Nine years, seven months, and thirty-one days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, seven months, and thirty-one days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and sixteen days since the Arrival.)
By the time the Crimson Dawn, five Star Destroyers, and a dozen Nebulon-B escort frigates re-entered realspace, completing their jump to the Skaross system, General Willard already knew that the battle was not starting on his initiative.
The first division of the New Republic's Fourth Battle Fleet had not reached its destination — instead, it was unceremoniously yanked out of hyperspace by starships that appeared within visual range. Three Interdictor-class Star Destroyers and two Immobilizer 418-class cruiser-interdictors.
There was no point in even requesting call signs — the Imperial allegiance of these ships was obvious.
"Battle stations," he commanded. Immediately, sirens blared across the ships of the First Division. "Get me command on Coruscant!"
A moment later, the communications officer replied:
"Long-range comm channels are being jammed, sir."
"So, we've been lured into an ambush and cut off from reporting it," Willard concluded.
What was done was done. If they survived, they could ask Councilor Fey'lya how his order led them straight into an ambush by a numerically superior enemy, possessing a number of starships that the ubiquitous Bothan intelligence hadn't caught wind of.
The enemy had arranged their ships in the semblance of two cups — the smaller one, formed by twelve Imperial-class Star Destroyers, deployed in equal groups on the flanks around a Torpedo Sphere and positioned before Willard's formation; and the larger one, consisting of nearly a hundred heavy Dreadnought-class cruisers, cutting off the Republican division's path of retreat.
Vanden felt a knot in his stomach. An entire armada had come out against his division. There was no need to even calculate the odds — every ship of the New Republic would definitely not survive this engagement. The only thing they could all do now was destroy as many enemy starships as possible.
Glancing at the tactical display, he located the cause of their interrupted flight — three Interdictors hung slightly behind the flanking Dreadnoughts, while the two Immobilizers held a mirror position, but behind the backs of the Star Destroyers. But currently, only the gravity well generator projectors of the two cruiser-interdictors were active, creating a small zone of space in front of the New Republic ships where hyperdrive operation was blocked. However, the main area covered by the deployed artificial gravity vectors was behind the First Division's stern. So turning around and escaping was definitely out of the question. Trying to break through forward was also pointless, because the Interdictors would activate their own projectors, and the same enormous field, blocking hyperdrive operation, would be deployed in front of Willard's ships.
An excellent trap — his ships were completely surrounded and forced to become targets for the enemy's guns and the starfighters swarming around them. Also, near each Star Destroyer, a pair of Corellian-built corvettes or frigates stood by... A couple of Quasar Fire-class carriers lingered near the Interdictors, and among the heavy cruisers, he spotted about half a dozen obsolete Venator-class Star Destroyers.
Vanden studied the enemy formation closely. His ships' onboard computers were frantically identifying them. And the sheer numerical superiority alone was enough to understand one simple fact — the Imperials knew perfectly well that Fey'lya had changed his plan at the last moment.
There was no way out. They would have to fight.
"Prepare to launch fighters, raise deflectors," Willard ordered. "Begin target allocation. Load missile tubes, target enemy ships within firing range..."
"General, we're being hailed," the ship's commander reported.
"Imperials?" Vanden asked rhetorically. He received a confirmation nonetheless. "Put them through."
A couple of seconds later, a volumetric projection appeared above the nearest holoprojector: a middle-aged man with an aristocratic bearing, leaning on a cane. His non-standard tunic, unlike typical Imperial uniform, immediately caught the eye. But he, along with the man himself, was quickly identified by the New Republic general.
"That Alderaanian jacket still suits you, Eric," Vanden stated.
"Thank you, General Willard," the Butcher of Atoa replied in a calm tone. Out of the corner of his eye, the Republican commander noticed that one of the dozen Star Destroyers was beginning to move forward. He wasn't surprised at all to recognize the Imperious — Shohashi's own ship. "Just don't say you're happy to see me, because that wouldn't be true. Surrender yourself, order your subordinates to hand over their ships to Imperial control, and I promise that everyone will be spared and given quite comfortable conditions for captivity."
"You know that won't work, Eric," Vanden noted amicably. "No one will want to surrender an entire division. And I won't do it. We accept battle."
"You will be destroyed, General," Shohashi warned him.
"Perhaps," the gray-haired Alderaanian agreed. "But I will take most of this fleet with me to the grave."
"Don't flatter yourself, General," the Imperial officer advised. "Having a fast Star Dreadnought doesn't mean you can win. On the contrary, I would say your starships are perfectly suitable and convenient targets. Quite impossible to miss."
"Be that as it may," Vanden looked at another tactical monitor, where the ships of his fleet, already wrapped in the transparent film of deflector shields, were being surrounded by squadrons of fighters and interceptors, preparing for the coming battle. "But we will not flee from a fight."
"Nor will I, former instructor," Shohashi's voice lost its friendliness. "I'm not used to repeating myself, but out of respect for you, I will: surrender. Save your subordinates' lives."
"Sorry, Eric," the Republican general shook his head. "Your offer is declined."
"You must understand there won't be a third," Shohashi noted. "I will take your ships by force and kill everyone who tries to resist. No humanity, no mercy for anyone who offers armed resistance."
"Eric," Vanden smiled warmly. "You're wasting your time trying to talk me into surrendering. I taught you everything you know, but not everything I know."
"Oh, this aristocratic Alderaanian rhetoric," Shohashi laughed. "It always annoyed me and stirred up a burning hatred. Words divorced from deeds."
"In that case, I suggest we proceed to the battle," General Willard raised his already-gray eyebrows.
"No objection, General," Shohashi laughed. "I won't wish you luck in the battle, you understand."
"I understand," Willard nodded. "That would look very, very foolish."
"Exactly," Shohashi pulled an antique chronometer from his tunic pocket, glanced at it. "Well, let's begin, General."
Vanden didn't have time to reply — the Butcher of Atoa's hologram dissolved.
The Republican general noted how numerous Imperial fighters and interceptors began to move, ready to converge in a bloody battle with the Republican pilots.
"Well, here we go," Vanden intoned, watching the first sparks of destroyed small craft bloom on both sides, while hundreds of turbolaser bolts tore through space, racing towards their targets to bring death and chaos.
"Sir!" The voice of the Crimson Dawn's commander reached him through the working hum of the bridge. "The Imperious has made a jump!"
'What game is this, Shohashi?' Willard frowned. He could clearly see the vector of the destroyer's movement — it was aimed directly at the Warrior, which was inside the zone where hyperdrive operation was blocked. A jump simply couldn't be completed outside the system...
"General!" the hysterical voice of one of the tracking system operators was edging almost into the ultrasonic range. "The Imperious, it..."
"Helm!" Willard frowned, ignoring the panic. "Turn the ship, we're moving to engage Shohashi's flagship..."
"Impossible, sir!" the ship's commander said, his voice completely defeated.
"For what reason?" the Republican general was taken aback.
"He's under our belly, sir," the Crimson Dawn's commander said. "I've ordered the lower hemisphere artillery to target the enemy Star Destroyer..."
And in the next moment, five Venator-class Star Destroyers, modernized under the Solar Burn program, literally devoured the deflectors of the fast Star Dreadnought with a single volley, exposing its hull for both energy and kinetic attacks.
And a second later, a series of internal explosions shook the gargantuan starship.
* * *
Captain Pellaeon couldn't suppress the smile that had spontaneously appeared on his face the moment yellow-orange flame erupted from the underside of the fast Star Dreadnought.
"The Crimson Dawn has lost one of its two reactors," he commented. "The dreadnought's combat capability is reduced."
"Undoubtedly, Captain," I agreed, watching as proton torpedoes, launched from five hundred launchers mounted on the two-kilometer durasteel sphere, surged in a single unified wave towards the nearly eight-kilometer giant. "However, the starship is still more than half combat-capable."
Gilad was silent for a few seconds, then said:
"Shohashi is having a rough time — the Crimson Dawn's lower hemisphere artillery is literally stripping the deflector shields off the Imperious."
"War is never without risk, Captain," I reminded him. "Request the recalibration time for their ion cannons from the Venator commanders."
"Aye, sir!" the commander of the Chimaera responded, stepping aside.
Meanwhile, stroking the ysalamiri shamelessly dozing on my lap, I observed the effectiveness of the Crimson Dawn's point-defense cannons.
In my experience, such a massive number of this type of artillery — and the Warrior has over a thousand of them — is excessively redundant. Especially in the Imperial fleet, where point-defense artillery isn't always held in high regard. But those who built the Warrior-class clearly put in a lot of effort.
The starship is equipped with a vast amount of both heavy and light artillery, "intermediate calibers," and even missile launchers. It is capable of simultaneously engaging a large number of different types of spacecraft, which is a rather innovative approach.
Furthermore, what I like about this, without a doubt, beautiful ship, is that it is virtually devoid of design flaws. An excellent command ship, and furthermore — it was designed that way from the planning stage. This already proves that the engineers at Kuat Drive Yards can build balanced ships. I wonder if the well-known Lira Blisstex, responsible for the creation of the Venator, Imperial, and Executor designs — and those are only the ship types I recall at this moment — had a hand in developing this class of starship. It's possible that other starships in this galaxy also owe their existence to her authorship. But something tells me a simple truth: this woman had nothing to do with the creation of the Warrior class. After the Old Republic transformed into the Galactic Empire, Lady Blisstex somehow lost her love for providing point-defense coverage for her creations. An interesting contradiction.
"Ten minutes, sir," Pellaeon announced, returning to me.
"A long time," I noted.
"It seems Zion, with his 'optimization and modernization,' has reduced the rate of fire of the ion cannons," Pellaeon said irritably. "At Hast, we could fire every five minutes."
"The time you specified is the chronometric difference between the first and second shot of the Dragon," I reminded him. "After that, the interval only increased due to the system's unfinished operational capability. It's possible that only at this rate of fire will the energy systems of the Venator-class ships not fail."
"But in that case, these types of ships are of little use in modern combat," Pellaeon said thoughtfully. "Their rate of fire is lower than a turbolaser's, so a fast, maneuverable target could escape the barrage."
"Like, for example," I pointed to the dots forming around the enemy division and meeting incoming fighters and interceptors with suppressing fire, "the Nebulon-B escort frigates."
"My point exactly, sir," Pellaeon nodded.
"Well," I said, "no one planned on using these ships against fast-moving starships. Captain, take a look at the Crimson Dawn," I suggested. "It destroyed over half the proton torpedoes in the long-range defensive perimeter, the rest in the close range."
"Yes," Pellaeon grimaced, watching the Torpedo Sphere fire another salvo at the enemy. The massive metal sphere sat twenty units closer to the enemy and in the "upper" echelon relative to the Star Destroyers. Unfortunately, a necessity — because the range of the turbolasers and the missile and torpedo launchers differed by fifteen units. Not in the latter's favor. "There are over sixty thousand crew aboard that sphere. We could have crewed two destroyers with them... Attacking a ship like the Bellator with torpedoes is pointless."
"Indeed, Captain?" I clarified.
"We're not planning to destroy it," the commander of the Chimaera reminded me of one of the battle's conditions.
"Of course," I confirmed. "We need that starship in the most combat-ready condition possible so it can join our fleet in the future."
"Then, sir, I simply don't understand why we're engaging it with the Torpedo Sphere," Pellaeon spread his hands. "That's a siege weapon; it's ineffective against a fleet — at least until the dreadnaught is stripped of its anti-air cover."
"The purpose of this exercise, Captain," I said, "is to test the combat readiness of the gunners and the Torpedo Sphere's crew. They've already proven they can operate undetected for extended periods in the border territories — and that's a very good indicator. However, this ship's crew has been stationed in the rear for a long time, acting as a guard ship. If regular drills aren't conducted, skills tend to atrophy. We're diligently restoring them now."
"While spending enormous resources," Pellaeon grumbled. "Five hundred proton torpedoes at once!"
"Drills and war are never economically profitable until they're over," I said, watching as the sphere's second salvo was also deflected by the enemy gunners. "But at the same time, you have to understand — the more anti-air artillery and missile launchers the enemy uses to repel our proton torpedoes, the less attention they can devote to our small craft approaching the target. Consequently, we'll suffer fewer losses, and our pilots will gain the necessary experience for operating in large formations and neutralizing enemy artillery on capital ships."
Pellaeon glanced at the unfolding battle. Meanwhile, the fast dreadnaught, unable to inflict fatal damage on the Imperious clinging to its underside — which was methodically destroying fire points on the Crimson Dawn's lower hemisphere and the hull of the second solar ionization reactor — had switched to long-range exchanges with our destroyers and cruisers. General Willard had broken his division's march formation, throwing his ships into battle against the right flank of our Star Destroyers.
An attempt to break the blockade and clear an escape route.
"I've noticed Shohashi has been extremely efficient in executing orders lately," Pellaeon said. "Not every Imperial Star Destroyer commander would agree to play the role of a decoy Gizka in front of such a monster."
"Captain Shohashi's courage cannot be denied," I agreed. The Alderaanian was, in his own way, a very calculating and cold-blooded commander of a warship. There were, of course, certain questions regarding his fanatical desire to kill Baron Fel and exterminate the Alderaanians from his homeworld's former command who had directly participated in attacks or planning against the Galactic Empire. Honestly, that's why I hadn't used him for cloning yet.
Besides, he was smart and cunning enough to figure out my simple plan to use him as bait for capturing the Crimson Dawn. Well, today I gave him a chance to prove himself as a division commander — to see if he could handle that role in the future. So far, I liked his actions for their speed, pressure, and ruthlessness.
"I'm concerned about something else, sir," Pellaeon admitted. "The Skaross system is practically unguarded. If we continue to follow Shohashi's plan, we'll end up with a practically non-combat-ready star dreadnaught, stripped of its power plants. And in our time, getting two ship-grade solar ionization reactors isn't exactly easy."
"That's precisely why I've already ordered General Covell to begin dismantling two of the three reactors deep within Mount Tantiss as soon as work on the current batch of clones is complete."
"Can the mountain function properly on just one reactor?" Pellaeon asked in surprise. "The clone factory alone requires at least two such reactors."
"It's all about the volume of active cloning cylinders, Captain," I noted. "Every ten thousand require one solar ionization reactor. If we reduce the number of active cylinders, we can remove the remaining reactors and use them as needed."
"But that would disrupt the clone supply schedule," Pellaeon observed.
"Not at all," I countered. "Let me remind you, Captain — the more cloning cylinders, the more energy they need. We'll break the clone factory down into constituent, independent units, and then the problem of needing high-efficiency reactors to power the installations will be solved."
"You're evacuating Mount Tantiss?" The Chimaera commander's eyes widened.
"Yes, Captain," I confirmed. "Plan Z is approaching its culmination. We need to ensure all equipment and valuables from the facility are evacuated to our base on Tangrene. After we finish the second phase, Operation Crimson Dawn will escort them in one large convoy to Lok. I think you've noticed that our trophy freighter fleet, as well as the Star Galleons, aren't currently participating in our operations."
"I thought they were busy hauling cargo from military base RZ7-6113-23," Gilad admitted.
"That's being handled by the Acclamator-class ships and other military vessels free from patrolling the Morshdine sector," I explained. "Not much left, actually, but we still need to expand our cargo fleet with bulk carriers capable of transporting far larger volumes than medium transports and Star Galleons. Fortunately for us, Captain Tyberos will solve this and several other problems shortly."
"I see," Pellaeon said. After a moment of silence, the Chimaera's commander asked:
"Sir, am I to understand that after capturing the Crimson Dawn, you'll use it as your flagship?"
"No, Captain," I refuted his assumption. "The Chimaera suits me perfectly in that role. The Crimson Dawn, along with the entire future raider formation Red Star, will be commanded by Captain Shohashi."
"A raider formation?" Pellaeon repeated. "Do we have one?"
"We'll create it as soon as we get the ships of the First Division, Fourth Fleet of the New Republic," I explained. "Captain Shohashi will lead it. Interesting fact, Captain. He asked permission to name the raider formation, led by the Crimson Dawn, after his fallen beloved — Iran Ryad, nicknamed 'Red Star.' Symbolism and posthumous loyalty. Interesting qualities coexist in the future commander of the Crimson Dawn."
"I'd rather he channeled that speed into ideas for crewing that monster. That dreadnaught has nearly a hundred thousand crew members!" the Chimaera's commander exclaimed quietly. "To fully crew this giant, we'd need five complete batches of clones! That's several months of uninterrupted cloning solely to outfit one ship, sir! I strongly urge you to consider my proposal — not to waste enormous resources on repairing and maintaining the Crimson Dawn, and to scrap whatever's left of it after the current battle for parts to repair other ships. Every month, it gets harder to purchase necessary equipment without drawing attention!"
"Soon, Captain, we'll have plenty of time to crew the ships we need and set up production lines for the required equipment," I stated. "And we'll have enough of the resources we need as well. We just need to wait. Notice," Pellaeon followed my gaze to the tactical display — "our fighters and interceptors have cleared a large volume of space along the front. Which means it's time for another test. I suggest we watch as Captain Tomax Bren demonstrates the effectiveness of the new Scimitar bomber for us. I'm sure it will be a spectacle unlike any other."
Pellaeon cast a cautious glance my way, then turned his eyes to the main viewport, watching as the Chimaera, along with the other Star Destroyers, fired course-correcting shots at the enemy division, which had clustered in a tight formation to reinforce their deflector defense by overlapping energy shields and fighting off the relentless attacks from my fleet's ships.
Soon, deprived of their flagship, they would scatter, hoping to break the blockade.
And then our Star Destroyers would go on a free hunt, while the 501st Legion conducted another ruthless space boarding.
* * *
Lifting the machine off the hangar deck, the bomber unit commander, Captain Tomax Bren, confidently guided the Scimitar out of the Star Destroyer's hangar.
"Systems are normal," Alex reported from the weapons operator's seat. "Shield activated, PLAE is normal. Power flows," he glanced at the control monitor, "also normal. Engine running smoothly, pushing to eighty percent speed."
"We're going to engage the drive now," Tomax warned him. "Inertial compensators active?"
"At one hundred percent," the technician assured him. The only sentient who'd agreed to participate in the tests you might not come back from.
"Proton torpedoes in order?"
"Both magazines," Alex replied. "Hutt!"
"What is it?" Tomax tensed. If the check valve coupling had failed again, it'd be easier to just activate the PLAE and ram the bridge of the Crimson Dawn than to return to the Chimaera in disgrace. "Mechanics? Electrical? Hydraulics?"
"I just remembered that I'm actually a technician, not a pilot," Alex complained jokingly. "I'll have to request double pay for these hours!"
Tomax slammed the back of his helmet against his headrest hard enough to make the cabin interior resonate, so the headrest of the weapons operator's seat — positioned back-to-back with the pilot's — would smack the talkative technician on the back of the head.
"No time for jokes!" Tomax growled. "The fate of the entire project depends on this flight!"
"There's always time for jokes, even at a funeral," Alex countered.
Tomax didn't bother with a retort. He had the dead faces of his boys from the Scimitar in front of his eyes. The one that had once been a full wing. Reduced to a single bomber squadron during the Imperial Civil War.
"We've reached ninety megascale speed," he said, watching the experimental machine surge forward at a respectable velocity, leaving more and more void behind it. "Ready for acceleration?"
Despite the fact that the tactical information requested from the OCC and what he saw through the Scimitar's cockpit didn't please him, the mission had to be completed. Because that was the only way he could immortalize his fallen unit's name in history and make a request to the Grand Admiral.
A pair of Nebulon-B escort frigates were vectoring to intercept the air wing launched from the Chimaera, clearly intending to give the Imperial small craft a solid mauling to reduce pressure on the flagship. Which, while still looking intact, was already feeling very uncomfortable under the fire of a dozen Imperial-class ships and the Interdictors that had joined them. Not to mention the regular proton torpedo explosions the Crimson Dawn was generously receiving from the Torpedo Sphere's launchers. The Republican was behaving rather interestingly: he moved so his plane was perpendicular to the plane of the ships he was engaging. Given the armament on board, mostly concentrated in the upper hemisphere, he could "disappoint" his opponents considerably. But the collapsed deflector shields didn't keep the enfilading fire from the Star Destroyer fleet from being ineffective.
So Thrawn's ships' cannons were already starting to slice through the upper deck plating without much trouble. His accompanying Star Destroyers — four Imperial-I types along with the "Shorty" a Procursator-class ISD, so named for its short hull — were working to ensure the fast star dreadnaught's stern wasn't dismantled textbook-style by the crossfire from the Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers. Judging by how furiously the Republicans were snapping back, they already understood that the heavy cruisers holding position in the double "bowl" echelon weren't exactly trying to blow everyone to the Hutt. And given their numbers, they could have done it without any major problems.
But instead, they preferred to tie up the escort destroyers' aviation in battle with their TIE fighters, sending some of their own ships to clear space around the destroyers of excess small craft.
Why bother with such trivia?
Simple. When an ion cannon fires, it's best to have nothing superfluous between it and the target — otherwise, you could waste the charge entirely, hitting a fighter instead of a Star Destroyer.
Tomax took the Scimitar three echelons lower to have plenty of room for a high-speed dash.
The Scimitar bomber wing had once been famous for using TIE bombers in dive operations. A fairly simple task when you have experienced pilots and plenty of time to practice. But after losing practically all his men and getting only greenhorn pilots in return during the attack on Bpfassh, he realized the problem needed a radical solution. No more time for finely honing dive-bombing skills on TIE bombers.
What was needed was simply a dive bomber. And the Scimitar project turned out to be the very craft that could take Imperial bomber aviation to a new level.
"Systems ready, all green lights," Alex reminded him. "We diving, or are we going to sit here a while longer?"
Tomax shook his head. "Diving" in space... what a joke, the mother of all jokes.
"Engaging drive," he warned, activating the PLAE.
Even though the inertial compensator was working, he still felt the effects of the acceleration.
His body was pressed into the seat, but not so much that he couldn't control the machine.
Although the captain had no intention of doing so — any movement of the yoke could cause a course deviation and realize his earlier idea about turning the ship into an unsightly decoration on the nearest starship's armor.
Caught by the accelerator, the Scimitar closed the distance separating it from the Crimson Dawn's belly at twenty-one megascales per second. In less than four seconds — which felt like an eternity to the pilot — it was in place. In one piece, with a crew ready to
A hand clad in a black glove deactivated the PLAE.
And the unpleasant pressure he'd felt for the last four seconds receded. Nausea set in, a dry mouth...
But he had no time to react to these minor troubles.
The Scimitar banked into a turn, slashing with its laser cannons at a bewildered X-wing that had decided to attack head-on and finish off the prototype without applying basic logic. And logic always said — if you see an unknown vessel charging at you, move aside and take a closer look. Maybe then it won't be your death.
But the Incom pilot was good — he managed to fire at the Scimitar with his own guns. And got his crimson charges to splash across the deflector field. Not the strongest one, but effective enough.
"Surprise," a sardonic grin spread across Tomax's lips. "We've got deflectors now, too."
The bomber slid past the X-wing's wreckage, heading for the middle section of the Crimson Dawn's belly. Right where the most brutal slaughter was taking place.
"Your... coupling!" Alex cursed. "Bren!"
"What?" the pilot replied irritably, turning his ship belly-up toward the fast star dreadnaught's lower hemisphere.
"The Imperious!"
"What about the Imperious?" Tomax hissed, sending a nearby "wishbone" that had somehow appeared into oblivion with cannon fire.
"There's nothing left of it but ruins!" Alex's voice held undisguised fear.
Tomax, having assigned target lock to the computer and gained a couple of seconds of free time, turned his head slightly to get a look at the destroyer.
"Your coupling..." was all he could manage.
The fast dreadnaught — one of the few starship types in the Imperial fleet with not only paired hangars in its lower hemisphere but also powerful artillery. According to standard schematics for this ship, the Crimson Dawn's underbelly — and its sisters' could boast several dozen heavy turbolasers and ion cannons. Not to mention missile launchers...
The lower hemisphere of the Bellator-class fast star dreadnaught.
And the Imperious had learned firsthand what they could do.
The ship, from bow to stern, looked like a piece of formless metal, pierced in dozens of places, sooty with plasma and fires, with broken hull geometry, literally scorched by artillery, gaping wounds in its hull, and a halo of debris surrounding a piece of metal that looked more like a corpse than a ship damaged in a fierce battle.
Now it was clear why the Crimson Dawn and the Imperious were holding one position, barely maneuvering. The Scimitar's sensors registered tractor beams at work.
The star dreadnaught, nearly five times larger than the Imperial-class, had latched onto its victim like a predator and was beating it with its cannon fire, paying absolutely no attention to what was happening around it. The Imperious was fighting back with its remaining medium-caliber turrets, while the single port-side turbolaser turret stubbornly continued to chip away at the second and largest "bubble" of the solar ionization reactor on the Crimson Dawn's belly.
The ship's air wing, considerably thinned, was trying with all its might to drive off at least the persistent fighters, but they were simply outnumbered. In the minutes it would take for the other ships' squadrons to reach the target, the Imperial-I would likely cease to exist altogether and...
And barely ten minutes had passed since the battle began!
"Your coupling!" Alex yelled. "Navy! You're insane! I almost..."
Tomax stopped listening to the rest. The Scimitar was moving at maximum speed toward its target, flashing past debris that had once been a couple of TIE bombers. Obviously, Captain Shohashi, unable to continue destroying the enemy reactor with shipboard artillery, had launched the bombers...
Which the enemy fighters had instantly dealt with.
Although, a similar outcome would have awaited the TIE bombers if they'd tried to attack the ship right after exiting hyperspace.
He'd already figured out Alex's reaction — right next to the Imperious, taking on some of the angry Republican artillery. With still-blinded sensors and defense systems, the Overlord was firing its own guns, turning the Bellator's armor into the surface of a moon that had been hit by a meteor shower.
"They're not going to make it," Alex muttered. "The Crimson Dawn will tear them both apart! Look, they've blown the Overlord's shield generators!"
"They won't have time," Tomax said grimly, baring his teeth as the targeting computer locked both targets. One for each of the Scimitar's magazines.
But, realizing Alex was absolutely right, the pilot halved the ammunition expenditure.
And pulled the trigger.
The Scimitar was a durable machine. It could carry up to thirty-two proton torpedoes or missiles to a target, depending on the type of ordnance in the bomb bay.
Today's "menu" was proton torpedoes.
And sixteen crimson self-propelled missiles dropped from their mounts, guided by the targeting computer, hurtling toward their targets, splitting into two streams of deadly, man-made fire.
"Captain Bren to all Imperial pilots," he opened a general Imperial comm channel. "Stay clear of the Crimson Dawn's hangars."
Clicking his comlink, he switched to Alex's channel.
"Well, now let's tackle the second reactor," he said vengefully, dodging the enemy ships. The engine roared to life as the Scimitar swept under the Crimson Dawn's stern, where Tomax spun the craft around and immediately pinned a Republic interceptor that had tried to close in. Startled by the unexpectedly heavy and rapid fire, the A-wing veered upward...
And burned up in the exhaust streams of the Crimson Dawn's engines.
"A scumbag's death for a scumbag," Tomax said, lining up his shot.
In the Republic fleet, RZ-1 interceptors — A-wings — have a remarkable obsession with exploiting their speed advantage to hunt down slow TIE bombers. Especially when they're withdrawing from a target.
"Calculate an escape course!" he ordered Alex.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" Alex replied. "I'm a technician, not a navigator!"
Tomax growled something unspeakably obscene in response.
Then he mashed the trigger against the control stick, sending sixteen torpedoes at the Republic interceptors rushing toward him. They scattered instantly, using their favorite maneuver — accelerating to outrun the homing projectiles.
Twelve proton torpedoes chased after the fleeing enemy craft...
But the remaining four closed in on the critical hemisphere of the fast dreadnought's main solar ionization reactor with every passing fraction of a second.
* * *
Making no secret of my interest in the proceedings, I leaned forward to get a better look at what was happening under the Crimson Dawn's belly.
Two streams of flame erupted from beneath the ship, littering space with a massive field of debris.
Some of it undoubtedly belonged to the hull plating; the rest were the mangled and disfigured wrecks of Republic fighters caught in the blast zone of the proton torpedoes, which had detonated deep inside both leaves of the fast dreadnought's main hangar bay.
"Brenn did it!" Captain Pellaeon exclaimed in a surge of emotion, sweeping his uniform cap from his head. "Hutt-damn! He actually did it!"
"Prepare my flagship for the jump," I ordered, watching the gray hull of Captain Brandei's Star Destroyer turn into a sooty piece of twisted metal.
"Course, sir?"
"Straight ahead, Captain," I said, not mincing words. "And inform the Torpedo Sphere commander to cease fire. In a few seconds, the Crimson Dawn will be ninety percent combat-ineffective. Notify the other destroyers: stand by to jump and engage the dreadnought's escort ships."
"Aren't we going to use Sunburn?" Gilad asked in surprise.
"The circumstances are working out far better than originally planned, Captain," I said. "There's no need to give our future prisoners information about how fast our Venators can fire with their upgraded main batteries. We'll solve the problem of recovering Imperial property the old fleet way: first one to die loses."
"Yes, sir!" Pellaeon reported.
The battle for possession of the First Division ships of the New Republic's Fourth Military Fleet was entering its climactic phase.
* * *
General Willard rose from the central platform and touched the right side of his face, which was strangely hot. When he pulled his hand away, he saw it was covered in blood.
"Sir, are you all right?" The dreadnought's executive officer appeared beside him.
"Alive," the Alderaanian replied dryly. "Where's the captain?"
"Dead, sir," came the answer. "One of the terminals exploded right in front of his face. No chance..."
Leaning on his subordinate's arm, the aging strategist got to his feet and looked at the holographic display, wanting to examine the details of the unfolding battle.
Assessing the situation didn't take long.
"Helmsman, the Imperials will keep hitting us from below. Turn us so we can open fire on them with our starboard side."
"General, sir, but that'll expose our belly to the fighters and blockade destroyers..."
"I know that, Acting Captain."
"Sir, they'll destroy us!"
Willard glanced back at the senior gunner, a burly man who barely fit into his officer's uniform. It seemed like one awkward move would split the tunic at the seams. Never mind that this being was a Bothan. An openly cowardly Bothan.
"Continue firing on the Imperious. Ignore other targets in the same firing sector!"
"Understood, General, but maybe you'll reconsider? We need to get out! The hangar is destroyed, massive internal damage! The shields have only just started to recover! If they hit us with ion cannons again, we'll just turn into ballast and..."
Vanden closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. A durasteel heaviness was spreading through his head. He must have taken a hard hit when the Imperials managed to land a blow to the Crimson Dawn's gut. A serious blow — and under certain circumstances, a fatal one.
"We have more guns than Shohashi and the second destroyer combined," General Willard replied. "They've already outmaneuvered us by knocking out our small solar ionization reactor and effectively cutting power to most of our launchers in one stroke. We have to destroy the Imperious so we can turn perpendicular to our current position and take out at least one ISD. The second one will inevitably pull back."
"And what about the enemy fighters?" the executive officer asked.
"Use the small shaped-charge missiles," he answered patiently. "We have enough energy to fight them off. Find out the status of the hangar and the hangar deck crew..."
"Sir, everything there is destroyed," the executive officer stated. "I just checked. We've lost the ability to rotate our air wing, and now all our fighters and interceptors will have to do it aboard the escort ships..."
"Order..."
A new explosion seemed to give the Crimson Dawn a massive kick from behind. Everyone on the bridge was swept up by the impact transmitted from the stern. Equipment exploded, bodies of sentient beings were crushed, shrapnel whistled across the bridge, and the wounded screamed while the dying agonized...
"Main reactor power is gone!" the acting fast dreadnought commander reported immediately. "Power distribution to the decks is intermittent! Proton torpedoes damaged the reactor! I ordered it shut down to prevent an explosion..."
Vanden understood perfectly that this was the end.
Without its main and backup power sources, the Crimson Dawn was just a big, impossibly sluggish toy that could neither escape, withdraw, nor ensure its own safety. A fully armed ship had instantly ceased active destruction of the enemy. Its rate of fire had dropped by orders of magnitude... Just like that, Shohashi had disabled a fast dreadnought built to destroy capital ships with a few moves.
How he'd done it no longer mattered.
Defeat was inevitable.
He had to make sure it didn't turn into a rout.
"Order to the division," General Willard rasped. "Abandon the Crimson Dawn, break formation, breach the blockade, and leave the system."
And the moment the First Division's ships began spreading out, signaling their intentions, the trio of Immobilizer 418-class interdictor cruisers — which the Republic forces had, for obvious reasons, already forgotten about — made their presence known.
Twelve additional vectors of artificial gravity wells appeared as unexpectedly as the two Victory-class Star Destroyers, accompanied by a pair of Providence-class carrier destroyers, had appeared above the Republic formation.
Then, making micro-jumps interrupted by the multidirectional vectors of the gravity projectors, every single Star Destroyer in Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet materialized around the helpless giant and its pack, suddenly finding themselves just ten to twenty units away from the Republic forces, to their complete surprise.
Eric Shohashi and the crew of the Imperious had performed a feat, drawing the attention of the fast Star Dreadnought and allowing Grand Admiral Thrawn's plan to unfold — turning the helpless...
And three seconds later, merciless fire poured from their hulls.
* * *
Branching blue lightning, leaping from C'baoth's crooked fingers — more like the claws of a deadly predator — pierced Corran Horn's body, instantly enveloping him.
The familiar smell of ozone and singed hair hit his nostrils.
Horn screamed, writhing under the electricity.
Luke rushed to help but was stopped by a second stream of white-blue energy, which he absorbed by angling his emerald blade at the necessary angle.
The Force Lightning with which the Emperor had tortured him aboard the second Death Star no longer terrified the young Jedi.
It didn't last long — C'baoth stopped attacking them both for some reason.
His eyes, burning with the same amber as the Emperor's, looked at young Skywalker with poorly concealed interest.
"So that's how it is, is it?" he asked. "The mutt knows a few tricks?"
Luke let the insult slide.
Because his previous battles with Dark Side adepts had taught him one simple rule: Sith or Dark Jedi never start a conversation unless they're planning some kind of treachery. Most likely a fatal one.
So...
The emerald blade in the Jedi's hand traced a gleaming arc, followed by the crack of stone splitting in two. Both halves crashed down beside the Jedi. Apparently, the piece of skarn was no smaller than his head. C'baoth had intended to crush his skull without a second thought.
Laughing suddenly, C'baoth raised his hands to unleash another stream of white-blue lightning at the two young men.
But Luke was no longer at the point of impact.
With a single leap, he sidestepped, landing next to Corran just as C'baoth struck again with Force Lightning.
Skywalker instinctively swept his blade aside again, and for a moment, a spectacular sight was revealed: a bright green blade wreathed in a blinding white coronal discharge. A second bolt, harming no one, melted the sand into a puddle of liquid silicon. A third clashed with the lightsaber once more.
The duration of the lightning strikes was decreasing, but their frequency was increasing. It seemed the cloned Jedi Master had switched to firing in bursts.
"Pathetic amateur!" C'baoth roared, unleashing Force Lightning from both hands. The power of this strike was so great that Luke nearly dropped to his knees. Only by flexing his legs did he manage to brace himself under the blow and hold firm. The blade kept pulling to the side, threatening to disarm him.
"Hold on," he barely heard Horn's quiet plea through the crackling discharges. Glancing sideways at the Corellian, the young Jedi was surprised to find him virtually unharmed — except for his pilot's flightsuit, which was burned almost everywhere.
"The Jedi are MINE!" the madman's voice continued to thunder. Luke felt his fingers going numb, unable to withstand the clone's pressure.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Horn drop to one knee, squinting, and aim his blaster...
Then a bright, blinding flash robbed Skywalker of his spatial awareness.
He didn't falter, keeping his defensive stance, but he no longer felt the pressure on his weapon. As if something had forced C'baoth to back off...
"You alive?" Horn's voice came through.
"I think so," Luke replied, blinking hard to clear the crimson haze from his eyes. Failing on his own, he called on the Force for help.
It worked almost instantly.
Looking around, he saw that C'baoth was no longer in his previous spot.
Neither was Horn.
Squinting, he saw that the much-abused orange Republic pilot's flightsuit, along with its contents — a Corellian-born pilot from Rogue Squadron — was now standing, bent over a heap of rags lying near a tree, around which the grass had been scorched for several meters.
"Corran, are you all right?"
"I think so," came the uncertain reply from the battered flightsuit. "C'baoth is too."
Luke deactivated his weapon and walked over to them, not forgetting to salute the X-wing hovering on its repulsor cushion. The little astromech beeped back, saying that anytime, day or night, he was happy to shoot at someone's feet again. Just ask.
When he reached the tree, he saw C'baoth lying on his back, unconscious but breathing steadily. Horn was kneeling beside the fallen clone, examining him with suspicion and curiosity, like a biologist who'd discovered an unknown species of animal.
"Not even a bruise," Horn said, a clear note of amazement tinged with annoyance in his voice. "You should have taught the droid to aim better."
"R2 wasn't trying to kill anyone," Luke defended his old friend. Crouching beside the motionless body, he placed his palm on the madman's forehead and listened to the Force's whisper... "He's fine. Just stunned, nothing more."
"Acoustic shock or a shockwave," Horn realized. "Well, time to finish the job. Move over..."
Skywalker looked up.
"We're not going to kill him," he said firmly. "If he's guilty, he should be tried."
"Are you kidding me?" Horn was taken aback. "This lunatic is responsible for thousands of deaths across the entire Dufilvian sector. He nearly killed us both, and you want to spare him, take him to Coruscant?"
"Punishment should be handed down by a court," Luke insisted. "Jedi aren't executioners, to pass their own judgment and carry out the sentence."
"You really are touched in the head," Corran shook his head. "Luke, wake up! We've got a miniature Emperor here who can control people, read minds, shoot lightning from his hands, and do God knows what else! It's dangerous to leave him alive!"
"We're not going to kill him at all," the stubborn Jedi insisted. "We just need to repair the long-range antenna and call for backup. The New Republic will pick him up and interrogate him. He might know something important..."
"Or he'll brainwash the entire crew of the ship that comes for him, slip off to some backwater, and then you, me, Rogue Squadron, and half the New Republic fleet will spend years rooting him out, while picking fights with a couple of sectors he's managed to enslave in the meantime. Luke, I was there! I heard his speeches! And you saw what he's capable of — and he has no moral qualms about it. If he has to, he'll brainwash everyone. Who's going to answer for the innocent people he sends to die against us?"
"C'baoth isn't necessarily an enemy," Skywalker declared with irritating conviction. "I talked to the one who used him against us. It's entirely possible that Grand Admiral Thrawn was controlling him in some way, or forced him to do all this..."
"Do you hear yourself?" Corran asked. "How can you control that psychopath?"
"I don't know," Luke admitted. "But when I met Thrawn, it was like he didn't exist in the Force. And he managed to somehow push it away from where I was."
"Great," the Corellian threw up his hands. "I step away for one second, and suddenly there's an Imperial, clearly unfriendly Grand Admiral in the galaxy who knows more about the mysteries of the Force than the great Jedi Knight Skywalker."
Skywalker didn't budge.
"He's going to live, Corran," Luke said firmly.
"Don't want to lose your future employer?" Corran snorted.
A muscle pulsed in Skywalker's jaw.
"Darth Vader served the Dark Side for decades, but he was able to reject it and return to the Light. Maybe C'baoth can too?"
"From what I've heard, Vader wasn't a concussion-crazy asshole with delusions of grandeur," Horn scratched his chin. "Judging by the stories going around the fleet, C'baoth is more like the Emperor. Which means he's not going over to any Light Side. He'll just gather strength and drag as many people as he can under his influence."
"Corran," Luke said patiently. "Clone or not, C'baoth," the young man pointed at the man lying on the ground, "is a Jedi. He might possess knowledge that I don't. And maybe that others don't either..."
"Uh-huh," the Corellian nodded. "You want to learn how to get inside other people's heads?"
Luke looked flustered.
"Let me get this straight," Horn said. "Tell me this: if Vader or the Emperor had survived, would you have rushed off to train with either of them?"
"No," Skywalker admitted. "I doubt I'm interested in the knowledge of the Dark Side..."
"Double standards — is that a special kind of Jedi art, or what?"
"Corran..."
The Corellian waved a hand at the Jedi.
"Do what you think is right. It's your back they'll stick the knife into if you're wrong. Do you have any cable or rope in your X-wing?"
"I think so, why?" Luke asked with interest.
"To tie him up," Corran gave the peacefully lying C'baoth a light nudge with his boot tip. "Or should we let him wander around, putting on his exotic fireworks show for the locals?"
"I'll go get it now," Luke promised, taking a step away. He turned and looked at the Corellian once more. "Did C'baoth teach you how to absorb energy?"
"What?" Horn looked at him with a stunned expression. Then he looked down at himself. "No, he didn't even mention anything like that."
"Then how did it happen?" Luke asked.
"How should I know?" Corran spread his hands. "When you're getting hit by lightning, you just pray you don't die."
"I see," Skywalker muttered, turning back to his errand for the necessary items.
Even though the X-wing was only ten meters away, Luke didn't make it in time.
Concentrating on a single goal again, he felt the threat too late. More accurately, he even heard it...
"Corran, no!" he shouted, spinning around and taking a few steps toward the Corellian. But it was too late.
The lightsaber with its snow-white silver blade performed just one action — it slid out of its hilt.
Luke felt a powerful spark of life dying beside him — the white blade of Corran Horn went dark, leaving behind a gash across the cloned Jedi's head.
"You executed him!" Skywalker said accusingly, arriving at the spot.
"I neutralized a threat," Horn snapped. "You can run around here with your principles all you want, but if you don't squash lunatics like this while they're still small, you'll end up with a whole brood just like this crazy dictator!"
"Corran, you can't do that," Luke shook his head. "Jedi don't act this way..."
"Well, I'm not a Jedi!"
"He would have been tried and..."
"Oh, yeah?" Horn asked skeptically. "On what evidence? Are you going to get a confession from Grand Admiral Thrawn? Or a full admission of guilt? No, wait," Corran grinned, "you'll just drop in on him for a chat and explain that fighting is bad, and really — he ought to surrender, do ten years on Kessel, or get a lethal injection right away..."
Skywalker was silent. He simply had nothing to say.
In the moonlight, metal glinted through the old man's gray hair.
Luke carefully touched it, pulling it toward him, removing a strange medallion from around his neck.
Turning it over in his hands, he asked Horn:
"Do you know what this is?"
"A medallion," the Corellian shrugged. "C'baoth always held it when he wanted to calm down. Why?"
"We need to fix the communication system," the young Jedi changed the subject. "And get out of here."
"I've got the remains of my X-wing's comm unit and some parts of Whistler stashed in the local settlement," the Corellian said, taking steps toward the settlement Luke had spotted on approach. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. Hutt, it's cold out here..."
Watching him go, Skywalker felt embarrassed.
"Corran," the young Jedi called, looking away and tucking the medallion into his pocket. "There's a spare flightsuit in the X-wing. Take it — yours doesn't have a backside anymore. At all..."
"Ah!" the Corellian drawled. "And I was wondering why there was such a draft..."