"Multiple targets, Commander," Irenez's voice held notes of impatience. Luke stood next to Senator Iblis, staring at the hologram displayed in the command center. Besides him, there were over two dozen other sentients present — mostly Corellians, but they had also invited Breil'lya along with a couple of her associates.
The young Jedi felt uneasy.
Three Star Destroyers.
A Star Destroyer and a heavy cruiser equipped with gravity well generators.
A ship of unknown type, but presumably also a corvette.
But something was wrong with the Corellian corvettes. At first there were only twelve, but a minute after the Star Destroyers appeared, there were fourteen. And there wasn't the slightest sign that anyone had exited hyperspace — the grav-acoustic operator would have reported that. Just as he had announced the appearance of the entire enemy fleet.
"They're clearly not here by chance," Luke said cautiously.
"Sir!" a voice from one of the terminal operators called out to the senator. "Receiving a message from the flagship Star Destroyer. Text only."
"Offering surrender?" the former Corellian senator smirked crookedly.
"Yes, sir," the same specialist nodded affirmatively. "Otherwise, they threaten to destroy everyone who doesn't surrender."
"Unusual tactics for Imperials," Irenez muttered. "I haven't heard of them offering surrender to a superior force before."
"So they mean business," Skywalker understood.
"Yes, they definitely didn't drop by for a cup of caf," Bel Iblis agreed. He was staring at the hologram, his eyes slightly narrowed. Not a trace of panic in his voice. "Irenez?"
"Yes, Commander."
"Get our pilots up," Bel Iblis said. "They'll help the Dreadnaughts hold out against the enemy for a while. All base battle stations — battle stations. Activate the deflector shield only when the base is fully exposed — that is, immediately as soon as at least one Star Destroyer enters orbit. All blasters and cannons to active mode. Have the 'Planet Defender' be especially vigilant. They're using a slightly modified full-envelopment tactic, so the ground operation probably won't be very inventive either. Only fire when they enter orbit — they're unlikely to know our position on the planet.
"How did they manage to track you?" Luke inquired. He directed the question not at the senator, but at Irenéz, having decided this wasn't the moment to distract the commander with side issues — especially since the Corellian was busy conferring with the ground force commanders.
"We don't know," the girl replied without a long pause, casting a suspicious glance at Breil'lya and his companions standing at a distance. "They probably planted a beacon on one of our ships. Somewhere we missed it, which means the Imperials are getting smarter."
"That's bad," Luke acknowledged. "Why does Bel Iblis want to give them a fight? Wouldn't it be simpler to pack up the base and pull out while the ships hold the enemy off?"
Something detonated deafeningly within the base perimeter. Though the command center remained intact, everyone inside felt a solid jolt.
"Bombers over the base!" someone's shout carried through.
"We got one! The rest are pulling back!"
"They bombed the first line of defense! Anti-personnel guns along half the perimeter are scrap!"
"Got the second one, going down!"
"He's climbing — evading at low altitude!"
"Because this is our last base," Irenéz said quietly, at an extremely rapid clip. "We've been here quite a while — ever since the Commander realized no one was really chasing us. There's nowhere to retreat to: the buildings have grown into the ground, and we can't just pack them back up. Besides, there's nowhere to load them — every ship is in combat."
"What about the Hound?" Luke asked, pointing toward one of the heavy cruisers positioned beyond the reach of the Imperial engagement.
"If they notice it, that ship won't last fifteen minutes," Irenéz said grimly. "Its internal damage is so extensive that the power grid won't let it either escape the Imperial zone or defend itself properly."
"In that case, if you have a spare fighter, I'm ready to help," Luke offered readily.
"All our pilots are already in the sky," she replied. "But three squadrons of X-wings against fifteen of theirs — fighters and interceptors..."
"That's bad," the young Jedi said, going cold. "Couldn't we contact someone from the Republic? We can't just let the Imperials shoot us all down like toothless cu-pas!"
"We tried," came the Corellian senator's voice from behind Luke. Turning, he saw Bel Iblis, his face a mask of extreme strain. "Breil'lya attempted it the moment they detected the fleet exiting hyperspace aboard his ship."
"Why not do it as soon as the first destroyer showed up?" Luke asked, missing the obvious.
"Because we hoped it was a random patrol or a lone raider — the kind that attacked the New Republic," Irenéz explained.
"One Star Destroyer against five heavy cruisers — we had decent odds of capturing that ship," Bel Iblis admitted. "But now… We'll fight."
Luke weighed the chances. The Force and common sense both told him the circumstances were stacked against the Corellians.
"We've already raised the deflectors," the senator continued. "Now we hold the line here and hope things go better in orbit."
"You should be commanding the fleet, Garm," Irenéz blurted. "Skywalker can get you to orbit. Pull at least part of the group out of the trap."
"They'll break through without us," the former senator said firmly. "I've already issued the appropriate orders. Right now we need to think about holding the base until one of the ships that breaks through can bring reinforcements. The base on Ord Pardron is only a day's flight away. We just need to hold out."
Just hold out.
Against an Imperial fleet of two dozen starships with a quarter of that strength.
What could be simpler, right?
* * *
"The enemy has launched three squadrons of X-wings from the surface," Pellaeon noted.
I was silently studying the events beyond the central viewport of the combat bridge.
What was unfolding here, by the looks of it, was a desperate attempt by the enemy to execute a breakthrough.
Five heavy cruisers had formed a formation resembling the letter 'H,' where the paired dreadnoughts on the left and right lines tried to cover the fifth dreadnought — the "crossbar" from flank fire. That last ship was heading straight for the Chimaera, taking relentless fire from three sides: both flanks, and the flagship's gunners weren't falling behind either.
"Captain," I said.
"Sir?" Pellaeon responded promptly.
"Direct our interceptors to destroy the main engines of the central dreadnought," I ordered.
Gilad relayed the command down the chain of command. The tactical display immediately showed two dozen green dots rushing toward the designated ship, while the TIE fighters continued shredding the gun blisters of the first two.
"I see the design," I said.
"They're trying to overwhelm the Chimaera with massed fire," the flagship's captain nodded, following his own train of thought.
"Not at all, Captain," I refuted. "That approach lacks the firepower — the three dreadnoughts closest to us don't possess enough guns in their forward hemisphere. The other two are sailing precisely in their wakes, which prevents them from bringing their own weapons to bear. If they shifted to a higher or lower echelon relative to the lead ships, the shield-overlap effect would vanish. No — they intend to force the Chimaera to veer off course and allow at least one dreadnought to break through."
"The one in the center?" Pellaeon clarified.
"Or one of the rear ships," I specified. "Thus, three possible targets. The problem with unmodernized dreadnoughts is that their artillery is mounted exclusively on the broadsides and bow — a result of outdated design and the ossified approach of the Rendili StarDrive shipyards. This battle is a stroke of luck, Captain, in fact."
"Why?" Gilad frowned.
"Because we have a front-row seat to see what these ships are worth in line combat," I explained. "As you may note, the combined turbolaser-ion bombardment from three destroyers depletes their shields quite rapidly, even though their tactical output is only a few points behind that of our vessels. Duplicate the order to the Inexorable and the Stormhawk to have their interceptors target the engines of the nearest wing dreadnoughts, while the fighters from all three destroyers intensify pressure on the lead ships. Fire solution for the starships remains the same. Send the four corvettes and the Crusader II to intercept enemy fighters; the rest will engage the sixth dreadnought. Objective: immobilize, not destroy. Leave one squadron each with the Black Aspid and the Eternal Wrath for defense; dispatch the rest to the planet's orbit and organize… Cancel that, Captain," I said, smiling. "A good try, Senator Iblis."
"Sir?" Pellaeon stared at me in confusion.
"For the fighters and interceptors from the destroyers — same targets," I clarified my previous order. "The bombers have returned?"
"Cycling, sir. The enemy's forward defense line is destroyed."
"Excellent," I replied. "Order them loaded with shaped-charge rockets. Duplicate the same order to the other destroyers."
"Aye aye, sir." Pellaeon spoke rapidly into the comm. When he finished, he asked another question.
"Did you detect a shift in their tactics?"
"The rear-right and central dreadnoughts executed a simultaneous left turn, revealing an attack plan against the Black Aspid," I explained. "The lead dreadnoughts are designated as a diversionary maneuver, while the other three are intended for a potential breakthrough. Order the Inexorable and Stormhawk to change position and close with the enemy, simultaneously concentrating fire from four corvettes on him. Send another six to attack the sixth ship. Distribute the rest between the Chimaera and the Stormhawk. Their turn point will evidently be at distance forty — from there they can make for the Black Aspid at maximum speed along the shortest vector. Well then, we'll shatter their plans."
"Order understood, sir." Pellaeon signaled the communications officer.
The Chimaera poured fire into the crossbar dreadnought while her interceptors already swept in astern of the Corellian ship. The devastatingly effective fire from the six-engine heavy cruiser's interceptors, attacking in pairs, was truly terrifying.
The distance and the ship's hull, which hid the interceptors' actions from our view, made it unclear what was happening down there and how effective our small craft were.
But the first explosion — which jolted the central dreadnought, causing it to lose speed and fall behind its sister ships — demonstrated that the interceptor pilots understood perfectly who they were and why they'd been invited here.
I won't claim I grasped Bel Iblis's intent from the start, but the movement of two ships revealed their true intentions. Given that this occurred at a distance of just fifty units, a turn point at forty fits perfectly — precisely for the reasons I outlined.
Meanwhile, a stunning picture was unfolding.
The actions of the Inexorable and the Stormhawk forced the enemy to execute his plan ahead of schedule, to prevent the first destroyer from coming to the Black Aspid's aid.
"Helm, full ahead, course zero-seven point two-zero. Turn ninety degrees to port," I ordered.
At forty-two units from the Chimaera, the five heavy cruisers began their right turn, intending to move toward our interdictor cruiser. In the current situation, only the actions of our small craft were inflicting tangible harm on the enemy — dipping under their shields, fighters and interceptors smashed engine nozzles and sought to damage the dreadnoughts' guns. It helped in some cases, but the problem was that the blisters on the ships' hulls boasted enviable armor; a single volley couldn't pierce them and wipe out an entire battery at once. Unlike the engines — during the turn, I already had the pleasure of observing each of the five enemy ships with at least one smoking, disabled engine. But that was just one of six on each vessel.
At present, the tactical situation hadn't changed dramatically.
Having lost design speed due to our small craft's actions, the enemy still pressed toward the intended target — understandable, given that the loss of one interdictor would reduce the zone blocking hyperdrive operation. They didn't tangle with the Eternal Wrath because, however poorly armed it was compared to the others present, it was still a Star Destroyer.
Now the listing Chimaera moved along the enemy formation's port side, plunging the heavy cruisers of the left column into chaos with its turreted artillery. The Inexorable, pressing from starboard, performed the same operation on the right column, while the Stormhawk, bringing up the rear in a triangle formation, worked from astern.
The trap, designed for an artillery duel, now resembled a noose steadily tightening.
The Chimaera's guns pounded the lead left dreadnought, which the ship had practically drawn alongside. The cruiser absorbed the punishment fairly well, but from its reaction speed and rate of fire, it was clear the Corellians hadn't modified this ship's systems.
In the current situation, the enemy's formation brought only a fresh heap of problems. Trapped in the tight order needed to overlap one another's shields, the dreadnoughts could only maneuver as a coordinated formation — which they managed with enviable uniformity and well-practiced precision. Years of drilling showed.
Having watched the enemy commanders' moves to my satisfaction, I decided to complicate their task. What do speed-demons fear most? Correct: traffic jams.
Captain Mor, upon receiving his instructions, shifted his fire focus as well; now the Inexorable's gunners mercilessly hammered the lead heavy cruiser in the right column.
Combined with the Chimaera damaging the ship in the analogous position of the adjacent column — and having earlier raked both currently engaged starships with rearward fire — the result was somewhat predictable: these two vessels were taking more punishment than the others.
"Sir, the bombers have completed their cycle," Captain Pellaeon reported.
"Splendid," I said. "Launch them and inform the squadron commander that his target is the engines of the 'central' dreadnought. An analogous unit from the Eternal Wrath will handle the left rear ship; from the Inexorable — the right lead heavy cruiser. The Chimaera will continue bombardment, and our interceptors will shift to the left lead ship."
"Aye aye, sir," Pellaeon acknowledged.
Distance to the Black Aspid: just under forty units. The enemy's lead ships had already zeroed in on the cruiser, but it was giving as good as it got.
Then, when the distance to our interdictor cruiser shrank to thirty-seven units, we began to break the formation.
* * *
Lieutenant Kreb's TIE interceptor fired a quadruple burst at a laser cannon mount. It withstood one fighter's attack, naturally. But behind the pilot came the entire Black Squadron. By the third strafe, the blister itself detonated, the battery blown out into space by the explosion, and a chunk of hull plating looked like a bantha's tongue had licked it clean off.
The lieutenant rolled his craft into a left half-barrel to stay clear of the Chimaera's gunners' line of fire while they tirelessly pounded the lead heavy cruiser in the left column. The potbellied bombers slipped past, taking advantage of the relative calm astern of the "central" dreadnought — as one might when nearly all the hard work has been done for you.
For good measure, Kreb raked a new target's deflector with his cannons. It held, but that wasn't so important — he'd already dipped under the dreadnought's shields and was pouring all the fury and power of his four rapid-fire guns into the right middle engine. To starboard, at a sharper angle, Black Two was approaching the same target. The remaining interceptors had split the other four engines into pairs. The sixth pair, left without an assignment, maneuvered in the space between ships, driving the artillerymen of the trailing heavy cruiser to distraction and, together with the fighters, luring his gunners' attention away from the bombers sneaking up from Eternal Wrath's direction.
The enemy gunners fired back, sending dozens of laser and turbolaser bolts toward the pesky TIEs. They weren't stingy with their shots. Some hit. At least four fighters from the Chimaera had already turned into fire-clouds, leaving only scrap-metal clouds as mementos.
Together with his wingman, Kreb made that engine blow on the second pass. Exploding like a supernova flare, it washed the adjacent mechanisms with a shockwave and shrapnel — mechanisms that other Black Squadron pilots already had ruthlessly in their sights.
Another explosion followed — this time the left lower engine gave out, taking its upper counterpart, the central engine in the left cluster, with it. Total: four out of six drives on that ship had gone to meet their ancestors.
The vessel was visibly "limping."
Kreb glanced at his control terminal — the starboard solar panels were riddled with fragments. Not critical, but it would affect power supply to the starboard guns.
"I've taken damage," he informed his wingman. "Staying in formation."
"I'm taking lead," the wingman replied, understanding that their battered leader wouldn't survive another hit like that. So the partner exposed himself, playing decoy for the enemy's laser cannons, letting Kreb finish off the identified targets.
Finally, the moment for which everything had been set in motion arrived: the last engine of the lead dreadnought in the left column expired. The heavy cruiser shuddered throughout its entire hull, yawed, and practically lost steering, advancing forward only by inertia.
After sending the gunners of a turbolaser battery blister to their ancestors, Black Two, with Kreb on his tail, rolled over the starboard flank of the immobilized heavy cruiser, letting the Chimaera's gunners do their work.
Right during that maneuver, Kreb noticed that the enemy "central" ship was drifting slowly as well — numerous shaped-charge rockets had reduced its engines to an amorphous state, and now the enemy formation had only three ships remaining.
Following his wingman, the lieutenant dove under the starship's belly just as the cargo bay doors began to open. Spotting a freighter trying to get clear, Kreb opened fire. His wingman had done so a second earlier.
Eight streams of gold-and-green light plowed through the freighter's hull, turning it into a fireball whose detonation dissipated partly into space, partly — along with the debris — into the bay itself, reducing everything inside to fine dust.
A barrel roll followed across the battered starboard wing. Kreb pulled up, following his wingman, who was practically mocking the gunners in the doomed starship's forward hemisphere, flashing right before their noses and climbing into the ship's upper hemisphere. Some equipment had miraculously survived here; Black Squadron, momentarily without orders, annihilated it instantly.
At that same moment, two flares burst simultaneously astern of the heavy cruisers still in formation in the adjacent column — the bombers from the other destroyers had hit their marks.
Kreb aimed his fighter at the upper deck of the trailing heavy cruiser in the left column, intending to draw at least some of the enraged enemy's laser fire away from the lumbering bombers; at the apex of his climb, the man inverted the interceptor. Past — and now overhead — the gray hull plating of the enemy ship flashed by.
The dreadnought had leveled out and was trying to rejoin the formation but kept yawing left, collapsing the order. Like all pilots, the lieutenant knew the tactical and technical characteristics of this ship type. And he understood perfectly that these dreadnoughts, built to last, were tough nuts even so many years after leaving the slipways. Even dead in space, they were practically fortresses that would have to be stormed.
But that didn't mean they should rest on their laurels. Four of the five heavy cruisers were already combat-ineffective; the fifth, the trailing ship in the right column, realizing that continuing in the old formation would mean inevitable collision, abruptly turned to starboard, condemning its brethren with mangled engines to remain legitimate prey for the Imperial gunners.
Ah, no — the lieutenant noticed that the central and right lead dreadnoughts had restored control and, with their sterns smoking, fused into shapeless wreckage, were hastily withdrawing toward the planet, toward the last dreadnought in their group. Through the glow of fires and smoke, one could discern that the enemy was still trying, off and on, to use their damaged engines to flee from the Imperial Star Destroyers.
The breakthrough attempt had drowned in blood. Three of the six dreadnoughts were dead in space and now, like orbital defensive fortresses, continued shooting at the Imperial ships in a vain hope of harming someone.
It seemed that aboard these ships, they'd realized no one intended to destroy the heavy cruisers — the entire operation's goal was direct boarding. Considering each dreadnought's hull had docking ports for receiving ships and connecting to space stations — and with such damage — it was no wonder that every ship's two thousand two hundred crewmembers were furiously planning the vessel's defense.
Though one must understand that after such a massive slaughter, it was unlikely each ship still had a full crew complement for heavy cruisers of the Katana Fleet.
"All squadrons, return to carrier ships," came the order from the Chimaera's Operations Control Center.
"Black Leader. Order received, executing," Lieutenant Kreb replied, leading his subordinates as they left the mangled ships behind — ships that still had to endure a ferocious Imperial stormtrooper assault.
Approaching the Chimaera, the lieutenant mechanically noted multiple black scorch marks on her gray hull — unmistakable evidence that even against a modern ship, the dreadnoughts had something to offer.
And at the very moment the hangar bay of his home destroyer was within direct reach, the enemy's gunners decided to remind him of their existence.
The very first shot from a laser cannon sheared off his interceptor's battered starboard wing. The craft spun, threatening to ram the neighboring ones. Kreb's mind seemed to clear, and he worked the pedals, compensating for the rotation and inertia to avoid a collision.
The Chimaera's artillery snarled back, in an instant suppressing the heavy cruiser's deflector into silence, making the enemy's gunners regret they'd ever shown signs of life.
Meanwhile, the Black Squadron commander had only one task: fight to save his ship and his life.
He managed it just as his interceptor was caught by the Chimaera's tractor beam. The lieutenant relaxed for a moment — nothing bad could happen now.
"Black Two," he hailed his wingman, flying slightly to the side. "I'm all right."
"Disagree, Black Leader," the other replied after a pause. "Your engine is on fire."
"That's bad."
Usually, after such a declaration, only a couple of seconds pass before the paired drives detonate and the cockpit is torn to shreds.
"And I never apologized," a thought flashed through his mind.
Kreb felt the tractor beam release his craft — it had become a threat to the entire destroyer, so they'd written it off and…
It looked like someone had kicked the Interceptor from behind. Kreb had never had an engine blow up on him before — nobody who'd experienced it firsthand had lived long enough to share the experience.
The uncontrolled machine lurched forward, then started veering left, picking up a spin around its own axis. The control system mechanisms squealed and went silent...
Where the hell was that Hutt blast!? Come on, finish me off! Why is death taking its sweet time?
But death wasn't in a hurry to answer.
During another rotation, Kreb caught a glimpse of another Interceptor through his helmet's visors — his wingman's ship. The front section of its left stabilizer fins was crumpled, as if he'd collided with something.
"Black Two!" the squadron commander activated his comlink. "What's your status?"
"Better than yours, sir," the wingman's voice came out hoarse, like something was interfering with his breathing. And on the next rotation, Kreb realized what it was — the cockpit transparisteel had been shattered by debris.
"Did you ram me?!" Kreb realized.
"Knocked... burning... nozzles off," the other pilot said.
"What's your condition?!" the lieutenant demanded an answer.
"Life support... damaged... shrapnel... got the panel... no control..."
"OCC!" Kreb shouted, watching his wingman's Interceptor start drifting left, confirming the wingman's words. "Pick up Black Two with a tractor beam! Now! Before he gets smashed against the Chimaera's hull, or suffocates! Life support is damaged!"
"Already on it, Black Leader," the OCC snapped back without malice. And indeed — soon both ships were caught in an invisible grip and racing toward the familiar flight section of their home Star Destroyer's hangar.
* * *
"Two heavy cruisers are damaged and dead in space," Pellaeon reported. "Three others are pulling back to their initial position. Only one of them has full engine power; the rest are moving at ten to twenty percent of cruising speed."
"Have the Stormhawk and the Inexorable pursue and engage the enemy," I ordered. "The Black Asp and the Eternal Wrath are to hold position. The corvettes are to fall back to a safe distance and operate jointly with the destroyers to blockade the four heavy cruisers."
"Do you think the enemy will attempt another breakout?" Gilad asked.
"My suspicion is that after their formation was broken, they received orders to fall back to orbit, drawing our ships into range of ground-based artillery," I said.
"You think they have such weaponry?" The Chimaera's commander's voice carried a hint of doubt.
"We know they collaborated with the Rebel Alliance," I explained. "Garm Bel Iblis was one of their movement's leaders for a long time. He's a competent enough commander to understand that leaving a ground base without adequate protection is simply foolish. We've confirmed the existence of an outpost on the planet through a bombing squadron's combat reconnaissance. Have the enemy squadrons been eliminated?"
"Two-thirds," Pellaeon clarified the information. "The rest have disengaged and returned to their ground base."
"Which means they have the capability to dispatch a light ship for reinforcements," I said, growing somber.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said, instantly grasping the full problem. It's one thing to attack a ground base when you're absolutely certain nobody can slip out of the trap and bring reinforcements down on your head — reinforcements that, by old and cherished habit, might turn out to be stronger than your own task force.
And quite another to find yourself in the exact opposite situation.
"Countermand the corvettes' orders," I decided. "Deploy them to blockade the planet at a range exceeding the planetary guns' firing distance. Repair the fighters and interceptors and return them to service with the same orders. Have the Stormhawk begin monitoring the enemy's communication channels. The Eternal Wrath is to continue jamming and shift its position to point nine-six-four." Accordingly, the Star Destroyer would rotate its projectors to the other side of the planet. Yes, the blockade zone on this side would shrink, but this way the enemy wouldn't be able to slip away by flying to the other side of the planet and exiting into space from there. Two hyperspace transition interdiction zones would be established, with the corvettes, fighters, and interceptors covering the space between them. "Calculate basing positions for the Stormhawk and the Inexorable between the artificial gravity zones — have them move into those positions immediately after they finish bombarding the four remaining heavy cruisers with shipboard artillery and bombers."
"Aye, sir," Captain Pellaeon said.
I didn't know if he was thinking the same thing I was, but the first round of the confrontation with Garm Bel Iblis had ended in a draw. He hadn't broken out of the encirclement, and I hadn't managed to destroy him as easily as I'd originally planned. Now I had to organize a not-too-tight blockade of the planet, finish off two scattered pockets of resistance in orbit, and only then proceed to a ground landing.
I could beat my breast and cry that I'd been outplayed and that defeat was near, but the fact remained.
He'd planned to break out — and he hadn't succeeded. And now the only ones who could were a dozen battle-scarred X-wings and a few heavy cruisers badly damaged in the fight. Two of which were currently drifting in the Chimaera's weapons range, absorbing its salvos one after another.
"Proceed to board the ships within visual range," I ordered, feeling a twinge of irritation. I'd wanted to win with the same ease and precision as before.
But here was a life lesson — my skills, like a scythe, had struck the stone of Bel Iblis's stubbornness and experience. Even on the brink of defeat, this man had managed to turn a rout into a stalemate, albeit at enormous cost.
He'd risked all his ships to give even one of them a chance to break out of the encirclement and call for help. The Corellian "all or nothing" executed with tactical mastery.
And I had to figure out how to end this battle as quickly as possible, before Bel Iblis came up with something new, something I wouldn't be prepared for.
What's the conclusion?
Right. Until now, I'd fought those who, one way or another, lacked experience in guerrilla warfare and didn't possess any particularly outstanding skills. And this case taught me a lesson for the future — my past victories had been achieved largely through active and detailed reconnaissance and the ability to plan the battle according to my own script.
Let's file that thought away.
In a situation where I'd foregone reconnaissance and decided to act by brute force, I hadn't achieved an immediate result. That meant I should devote even more time to planning military operations, calculating even more possible scenarios.
Well, thank you, Senator Iblis, for the graphic lesson. I'll remember it well. I hope my humane desire to save your life will bear fruit in the future, and you'll become one of those who will do everything to destroy Palpatine and other threats on a galactic scale.
For now, though...
"Let's begin capturing the enemy ships, Captain," I said.
"The stormtroopers are awaiting the order, sir," Pellaeon replied briskly. Judging by his inspired expression, he clearly hadn't noticed how close we'd come to the brink of failure. Because it would be a shame — to come here for dreadnoughts and vengeance, only to flee in disgrace just because someone managed to slip out of the trap and bring New Republic ships here. And I had no doubt that Bel Iblis, to save his people, wouldn't spare his pride and would at least ask Fey'lya to send a squadron here to deal with us.
Pride.
The lives of subordinates.
Hmm... Let's file that thought away. Now let's think it over.
Weighing the options, I smiled almost imperceptibly.
"Reinforce the boarding parties with flamethrower units, Captain," I ordered. "And direct the Chimaera toward those four dreadnoughts. Let's finish what we started."
"If we leave this position, the Black Asp will be left undefended. And if the repair crews on those ships can get the engines running," Pellaeon said cautiously, then clarified:
"At least what's left of them... In that case, they might escape..."
"Precisely to ensure they don't get that opportunity," I said slowly, "we'll reinforce the boarding parties. With Imperial Guards. And make sure the signals of the crew members being eliminated are broadcast to the planet — I'm certain their communication systems are operational. It's time to test Senator Bel Iblis's composure, shake his confidence in his own righteousness, and force him into a very stupid, impulsive move that will bring this operation to a close. The outcome, of course, will only satisfy us."
Pellaeon frowned at first, then a knowing, triumphant smile spread across his face.
"Then there's nothing to worry about," he said confidently.
My thoughts exactly.
* * *
"It looks like we've bought ourselves a little time," Luke said, peering at the hologram of the near-planet space.
"At the cost of the crews of two dreadnoughts," Bel Iblis said, his voice tight.
Luke felt uneasy. Being here at headquarters the whole time while the defenders of Peregrine's Nest base died on the front lines fighting the Empire...
"What now?" Skywalker asked.
"Based on the transponders of our damaged dreadnoughts going silent, the enemy has boarded them," Irinez said. "That leaves us with only four heavy cruisers."
"Of which only one is combat-capable," the former Corellian senator said. "The other three, including my flagship, the Pilgrim, are badly damaged. They can't build up enough speed for a breakout, so they'll fight."
"Right now we're evacuating the wounded from the ships and, where possible, rotating the crews," Irinez explained. "Most of the equipment and our intelligence data is already loaded onto the Braxant's Courage. If it gets really bad, that dreadnought will attempt a breakout."
"Forgive me, maybe I'm missing something, but there are four Star Destroyers and an interdictor cruiser in orbit," Luke said, pointing at the hologram showing the orbital positions of the combatants. "Which direction will a slow heavy cruiser break out in, when they're blocking the equator, two hemispheres have artificial gravity zones deployed, and the gaps between them are blocked by the enemy's Corellian corvettes, fighters, and interceptors? The blockade..."
"Isn't as impenetrable as the Imperial commander might think," Bel Iblis declared, pointing at the hologram. His voice seemed to regain its former strength and confidence. "On two sides, we're only blocked by Star Destroyers. Their air wings are dispersed. On the other two sides, there's an Interdictor-class Star Destroyer and an interdictor cruiser, supported by another Star Destroyer. The latter is presumably the flagship. Fifteen Corellian corvettes are dispersed across orbit, but outside the range of our planetary ion cannon. I'm more than certain that the enemy expects our breakout from the planet through the least dense regions of the blockade — through the starfighters or corvettes, as the least threatening starships to us."
"Forgive me, but I still don't see the plan..." Luke admitted.
"We will break out," Bel Iblis said resolutely. "One heavy cruiser, under the cover of a squadron of X-wings. They're only lightly damaged, aren't they?"
"They'll be repaired within the hour," Irinez confirmed.
"Then give orders to have as many munitions as possible assembled on the Pilgrim," Bel Iblis ordered. "Only volunteers will go on her with me — those willing to sacrifice their lives to save the rest."
"Commander!" Irinez flared up.
"Quiet!" the former Corellian senator said angrily. "You've seen with your own eyes who we're dealing with! Imperial Guards! Stormtroopers! They cleared the ships in half an hour, leaving nothing but piles of corpses behind! And all we could do was watch as those butchers killed our comrades! Now I'm certain that the one who's come for us is the one responsible for everything happening in the galaxy. And this is our chance to save the galaxy from Imperial rule! We'll kill him here and now, and the Empire will fall back into despair and apathy."
"How?" Luke was taken aback. Irinez stood beside him, her fists clenched, biting her lip.
"We'll make it look like we're preparing all four ships for battle," Bel Iblis said. "In reality, we'll evacuate everyone onto the Braxant's Courage. Two dreadnoughts we'll abandon, and droids will maintain the appearance that someone is on board. The other two will supposedly approach the Imperial flagship for negotiations that, allegedly, we can't conduct through any other communication system except a directed beam from the Pilgrim. Absolutely all of our companions will gather on the Braxant's Courage — these ships can accommodate up to twenty thousand sentients each; we've never had that many even in our best years. The crews of the four dreadnoughts and the base personnel will fit comfortably. Only the most essential equipment will be taken and loaded onto the Braxant's Courage — the wounded first."
Luke felt the Force whispering that he was about to hear something unpleasant. Judging by Irinez's stunned expression, she too wasn't expecting anything optimistic from Bel Iblis's speech. Under the circumstances, yes, no good news was to be expected.
"I'll contact the enemy commander and try to bring our ships close for laser-comm communication. The Pilgrim, turned into a fireship, will close to maximum range with the Imperial flagship to blow it up," Bel Iblis sighed. "At the same time, the Braxant's Courage, which will be holding position behind, ostensibly as an escort, along with the X-wing squadron, will take advantage of the Imperials' confusion and leave the artificial gravity zone. That's how we'll save everyone."
"Senator," Luke flared up.
"Commander!" Tears appeared in Irinez's eyes.
"Both of you, stand down!" the Corellian resistance commander barked at them. "Both of you will be on the Braxant's Courage. Irinez, I want you to continue my work." The girl tried to say something, but the Corellian cut her off with a firm nod. "This is my decision and it won't change. I'll save everyone — at the cost of a few. I'll personally choose who goes with me on the Pilgrim. The rest should only know the official version. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Commander," Irinez said hoarsely.
The former senator then sent the young woman to oversee the evacuation.
"Sir," Luke said, feeling an inner calm. "I'll take an X-wing and accompany you."
"I need you with Irinez," Bel Iblis said resolutely. "I trust her diligence, but... We've been together too long. I think of her as a daughter, and at the last moment she might rush to my rescue. That can't be allowed. One life in exchange for all — it's a fair trade. Make sure everything goes as planned — the moment she might change her mind, try to save me or something like that. That can't be allowed — you must stop her if it comes to that. So, no X-wings. I know you're an ace pilot, but today I need a Jedi who won't let her do something foolish and ruin the evacuation."
"This is... You're sacrificing yourself..." Luke couldn't find the words to express everything he was thinking. Heroism? Courage? Or something else?
His thoughts were tangled and refused to line up in the right order...
"Peregrine's Nest is my Hoth, Luke," Bel Iblis said firmly. "A small sacrifice to save everyone..."
"I can't allow this, sir," Skywalker protested. "I'm a Jedi, I'll go to them and..."
"You'll do exactly what I ordered you to, Luke!" Lightning flashed in Bel Iblis's eyes. "You're the only Jedi in the service of the New Republic. I may not trust Mon Mothma, I may suspect and be certain of Fey'lya's double-dealing, but I have no doubts about you. You must under no circumstances fall into the Empire's hands, do you hear?! They'll blast your capture all over the HoloNet. And if they decide to trade you for something beneficial to them — either Mon Mothma will break and agree, and then her authority will collapse, the Bothans will rise to the top, and the Republic will fall. But even if the Imperials just present proof of your capture, Coruscant's prestige will suffer such a blow that dozens, if not hundreds of systems will secede. Besides," the Corellian's gaze softened, "I want to ask you for something."
"Anything, Commander," Luke declared. And no, this wasn't a hasty desire to reassure a man who'd signed his own death warrant. It was a promise that he, Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight, would keep no matter what.
Bel Iblis looked around, observing with pain and an almost childlike smile as the soldiers around him hastily dismantled the computers' hard drives, leaving nothing in headquarters that Imperial interrogators and computer specialists could get their hands on.
"Help her," the Corellian asked. "Not just to get through the tragedy, but in general... She'll be lost for a while after my death. Our resistance mustn't fall apart. Maybe, in better times, I should have met with Mon Mothma, swallowed my pride and admitted my mistakes, forgotten the grudges and helped you deal with the threat. Maybe... But I don't want, right now, while Irinez is distraught, for her to make the wrong move and rush to Coruscant begging to join. My group is a well-formed resistance. They're the best at what they do. I can't give Fey'lya such a trump card. No way. Not after what Breil'lya demonstrated today."
"What's the matter?" Luke asked in surprise, looking around. "Where are all the Bothans?"
"Haven't you figured it out yet?" the Corellian chuckled. "There's a saying from Bothawui: 'Your own tail is always closer to your body.' They fled as soon as the battle started."
"But no ship left the planet's orbit!"
"Because they didn't leave orbit," Bel Iblis told him. "They hid somewhere in the forests, camouflaged their ship, and are waiting for the Imperials to take my base apart screw by screw so they can skedaddle safely. That's all you need to know about alliances with Bothans."
"So maybe we should abandon the ships, return to the planet, also disperse, and..."
"Then the Empire will never leave here," Bel Iblis cut him off. "As long as they think there's anything here, they won't leave the planet alone. I very much hope that after they find an empty base and not a scrap of information, they'll turn the place upside down and drag Breil'lya and his ilk out of whatever holes they've crawled into by the scruff of the neck. That would at least be fair."
For Luke, as a man who had no right to agree with such sentiments, for the first time in nine years, he felt uncomfortable and ashamed.
Because he wanted the same for the Bothans. But he tried with all his might not to let anger fill his heart.
He wasn't doing very well.
But he was doing it.
* * *
The mechanics had signaled that all systems on his ship were operational, so Krieg Jainer was sprinting down the Chimaera's corridor, connecting the hoses of his helmet's life support system to the chest unit as he ran. The cursed connectors just wouldn't slide into their slots to provide the pilot with the oxygen mixture essential for any oxygen-breathing sentient during the upcoming sortie.
And that fact didn't please him.
Not only had his TIE Interceptor been damaged during the retreat after the attack on the heavy cruisers, but Black Leader, Kreb, had gone without his wingman. Yes, it was standard patrol and blockade duty, but still! What a disgrace!
The whole fight — not a scratch, and at the very end — sign on the dotted line: punctured stabilizers, a shredded tail section, and a malfunctioning twin ion engine. So bad that he'd barely survived — it had taken an hour before they got him back into fighting shape. In that time, his ship had been returned to service, so he could... Except he'd been forbidden from flying as part of Black Squadron. The medics and mechanics advised him to ask the Chimaera's commander for details — the order had come from him.
Rounding a corner, Krieg realized that gravity was a treacherous and ungrateful physical quantity. As was inertia. Because the former hadn't allowed him to cancel out the latter. And he literally plowed into a man. The very man he was looking for.
"Captain Pellaeon, sir!" the lieutenant snapped to attention, scrambled to his feet, and without a moment's hesitation helped the silver-haired man up, brushed off his tunic, and saluted smartly. "Lieutenant Jainer, sir!"
Lieutenant Krieg Jainer.
Pellaeon looked at him with unexpectedly angry eyes. Lately, the usually kind commander of the Chimaera hadn't shown such an expression. On the contrary, he'd always been in a good mood. Which was precisely why Krieg had decided to take a risk and find out the reason...
"May a rancor have you for dinner, Jainer!" Pellaeon growled. "What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I..." What was wrong with the Old Man? Why was he as angry as a nexu? "Sir, I've been grounded from missions."
"What nonsense?!" Pellaeon's irritated grimace turned to surprise.
"No, sir, look," Jainer displayed a copy of the order on his wrist computer. The last lines on the small screen read: "Prohibit missions as part of Black Squadron..."
"So, and?" The irritation was back on Pellaeon's face. "What's the problem?"
"I don't know, sir," the young lieutenant spread his hands. "I feel excellent, my ship's been repaired..."
"Didn't your face get cut up by shrapnel or something?" Pellaeon squinted.
"Nothing serious, sir!" Krieg lied dutifully, well aware that his face showed no marks at all. But if he unzipped his flight suit, yes, there were plenty of holes from transpirstil shrapnel — each one covered with a bacta patch. "I'm ready to continue my duties."
"Well, then get on with it, Lieutenant Jainer!" Pellaeon barked right in his face. "You've all gotten lazy! You think that just because a wing commander died, any first lieutenant can come get in my face and waste my time?!"
"Sir, but I..." Krieg was taken aback.
"I'd give you a piece of my mind in rhyme, Lieutenant Jainer," Pellaeon said, suddenly warming to the revelation, "but I'm afraid your ears would curl into tubes and never straighten out."
"Sir, I honestly don't understand." It was one quality he hated about himself. Behind the stick, in the cockpit of a TIE Interceptor, he was an ace with over two dozen confirmed kills. But in personal conversation, he somehow lost himself, astonishing those who knew him with such a shift in demeanor. And right now, he sincerely wanted to bash himself over the head with his new helmet and stop stammering. "So, am I cleared for the sortie? The wing commander is dead, Lieutenant Kreb is on a sortie, I don't know..."
"Ah, so you thought you could just run to the commander of a Star Destroyer and ask him to spell out an order for you?" Pellaeon asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"Sir, it's just that the chain of command is broken and..." Jainer faltered completely.
Pellaeon shook his head. The anger radiating from him vanished somewhere. Before the lieutenant stood the same commander of the Star Destroyer who was considered one of the calmest and most loyal senior officers in the fleet.
"How long have you been serving, Lieutenant Jainer?" Pellaeon inquired.
"Fifteen months, sir!" Krieg replied briskly.
"By current standards, that makes you a veteran," said the commander of the Chimaera. "Now I see why your name sounded familiar — Lieutenant Kreb recommended you for promotion about six months ago, didn't he? You saved his life during the last sortie, cut away a burning stabilizer, right?"
"Yes, sir." Krieg relaxed mentally and tried to regain his composure. To be just like Kreb — always calm, always confident, no fuss... He glanced at his lieutenant's cubes on the command bar. "I passed the trials, became an ace. But saving the commander — that's sacred. That's what they taught us at the Academy — the commander must survive no matter what."
"Who would've doubted it," Pellaeon sighed. "If I could find the one who writes those accelerated programs for you, I'd hang him from an antenna... Now I see why Tschel pushed you forward... There was simply no one else — the rest of Kreb's men are practically green themselves. So listen up, Lieutenant," Pellaeon addressed him. "Have you heard about your recent neighbors, 'Gray Squadron'?"
"No, sir," Krieg admitted.
"Their squadron commander and deputy didn't return from a sortie," the destroyer commander explained. "And half the flight crew. In one hour and fifteen minutes, the Grays are supposed to cover the Chimaera during an attack on four heavy cruisers. Of the survivors — five pilots who got mauled by enemy X-wings. No command, no organization. The executive officer took the initiative and shoved you in as acting squadron commander."
"Me?!" Krieg's eyes widened in surprise. What luck! For an ordinary pilot to even make it into the reserve for a higher position, you had to serve at least two years — and since the Rebels appeared, the lifespan of TIE pilots had become no more than ten combat sorties.
"Well, not me!" the captain growled at him. "The assignment is temporary. Just for this battle. When we get back to base, we'll find a proper commander, and you'll return to Black Squadron."
"Understood, sir." A wave of disappointment. Well, yeah, he'd been dreaming too big — at such a young age, becoming a squadron commander just like that. Pellaeon had made it clear: ."..acting.".. Fine, the main thing was to survive this fight, then he could become Black Two again. "Permission to go?"
"Go, Lieutenant Jainer." The fatherly tone vanished from Pellaeon's voice. Now Krieg faced the same stern but fair commander of the Star Destroyer. "Though, wait."
"Sir?" The young pilot looked up.
"Where are you from, son?"
"Agamar, sir. Refugee," Krieg explained.
Pellaeon frowned.
"Isn't that the planet where practically everyone's a pilot?" he clarified.
"Not everyone's obsessed with the stick, sir, but yes, it's encouraged," Krieg confirmed. "We have good pilots, but isolationists..."
"Isolationists, you say." The Chimaera commander's eyes sparkled, and a smile appeared on his lips. "Want to make a bet, Lieutenant Jainer?"
"Sir?" The pilot's eyebrows rose.
"The enemy has a dozen X-wings or so left," Pellaeon said. "You have six pilots, including yourself. Shoot them all down without losing a single pilot — and you'll continue commanding the Grays until the operation ends. If you don't lose a single pilot in the squadron, I'll see to it that you're appointed permanent commander of Gray Squadron after the operation. Deal?"
"Excellent terms, sir." Krieg felt his shoulders straighten against his will. What were the immediate prospects? A dozen X-wings? Against half a squadron of TIE Interceptors led by an Agamar kid? "They don't stand a chance. I accept the bet."
"And you won't even ask what happens if you lose?" Pellaeon was surprised.
Now Krieg understood why Kreb was always so calm.
Because he never even entertained the thought of defeat. Defeat meant death. And death meant the end of a pilot's career. And the dream — to fight Rogue Squadron and come out victorious.
Now Krieg had a dream, too. And Captain Pellaeon had just shown him the way to achieve it.
"No, sir," Krieg said calmly. "Those poor bastards in their Incoms don't stand a chance. Neither will anyone who meets us in battle from now on. Permission to go, sir? Time to brief the pilots."
"Well, go on, temporary squadron commander," Pellaeon snorted.
Lieutenant Jainer strode briskly toward the launch bay of his new squadron.