“Hey—kid.”
“What?”
“You’d have come for me if you knew, right?”
“You know I would,” Luke said. Then he grinned crookedly. “It’s a bad habit from the old days.”
Han let his head loll back and his eyes close. “You can keep that one,” he said. “Give the bastards hell, kid. They’ve earned it.”
The final tactical conference for Strong Hand included not only the commanders of all sixteen battle groups—by hypercomm holo link, as the groups were already staged to their jump points—but also Luke, Wialu, and A’baht’s five senior aides.
“Here’s the good news,” said Colonel Corgan. “Not only did the feint at Doornik Three-nineteen go off without any losses, but we got a free shot at an outbound Fat Man in the bargain, and made the most of it. Primary credit for the kill goes to Captain Ssiew and Thunderhead, and I’d like to tip my hat to them for showing us the way.”
“Here’s the interesting news,” said Colonel Mauit’ta. “Looking at the data from today’s action together with the clash at ILC-Nine-oh-five, we now believe that the Yevetha have their own game of where’s-the-candy under way. That is, we are now ninety percent convinced that there are two versions of the Yevethan T-type—one a capital warship, and the other an unarmed transport. At this point, we’re still looking for tip-offs to provide to your sensor crews. But we believe the risks would justify following a simple rule of thumb: Don’t bother firing on any targets that aren’t firing on you.”
“Here’s the bad news,” said General A’baht. “The last survey of the N’zoth and Z’fell systems show that the Yevethan fleets there continue to be reinforced by ships coming in from elsewhere in Koornacht Cluster. N’zoth is now at forty-six capital ships and Z’fell thirty-four. That means that if they call our bluff and we end up in a tussle, we’ll have only about a six-to-five edge—which could go to even odds by the time we get there. We will get one more snapshot from our stasis probes just before the jump-out.” He looked down the table at Wialu. “A lot’s riding on you, madam. If there’s any reason to think—”
“I am ready,” she said quietly.
“Then we go at the times established in revision nine of the coordinated plan,” said A’baht. “Good luck to us all—and if luck disappoints us, then good hunting to us all.” As the holos began dissolving, one after another, A’baht leaned toward Luke. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
This conversation truly was private—just Luke and the general, alone behind the closed door of A’baht’s office.
“I’ve been holding off saying anything about this, thinking I’d let you come to me on your own and let me know what sort of role you wanted to have in this,” said A’baht. “But we’re getting close to the end of the talking, so I’ll get right to the point. If this comes to a shooting war, I’d like to have the benefit of your experience and leadership.
“I know there are some strictly bureaucratic issues about your status, but I don’t care about them. I’d like to offer you command of Red E Squadron. That’s twelve of this ship’s best E-wing pilots, and I know there won’t be any hard feelings about your coming in at the top. You can use my personal fighter—the crews keep it zeroed in—”
“I’m sorry,” Luke said. “I appreciate your confidence, but I have to say no.”
A’baht frowned. “I’m not sure I understand. What, uh—what are your plans, then?”
Luke stood. “I intend to be with Wialu and Akanah on the observation deck. My obligations to them come first.”
Squinting unhappily in Luke’s direction, A’baht said, “If it’s their security you’re worried about, I can put as many armed men up there as you want, so you’d be free—”
“Armed men will not contribute to their sense of security,” Luke said. “The answer is no. I’m sorry if that answer disappoints you.”
“It confounds me,” said A’baht. “The choice is yours, of course—but I would appreciate an explanation, if there is one.”
Luke felt the heavy weight of expectations settle on his shoulders. If you don’t let them make your choices for you, they demand that you justify yourself to them—ah, Ben, how did you ever learn to refuse them with a tranquil conscience?
“The obligations I spoke of don’t involve protecting the Fallanassi,” said Luke. “I can’t stand with one foot in their world and one foot in yours. I asked them to involve themselves in our conflict as a matter of principle. Now I have to show that I respect that same principle myself.”
“Where exactly do your loyalties lie, then?”
“That’s a deceptively simple question, General, and we haven’t the time to explore it,” Luke said. “It does need to be explored—I suspect it’s the question that eventually led to Palpatine’s purge of the Jedi.”
“I did not intend to question your honor,” said A’baht.
“I know that, General,” Luke said. “In the end, it comes down to this—there’s far more to be lost by my climbing into that cockpit than you could possibly gain from my doing so. You have good pilots, good crews, and leadership enough to offer them. I’ll celebrate a victory with you no matter how it comes. But my part in it will not be as a warrior.”
The heralds of the coming armada were stasis probes 203, 239, and 252.
They were the last remaining survivors from more than fifty such probes Alpha Blue and the Fleet had sent into the N’zoth system. The others had either been hunted down by Yevethan patrol ships, or had expired under the stress of their mission profile.
Undetectable in hyperspace, a stasis probe would drop into realspace only long enough to take a sensor snapshot, transmit the data to its controller, and receive the interval instruction for its next appearance—altogether, a matter of no more than twenty seconds. Only passive sensors were used. Stealthiness was essential to the probes’ survival.
Ordinarily, the most severe challenge to stealthiness was the Cronau radiation from the entries and exits. But with the probes’ zero space velocity, the Cronau radiation collapsed into a narrow wave cone, which was carefully directed away from enemy sensors.
But the last instructions received by the three probes were far from ordinary. They were unprecedentedly strange—strange enough that probes with more sophisticated system droids might well have refused them.
The probes were to orient themselves gyroscopically so that on their next entry, the Cronau wave cone was pointed at N’zoth like a spotlight. Next, they were to begin active sensing, sending out optical and radar pings at ten-second intervals. Finally, they were to remain in that mode for the next hundred minutes.
Taken together, the instructions guaranteed that the probes would be found and destroyed long before that hundred minutes had elapsed. The flow of new data would be cut off—the probes’ missions would be cut short, in failure.
But the three probes were not meant to survive. The data they were transmitting was now considered inconsequential. They were being sacrificed to draw as many Yevethan eyes as possible upward and outward—to assemble the audience for the show that was to follow.
And as heralds, they succeeded marvelously well.
Nil Spaar’s highest priority that day had been replenishing the breederies. Nearly all of the new mara-nas had been destroyed during the vermin’s clumsy and unsuccessful attempt to rescue Han Solo. The losses left Nil Spaar both grieving and aggrieved, and he had closed himself away with the most select marasi in order that the alcoves of the undamaged breederies be filled with all haste.
But the news delivered to his quarters with great timidity by the second proctor of defense was urgent enough to excuse the interruption.
“Darama—ten thousand apologies. But alien vessels of an unknown type have appeared in defense zones nine and eleven,” the proctor said, flinching. “Our fleet is being scanned. Primate Dar Bille has called the ship to readiness, and begs your counsel.”
When Nil Spaar reached the bridge, he found a disagreeable amount of confu
sion. Multiple alarms were sounding, and the new proctor of defense for the spawnworld was engaged in a loud clash of dominance with the ship’s primate. But the viceroy’s arrival resolved the hierarchical crisis, as both Tho Voota and Dar Bille knelt before him and then pressed their cases on him.
“Show me what has happened,” Nil Spaar said, waving away their words.
He watched earnestly as the logs of various monitors and pickets were replayed for him on the main viewscreen. Three alien probes had appeared within moments of each other—probes of the same size, perhaps even the same type, as those the outer patrols had been destroying with some regularity. They marked the corners of a lopsided triangle, the longest side of which spanned fifteen degrees of the sky. The probes were persistently hurling radionic and light energy in toward the fleet, accounting for most of the alarms on the bridge.
“Dar Bille’s judgment is correct,” said Nil Spaar. “The meaning of this is that more ships are coming. We will move toward these probes at once.”
“But darama, please consider—if this proves another false showing, as there was at Preza yesterday—” the proctor said in protest.
“Then they will not pass close enough for us to engage them from this orbit,” said Dar Bille.
“Their purpose could be to draw us away, and leave the spawnworld unprotected.”
“There are ships enough for both duties,” said Nil Spaar, cutting short the argument. “But the flagship of the Protectorate need fear no enemy. We will move to intercept.”
Dar Bille spun away. “Signal our companion vessels that we are breaking orbit. Helmsman! Set course for the anomalies, and make quarter speed when the way is clear.”
With a slow grace, the bow of the great Star Destroyer swung out and upward, bringing the triangle of enemy probes to the center of the main viewpane. As Nil Spaar settled into his command lounge, he settled his gaze on that triangle and thought heartening thoughts about revenge for his lost children.
It was night in Giat Nor—a night like most nights on N’zoth, of quiet air and clear skies under the splendor of the All.
But a sentry had called Ton Raalk to the courtyard of the city proctor’s hall and quarters with a report of a curiosity: three bright flashes in the sky over N’zoth’s northern latitudes.
“One after another they were, like one word following another,” said the sentry. “And bright—brighter than any of the All. I only saw the third of them directly, but it left me half blind for minutes after.”
There were others of Ton Raalk’s family and staff in the courtyard as well, having glimpsed the sky or the ground lit up though a window or door. The proctor was well aware of them as he answered loudly, “I see nothing here, and no reason for concern. Most likely it was part of our glorious fleet, going hunting for the vermin.”
The sentry would not relent. In his post, he had seen many ships jumping in and out of N’zoth’s skies, and that light was only a flicker by comparison. “Could it be that there is fighting here, etaias? Perhaps for safety the families should be moved—”
Then someone cried out, pointing skyward. Ton Raalk turned at the sound, then craned his neck upward. He stared wonderingly with the others as a small area of the sky, barely larger than his hand at arm’s length, began to roil and dance with light.
As warship after warship appeared within the triangle marked out by the alien probes, Nil Spaar edged forward in his chair with eager glee in his eyes. “Yes, come, come,” he urged. “What a glorious victory you will give us. What a splendid sky, full of targets for our guns. There will be honor for every Yevetha today, and vengeance for every lost child.”
But at that moment, both fleets were well out of the range of each other’s weapons. There was time for the game masters on both sides to array their pieces for battle, jockeying for advantage in the clash to come. The slow grace of the ballet belied its murderous purpose.
Dar Bille ordered the interdictor Splendor of Yevetha forward into the lead spot, to protect the flagship from any sneak attacks from hyperspace. Tho Voota held the flagship and its companions at a crawl while the balance of the home fleet rose from orbit to catch and join them.
Meanwhile, the count of the approaching armada continued to climb, topping two hundred before the entry flashes finally ceased. Then the formation began to spread, breaking into squadron-sized units spaced in a one-deep array that brought every ship into view. Their slow, almost stately approach declared an arrogant confidence.
“Darama, there is a signal from the vermin,” announced the proctor of communication.
“I will hear them, for my amusement,” said Nil Spaar, rising from his couch. “Let all hear, Proctor—these words will confess our enemy’s weakness and impotence. They will boast and threaten and then conceal their cowardice as mercy.”
“This is General Etahn A’baht, commander of the New Republic combined forces in Farlax. This is my final warning to the citizens and worlds of the Duskhan League. You are called to account for your crimes against the peaceful peoples of Koornacht. You must give up the territory you illegally seized by force. You must surrender all hostages unharmed—”
Sil Sorannan witnessed the arrival of the New Republic fleet on the three-dimensional monitors in the flagship’s fire control center.
It was from that room that Pride of Yevetha’s individual batteries would be assigned targets. Those decisions were in the hands of the three Yevethan officers seated at the consoles in the pit. Sorannan’s responsibility ended at maintaining the data server for the target registry and its electronic links throughout the ship.
Still, he studied the holographic image-map with as much intent devotion as did the fire control proctors. As the first warships appeared, his hand slipped into his pocket and found the hard-toothed comb. He rubbed its spine like a worry-stone as the New Republic fleet grew. His respect for the attackers grew as well as he listened to their commander’s warning.
“—Your past aggressions will not be tolerated. Future aggression will not be permitted. I call on the captains of all Yevethan vessels: Stand down your weapons. Lower your shields. Maintain your current orbits—or be destroyed. I call on Viceroy Nil Spaar: Order the immediate surrender of all Yevethan forces everywhere. Yield your claim to authority and your post as viceroy, and your cities will be spared. Resist, and you invite the total destruction of both your fleet and your way of life.”
A frontal assault with overwhelming force—that is the way war was meant to be fought, thought Sorannan admiringly. Strength against strength—not the weak and cowardly tactics of the Rebel Alliance. You have grown some since I last knew you.
As A’baht spoke, Sorannan slid toward the leftmost section of his station and opened one of the several small service panels in its instrumented face. But he did not yet pick up the hand-built blaster pistol resting inside atop the circuits. He was waiting for Nil Spaar’s answer, even though he had little doubt what it would be.
Standing with arms crossed and feet set apart, Etahn A’baht frowned deeply as he watched the Yevethan fleet form up. The bridge of Intrepid had fallen under a suffocating silence as he sent his ultimatum, and the silence was growing more uncomfortable by the second.
“Anything?” he asked finally.
“Not unless you count continuing toward us as a reply.”
“That may be all the reply we get,” said A’baht. “Time to weapons lock?”
“Six minutes twenty.”
A’baht nodded. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “Get the pilots into their cockpits. Start locking down the shield doors. And let’s have about twenty of our thumpers light up that Super with range-finder lasers. Let’s remind the estimable viceroy that we know where he lives.”
As the minutes dragged out and the distance between the fleets continued to shrink, Sil Sorannan brought the comb out of his pocket and ran it through his thinning red hair. He knew that Nil Spaar’s silence was an expression of contempt for his adversaries, but he was also co
nfident that the viceroy would not be able to resist expressing his contempt directly. Sorannan waited calmly for it to come.
But when the most powerful weapons on Pride of Yevetha—on Intimidator, Sorannan reminded himself—were only a minute away from being able to deliver an effective blow to the nearest of the New Republic vessels, he could wait no longer. Holding the comb before him in both hands, he twisted it sharply, and it came apart in his hands. One of the pieces was a thin wand with three small buttons—it had been hidden inside the comb’s hollow spine.
Keeping his eye on both the proctors and the holo tracks, Sorannan moved the wand to his right hand and picked up the blaster in his left. As he did so, Nil Spaar began to broadcast his answer of defiance to both fleets.
“You are low and impure creatures, and your threats mean nothing to me,” the viceroy said. “Your presence fouls the perfection of the All and offends the honor of the Blessed. I will rip the soft white bellies of your ships open and spill their disgusting entrails for all to see. Your lungs will thirst for air. Your vigorless blood will boil in your ears. Your pleas will go unanswered, and your screams will go unheard. Your bodies will fall into the sun and be consumed. You will be forgotten by your offspring, and your mates will bring new blood to their beds.”
Fool, Sorannan thought. They have your fleet outgunned three to one—soon to be five to one. Without a flicker of change in his expression, he pressed the first two buttons on the wand with his thumb, then raised the blaster to shoulder level and began to fire.
A’baht listened to Nil Spaar’s screed with his jaw set in a grim expression and the last flickers of hope dying in his eyes.
“That’s that,” he said. “Get those people down from the ob deck—it’s not safe up there. Break the Showcase formation, and bring all the batteries up to full power.”
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