by Timothy Zahn
She looked up again, focusing on the rail stretching out in front of her. It hung two meters from the ceiling, as she’d already noted, with enough room for her to walk or run.
The problem was the fire coming from below, and the V-shaped struts that held the rail to the ceiling. If she didn’t block her attackers’ shots she wouldn’t last long. But if her lightsaber sliced through enough of the struts neither would the rail.
Which left her only one option. A desperate, borderline-insane option.
But she was the Emperor’s Hand, and there were Imperial lives hanging by a thread.
Taking a deep breath, she ignited her lightsaber.
“There!” Pellaeon said, jabbing a finger at the monitor. “That freighter there.”
“I see it, sir,” the young tractor operator said, his fingers dancing across the controls. “Tractor activated … firing.”
Pellaeon held his breath, watching as the Lost Reef cut swiftly across the Chimaera’s bow from starboard to portside. Crewer Mithel was hardly the ship’s most senior tractor beam operator, and in fact Pellaeon suspected the boy was fresh out of training at this particular post.
But with the command deck’s doors still locked Mithel was the only one available. Pellaeon could only hope he was good enough to pull this off.
Above the monitor, a green light winked on. “Got him,” Mithel said.
“Confirmed,” Thrawn’s voice came over the speaker. “Now draw me in—slowly, slowly.”
“Yes, sir,” Mithel said, adjusting his controls. “Drawing you in now.”
Pellaeon craned his neck, looking out of the crew pit at the bridge viewport. The Golan was still looming directly ahead, and he could almost see it growing larger. An optical illusion, of course, born from the tension of the moment. That, plus the knowledge that there were only nine minutes left until impact. He watched the Golan another minute, then looked back down at the monitor.
He caught his breath. “It’s getting away!” he snapped, pointing at the Lost Reef’s image. “You’ve lost the lock.”
“No, sir, I haven’t,” Mithel said. “I have to let him get farther out, then draw him back in. Otherwise this won’t work.”
“But—”
“He’s correct, Commander,” Thrawn put in calmly. “Draw in, then reel out to allow a buildup of momentum, then draw in again.”
Pellaeon swallowed. “Yes, sir,” he muttered reluctantly. On the display, he saw the freighter come to a hesitant halt as Mithel again added power to the tractor beam and once again began drawing him in.
“It’s simple physics, Commander,” Thrawn said. “Strictly speaking, a tractor beam doesn’t pull in its target, but instead pulls the target and generator toward their common center of mass. Since the Chimaera vastly outmasses nearly everything you’ve ever drawn in, it’s never before been an issue for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon said again.
“The question now, of course, is whether the Lost Reef and I can provide you enough of a nudge to pull you off Nuso Esva’s predetermined path,” Thrawn continued. “What do you think, Nuso Esva?”
“Very clever, Thrawn,” Nuso Esva said through the speaker. The mocking tone had vanished from his voice, replaced by a cold bitterness that sent an icy dagger digging into Pellaeon’s stomach. “Very clever indeed.”
“More than just clever,” Thrawn said. “Your entire battle computation depended on me having only the Admonitor and her escort ships. Now I have the Chimaera and the Golan defense platform, as well. You may wish to withdraw your Firekilns while you still have the chance.”
Nuso Esva gave a sort of whistling snort. “Don’t insult me, Thrawn. Do you truly believe I hadn’t prepared for this possibility?”
“Yes, I do,” Thrawn said calmly. “The moment is now, Nuso Esva.”
“Agreed,” the alien said. “The moment is indeed now.”
It was obvious right from the beginning that the Golan crew didn’t much know how to deal with Chewie. Even as they worked frantically to load the torpedo racks, Han caught some of them throwing surreptitious looks at him, or twitching aside to get out of his way. Maybe they’d heard stories about Wookiee rages. Maybe they were just in awe of his massive strength as he lugged torpedoes all by himself from the storage cradles to the launch racks.
Or maybe Han was just imagining it. Maybe all they were thinking about was that if this didn’t work, they had seven minutes left to live.
“We’re ready, Major,” one of the crewers called. “Racks loaded and set for rapid fire.”
“Got it,” Han said, crossing to the fire-control station where Nills was standing stiffly with his hands poised over the launch controls. “Commandant, give me an update on the fire trajectory,” he called toward the comm as he keyed the display for a forward view. “Confirm no vessels in the target zone.”
“Trajectory confirmed,” Barcelle said tightly. “Clear to launch. Nills—”
“Hold it,” Han said, frowning at the display. The incoming Star Destroyer looked different somehow.
“There’s no time,” Barcelle ground out. “Nills, launch when—”
“I said hold it,” Han interrupted, putting a hand between Nills and the board. Suddenly he realized what was different about the looming warship. “The Star Destroyer’s veering off.”
“That’s impossible,” Barcelle insisted. “The readout on the damage …” He trailed off. “You’re right,” he said, sounding relieved and puzzled at the same time. “Still running under low power, but his vector’s now … I don’t understand. How is he doing that?”
“Don’t know,” Han said, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a huff. That had been way too close. Even for him. “Don’t care. Secure the torpedoes. Doesn’t look like we’re going to need—”
“Incoming!” Nills said, pointing a rigid finger at one of his displays. “Commandant, we’ve got … we’ve got eight more alien ships coming in from hyperspace—sector three. Correction: eight large ships plus thirty smaller escorts. The big ones show the same configuration as the group already squared off against the Admonitor.”
Han hissed between his teeth as he studied the display. Apparently, he’d relaxed too soon. “Commandant, we have anything on those ships?” he asked.
“No, nothing,” Barcelle said. “But from the way the Admonitor is repositioning escorts, they’re not taking them lightly.”
Han crossed over to the tactical holo. There were now sixteen of the unknown ships heading across the Poln system toward the Admonitor and its escorts. “Is the Chimaera going to be able to get over there in time to join the party?”
“Assuming it continues its current rate of turn, it should at least have a fire angle,” Barcelle said. “And the Sarissa’s also now moving up to support the Admonitor.”
“Right,” Han confirmed. He’d already spotted the Dreadnought leaving its orbit and heading for the Admonitor’s group. “Looks like whoever’s in charge is pulling in every turbolaser he’s got.”
Barcelle hissed out a frustrated sigh. “Except ours,” he said. “Looks like we’re the only ones who are out of the fight.”
Han grimaced. “Yeah, we are,” he agreed. We, the Golan; more important, we, the Rebel Alliance. He just hoped Cracken would be ready to move before the big battle started.
He stiffened, his mind making a hard right-angle turn. The missile ships hidden on Poln Minor weren’t there to intercept the Rebel transports, as he and Cracken had assumed. They were the card Nuso Esva had hidden up his sleeve.
He keyed the tactical to add an overlay of Poln Minor’s geological features. If Leia had been right, the cavern should be just about there …
He nodded grimly. If Leia was right, the missile ships were in perfect position to blow the cavern roof, fly out, and regroup themselves for an attack around the curve of the planet. With all the Imperial ships currently on the other side of the planet, the missile ships could hit their rear before anyone could do anything about it
.
Anyone, that was, except the Golan.
Or, given this bunch, anyone except Han.
For a long moment he gazed at the holo, watching the incoming alien warships rearranging their lines, wondering what to do. He and Leia had helped arm those missile ships, blast it. If they got out and tore into the Admonitor’s rear, they would do some serious damage before they were stopped.
On the other hand the Alliance was trying to topple the Empire. Doing anything to help the Imperials seemed a little crazy, even if it was to help stop an alien who’d already demonstrated he was ready and willing to use the Alliance for his own purposes.
Surreptitiously, Han looked around the fire-control room. Leadership, Rieekan had lectured him, was all about responsibility and consequences. Whatever Han did right now would have consequences, some which he might never know about, others of which might come along three minutes from now and smack him in the back of the head.
But there was no way around it. He’d helped arm Nuso Esva’s missile ships. He had to make sure that Nuso Esva didn’t get to use them. Against anybody.
On the other hand, if he could do that and help the Alliance at the same time …
He caught Chewie’s eye and gestured him over. “Get back to the Falcon and call Cracken,” he said quietly when the Wookiee joined him. “Tell him to pull Leia and the assault squad off their attack and get them out of there.”
Chewie rumbled a question.
“Yes, now,” Han confirmed tartly. “I don’t care if they’re winning or losing—probably losing. Just get them out.”
The Wookiee acknowledged and started to turn away. Han caught his arm. “And then get her ready to fly,” he added. “I’ll grab Toksi and Atticus on my way down.”
Chewie nodded and headed away. “Commandant?” Han called toward the comm. “We’ve got a new target. Pull up a map of Poln Minor, and I’ll give you the coordinates.”
Wedge threw the T-47 into yet another sharp turn, and once more Leia fought against her bouncing head and motion-blurred vision to fire a double laser blast at the missile ship in her sights. She saw the bolts slam into the ship’s armor, fired off another shot as Wedge dived straight toward the vessel—
And then at the heart-stopping literal last second he pulled up, shoving Leia hard into her seat. “Good shooting,” he called.
Leia clenched her teeth as he arced them across the cavern and swung back for another attack. Maybe she was shooting well. Maybe he was just being polite.
But all the good shooting in the galaxy, whether by her or by the rest of the Rebel gunners, didn’t seem to be doing much good. The missile ships were more heavily armored than she’d realized, and were ray-shielded on top of it, and while probably half of them now sported burns and warped hull plates, not a single one had been destroyed or even disabled.
And their time was running out. All fifty of the ships were rumbling with the sound of pre-flight warm-up, and the last few humans who’d been operating the quad lasers when the T-47s first blew into the cavern had abandoned their weapons and disappeared somewhere down the conveyance tunnel. The missile ships were about to leave, ready to fly over and position themselves for an attack on the Rebel transports when they emerged from underground.
Or if they didn’t feel like waiting, they could probably use a few of the Caldorf missiles to blow their way through the surface and destroy the transports right where they currently sat.
Caldorf missiles she and Han had helped load.
The comm crackled in her ear, cutting through the curt orders and reports from the other T-47s. “Command to Rogue Team,” Cracken’s voice came tartly. “New orders: break off—repeat, break off—and return.”
Leia frowned. Break off? Now?
Wedge obviously didn’t believe it, either. “Rogue One to command: confirm order,” he called.
“Break off and return,” Cracken repeated.
“Command, strongly recommend against that,” Wedge warned. “Once they break cover, they’ll disperse. We won’t get another chance like this.”
“You don’t like it, you can take it up later with Solo,” Cracken said. “Chewbacca says he’s got something special planned, and it doesn’t involve any of you still being there.”
Leia felt her eyes widen. This was Han’s idea? “What’s the plan?” she asked.
“Chewbacca didn’t say,” Cracken said. “I’m not really sure he knows. Now kick afterburners, or I’ll kick them for you.”
“Acknowledged,” Wedge said. “All Rogues—”
“Wait a minute,” Leia said, her eyes focused on the bulbs at the top of the weapons fins. “Whatever Han’s up to, it will probably work better if these ships can’t shoot straight.”
“We’ve already tried,” Wedge said. “The sensor bulbs are as ray-shielded as the rest of the hull.”
“Then let’s try something new,” Leia said. “I’ll need a wingmate.”
“Rogue Three, form up on my portside,” Wedge ordered.
“Copy,” another voice said, and as Leia looked out her canopy one of the other T-47s dropped into parallel formation a few meters away. “What’s the plan?”
“Just hold position,” Leia said. Swiveling her harpoon gun all the way to the side, she aimed for Rogue Three’s starboard braking flap and fired.
There were twin yelps from both the pilot and gunner as the magnetic harpoon slammed into the airspeeder’s side. “What the—?”
“Now we swing low and sweep,” Leia said. “See if the cable can take off one of the sensor—”
She gasped as the T-47 dipped suddenly and then jerked hard. It jerked again as Wedge got it back under control and pulled up—and as he sent them flying toward the far end of the cavern Leia saw the mangled metal at the top of the fin they’d just passed. The metal, and the missing sensor bulb.
Rogue Three gave a war whoop. “It works!” he crowed.
“Time’s up,” Wedge said. “All Rogues, break off and head home. At your earliest convenience.”
There were a cluster of acknowledgments … and as Leia watched, the T-47s linked up in pairs, one of each pair shooting a magnetic harpoon at the other. They circled at the far wall of the cavern and swung smoothly around.
And as they flew one last time over the rows of missile ships, the stretched cables snicked off at least another dozen of the sensor bulbs.
“Release!” Wedge snapped.
Leia nodded and punched the cable release. Just in time, as Wedge did a quick sideways jink and inserted them once again at full speed into the dark, claustrophobic confines of the tunnel. Behind her, Leia saw the rest of the airspeeders also disentangle their cables from one another, form up, and slide in a neat single file behind them.
The last of the ten T-47s had just made it inside when there was a sudden burst of reflected light from the distant cavern behind them.
The aliens had blown the ceiling. The missile ships were about to fly.
Leia rubbed her shoulders where her straps had dug into them. “There you go, flyboy,” she murmured. “Whatever you’re planning, I hope that helps.”
“What was that?” Wedge called.
Leia shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Commander?” the sensor officer called, his voice still slurring a bit with the aftereffects of the vertigon gas. “I’m reading an explosion on Poln Minor.”
“Where?” Pellaeon called back, looking up from the tractor station toward the bridge viewport.
“Seventh Octant, right at the edge of our view,” the officer reported. “I’ve got a visual feed from the Golan, too, but it’s not much better.”
Pellaeon looked back at the tractor display. The Chimaera’s vector was well clear of the Golan now. The ship’s engine control was still crippled, but at least they were out of imminent danger. “Can you handle the rest of this?” he asked Mithel.
“Yes, sir,” the tractor operator said. “Unless Lord Odo—” He glanced up at Pellaeon. “—I mean unless Nuso E
sva has left us more surprises, we should be all right.”
“Carry on,” Pellaeon said, a tight smile tugging at his lips as he turned away and headed for the crew pit stairs. Mithel was barely out of his training, yet he had the casual boldness to offer his assessment of the Chimaera’s condition to a ranking command officer.
Pellaeon’s smile faded. On the other hand, why shouldn’t he? The Chimaera’s senior officers certainly hadn’t done a very good job of taking care of the ship, Pellaeon himself included.
“Senior Captain Thrawn?” he called as he climbed back up to the command walkway. “Did you hear that?”
“I did, Commander,” Thrawn’s voice came back. “Maintain your present operation.”
Pellaeon grimaced. Like they had any real choice with their drive locked down the way it was. “Shall I launch TIE fighters to investigate the explosion?” he asked.
“Negative,” Thrawn’s voice came back. “I’ll need all of your fighters available once Nuso Esva brings in the rest of his ships”
“Understood,” Pellaeon said, his stomach tightening as he looked out over the distant battle array. “Sir, Nuso Esva told us earlier that five Firekilns were the equivalent of a Star Destroyer. Was that an accurate assessment?”
“Quite accurate, Commander,” Thrawn confirmed calmly.
And there were already sixteen of the big alien ships out there facing off against the Admonitor and the still-crippled Chimaera.
Thrawn wasn’t going to need the Chimaera’s TIE fighters. Thrawn was going to need a miracle.
“Commander, I have ships at the explosion region,” the sensor officer spoke up suddenly. “Looks like they’re rising out from underground. Midsized fighters, alien design, with underslung—” He broke off. “Commander, those underslung missiles are Caldorf VII interceptors.”
“Turbolasers!” Pellaeon snapped, turning sharply to the viewport. A group of ships armed with interceptor missiles in the rear of Thrawn’s battle array would be devastating. “Target those ships.”
“Sir, weapons-control systems are nonfunctional,” another voice called. “I’ve signaled the crews to set for manual.”
