“Understood.”
Then they were before him, a half squad of TIEs, four fighters and two bombers. He saw one veer to starboard, picked out that one’s wingman, fired ahead of its course if it turned the same way, and it did, erupting into a glowing shrapnel cloud—one kill, one second into the dogfight.
• • •
“Now reaching Iron Fist’s escape vector.”
“All stop.” Han felt fluttering in his stomach as though it were occupied by alien invaders, but he tried to keep his discomfort from his face. “All starboard batteries to begin fire on my command. Prepare for axial roll. Captain, maintain our position directly ahead of Iron Fist. Continue correcting as it’s recalculated. And when any bank of batteries falls below eighty percent, perform enough roll to bring new guns to bear, and increase shield strength on the firing side as you do so.”
“Yes, sir.”
Iron Fist opened up, her laser batteries streaking by in such profusion that they looked like the star elongation that was the first visual manifestation of a hyperspace jump. Han tensed against the blows he knew were to come. “Open fire.”
Piggy flipped the power-up switch and was rewarded with an erratic whine from the engines and the sudden lighting of his weapons and flight boards.
His diagnostics board said that all systems were down.
He grunted. No use listening to people—or systems—who are inclined to tell you that you can’t do something. Not yet daring to commence powered flight, he brought his targeting system up and tried to bracket the distant shield projector dome.
One small piece of the dome fell within his targeting bracket, and jittered there, showing a clean lock, only moments at a time.
Wedge blinked away at the stinging of his eyes. The third TIE fighter had nailed him with a good fuselage shot just before Wedge had vaped him, and his cockpit was now filling with smoke.
Sensors showed that of the flight of nine that had moved against him, four were down—one having fallen prey to one of the B-wings. One of his B-wings remained, battered, char marks on its hull from insistent laser fire; the other was a rapidly dissipating cloud a dozen kilometers back.
He brought his targeting brackets over another TIE. They overshot as the starfighter sideslipped. Then the vehicle exploded, hit by lateral fire.
Incoming vehicles on the sensors, from the direction of the second destroyer—an A-wing leading a flying wedge of unscathed Y-wings. They continued firing and the TIEs bedeviling Wedge evaporated under their massed lasers.
“Wraith Leader to newcomers. Who am I talking to?”
The voice that came back was hard and military, but he heard an amused tone within it. “Why, Commander. You forget old friends so soon.”
“General Crespin!” This was the frigate’s starfighter force, then, finally catching up from the rear.
“And the Screaming Wookiee Training Squadron.”
“Can you escort Nova Three?”
“Hand over all the B-wings, sonny, and I’ll show you some old-fashioned mass-fire tactics.”
“Nova Squadron, this is Wraith Leader. Form up with the Screaming Wookiee.” Wedge coughed against the smoke. “I’m outbound, General, have to visit some old friends.”
“Good luck.”
“Wraiths, see your charges back to the general, then join the Rogues.” Wedge heeled over and headed into the thickest part of the engagement zone.
Far ahead, past Iron Fist’s bow, the tiny needle that was Mon Remonda opened up with laser barrages. They flared and were expended uselessly against Iron Fist’s shields.
“Do you think he plans to sacrifice Mon Remonda to stop us?” Zsinj, chin in hand, steadily regarded the tiny but growing cruiser ahead.
“He continues correcting his position to be more and more precisely in our path,” said Melvar. “We can’t be sure of his intent until we’re past the point of no return. Then, either he moves out of our path and we can get through and go to hyperspace … or we hit Mon Remonda and both vessels probably perish.”
“He actually has more firepower to unload than we do at the moment. He can bring almost half his guns to bear at any time. We’re limited to the forward guns that can depress far enough to target him.” Zsinj shook his head. “All right. Bring all our guns to bear on her engines. Stop her dead in space. The sooner you do it, the greater margin we’ll have to squeak past him.”
Zsinj’s stomach began churning. This was still winnable. But the New Republic assault, the way they’d accurately calculated his position, the way they relied on his protectiveness of Razor’s Kiss to slow him, was upsetting.
It was a TIE interceptor, but it moved more sluggishly than the standard interceptor. A few kilometers from Iron Fist’s bridge, it had one TIE fighter under its guns and was stitching it with dual-linked fire while another fighter maneuvered behind it.
Wedge targeted the second fighter, bracketed it with his targeting computer before it was aware of his proximity, and shredded it with quad-linked lasers even as the interceptor vaped the first fighter. “Ten, is that you?”
“Good to hear from you, Leader. I hate this thing. It’s as fragile as an interceptor and as slow as an X-wing.”
“Well, stop playing by yourself, then. You’re my wing.”
“Yes, sir.”
In spite of the smoke blurring his vision, Wedge saw the tiny green needle on Iron Fist’s hull below him—a long, tentative streak that hit the port-side shield projector dome, hit it twice, hit it a third time—and then the dome exploded.
The source of the laser fire, a TIE fighter, leaped up from Iron Fist’s hull. It shot up through her defensive shields as if the maneuver were an accident, then looped around as if flown by a drunken skimmer pilot, apparently setting up for a descent and run on the second dome projector, but an ion-cannon beam swept across it. The fighter continued off on a straight-line course toward the stars.
• • •
The captain’s shout was jubilant: “Mon Remonda no longer maneuvering. We have their engines, Warlord!”
“Excel—”
The bridge rocked, its lights dimming, fragments of ceiling descending into the crew pit. Zsinj tottered and fell. He looked up; Melvar was looking away, not extending a hand. That was correct, that was proper. No one was supposed to see the warlord discommoded.
Zsinj clambered to his feet. “What happened?”
The captain had gone from cheer to despair in just a second. “We’ve lost the port-side shield projector. We’re down to half shield strength above the midline.”
Zsinj felt as though he, too, were suddenly at half strength. He calculated the numbers. “Is that frigate still on our tail?”
“Still catching up. It will be within firing range in two minutes at this rate.”
Zsinj closed his eyes. “Recall the fighters. Bring Iron Fist up to flank speed. Communicate with Razor’s Kiss, issue the command ‘abandon ship.’ ” He didn’t have to add, We’ve lost this battle.
Face caught sight of the interceptors emerging from the flurry of fighters, headed their way. “Thirteen, incoming!” He turned into the path of the incoming TIEs, threw all discretionary power onto forward shields—
Too late. Laser fire from the lead interceptor punched through his unboosted shield and then through his cockpit. He felt a sudden blast of agonizing heat to his left side, then cold just as intense. He watched in idle curiosity as his vision changed—first as the atmosphere of his cockpit was vented, then as the emergency magcon field on his suit came up and tried to cope with the sudden vacuum. He caught a glimpse of the red stripe on his attacker’s solar wing arrays as it sped past.
“Eight, can you hear me?”
There was no response, and Face felt a distant sadness. Eight, whoever he was, must have been vaped.
“Eight, this is Thirteen, can you hear me?”
There was an additional squeal from Vape, Face’s R2 unit, and Face wished the whole universe would just shut up for a while.
<
br /> “Squad, this is Thirteen. We need help here. I can’t handle these two—”
“Wraith Three here. Four and I are coming in. Hold on.”
“Five here, I’m almost there.”
It took Face another long moment to understand. He was hit, he was done. He couldn’t move for the pain. Iron Fist loomed in the near distance ahead. He was going to crash and his debt would be paid.
He should have felt at peace with that. Peace was what he’d expected all this time. But it eluded him. Was something left undone?
Well, there was that second shield projector dome. If he could make his hand move, he might be able to steer straight into it. If the Destroyer’s guns didn’t get him, if its shields didn’t destroy him, he might, just might be able to angle into that dome and destroy it, too.
The odds one in a million. Less, really. But it seemed like a good way to go out. He brought his cold, cold hand up to the pilot’s yoke and gripped it. He couldn’t feel his fingers close on it, but could see them.
“Got him, got him—dammit, he’s slipped by.”
“This is Five, I’m on the second one.”
“Hold him, hold him—”
“He’s not shaking me, Three. You see after Eight.”
Oh, yes, he was Eight. Why were they worried about him? Didn’t they realize he was already dead?
No, they didn’t. Bless their optimistic little hearts, they actually thought he was going to make it. Now he knew how Phanan had felt with Face fussing over him. The Wraiths didn’t realize it was his time, time to balance the account.
The account doesn’t need balancing. Ton Phanan’s voice from some forgotten conversation. You can’t reduce sapient lives to numbers and exchange them like credits.
The snubfighter shuddered again as more laser fire hit him. It must have hit the X-wing’s rear; at least he wasn’t feeling any more pain. Iron Fist was getting bigger.
And Ton was right. Ton, who had suffered from the Empire’s success as much as anyone he’d ever met, should know. He didn’t have to close out his account now.
An X-wing blasted past him to port, juking and jinking. He thought he recognized it as Wraith Eleven. Tyria.
If she was doing that, she was being pursued. With his numbed fingers, he brought up his targeting system and swung it just to port of his flight path.
An interceptor flashed into his brackets and he fired. With detached interest, he watched the laser blast shear through its starboard wing and pylon, straight through the canopy. The interceptor exploded and bits of it glowed as they bounced off his forward shields.
Donos’s voice: “Nice shot, Eight! Are you back with us?”
“ ’M here.”
“Eight, this is Thirteen. I’m coming up beside you.” Lara slid in place to his starboard, then ahead. “I’m going to lead you back to Tedevium. Will you follow me?”
“Sure.”
“Can you make it?”
“Sure. Wake me up if I fall asleep.”
“Will do.”
Another TIE fighter went to pieces under Wedge’s lasers and he had a clear path to the center of the engagement, where members of the 181st—where Baron Fel—awaited him.
But those fighters veered off toward Iron Fist.
All the TIEs began veering off toward Iron Fist, even if it meant exposing their backs to New Republic guns.
And Iron Fist was picking up speed.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Wedge kicked his thrusters as high as they’d go and added some discretionary power to them. But the faster TIEs leaped out ahead, arcing down beneath the Super Star Destroyer and toward her landing bay. Wraiths, Rogues, Polearms, and Novas took parting shots, achieving more kills in those few seconds than in the entire dogfight, but still the TIEs ran.
Iron Fist cruised past Mon Remonda, lying at a dead stop, her engines flaming, mere kilometers away. The two capital ships exchanged barrage after barrage. Wedge, looping well around the corridor of fire between them, saw laser batteries take out chunks from the hulls of both vessels. Nova Squadron’s B-wings continued pouring heavy fire into Iron Fist’s stern from as close a distance as they could afford, but the Destroyer’s shields held.
Then the Destroyer leaped forward and was gone, lost into hyperspace.
Far behind, the other Destroyer began firing off escape pods like mold spores as more and more flames gouted up from beneath her surface. Then the brightest flame of all rose out of her midsection, a globe-shaped inferno, and began eating away at the vessel in all directions. The few starfighters remaining in its vicinity raced away at full speed.
One last flash, bright as a nova, and the Destroyer hurled asteroid-sized pieces of itself in all directions.
21
Hours later, Wedge—freshly scrubbed and uniformed, a little bacta treatment having rid his lungs of the smoky crud that had coated them but also having left a nasty taste in his mouth—marched into Mon Remonda’s bridge.
It wasn’t quite the same bridge. The armature of the captain’s chair had broken and Onoma was standing over his control board. Portions of the deck were crumpled and an entire control board was still black from burn. A new shift of officers was at work. Han Solo had his back to the bridge; he was lost in thought, staring into the depths of hyperspace.
Wedge approached to stand beside him. “Commander Antilles reporting.”
Solo didn’t answer for long moments. He looked tired, the lines in his craggy face deeper than Wedge had ever seen them. He took a deep breath. “We lost him.”
“We hurt him. We eliminated the other Destroyer. Razor’s Kiss.”
“But Zsinj is still at large.”
“We’ll get him next time.”
“I am so sick of next time.” Finally, Han grinned, looking briefly like his old self. “I’ll bet you’re just as sick of the gloomy Han Solo.”
“We’ll vape Zsinj together and you can go back to a life of irresponsible good cheer.”
“I’ll drink to that. How are your people?”
“Good. Lieutenant Loran will make it. We almost lost Piggy saBinring—he was floating off to oblivion with no thrusters, no lasers, no comlink—but Shalla Nelprin calculated his last known course and Sungrass retrieved him. We even picked up a hyperdrive-equipped interceptor out of the deal.”
“If they ever make you a general, demand to be head of the quartermasters. You’re really learning to turn a profit.”
Wedge watched him return to his distracted, distant staring. “Han, what’s it like? Actually being someone’s personal enemy?”
“I hate it. But I can’t just hand the job off. Not until someone feels about him the way I do.”
“Still up for that drink?”
Han snorted. “What do you think?”
Melvar appeared with his customary stealthiness beside Zsinj’s desk in his private office. He put a datacard before the warlord. “The final tally of losses.”
Zsinj barely stirred. He seemed drained of energy, so drained that even his fat sagged. “I’ll look at it later.”
“How do you think they did it?”
“One of the pirates,” Zsinj said. “He must have planted a transmitter on Iron Fist while collecting his pay, in spite of our sweeps, in spite of our sensors. I don’t know how. We’ll find out.”
“Your orders?”
Zsinj nodded listlessly. “Get all available cargo ships and tugs back to the last engagement zone. I want them to collect every piece they can find, no matter how large or small, of Razor’s Kiss for transportation back to Rancor Base.”
“Yes, sir.” Melvar waited a polite few seconds. “May I ask why?”
“Ask tomorrow. No more talk today.”
Melvar saluted—one of his few genuine salutes—and took his leave.
• • •
Face jumped as Kell came barging through the door, potted flowers in his hands. The big man took a look around, ignoring Face, and set the wavy mass of violet-colored vegetation down on a meal table. Th
en Kell caught sight of Dia, seated next to Face’s bed; she had an arm around his neck, her other hand stroking his brow, in what had been a most comfortable pose until Kell’s sudden arrival. “Oh, I see,” Kell said. “Celebration’s already started.”
Face glared. “What celebration?”
“Ask the commander.”
Behind Kell came Piggy, Janson, all the other Wraiths. Tyria was holding some sort of figurine, a gray human figure half the length of a forearm; it gripped something in its upraised hand. Wedge came in last.
“All present?” Wedge asked.
“And no accounting for,” Janson said.
Wedge turned toward Face, his expression stern. “Lieutenant Loran. You returned your X-wing to the training frigate Tedevium in the worst shape her mechanics had ever seen a flying snubfighter. You arrived in similar shape for an organism. As I understand it, parts of you and your X-wing were intermingled.”
“He had to be cut out of the cockpit,” Lara confirmed. “Kept wanting to talk to the medics about surgery.”
“Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you about that …” Face said.
“For this,” Wedge continued, “we present to you the Award of the Mechanic’s Nightmare.”
Tyria held out the statuette, which was of a New Republic mechanic with wrench upraised as a weapon. The mechanic’s expression was of pure, if silly, rage.
Face took the thing. “Looks like one of Cubber’s children.” He looked around the room. “I want to thank everyone who retrieved pieces of me, everyone who retrieved pieces of my X-wing, and especially those who sorted them out correctly.”
“On a more serious note,” Wedge said. “Attention.”
The Wraiths snapped to attention, all but Face, who tried to sit up, and Dia, who held him in place.
“With all our recent excitement,” Wedge said, “I’ve neglected to finalize a little business I should have seen to days ago. But I’m happier to do it now, since Face can join us for it. Shalla Nelprin, step forward.”
She did so, struggling, Face thought, to keep uncertainty from her expression.
“Since being posted to Wraith Squadron,” Wedge said, “you have demonstrated fine piloting and intrusion skills, in addition to improvisational instincts that have benefited this unit and the New Republic. It is my pleasure to convey to you your promotion to the rank of lieutenant in the New Republic’s Starfighter Command.” He handed her her new officer’s insignia, then shook her hand. “Congratulations, Shalla.”
Star Wars: X-Wing VI: Iron Fist Page 32
