Star Wars - Black Fleet Crisis 1 - Before the Storm

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  Michael P. Kube-McDowell

  The Black Fleet Crisis, Book One

  BEFORE THE STORM

  It is a time of tranquillity for the New Republic. The remnants of the Empire now lie in complete disarray, the re-emergence of the Jedi Knights has brought power and prestige to the fledgling government on Coruscant. Yesterday's Rebels have become today's administrators and diplomats, and the factions that fought against Imperial tyranny seem united in savoring the fruits of peace.

  But the peace is short-lived. A restless Luke must journey to his mother's homeworld in a desperate and dangerous quest to find her people.

  An adventurous Lando must seize a mysterious spacecraft that has weapons of enormous power and an unknown mission. And Leia a living symbol of the New Republic's triumph, must face down the ruthless leader of the Duskhan League, an arrogant Yevetha who seems bent on a genocidal war that could shatter the fragile unity of the New Republic and threaten its very survival.

  BANTAM BOOKS

  NEW YORK TORONTO LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND

  CONTENTS

  Author's note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  In memory of my grandfather, Dayton Percival Deich, 1896-1975, who believed in a universe of wonders beyond this Earth.

  And for my children,

  Matthew Tyndall, born 1983,

  and Amanda Kathryn, born 1995.

  May their lives be joyful journeys through their own universe of wonders.

  Author's note

  Three people stand out above all others in deserving my gratitude and appreciation, though my poor words are hardly the equal of their gifts to me. Those three are Gwendolyn Zak, my best friend, SO, and POSSLQ, for her unwavering love, patience, support, and faith; Tom Dupree, my editor, for believing in me and giving me a chance; and Russ Galen, my agent, for going out on a limb and trusting me not to saw it off behind him. This book would not exist without them and their contributions.

  I also want to thank Gwen, Matt, and Arlyn, for being such helpful (“Didn't you blow up this ship in the last chapter?”) and encouraging (“All right—where's the rest of it? What? Go write more!”) first readers. Sue Rostoni at Lucasfilm saw to it that I had all the references and resources I asked for, and then applied her extensive knowledge of the Star Wars universe to keep me from violating the historical record as often as I tried to. Fellow SW novelists Vonda Mcintyre, Roger MacBride Allen, and Kevin J. Anderson generously shared their insights and their maps of the minefields. Also pitching in with SW trivia and general encouragement were Rich Mason, Timothy O'Brien, Matt Hart, Skip Shayotovich, and the rest of the Star Wars fan communities on GEnie and CompuServe.

  The writing of Before the Storm bracketed a long-awaited move and the even longer-awaited birth of a daughter. Generous gifts of time and perspiration from Rod and Marion Zak, Tracy Holland, Greg Cronau, Arlyn Wilson, Mary Ellen Wessels, Faye Wessels, Mike Thelan, Roberta Kennedy, and other friends and family members allowed us to survive those transitions and me to keep working.

  Finally, I'd like to thank George Lucas, for his blessing to tell this story in his wonderful universe—which I first visited nearly twenty years ago in a theater in Mishawaka, Indiana. If someone had told me then that someday I'd have a chance to add a few chapters to the life stories of Luke, Han, Leia, and their friends and enemies, I'd have just laughed.

  As it is, I'm still smiling.

  —Michael P. Kube-McDowell September 12, 1995

  Okemos, Michigan

  Prologue

  Eight months after the Battle of Endor The Empire's orbiting repair yard at N'zoth, code-named Black 15, was of standard Imperial design, with nine great shipways arrayed in a square. On the morning of the retreat from N'zoth, all nine slips were occupied by Imperial warships.

  Under most circumstances, nine Star Destroyers together would have been an intimidating sight to any who might come under their guns.

  But on the morning of the retreat from N'zoth, only one of the nine was ready for space.

  That was the sorry assessment of Jian Paret, commander of the Imperial garrison at N'zoth, as he looked out on the yards from his command center. The orders he had received hours ago were still playing before his eyes

  “You are ordered to evacuate the planetary garrison to the last man, at best possible speed, using any and all ships that are spaceworthy. Destroy the repair yard and any and all remaining assets before withdrawing from the system.”

  Paret's assessment was shared by Nil Spaar, master of the Yevethan underground, as he rode the work shuttle up from the surface with the first commando team. The orders he had given hours ago were still ringing in his ears

  “Notify all teams that an Imperial evacuation has been ordered. Execute the primary plan without delay. It is our day for retribution. Our blood is in those vessels, and they will be ours. May each of us honor the name of the Yevetha today.”

  Nine ships.

  Nine prizes.

  The most badly damaged, Redoubtable, had taken terrible punishment in the retreat from Endor. The others ranged from old medium cruisers being upgraded and recommissioned, to the EX-F, a weapons and propulsion test bed built on a Dreadnaught hull.

  The key to them all was the massive Star Destroyer Intimidator, moored at one of the open slips.

  Spaceworthy but completely unblooded, it had been sent to Black 15 from the Core for finish work, to free up a Super-class shipway at the command's home shipbuilding yard.

  There was more than enough room aboard it for the garrison, and more than enough firepower aboard to destroy the yard and the hulls within.

  Paret transferred his command to the bridge of the Intimidator within an hour of receiving his orders.

  But Intimidator could not leave the yard as quickly as Paret would have liked. He had only one-third of a standard crew aboard, a single watch—too few hands to quickly ready a ship of that size to fly free.

  Moreover, nine of every ten workers on Black 15 were Yevetha. Paret despised the gaudy-faced skeletons.

  He would have liked to seal the ship in the interest of security, or to draft additional work details in the interest of speed. But either act would prematurely alert the Yevetha that the occupation force was leaving N'zoth, threatening the withdrawal from the surface.

  All Paret would do was call a surprise departure drill and wait out its lengthy checks and countdowns, letting the normal work details continue until the troop transports and the governor's shuttle had lifted off and were en route. Then, and only then, could his crew close the hatches, cut the moorings, and turn its back on N'zoth.

  Nil Spaar knew of Commander Paret's dilemma.

  He knew all that Paret knew, and much more. For more than five years he had worked to position allies of the underground throughout the conscript work-force.

  Nothing of importance happened without Nil Spaar's swiftly hearing of it. And he had taken the information he had collected and woven it into an elegant scheme.

  He had put an end to the rash of minor “mistakes” and “accidents,” demanding that those who worked for the Empire show diligence and strive for excellence—while learning everything they could about the ships and their opera
tion. He had seen to it that the Yevetha made themselves indispensable to the Black Fleet's yard bosses and earned the trust of its commanders.

  It was that trust which had allowed the work slowdown in the months since the Battle of Endor to go on unquestioned. It was that trust which had given his Yevetha the run of both the yard and the ships moored in the slips.

  And it was the patient and calculating exploitation of that trust which had brought Nil Spaar and those who followed him to this moment.

  He knew that he no longer need fear the Harridan, the Victory-class Star Destroyer that had been protecting the yard and patrolling the system. The Harridan had been ordered to the front three weeks ago, joining the Imperial force fighting a losing rear-guard action at Notak.

  He knew that Paret could not seal the Intimidator against his men, even by ordering a battle-stations lockdown. More than a dozen external hatches in Sections 17 and 21 had been rigged by Yevetha technicians to report that they were secured when they were not, and to report that they were closed when they were not.

  He knew that even if Intimidator got free of the slip in which it was moored, it would not have a chance to escape or turn its guns on the abandoned vessels. The packages of explosives concealed inside Intimidator's hull would break it open like an egg the moment its shields went up and blocked the signal that was sating the bombs.

  As the work shuttle neared the receiving dock, Nil Spaar felt no fear, no apprehension. Everything that could be done had been done, and there was a joyful inevitability about the fighting to come. He had no doubt what the outcome would be.

  Nil Spaar and the first commando team entered Intimidator through the hatches in Section 17, while his second, Dar Bille, and the backup team entered through Section 21.

  There was no talking. None was necessary. Every member of both teams knew the layout of the ship as well as any Imperial crewman. They moved through it like ghosts, down corridors closed or cleared by friends on work details, through crawlways and up access ladders that appeared on no construction blueprint. In minutes they had reached the bridge—without ever being challenged, or drawing a weapon, or firing a shot.

  But they entered the bridge with weapons drawn, knowing exactly which stations would be occupied, where the guard station was, who could sound a shipwide alarm. Nil Spaar shouted out no warnings, made no theatrical announcement, demanded no surrender.

  He simply walked briskly across the deck toward the executive officer, raised his blaster, and burned the officer's face away.

  As he did, the rest of the team fanned out behind him, each to his own assigned target. Six of Intimidator's bridge crew were struck down in the first seconds, sitting at their stations, because of the power that rested at their fingertips. The others, including Commander Paret, quickly ended up facedown on the floor, hands bound behind them.

  Taking the ship was not difficult. Timing the raid to avoid retribution had always been the challenge.

  “Signal from the governor's shuttle,” called out a Yevetha commando, slipping into the seat at the communications station. “The transports are leaving the surface. No trouble reported.”

  Nil Spaar nodded approvingly. “Acknowledge the signal. Advise the crew that we're moving out to pick up the garrison. Notify the yard that Intimidator is leaving.”

  Like a cluster of insects returning to the hive, the fleet of Imperial transports rose from N'zoth toward the great dagger-shaped Star Destroyer. More than twenty thousand citizens of the Empire were crammed into the insect fleet—soldiers and bureaucrats, technicians and families.

  “Open all hangars,” said Nil Spaar.

  Their destination in sight, the transports slowed and began to align themselves on approach vectors.

  “Activate all autotargeting batteries,” said Nil Spaar.

  There was a collective gasp from the prisoners on the bridge, who were watching the same display screens as the Yevetha commandos who now occupied their stations.

  “You're all cowards,” Commander Paret called out to the invaders, his voice bitter with contempt and anger. “A real soldier would never do this. There's no honor in killing the defenseless.”

  Nil Spaar ignored him. “Lock on targets.”

  “You vicious, pathetic fool. You've already won. How can you justify this?”

  “Fire,” said Nil Spaar.

  The deck plates barely vibrated as the gun batteries erupted and approaching transports disappeared in balls of fire and fragments. It did not take long. None escaped. Moments later the communications station began to scream with shocked and panicked inquiries from all over the ship. There had been many witnesses to the carnage.

  Nil Spaar turned away from the tracking display and crossed the bridge to where Commander Paret lay on the decking. Grabbing the Imperial officer by the hair, he dragged Paret out of line and rolled him over roughly with his booted foot. Seizing the front of Paret's tunic with one hand, Nil Spaar lifted him half off the deck. For a long moment he loomed over the officer, looking like a tall, vengeful demon with his cold, black, widely set eyes, the white slash down his nasal ridge, and the deep scarlet-splashed ridges that furrowed his cheeks and chin.

  Then, hissing, the Yevetha made a fist with his free hand and cocked it back. A sharp, curving dew-claw emerged from the swelling at his wrist.

  “You are vermin,” Nil Spaar said coldly, and slashed the claw across the Imperial captain's throat.

  Nil Spaar held on through the commander's death throes, then dropped the body carelessly to the floor.

  Turning, he looked down into the pit at the commando who had taken over the communications station.

  “Tell the crew that they are the prisoners of the Yevetha Protectorate and His Glory the viceroy,” said Nil Spaar, wiping his claw on the trouser leg of his victim.

  “Tell them that beginning today, their lives depend on their being useful to us. And then I wish to speak to the viceroy, and tell him of our triumph.”

  Chapter 1.

  Twelve years later

  In the pristine silence of space, the Fifth Battle Group of the New Republic Defense Fleet blossomed over the planet Bessimir like a beautiful, deadly flower.

  The formation of capital ships sprang into view with startling suddenness, trailing fire-white wakes of twisted space and bristling with weapons. Angular Star Destroyers guarded fat-hulled fleet carriers, while the assault cruisers, their mirror finishes gleaming, took the point.

  A halo of smaller ships appeared at the same time.

  The fighters among them quickly deployed in a spherical defensive screen. As the Star Destroyers firmed up their formation, their flight decks quickly spawned scores of additional fighters.

  At the same time, the carriers and cruisers began to disgorge the bombers, transports, and gunboats they had ferried to the battle.

  There was no reason to risk the loss of cne fully loaded—a lesson the Republic had learned in pain. At Orinda, the commander of the fleet carrier Endurance had kept his pilots waiting in the launch bays, to protect the smaller craft from Imperial fire as long as possible. They were still there when Endurance took the brunt of a Super Star Destroyer attack and vanished in a ball of metal fire.

  Before long more than two hundred warships, large and small, were bearing down on Bessimir and its twin moons. But the terrible, restless power of the armada could be heard and felt only by the ships' crews.

  The silence of the approach was broken only on the fleet comm channels, which had crackled to life in the first moments with encoded bursts of noise and cryptic ship-to-ship chatter.

  At the center of the formation of great vessels was the flagship of the Fifth Battle Group, the fleet carrier Intrepid. She was so new from the yards at Hakassi that her corridors still reeked of sealing compound and cleaning solvent. Her huge realspace thruster engines still sang with the high-pitched squeal that the engine crews called “the baby's cry.”

  It would take more than a year for the mingled scents of the crew to
displace the chemical smells from the first impressions of visitors.

  But after a hundred more hours under way, her engines' vibrations would drop two octaves, to the reassuring thrum of a seasoned thruster bank.

  On Intrepid’s bridge, a tall Dornean in general's uniform paced along an arc of command stations equipped with large monitors. His eye-folds were swollen and fanned by an unconscious Dornean defensive reflex, and his leathery face was flushed purple by concern.

  Before the deployment was even a minute old, Etahn A'Faht's first command had been bloodied.

  The fleet tender Ahazi had overshot its jump, coming out of hyperspace too close to Bessimir and too late for its crew to recover from the error. Etahn A'baht watched the bright flare of light in the upper atmosphere from Intrepid’s forward viewstation, knowing that it meant six young men were dead.

  But there was no time to linger over the loss. The monitors were flashing images from dozens of scanners on ships and spy satellites at a frenzied pace. Reports from the battle management section changed moment to moment, almost as quickly as the master battle clock counted up the tenths and hundredths.

  The assault plan was too intricate and tightly scheduled for a few deaths to stop it. Battle management quickly assigned a reserve fleet tender to Ahazi's section. May your spirits fly to the zenith and your bodies rest peacefully in the depths, General A'baht thought, recalling an old Dornean sailors' blessing for the dead. Then he turned away and studied the order of battle and tactical plan. There would be time to mourn later.

  “Penetration phase complete,” sang out a lieutenant at one of the consoles. “Deployment complete. Assault leader is approaching wave-off failsafe and requests final authorization.”

  “Penetration complete, copy,” echoed A'baht.

  “Deployment complete, copy. All stations, call off.”

  “Battle management, go.”

  “Combat intelligence, go.”