Lieutenant Jainer noticed movement ahead.
He dropped altitude and speed, not letting himself slip past the injustice he'd spotted.
A lone "StarViper," with a commander's identification mark painted on its fuselage, was hiding behind a massive piece of debris — once part of an "Aggressor"-class Star Destroyer recently blown apart by assault gunships.
The rest of the interceptors in his squadron passed a hundred meters from their CO, heading off to finish escorting the returning gunships that had expended their ordnance and turned not only the first pair but also the neighboring "Aggressor" that had rushed to their aid into ruins.
And while the first two were just scrap metal, the third still showed signs of life through occasional lights flickering in its few surviving viewports.
And one of the few surviving "Vipers" in this part of space had clearly decided to wait it out.
This kind of behavior hadn't been observed before.
Krieg opened a comm channel.
"OCC-Chimaera at point — six-zero-three, one wounded 'Viper' with command ID tags, what do I do?"
"We've got plenty of work here, 'Grey Leader.' Return."
And where was this "plenty"?
You couldn't find a hundred combat-ready hostiles.
Maybe he could "chat" with the enemy — might manage a recruitment.
An enemy CO was a valuable trophy.
The lieutenant would have done just that, but a new voice intervened — clipped, military-precise:
"Do I have the honor of speaking to the squadron commander who killed my pilots?"
Krieg took a deep breath.
If Kreb were here, he'd definitely say that this kind of negotiation with the enemy was "wet snot."
He wouldn't say it, but he'd definitely think it.
Absolutely would.
The former flight lead of the Jainer was generally alien to anything human.
If Krieg hadn't known that Thrawn had started using cloning cylinders before the commander of "Black Wing" himself appeared in the crew, he'd definitely think his former leader was grown in a test tube exclusively for waging war.
Forgetting to mention that a peaceful life existed.
"All correct!" he said carelessly. "I'm Lieutenant Krieg Jainer, Dominion Pilot Corps. Who are you?"
"My name is Jong. I'm the leader of the 'Sabacc' squadron. You know," a muffled cough came through, "up until now, we were considered the best. Since the Battle of Yavin."
The well-trained, velvety voice didn't match the broken, almost choppy phrases.
As if the man was trying to say something very quickly, while he still had oxygen.
"You fought at the Battle of Yavin?" Krieg decided to ask after some hesitation.
"Yes."
"Which side?"
"Side?!" his opponent laughed softly. "I was on every side, Lieutenant. I was a Republic pilot who embraced the Empire. I was also an Imperial who defected to the Alliance. I fled the Alliance for the 'Consortium.' I was looking for somewhere better. Somewhere more righteous. Somewhere that actually had law and order. And a fat credit account, of course, why hide it. And all I found was," he coughed again, "a piece of rebar in my lung."
"Turn off your weapons, and our shuttle will pick you up in a minute," Krieg offered. "I guarantee full immunity and prisoner-of-war rights if you surrender."
"If," the Baron agreed. "That won't work, CO. Surrendering isn't in the 'Zann Consortium's' rules."
"Then why are we wasting time here?" Krieg snapped, feeling himself about to lose it. "No offense, CO, but I've got things to do. I have duties and a debt to the state I serve..."
"I pity you."
"For what?"
"I had all that too. And I pissed it all away, Lieutenant!" Jong admitted. "I chased after money, and now..."
"Is this a deathbed confession?" the lieutenant asked suspiciously. "Sorry, but I'm a combat pilot, not a priest."
"You're funny!" the enemy laughed. "I was the same when I was young. You're a good kid. I didn't choose wrong."
"In what?"
"In choosing you."
What was that supposed to mean?
"And how can I help you?"
"When I said surrendering wasn't in the 'Zann Consortium's' rules, I didn't mean I was fanatically loyal to them," Jong explained. "My ship is booby-trapped, kid. It'll blow if the canopy opens or if I land on anything but a 'Zann Consortium' vessel. I might want to survive, kid, but they made sure we wouldn't be taken prisoner."
"Nothing simpler," Krieg declared. "We'll tow you, hit you with an ion cannon and..."
"Kid, let's skip the fantasizing, okay? One of my lungs has already collapsed. The other is punctured. The LSS will keep it going a bit longer — then everything goes boom when I die."
"You called me to tell me this?" Lieutenant Jainer clarified, completely thrown off.
"Not only that," Jong stated. "You're a young guy, right?"
"Well, something like that..."
"So you still know what honor is," the man's voice was noticeably weakening with each phrase. "I have two daughters left. Adopted. I got together with their mother back during the Clone Wars. It's... complicated. Oh, Sith, it hurts so much... Jainer, promise me something."
Seriously? Should I get him a posthumous pardon too? Why the hell should I be doing this?
"Lieutenant, don't you dare promise this man anything," the controller suddenly spoke, reminding Krieg that he still hadn't switched channels. "They were offered a chance to surrender..."
"OCC being OCC," Jong laughed weakly. "Never changes. Listen, Jainer. Find my girls. At least try. Lie to them about something, so they don't... know... how... I died... like... a vagrant..."
For some reason, Krieg felt sorry for this man.
His wandering in search of a better life, chasing money — and it all ended not even with an instant death in battle.
The OCC remained treacherously silent.
"Alright, I'll do it," Krieg decided. "How do I find them?"
He had no intention of doing it, of course.
No one in their right mind would let him go when every pilot counted, and especially with hostilities against the "Zann Consortium" imminent.
And even less so would they let him go to who-knows-where to find who-knows-who.
"Passik," Jong said. "Their mother's maiden name... Find them... by it. Mine... they... renounced... both... of them..."
Krieg listened with half an ear to the instructions about where to go, who to find.
Obviously, he wasn't going to be anyone's executor.
But leaving a man, even an enemy, at his last moment with an unfulfilled request...
He was going to die anyway.
Let him at least think that someone had gone on his errand and fulfilled his last wish.
"Did you record that?" Jong asked.
"Both me and the OCC," confirmed Jainir.
"Thanks, kid," said Jong. "Don't think that I... was always like this... I... will repay..."
"I hardly need a souvenir from the afterlife."
"Destroyer," Jong continued. "Hit by the last... It's not finished off..."
"WHAT?"
Krieg glanced at the scanner.
No, the instruments showed that the mangled structure showed no signs of life.
One rail — the ion cannon — was broken in the middle.
And the second one — the plasma cannon — was soot-stained at the bow angles and also seemed deformed.
"I have... a better... angle," said Jong. "Didn't... hit... the bombers... Plasma... They're fixing it... Will... shoot... Soon..."
"Shit-shit-shit!"
Thoughts swirled in Krieg's head.
Now, when even the wheezing from the communication channel with Jong was no longer audible, indicating the man's death, Krieg saw a forming plasma blossom appear in the nose of the damaged ship.
Distance between the Chimaera and this almost-dead ship — thirty units.
If it fires, it'll be bad.
This crap flies slowly, but enough for the flagship.
The Chimaera won't have time to react and avoid impact.
"Thanks, Jong," Krieg said, accelerating his ship — "OCC-Chimaera, I'm one unit from the crippled Aggressor. They've locked onto you. Is anyone nearby? A gunship? A Scimitar?"
"Negative, Grey Leader. You are the only one. The nearest Scimitar is one hundred twenty units from your current position. A message has already been sent to it..."
"Roger," Jainer gritted his teeth.
He oriented himself extremely quickly.
Six seconds — that's how long the Scimitar would need to get here and line up on a combat course.
But that implies acceleration in a straight line, in which the fast bombers are of course unmatched.
A few more seconds — to acquire the target and launch torpedoes.
In about nine or ten seconds — and the problem would be solved.
The gunners of the Chimaera were currently smashing four Interceptor IV-class frigates, while the crippled enemy Star Destroyer itself was on the right beam and closer to the stern of the Dominion flagship.
One of the Chimaera's eight-gun turrets was already working on it, but that was unforgivably little.
Too little to win.
Through a fast multi-barrel roll, Krieg dropped his ship into a dive, aiming for the thickest debris to reach the target by the shortest path.
Having entered the projection of the Star Viper's position, whose pilot he had recently spoken with, the commander of the Grey Wing understood everything.
The Scimitar raid had indeed destroyed the enemy's ion cannon.
And damaged the plasma cannon.
But the enemy had carried out repairs, hastily rerouting a number of power cables to the relatively intact installation.
Despite the fact that the front part of the rail was destroyed and mangled frames and armor fragments were in front of the muzzle opening, it didn't matter at all for the main caliber.
The Chimaera's turbolasers that could fire on this sector were firing, destroying the improvised cover of the installation, but all of this was clearly pointless.
Plasma would easily vaporize any small obstacle in its path, only reducing the power of its charge by a certain fraction.
If the projectile would discharge from any more-or-less large fragment, then there would be no point in using such a monstrous weapon.
In space there are plenty of all kinds of debris — comets, meteors, ship parts scattered all over the galaxy.
Under the influence of gravity and stellar wind, they "migrate" from one end of the galaxy to another.
Space is not as clean as it might seem.
That's exactly why the Scimitar won't make it here in six seconds.
It will take not a straight, but a broken course and will arrive at the point after a longer interval.
And, most likely by that time the Aggressor will have already fired — judging by the huge glowing ball in its nose, it's already heavily charged its main caliber.
Therefore, there can only be one solution to this problem.
The targeting computer locked the aiming reticle onto the nose of the charging cannon.
The red crosshair turned green and all four rockets left their launchers.
They scattered the crudely laid power cables of the main gun, which, in theory, should have affected the charging intensity...
Yes, the huge plasma flower was no longer swelling so rapidly.
But still the charge continued to grow.
Either the installation has a buffer, or the power of four HEAT rockets was insufficient to tear through the installation's armor and finally cut its power supply.
Krieg switched to laser cannons and pressed the trigger into the grips of the interceptor's control stick with all his might.
The four cannons of his ship began to spit fire.
With a rate of fire that caused the barrels to noticeably overheat and the green throttled streams of light almost merged into four beams, he was able to bring down on the remains of the installation's protective casing a power he would never have achieved at normal rate of fire.
And he had only one hope that he would achieve his goal before...
With an unpleasant beep, the onboard computer reported that the gun circuits had fused.
"Damn it all!" Jainer cursed heartily.
Just three more seconds — and he would have blown that Hutt installation to molecules.
And at the moment he had only managed to destroy the protective casing of the ship's armor and expose the innards of the plasma cannon, glowing with a lilac blossom.
Ripe and ready to bloom at any moment.
"Grey Leader," said the controller. "In three seconds a Scimitar will be at your position."
Krieg looked at the chronometer.
Ten seconds were up.
In three it would be too late.
He glanced at the Chimaera.
The destroyer was already maneuvering, understanding that it couldn't escape the strike and therefore trying to present its least vulnerable part.
But in any case, casualties would number in the hundreds, if not thousands of people.
And the destruction of a third of the destroyer's main engines.
Which would turn it into a practically immobile target.
Worst of all, the greatest damage would be to the superstructure — and that already smacks of mission failure.
Whatever it was.
There was only one solution.
"Copy that, OCC," he said, diverting all energy to his engines.
Sound doesn't travel in vacuum.
But his cockpit had atmosphere.
And even through his helmet he could hear the hysterical shriek of the twin ion engines that were running wild, having received the maximum possible power.
Only this way would he make it.
Only this way would it work.
The higher the speed, the fewer questions about the consequences of the impact.
The twin ion engine and the reactor sent into overdrive would explode so hard that no one would get off lightly.
Perhaps the principle of destructive interference would work.
Perhaps one wave would cancel another.
Krieg aimed his ship straight at the target.
"Grey Leader, you are forbidden!"
"Wouldn't hurt to have autopilot on interceptors," sighed Krieg, holding the control sticks with hands trembling slightly from nervous tension.
Yes, it would be nice to lock the course and climb out through the hatch.
Too bad it wouldn't work then — the ship wouldn't reach the target.
He felt somehow at peace even.
He had been an Imperial pilot.
He had become a Dominion pilot.
And he knew clearly that a member of the Pilot Corps, in one form or another, must do everything conceivable and inconceivable to protect comrades and save the operation.
The lone TIE Interceptor, accelerated to speeds indecently high even with the PLAE, like a firebrand in which even the twin ion engines overheated, inertially inscribed itself into the huge cylindrical muzzle opening of the Aggressor's plasma cannon.
The lilac-violet plasma flower, having reached the size necessary for launch, never received acceleration.
The lone TIE Interceptor tore apart all the control equipment necessary for firing the main caliber.
It burst like an overripe fruit, instantly vaporizing the front part of the destroyer.
Two seconds later, Scimitar-01 appeared two units from the blazing starship.
* * *
"Fucking hell..." was all Alex could utter. "He rammed the emitter and the buffer accumulator!?"
The mangled Star Destroyer began to come alive.
Obviously the enemy, realizing that his plan for a surprise attack hadn't worked, decided to use turbolasers and the self-destruct system.
But not today.
"Yes," Tomax said curtly, adjusting the ship's course. "How many are left under the belly?"
"Six, Commander."
"Prep everything."
"We still have two targets besides this one..."
"I. Said. Prep. Everything!"
Palms squeezed the control grips until they hurt.
But this was no place for emotions.
The result.
Only that mattered.
"Got it," Alex replied. "Ready, Commander."
"On combat course," said Bren. "Going in. Who was working on it?"
"Checking the flight log..."
Scimitar-01 was diving from the upper echelon to the lower.
Into the one where the Aggressor was.
For ground and space battles, spatial orientation is different, but fact remains fact — it's customary that rapid approach "from above to below" among starship pilots was also called diving.
"Torpedoes away," said Tomax, veering aside.
The onboard computer calculated the escape trajectory.
"Dash."
Scimitar-01 was already twenty units from the enemy destroyer that was exploding into pieces.
All six proton torpedoes hit their targets.
A series of detonations raced from stern to bow and turned the Aggressor into a heap of debris and scrap metal.
So small, scattered, and incapable of even remotely resembling anything like a warship.
"Chimaera-OCC, this is Scimitar-Leader," Tomax reported. "Bomb bay empty, requesting landing for rotation."
"Approved, Scimitar-Leader. As always — cell one."
"Copy," Tomax switched to comms with the flight mechanic. "Did you find out what I asked?"
"Yes," knowing his commander's temper, Alex's voice didn't sound optimistic. "Crew five."
Tomax looked at the control panel.
Opposite the marker for Scimitar-05, a green light was on.
So it was alive.
This marker wasn't on the scanners.
So the bomber was on rotation.
"Going to the Chimaera," said Tomax, engaging the PLAE.
A second later they were under the rectangular hatch of the flagship's main hangar.
The ship "rose," caught by a tractor beam that placed it in the first launch cell, assigned to the wing commander and his squadron.
The commander turned his head, seeing another Scimitar secured along the rack.
Right on the fifth launch position.
And two figures in black jumpsuits standing on the platform, while a technician, using droids and manipulators, secured deactivated proton torpedoes in the bomb bays.
As soon as Scimitar-01 was locked in the mounting manipulators, Tomax yanked the emergency canopy release.
His trained body automatically found itself on the platform.
The helmet ripped from his head fell onto the seat.
If the technician who was supposed to load their bomb bay was surprised by the wing commander's behavior, he certainly didn't show it.
"Bren, your hyperdrive!" Alex's cockpit opened next, and he watched his commander's back, moving quickly, almost running, along the platform toward the pair of pilots of the fifth bomber. "Commander, goddammit! He's not worth it!"
The pilot and flight mechanic, dressed identically in black flight suits, could only be told apart by the patch on the right sleeve.
"You attacked Aggressor-target-nineteen," Tomax said without any preamble, addressing the pilot.
Somewhere behind him, he could hear the thud of boots as Alex ran across the metal platform.
"Yes, sir, I did," the pilot said uncertainly.
It was this bleating, which even the vocoder couldn't hide, that put everything in its place.
"Take off your helmet!" Tomax barked.
The pilot complied.
Standing before him was not his clone — he understood that almost immediately.
An ordinary middle-aged man.
"Where is Bren-05?" the commander asked, addressing their crew's flight mechanic.
"We were shot down on the second target," he said quickly. "He was hospitalized... Aggressor-target-nineteen is our third target."
No need to explain further.
On Dominion ships, there are always not only spare parts for wing aircraft, but also a small percentage of "extra" pilots and technicians who can replace wounded crew members of small aircraft, provided the ship can be brought "back to life."
"Sir," the flight mechanic of the fifth crew, understanding that something out of the ordinary was happening, tried to smooth sharp edges. "The commander, like me, only came from the Defense Forces two months ago..."
"Why was the strike on the main caliber of Aggressor-target-nineteen directed at the ion cannon and the plasma cannon's power system?" the wing commander continued, looking at the pilot.
He was the ship's commander.
He pulls the trigger.
"Sir, I..." the man looked away. "Must have missed..."
"Your father missed," said Alex, standing shoulder to shoulder with Tomax. "We can see the result now. You wanted to get bonuses for capturing valuable enemy technology!"
Such a practice existed.
Payment of rewards for capturing or obtaining military or other technology of interest to the Dominion, possessed by any party in the galaxy.
A plasma cannon of the Zann Consortium is a very valuable trophy in monetary terms.
"No, sir, I..." the pilot's eyes darted.
"I contacted the OCC," Alex said categorically. "You reported it right after the strike. You... Tomax! Damn you!"
He seemed to put little force into the punch, but the pilot of the fifth ship fell onto the platform, holding his broken nose.
The flight mechanic of the fifth crew started to move to protect his, albeit temporary, commander, but Alex unambiguously stopped him, demonstratively cracking his knuckles.
A head shorter and twenty kilograms lighter than the flight mechanic of the flagship ship, the "fifth" prudently stayed in place.
"Because of your desire to line your pockets, pilot, the commander of the Grey Wing sacrificed himself," said Tomax. "You reported that the enemy Star Destroyer was disabled! It was removed from the target list! And it drifted toward the Chimaera, repairing its gun! If not for Krieg Jainer, the Chimaera would have lost half its side and superstructure! Because of a hundred thousand credits, you nearly killed a third of the watch, you son of a bitch!"
"Sir, I didn't know..." the pilot whined.
"Your job is to follow orders," Tomax repeated. "No more, no less. Collecting trophies is the last thing you should be doing in battle! Today, because of you, an excellent officer died, one who completed more successful sorties in six months than you have in your entire life! He paid with his life for your greed!"
"Sir, I'm sorry, it's not my fault, he chose to..."
"Yes, Commander," the flight mechanic of the fifth crew chimed in, "we did our job. Nobody asked him to ram; he could have shot it with cannons..."
Tomax swung again, seeing that the insolent face still hadn't understood the lesson delivered in simple and clear language.
But he couldn't — Alex caught his arm.
The eyes of the commander and the flagship flight mechanic met.
"Don't, Bren," his partner said clearly. "They're not worth it. There'll be an investigation anyway. They joined the regular fleet to make money. They're not the first, nor the last. The problem with these is that they're too dumb to understand the full set of reasons why Jainer did this. They'll find out at the tribunal hearing. Don't get any more dirty over them."
Glancing at the former "conscripts," Tomax understood that Alex was right in every sense.
"You are both suspended," he declared, seeing a squad of stormtroopers already running along the platform, led by the ship's security officer. Apparently, someone among the witnesses had tipped off the "security." "I'll inform the controller about replacements myself."
"Major Tomax, what's going on?" the counter-intelligence officer asked, his gaze gloomy, drilling into the crew of the fifth Scimitar.
"Because of this crew's actions, our pilot died," said Bren. "They didn't follow orders, didn't destroy the enemy destroyer's weapons so they could claim it as a trophy..."
"Hey-hey-hey, what does this have to do with me?" the flight mechanic of the fifth crew got worried. "I just..."
"You just input the target coordinates into the warheads for paired launch," Alex prompted him with the correct answer.
"As a result, to save the Chimaera from damage and protect the crew, Commander Jainer of the Grey Wing was forced to ram," Bren finished his short account.
"Is that true?" the counter-intelligence officer frowned, burning holes into the fifth crew with his gaze.
"Just wanted to make some extra money..." the commander of the said crew said plaintively.
"Arrest the crew of Scimitar-05," the security officer ordered the stormtroopers present.
"Take them away," came a new order, and the procession moved to the exit.
"Sir," the ship's counter-intelligence officer lowered his voice, speaking to Tomax. "You must realize that assault is a crime. Whatever provoked it."
Alex sighed heavily, as if to say "I warned you."
"I understand," Tomax replied. "I'm not looking for excuses. I'll face the tribunal if necessary."
"'When' it becomes necessary," the counter-intelligence officer corrected.
He looked at the new pair in black jumpsuits running along the platform to the fifth ship.
"We've lost quite a few pilots today — both regular and replacement," he said. "There are almost no reserves. I... Of course, I'll have to write a lot of explanatory reports, but... You have time until this battle ends and the alert is canceled to fight properly. Then I'll be obliged to place you under arrest, just like those two."
"I understand," Tomax nodded. "Thank you."
"Blow up a couple of ships for me too," the counter-intelligence officer smiled weakly. "Let's hope everything goes without harsh sanctions, like the Kessel..."
"Let's hope," Bren nodded, calming down. "Alex, let's go. We have a lot of work ahead."
* * *
"Nasty situation," Tschel commented on the latest news from the hangar.
"Unpleasant, but completely explainable by the emotional overload our pilots are experiencing," I commented.
"Nothing can justify violating an order for material gain," Tschel objected.
"My words referred to Major Bren," I clarified. "Not the crew of Scimitar-05."
But what happened clearly demonstrates that the situation is starting to get out of control.
"Captain, are all designated targets stripped of their disguise?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir," Tschel frowned, not understanding why the conversation had returned to business. "Aren't you going to take action against the pilots who broke the law?"
"There's a tribunal for that, and there will be a more favorable environment," I cut him off. "We are moving to the second phase of the operation, Captain. Inform the Scimitars of the change in priorities. They are now switching to destroying enemy ships."
"Sir, the enemy has split into two groups," Tschel reminded. "If we can still clear Zone Alpha, then Beta..."
He fell silent, meeting my gaze.
"Carry out the order, Captain," I cut him off. "And inform our signals officers that one of the enemy's small transport ships may soon transmit our identification signal. That ship must be protected and escorted out of the combat zone."
"It will be done, sir."
Stroking the ysalamiri that had fallen asleep on my lap, I activated the comlink built into the armrest of my chair.
Time to make a few important calls to start the rout.
* * *
Despite being ready for it, the yellow alert buzzer caught Kreb off guard.
He had woken up long ago, feeling quite rested, fresh, and ready to carry out the assigned combat tasks.
It took him a few seconds to close the ventilation valves of his jumpsuit (he couldn't sit in a practically sealed semi-suit for hours waiting for an alert command, could he?), reconnect it to the life support system controller on his chest, and, lowering his helmet, put his gloves back on, cutting himself off from the remnants of atmosphere in the launch cell.
Next came the upper hatch, the harness straps, and the glance at the combined holo-photo, which had become a mandatory ritual.
Engines warmed up, fuel topped off, another pre-flight check completed.
Soon they would get the command.
The Scimitars had already gone.
Which meant it would soon get very "hot" and the remaining ships still in reserve would be needed.
He felt a slight tingling in his fingers.
He looked at them in surprise, trying to remember when he had last felt this.
It turned out to be back in his Academy days, when he, still a green recruit, had just started piloting.
At first, the tingling was combined with fear of failure.
Then — with thrill and anticipation of flight.
Now it was the same.
No fear — just the desire to finally get out of this huge metal box that had surrounded him these weeks.
And get out — not for training, exercises, drills, and combat coordination with others.
Get out for battle.
Real.
Merciless.
Face to face with the enemy.
A beep sounded in his helmet, indicating communication with the flight controller.
"Leader, are your people ready for takeoff?"
Strange question.
"Ready and waiting, controller," Kreb clipped.
"As am I," he added mentally.
"That's good..."
The man frowned.
Non-regulation phrases.
A heavy sigh.
A meaningful pause.
"OCC, any problems?" he asked directly.
There was something his flight director wanted to say.
Something he couldn't bring himself to say.
Because he knew Kreb wouldn't like it.
That's why he hesitated.
Something on the edge of personal and official duty, causing dissonance in the senior officer.
"Kreb," there was a dry click of switching to a private channel. "I'm not supposed to tell you this, actually..."
"Then why are you telling me?"
"There's bad news, son."
"I've never seen you in my life, controller, and judging by your voice, you're barely ten years older than me."
"I'm listening, sir."
"If there's another mission cancellation, I'll transfer to any patrol scow, just to fly."
"Information has been received that Krieg Jainer is dead," said the controller.
Kreb felt the skin on his face tighten, his teeth grinding against each other.
"How, sir?" he asked.
That was all he could manage.
"He went after an enemy destroyer with gunship cover. Turns out the Xg-1s expended their entire loadout, but the Zann somehow got their plasma cannon running. Krieg rammed it. From what I can tell, he only had his lasers left"meaning he'd fired all his shaped-charge rockets—"and according to the scanners, there were no friendlies nearby… Son, he died saving the flagship. Thanks to him, everyone's alive."
"I understand, sir," he replied. "Why are you telling me?"
Under military law, notification of a serviceman's death or missing-in-action status must be given to their next of kin.
"Well, he doesn't have anyone else, Kreb," the controller answered. "Not a single soul… And he was your wingman."
Now he knew.
The "Leader–Wingman" pairing was the foundation of the Pilot Corps.
It was an unbreakable monolith—capable of handling any mission and bound to have each other's backs.
And to be fair, the wingman often caught more flak than the leader.
"I understand, sir," Kreb answered. "I'll keep that in mind."
"I know you will, son," the controller went on. "I just want you to know: there won't be an end to the enemies today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after. Don't go into battle thinking your life is over."
Some twisted psychology.
"I understand, sir."
"Live, Kreb," the controller continued in a silky tone. "Live so you can remember those whom no one else is left to remember. If you charge into that mess with a hot head and all your fury, you won't come back. I want you to fly through that magnetic field knowing full well you have something to come back for."
As long as you are remembered, you are immortal.
For some reason, it occurred to him that he wasn't the only one who knew about the photograph on his instrument panel.
And right behind that thought came another.
The vocoder masked intonation.
The OCC duty officer's station had a built-in vocoder, not a simple microphone like a comlink.
"Sir," he said slowly. "Who am I speaking with? Give me your service number and clearance level."
There was a barely audible snort.
"Beta-Alpha-2-1-Leader-Giant"a service number like that could turn your hair gray in your spare time. "Need my clearance level too, son?"
"No, sir," Kreb hastened to answer. "It's perfectly clear. I've heard your guidance. I'll do everything in my power to come back. And to remember those whom no one else is left to remember."
A service number like that would bring anyone to their senses.
And clear their head.
Rumor had it that this particular officer had even physically disciplined certain individuals, using disciplinary measures that hadn't been applied to officers in ages.
"That's good, son," the "controller" continued. "Now—fly and kick their asses."
The "red" light flashed.
Launch.
The fighter slid smoothly off the pylons and shot into the rectangular maw of the hangar bay.
The Avenger shuddered when the magnetic field released a bubble of air along with the fighter into the vacuum.
It shuddered again when they breached the second field and emerged into the operational expanse of the battlefield.
The place was awash with red, white, green, and blue fire from lasers, turbolasers, and ion cannons; smoky trails of rocket exhaust; explosions; and the whirlwind of death—the scene of a colossal battle.
A battle where they had to put the final period.
Kreb gripped the flight stick so hard his knuckles went white.
He didn't see it—he felt it.
He'd grown accustomed over so much time.
So many fights, so many losses.
Now Krieg, too…
The Chimaera's air wing had been his family.
Twenty-four TIE Interceptor pilots, of whom he only knew those who hadn't yet used up their "allotted" sorties before destruction.
Jainer had been the last.
Now—no one remained.
As long as you are remembered, you are immortal.
The phrase hit him like a cold shower.
Kreb shook his head and checked his course against the OCC telemetry.
He was off by a degree.
No matter, we'll correct that now.
And then we'll strike.
To live.
Because not all the interceptor pilots from the "Black Wing" and "Grey Wing" squadrons had died.
He was alive.
He remembered them all.
And he would live so he could understand.
So he could avenge.
So he could kill.
So that others could live.
"Leader, you okay?" his wingman asked.
"No, Kreb-611," the pilot answered. "Krieg Jainer is dead."
Clones didn't form emotional attachments.
Honestly, Kreb had never bothered to find out what of his past they'd inherited besides piloting skill.
"Was he a friend?" the wingman asked.
The voice sounded almost like a droid's recitation.
"He was my wingman," Kreb explained. "Before you. And before Kreb-215. And before Kreb-48. And before Kreb-23. And before Kreb-2."
"Roger, Leader," said Kreb-611. "Are we flying to avenge him?"
"No, wingman," the original rejected. "We're flying to work."
A cool head.
In combat, he was a machine.
But only in combat.
"Roger, Leader. Working."
A few minutes later, when the formation of TIE Interceptors and TIE Avengers entered weapons range, every Kreb in the air wing knew that Krieg Jainer had died.
And they knew he had been Major Kreb's wingman.
That was more than enough to make their approach to the enemy fully appropriate for the situation.
Lucky for the Star Viper pilots, by that point almost all of them had been destroyed.
Unlucky for the rest of the Zann forces—the last of them were still alive.
For now.
But the torrents of turbolaser, ion, and missile fire that crashed down on them had already begun to thin their numbers.
* * *
The expression on Captain Tschel's face could be described with one very succinct phrase.
Right now, he looked like a fish stranded on the shore.
His mouth hung open, occasionally closing soundlessly when his head produced a thought he wanted to voice but couldn't fully articulate.
His eyes were wide, staring at the lethal rain that seemed to pour from nowhere.
Now, he thought, he understood why I had only ordered the enemy's cloaking fields to be disabled, rather than wasting time on completely destroying their starships.
"Channel twenty-five," he finally managed to whisper, pointing a finger at the silhouette visible through the viewport. "The transmissions came from there?"
"Correct, Captain," I agreed.
"But… how?"
"Crystal gravfield trap," I explained. "The only one operational in the galaxy. And now we've made a mobile copy that can independently go under stealth."
"I see…"
Kreb's voice said otherwise.
"Sir," he addressed me again. "At Perimeter, when we first arrived at the station, you said the other ships should receive docking instructions. Were you talking about this?"
"Yes, Captain," I confirmed, stroking the ysalamiri's belly. "They were with us. Our invisible escort."
"Uh…?"
"How long?"
"Yes, sir."
"Since Kessel."
"Since Kessel," Tschel repeated, dumbfounded, his eyes fixed on how the two waves of annihilation methodically chewed through the enemy fleet.
Ion shots—for the transports we would still need ourselves in future operations.
Turbolasers and missiles—for the warships.
"Since Kessel," my flagship's commander said again. "And I didn't even suspect!"
"Don't blame yourself, Captain," my remark made Tschel turn his attention to me. "No one was supposed to know how deep the black hole went until they were needed."
"Them," Tschel repeated as if enchanted, looking back at the viewport. "I only see one…"
He looked at me as if the answer should have been written on my face.
"Many wondered when I would finally deploy my Super Star Destroyer," I said. Tschel stopped blinking. "Well, the time has come. With the only difference being that I didn't fulfill the onlookers' expectations."
"In what sense, sir?" Physiology finally won, and Tschel started blinking again.
"They expected me to bring my Executor into the fight," the captain finally closed his mouth when he realized that if he kept staring at the spectacle of the enemy fleet being beaten—all of them now scrambling in mass retreat, trying to push through the Eternal Wrath and break free—he would start drooling. "I didn't postpone the premiere. I brought both here."
"Both?!" Tschel shouted, greedily staring at the viewport.
He didn't have to search long.
The Fellblade dropped its cloak, revealing its nineteen-kilometer hull directly above our Interdictor, just as the Guardian had appeared above the Chimaera a few minutes earlier.
And the two "heavyweights" began a competition in rapid-fire elimination of enemy starships.