1349: Escape pod launched from Bank 9-Alpha. Captain Kral Nevil missing, presumed unauthorized absence.
GALACTIC ALLIANCE WARSHIP OCEAN, OFF FONDOR
Jacen wouldn’t take Niathal’s comm, but she wasn’t sure she’d believe what he told her anyway. She focused on the information she had, provable stuff flowing back from the battle.
The holochart changed before her eyes. One moment the inner cordon was a tangle of blue and red transponder icons, and the next the red icons were separating out fast and heading for the planet.
She could hear the voice of Captain Tarpilan in her headset, as if he’d woken up sober and hadn’t a clue what he’d been up to last night. He was apologizing for his language in a confused tone. GA ships were still locked in battle, but as Niathal switched from ship to ship, the contrast between the manic mood of a few moments earlier and the normal level of grim tension during combat almost felt like calm had descended.
“Tell me this isn’t a feint,” she said. “If they’re playing dead, and he’s fallen for it, we’re borked.” She didn’t use the word often, but it was a blessed release right then. She got ready to pull her ships out, just in case, trying to check again who was where, who was still in one piece, who needed urgent assistance, who had no propulsion or had jettisoned escape pods. Jacen had effectively split off from the fleet.
“If Fondor’s scamming us,” Makin said quietly, “they’re taking the special effects a little too seriously …” He touched Niathal’s arm to get her attention. “Look.”
Some X-wings had penetrated Fondorian space far enough to get detailed aerial reconnaissance of the ground. Visuals were confusing. Some showed steam roaring high into the air from the shattered tunnels that ran under the whole of Fondor’s surface. Others were just thick dark smoke spreading, filling the frame like thick, folded fur, and it was hard to work out what was happening until she switched to a thermal image—and that was much clearer.
Oridin—was it really Oridin?—was burning. It was a ball of searing temperatures that cooled towards the edges, with irregular projections as if a firestorm was being fanned farther. That was exactly what she was seeing: the aftermath of a massive airburst. Fondor certainly wasn’t putting that on for a show. When she looked to the other screens, Jacen’s task force was taking advantage of the loss of shielding to pound other Fondorian cities. But Fondor still had a fleet flying, and the battle was intensifying even if the planet was in dire straits.
“Bloodfin, this is Ocean,” she said. There was no response on the personal encrypted link; she tried the bridge channel. “Gil, are you still there?”
“Clever trick,” Pellaeon said. His tone was wary: he had company this time. “I have Lieutenant Veila here, and she’s been explaining some of basics of the Force to me.”
“Jacen’s destroying Oridin. I’m comming Vadde and offering terms.”
“Are you asking me for my opinion, or telling me?”
“I’m joint Chief of State, and I don’t think my colleague is in a position to negotiate, seeing as he’s busy fighting his ship.” She could stop this now. She could stop this and end the day with some ships left, and Fondor wouldn’t look like the Yuuzhan Vong had just left again. She turned to the flag lieutenant she was usually assigned in Ocean, Vio. “Flag, get me the Fondorian President.”
Surrenders were normally forced from a stronger position than hers. This time, the GA had lost an arm but the enemy had lost both legs, so she was still ahead. She strode back to the bridge as fast as she could without breaking into a run, scattering crew members. They couldn’t have known what was going on; it was hard enough for officers in the CIC to piece together the picture, so anyone tied up in single tasks elsewhere knew next to nothing, other than from disjointed scraps that filtered through at remarkable if careless speed by word of mouth from deck to deck.
Shas Vadde took a little longer to respond than she’d expected. It was the first time it had crossed her mind that she was lucky to raise him at all, because there was every chance he’d be based in Oridin. But he was alive; the holo-screen image showed him in a harshly lit room that could have been an emergency planning center with people milling around behind him, many in administrators’ uniforms.
“Admiral,” he said, “we’re on backup generators here, so make the most of this comlink. The power grid’s out in six cities in the Oridin region. Oridin itself—well, I’m sure you can see the results of your handiwork.”
“We can stop this now.” Niathal bristled at the thought of being tarred with Jacen’s brush, but it was all rather academic to someone in Vadde’s position. “Surrender now, we both recall our fleets, and I personally guarantee you that Fondor will get permanent special economic status, and we’ll aid you in disaster recovery as soon as you say the word.”
Vadde considered her in silence for what seemed like a long time. The bridge crew were occupied with the incoming data and intelligence coming in direct from the fleet and via the CIC, but a couple of officers paused to watch the impromptu negotiations. Wars turned on small personal events like this.
“What about Solo?” Vadde asked. “Is he going to go along with this?”
“I’m not asking his permission.” Forget the united front. “He’s too tied up with your fleet at the moment to talk, so I’m acting unilaterally.”
It took Vadde another minute to answer, during which he was interrupted by an aide who showed him a datapad. Whatever was contained in it, it wasn’t good news.
“We surrender,” Vadde said at last. “Call off your ships. I’ll call off mine.” He turned and said something to someone behind him, and looked years older when he turned back to face her again. “Give it a few minutes to reach all ships. Cease-fires can be ragged, as I’m sure you know.”
Niathal waited, and as soon as reports started coming in of Fondorian vessels breaking off attacks, she opened the comm to every bridge in the fleet—and that included Jacen’s elements around Fondor.
Tough. He wants to play front-line commander, then he doesn’t get included in the diplomacy.
“All Galactic Alliance and Imperial Remnant vessels, cease fire immediately,” she said. “Cease fire. Fondor has surrendered.”
There was always a time lag while cautious commanders double-checked the signal, and gunners and pilots caught up in the life-or-death adrenal blur of combat were told again to stand down. It was hard to come to an immediate halt. The Imperial ships seemed to be waiting for confirmation from their own officers, but Pellaeon’s voice came on the link ordering the cease-fire, and their fleet fell silent.
At this distance, without seeing the damage and casualty reports coming back from battered ships, Niathal could pretend that the sector had returned to a peaceful calm, and that everything could go back to normal.
The only ships still moving on the screens were the Anakin Solo and its accompanying frigates. Niathal was anxious for Fondor not to get jumpy. She let Vadde hear the voice traffic. “Anakin Solo, this is Ocean. Respond please.”
“What are you doing?” Jacen’s voice wasn’t his usual controlled façade of irritating reason, as if he were explaining something to the very dim. He sounded as if he’d been woken up from a deep sleep, and was annoyed about it. “You can’t stop now.”
“I’ve accepted Fondor’s surrender. They’ve stood down their ships. Unless you can render aid to the planet right now, Jacen, withdraw, and return to the assembly area.”
“We broke through.” He paused. “I broke through.” She could hear him snapping orders at someone, and it seemed to be a demand to find out why his ships had obeyed her order to cease fire. So he was on his own now. “I will not accept this. We have to seize our advantage. You’re letting them regroup.”
“They’ve surrendered, Jacen, and we’ve all got pretty much the same rules of engagement across the civilized galaxy—surrender means cease fire.”
Niathal wasn’t just obeying interplanetary conventions, of course. The Fondorian fleet ha
dn’t gone home and disarmed: it was there, nose-to-nose with her ships, and could start the battle again at a moment’s notice. Fondor had everything to lose, but the GA had ships at stake, too. They’d already lost half the Fifth Fleet recently, and Fondor was not the only enemy.
“I refuse to stand down,” Jacen said. “I intend to carry on fighting.” There was a pause. “Nevil? Where’s the captain? Find him. I’ll have him—”
Niathal had no other option, but it was one she felt almost glad to take. There was an inevitable cleanliness about it.
“Colonel Solo,” she said, “if you don’t honor the cease-fire, I’m relieving you of duty. An admiral outranks a colonel, remember, and I will order your ship to be disabled.”
There was another pause. She’d never expected him to say yes, ma’am, anyway.
“I don’t recognize your authority.”
“Stand down, Colonel.”
“All GA vessels, this is your Chief of State ordering you to fight on. All Imperial vessels—under the terms of our agreement, I insist that you rejoin the battle.”
Niathal was being carried along by events, but the next words that left her mouth were going to seal many fates. Could the Imperial ships even hear Jacen? “All GA vessels, Colonel Solo is relieved of duty.” Poor Captain Nevil; he was in the worst position of all. He’d have to take over the Anakin. She had a sudden cold splash of realization that she should have had before she got on that comm. If Jacen could breach a planet’s shield with his influence, there probably wasn’t much that his crew could do to defy him. She was faced with the real possibility of having to shoot down the Anakin Solo.
Down.
There was no up or down in space, but she still had a feeling of falling.
And where was Nevil?
On the chart, a battle group of amber icons began to move toward Fondor. Some of the Imperial commanders had heard and heeded him, at least.
Pellaeon’s voice boomed over the bridge comm. “The Imperial fleet will withdraw immediately, and respect the cease-fire. Wyvern battle group, resume your position at once.” The amber icons slowed to a halt. “We now take our instructions solely from Admiral Niathal.”
“Ma’am,” said the comm officer, hovering at her elbow, “Shas Vadde’s defense secretary is on the comlink, asking what you expect her to do if the Anakin Solo opens fire again.”
The Anakin Solo was silent. She could only imagine what was happening on that bridge. And no Fondorian ship could be expected to sit and take Jacen’s barrage to preserve a cease-fire.
“Tell her I won’t regard self-defense as a breach,” she said. “But if Jacen Solo opens fire first, then I’ll have to take him out.”
IMPERIAL STAR DESTROYER BLOODFIN, OFF FONDOR: COMMAND CENTER
“This beggars belief,” Moff Rosset said. “The GA’s falling apart in front of our eyes.” He rapped his knuckles angrily on the transpariplast screen showing the positions of ships. “This is their highest level of command and political decision making, screeching at one another in the middle of a battlefield, about to slug it out. And we’re committing Imperial citizens’ lives to defend their interests? In the hope they’ll keep their promises? Are we mad?”
Pellaeon considered what he’d do in Niathal’s position, because he was walking a knife-edge himself. Grand Moffs and some leaders of the Council cliques had gathered in Bloodfin to pick over the warm remains at this bizarre half-time interval. Pellaeon knew that some of the Moffs would rather obey Jacen, but they’d seen sense at the last minute.
They had to come home to Bastion sooner or later. They knew what the consequences would be if they escalated from merely fantasizing about ousting him to actually attempting a coup. If they made a move now, they’d have to mean it.
“I admit they’re not impressing me with their cohesion,” Pellaeon said. He was conscious that he had Jacen’s eyes and ears in the compartment with him. “But we withdraw, and we wait. Now’s the time to concentrate on getting rescue parties deployed, and to see which hulls we can salvage.”
Tahiri Veila watched silently. She reminded him increasingly of the villips that the Yuuzhan Vong had used as communications channels, living creatures like disembodied eyes that saw and heard everything, bonded to their users from birth like hatchling nuna. Out of all the repellent organic technology of the Yuuzhan Vong, that was one of those he found most disturbing, even compared with their living weapons. It was the sensation of being spied upon; it was really no different from a comlink, but because it was alive it somehow made his flesh crawl. The things mimicked their user’s voice and could even shape themselves to look like the speaker’s head, and he half expected Tahiri to spout Jacen’s voice and her features to transform into his. The little Yuuzhan Vong ritual scars on her forehead did nothing to take away the feeling. He stared at her until she moved away to the far side of the compartment.
“Solo can’t retain power after this,” Grand Moff Siralt whispered. “He’s totally discredited now. Is Niathal going to honor the Borleias-Bilbringi agreement, though?”
“We won’t know for now,” Pellaeon said. Moffs always flew straight for the fresh carcass, however much mayhem was going on around them; Pellaeon’s priority for the next few hours was simply to preserve the fleet, and worry about spoils later. “Chances are that she will, because she’s a pragmatist, and she needs our muscle. First things first, though.”
Moff Quille—ah, Jacen’s new lever inside the Moff Council—didn’t take the hint. “They’re in disarray, and Fondor is still restorable, even if it’s crippled in places. I’d trade a couple of B-list planets for this.”
Quille couldn’t even stay loyal to someone who was encouraging him to be disloyal to his own head of state. Pellaeon savored the irony, and hoped that villip Tahiri overheard that little snippet.
“They’re not in disarray,” he said. “The headless body of the administration twitching out there is one thing, but they still have fully operational warships all around us, with rules of engagement, and if anyone here tries to pull a stunt like moving in on Fondor—without even a plan, you fool—then it won’t end well.”
Without a plan. Pellaeon was pretty sure that some conversations had gone on in back rooms about contingencies like that while the old man’s back was turned. “I’m very clear what we do now, and you will do it. Fondor has surrendered. The fighting is over. We do not take aggressive action now. The GA has achieved its objective, and all it has to do now is to sort out who’s actually running it, while we have a caf and lick our wounds. Do you understand me?”
He didn’t underestimate Quille, or how many other cliques in the council the man could enlist. There was a small army of Moffs out there—in ships of the fleet, or back home, or right under his nose here—and only one Admiral Pellaeon. He held the Empire together with the complex net of personal loyalties, the Moffs’ collective awareness that he was usually right, and a rarely administered but effective dose of retribution for those who didn’t play the sensible game. Without that, all he had to enforce his word was his Imperial service blaster, not even a massively lethal one. Power was a nebulous thing when you examined it; just like Luke Skywalker’s phantom fleet, in fact.
“I said, Moff Quille, do you understand me?”
Perhaps not just a blaster, though. Pellaeon did have his backup, but Admiral Daala wasn’t needed yet, certainly not for the primary engagement. There was a lot to be said for keeping his powder dry. He had a concealed personal comlink permamently open to her anyway, so she could hear what he was doing minute by minute, and she was monitoring the battle. Ten standard minutes away; at least she’d gained useful intelligence from being an observer.
The command center staff went about their business, occasionally glancing Quille’s way, because most of them had seen Pellaeon smack a wayward Moff into line before and there was no novelty in the spectacle. Pellaeon never raised his voice unless the ambient noise level required it. In this quiet part of the ship, slow emphasis alon
e made his point. Tahiri watched as if she was straining to hear.
“Yes, Admiral.” Quille backed down. They always did. “I was just thinking outside the box.”
“I’m all for creative solutions,” Pellaeon said, “but thinking like that can put you inside a box all too easily. Now let’s see what happens next.”
This was an odd interlude for Pellaeon. On one side he could see the urgent business; on the other, the GA was frozen for the moment, which was as urgent a problem in its way, but there was less he could do about that.
The vessel state board was a worrying tally of too many red lights in the tidy ranks of green that showed ships as operational or with minor damage. The red-lit list showed several of the Empire’s largest Star Destroyers badly damaged, three with only emergency environment control and drifting, and some of the fighter squadrons had taken 30 percent losses. The med runners were working at maximum capacity. If fighting flared up again now, they’d be caught in the middle with the salvage tugs. Nobody in his navy was going to get killed after surviving an attack, he swore it.
Yes, let’s take a breath and come to our senses.
“Sir, the Anakin Solo is moving.” The midshipman at the long-range scan plotted a projected course from the GA Destroyer’s movements; the scale of the scan made it look as if the Anakin Solo were making full speed, but the huge ship was simply edging ahead. The young officer tapped his earpiece. “Getting quite tense in Ocean, sir. He’s powering turbolasers again.”
Tahiri was slinking around now, still silent, but checking out the status of the GA Fleet and—maybe Pellaeon was imagining it—getting worried. Here she was, stuck with the obstinate Imperials while her master tried to dig himself out of the pit.
“What’s he waiting for?” Pellaeon asked her. “He never struck me as afraid of Niathal. Can’t he snap her head off with a thought or something? Can’t you?”
“Colonel Solo has … exceptional powers,” she said. She was blinking rapidly. Was she acting dismayed? “I don’t.”
Revelation Page 29
