and rolls toward the door.
The others follow.
Gascon hurries after them, shouting for his squad to maintain formation.
Fox watches them disappear into the corridor.
Thorn leans against the table.
“Are you going to tell Senator Chuchi?”
Fox imagines Riyo’s face when he explains that a pit droid, four astromechs, a colonel smaller than her caf thermos, and a missing commando saved the Republic’s military leadership from an exploding cruiser.
She will laugh until she can’t breathe.
Fox’s mouth twitches.
“Eventually.”
Thorn looks at him.
Fox returns to the deployment memorandum.
“Not a word.”
“Of course, Chief.”
Thorn is going to tell the entire Guard.