Limpan looked up, toward the high speakers, as though Moyan were up there. “Who are they?”
“They’re Bothan Assault Cruisers, Admiral.”
No expression crossed her face, but Limpan felt a twinge of sympathy for Moyan. He was Bothan.
“All right,” she called. “Navigation, plot a course for Centerpoint Station. Order our forces already there to hit the station as hard as they can. Denying it to the Corellians is our top priority. Dodonna will join in that action.” If we’re still functional when we get there, she added silently. And assuming we are, we can get a sense of whether we need to stay there and keep pounding, or run with our tails between our legs. “Where’s the Anakin Solo?” That Star Destroyer, assigned to Jacen Solo and the Galactic Alliance Guard, didn’t answer to her, and she didn’t always know its location or current task.
Her sensor operator called out, “It was at its usual station, just outside the Soronia orbit, on the direct approach from Coruscant. Now its coming in.”
“Ask it to join us at Centerpoint.” Limpan could feel the subtle changes in the ship’s artificial gravity, and see through the viewports at the bow, as Dodonna slowly wheeled away from her orbit and oriented herself away from the planet’s surface. “How many starfighter squadrons do we have on-station?”
“Three, Admiral.”
Limpan shook her head, rueful. They were going to take a pounding. In fact, a mere pounding was the best they could hope for.
As if reading her thoughts, one of the junior officers said, her tone just loud enough to reach Limpan’s ears, “We’re borked.”
“Enemy starfighters now reaching our maximum firing range,” Moyan said.
“Open fire,” Limpan said. “The order is fire at will.”
ERRANT VENTURE
Wedge and Corran angled into the Flag Hangar, each skidding as he made the hard turn from the corridor. Their astromechs had done a preliminary power-up, and the canopies of both snubfighters were already open. Wedge was first to his vehicle, but Corran, rather than climbing the ladder hanging from his cockpit, leapt lightly into his pilot’s couch. Wedge swore at the Jedi under his breath and climbed his ladder. “What’ve we got, sweetie?”
Iella’s voice crackled back across his comlink. “Unknown forces hitting every major position held by the Second Fleet in the system. Wait, not unknown. The Centerpoint Station task force is reporting Commenorian markings on the assault forces. The Tralus and Corellian blockade forces are reporting Bothan markings. We have a small force, one frigate and one squadron of starfighters, headed our way. And the Dodonna has ordered Errant Venture not to enter hyperspace until every spaceworthy fighting vehicle aboard has launched.”
Wedge swung nimbly into his cockpit. Dodonna’s order meant Booster would have to play a game of careful calculations. If he did jump before the military personnel aboard had all launched, he risked certain punishment from the Galactic Alliance—crushing financial penalties that could bankrupt him. If he didn’t, and the forces headed this way were too strong, he risked losing the Venture—and his own life, and the lives of thousands of employees and guests—as the underarmed Star Destroyer was vaped.
Wedge yanked the ladder free of his fuselage and dropped it to the hangar floor. He slid down into the couch, clamped his helmet on, closed the canopy.
Corran’s voice came across his helmet speakers. “Silly operational question. What’s our squadron designation?”
Wedge snorted. They ought to have one for purposes of coordination and efficiency, but the question seemed just slightly ridiculous under the circumstances. “Ganner. I’m Ganner One, you’re Ganner Two.” He checked his status display. “Four lit, four green. Open hangar doors.”
“Say please,” Iella said. “Just kidding.”
The Flag Hangar’s lights dimmed, and the outer doors slid aside. Wedge activated his repulsors, sending his X-wing into a wobbly two-meter climb, then hit his thrusters and punched out through the opening before the doors were completely withdrawn.
It was an awkward launch, and thrust wash would have scorched the hangar bulkhead behind the X-wing. Such a launch would have earned him a reprimand back when he was still flying for the Rebel Alliance or the New Republic. Here he didn’t care—he needed to be outside, where the action was.
He and Corran circled to run the length of Errant Venture, heading toward the stern. They could see starfighters and other vehicles dropping out of the ship’s belly bays like explosives dropping from a bomber. The starfighters ignited thrusters, turned toward the world of Corellia, and blasted in that direction. The more distant ones were already leaping forward and vanishing, the visual effect to outsiders of their entering hyperspace.
Two X-wings from the main hangars came alongside, matching speed and vector. Wedge was startled—they hadn’t appeared on his sensor screen until they were a few hundred meters away, but as they drifted into visual range, he saw why. They were StealthX craft, their surfaces looking dark and oddly mottled because of the sensor-defeating coatings they wore.
Wedge changed his comm frequency to a general military hailing range. He thought he knew the answer, but asked anyway: “Who’ve we got there?”
“Hello, Wedge.”
“Luke. I take it your talk with the colonel was cut short. Mara’s your wing, correct?”
“Yes. Going to deal with Errant Venture’s pursuit?”
“Just until the Venture can jump to a safe zone.”
“Makes sense. You do realize that you’re attacking your own allies, don’t you?”
“No one trying to blow up the old man who became my benefactor when I was orphaned is my ally, Luke, By the way, you’re now Ganner Three, and Mara’s Ganner Four.”
There was a short pause. “For Ganner Rhysode?” Luke asked. Rhysode, a Jedi Knight, had died on Coruscant during the Yuuzhan Vong war, fighting—and killing—more enemy warriors in personal combat than perhaps any other combatant in the war.
“Can you think of a better name for someone fighting a delaying action?”
“No. Who’s Ganner Two? Corran?”
Corran’s voice was crisp across the comm channel. “Hello, boss.”
CORELLIAN SPACE
Jacen’s shuttle was on the verge of entering hyperspace and jumping toward the Anakin Solo’s position, just outside the star system on the most direct trajectory toward Coruscant, when he received a new message from the Star Destroyer, relaying Admiral Limpan’s request for assistance at Centerpoint Station. Jacen authorized the change in plans, quickly plotted a new jump for Centerpoint, and launched into hyperspace shortly afterward.
When he dropped from hyperspace, the Centerpoint engagement was spread out before him. In the background was the station itself, the ugly, cylindrical, kilometers-long mass of it. Nearer were the Galactic Alliance Mon Calamari heavy carrier Blue Diver and two sturdy-looking Carrack-class gunships. Compared with the curved, organic-looking Mon Cal vessel, the Carracks looked antiquated and impossibly primitive, like thick guard batons slightly larger at either end than in the middle. Blue Diver was exchanging turbolaser and ion cannon fire with the newcomers, and, curiously, it looked as though any of its turbolasers that could not be brought to bear on the gunships were being used to strafe Centerpoint. Surrounding the three capital ships were tiny glimmers and streaks of light, evidence of starfighter action taking place all around them.
Jacen stayed well back—the light laser cannon on his shuttle would not add much firepower to the Alliance forces, and he might not be able to detach himself from a skirmish when he needed to.
His sensor screen blipped with the arrival of a new force and showed him the blue triangle of the Anakin Solo, just arrived from hyperspace, racing toward the engagement. He heeled over, taking an intercept course that should bring him alongside the Anakin before it reached the engagement and allow him to get aboard before the Anakin had to open up with its weapons batteries—assuming that enemy starfighters didn’t rush to engage.
/> He was in luck, though. None of the enemy forces at the station disengaged to meet the Anakin, and Jacen reached the Command Salon within minutes.
There Commander Twizzl, commanding officer of the Anakin Solo, greeted him with a simple nod. A big silver-haired man who looked as though he should be appearing on holocasts advertising exercise equipment and protein-boosted foods, he spoke with a Coruscanti accent that had been diminished by decades of service spent among many species and social classes. “We’re preparing to bring the long-range lasers to bear against the gunships.”
“Belay that,” Jacen said. “Use them to reinforce Blue Diver’s fire against the station.”
Twizzl scowled. “Kill more enemy troops rather than preserve the lives of our own? Colonel, that’s a bad choice under these circumstances.”
“It’s our only choice. Can’t you see what’s going on? Admiral Limpan wouldn’t have ordered the attack on the station if she weren’t sure that the enemy forces could drive us out of the system. And if we are driven out, and leave an intact Centerpoint Station behind—”
“Yes, Colonel.” Twizzl didn’t sound convinced, but turned to the weapons officer. “Take a new target: Center-point Station. Continuous fire. Inflict as much damage as possible.” His voice was grudging.
ERRANT VENTURE
Well away from the public areas frequented by Errant Venture’s clientele and guests, Lando stepped from a shadowy passageway into a small turbolift. Its doors closed behind him and its service program spoke: “Deck, please.”
“Subcommand Three.”
“Please press a fingerprint, eyeball, or other individual identifier to the sensor.”
Lando raised his hand to do so, but the doors hissed open again and a woman in a dark hooded cloak limped in to stand on the far side of the lift.
Lando gave her a polite nod. It would be both suspicious and rude to order her out of the turbolift, so he’d let the lift take her to her destination, then lock it down against further entry and get back to his group’s operations center at the conference room.
“Deck, please.”
The newcomer ignored the service program. She pulled the hood from her face, revealing the features and lekku, one of them a stump, of Alema Rar. “Hello, Lando.”
Lando rocked back against the turbolift wall and drew his hold-out blaster, but before he had even cleared it from its hidden pocket she reached for it. The weapon flew from his hand into hers.
Alema looked at the blaster before dropping it to the floor behind her. “We are disappointed. This is not an appropriate greeting for an old friend.”
Lando cleared his throat. “You’re right, of course. Sorry. A bad reflex.” Looking at her now, he had to force himself not to wince. He’d met her for the first time years ago, at the height of the Yuuzhan Vong war, when she was still a teenager, still mourning the death of her sister Numa, still physically perfect.
Still sane.
Now she stood before him, a weird gleam in her eyes, her shoulders at different angles. He’d heard the list of mutilations she had sustained and knew them to be matched by the savage injuries her mind had endured.
Her tone remained curiously friendly, nonthreatening. “Where are the Solos?”
“Oh. Um … Corellia?”
“No. Here. Aboard. Where?”
“If I tell you, you won’t kill me?”
“We would never kill you. We have always admired you.” There was almost a purr to her voice.
“That’s comforting.” He pointed his cane at her.
It, too, was yanked from his grip by invisible forces and flew into her hand.
Now Alema really did look hurt. “You were going to shoot us with a concealed blaster?”
“Not exactly. Zap-zap.”
At Lando’s command word, electrical arcs, tiny and blue, curled from the ends of the cane and flowed across Alema’s skin. Her eyes widening, she convulsed, her muscles locking in a tetany caused by the charge flowing through her.
But she didn’t fall unconscious. Lando cursed under his breath. The weapon maker who’d built the cane to Lando’s specifications had assured him that the charge would take down a good-sized Wookiee.
But the weapon maker had never dealt with Jedi.
Alema fell, landing atop Lando’s blaster, but clearly was still struggling against the shocks paralyzing her even as wisps of smoke began to rise from her body. And the electrical arcs seemed to be getting weaker …
The turbolift doors whooshed open and Lando ran back down the passageway, toward cross-corridors filled with people, filled with light.
He wouldn’t waste breath on a comlink call until he was surrounded by people. He put every effort toward running.
Something seemed to move within his head, as though there were a greased worm writhing in his brain matter, heading toward the exit of one of his ears. He ignored the sensation. He ran.
The first cross-corridor was ahead, lightly trafficked. He turned rightward into it, toward heavier concentrations of people. His rapid movement didn’t attract much attention; a lot of people were running. A few moments later he was in the midst of a thick crowd of Errant Venture personnel streaming out of a casino now being evacuated.
He pulled out his comlink. Now he could …
He could what?
Call someone, he supposed. But who? And why did he need to call anyone? What had he been running from?
And where had he lost his blasted cane?
Shaking his head, and wondering whether age really was beginning to affect his faculties, he put his comlink away and looked around for the nearest turbolift.
CORELLIAN SPACE
Luke had to agree that Wedge’s improvised plan was a good one—or would be, if it worked. But then, he decided, that was true of all plans: in retrospect, they were only as good as they were successful, regardless of how brilliant they might have appeared before execution.
He and Mara were many kilometers out ahead of Wedge and Corran and a few kilometers to one side of the straight-line approach the enemy force was taking. As soon as their sensors detected the incoming frigate, he and Mara shut down all active systems and went dead in space, merely drifting. From this point until they rejoined Wedge and Corran, they would not use their comm systems; their Force-bond, undetectable by sensors, would be their only means of communication.
Passive sensors showed Wedge and Corran approaching the enemy force, showed the enemy’s starfighters arraying themselves out in front of the frigate as a defensive screen. Luke nodded. These were wise, basic tactics. The frigate and starfighter screen passed Luke’s and Mara’s position, and Luke’s sensors showed the frigate to be an ax-shaped Nebulon-B.
The Jedi waited there and watched the battle begin. Wedge and Corran, staying so close to each other that they were sometimes one blip on the sensors, darted to one edge of the starfighter screen. There was a swirl of activity there, and suddenly Wedge and Corran were in retreat. Eleven enemy starfighters remained, and one was dead in space, its pilot requesting shuttle pickup over open comm frequencies.
Luke gave Mara a simple prod through the Force, then lit his thrusters and began to maneuver in behind the frigate. She tucked in beside him, and he could feel a cool readiness flow from her—a dispassionate willingness to inflict damage, kill, even die as necessary.
Their approach was smooth and slow, designed to benefit from these X-wings’ comparative invisibility to sensors. They needed to come as close as possible and launch their proton torpedoes before the frigate’s crew realized they were there. At the moment, the frigate was running with its shields more powerful at the bow, weaker at the stern—a sensible measure, as Wedge and Corran were keeping the starfighter skirmish out ahead of the frigate.
Closer they came—now one hundred kilometers behind the frigate, now ninety …
When they were so close that their attacks would take less than a second to reach the frigate, but not so close that retaliatory laserfire would be at point-bl
ank range, Luke fired a torpedo. A split second later Mara fired hers. Luke activated his X-wing’s shields and, through their Forcebond, felt Mara do the same.
The torpedo thrusters drew a near-instantaneous straight line to the frigate’s stern. Luke’s torpedo detonated against its rear shields. Then Mara’s disappeared into the blast zone and detonated, as well.
It took a few moments for the superheated gases of the explosions to dissipate. As they cleared, they revealed a frigate stern that was badly damaged, deeply cratered. Luke couldn’t see a single functioning thruster. He gave a little whoop. One enemy was out of commission, and the loss of life had to have been low—if luck was with the frigate, it might have lost no personnel at all.
Luke and Mara accelerated in an arc toward the starfighter engagement. Sensors now showed eight actives in the engagement zone—Wedge, Corran, and six hostiles. On Luke’s sensor screen, the computer finally identified the hostiles—1-7 Howlrunners. Luke was familiar with the starfighters: sleek rectangular hulls with stubby maneuvering wings at one end and two forward-projecting laser cannons at the other. Luke knew them to be shielded and tough, but they also lacked much firepower. Still, the original escort of twelve starfighters would ordinarily have been more than sufficient to destroy two X-wings … just not X-wings flown by pilots of the caliber of Wedge and Corran.
And now they were to be joined by pilots of the caliber of Luke and Mara.
The StealthX fighters were only a few kilometers from the engagement zone when the five still-functional Howlrunners broke away, roaring back toward the frigate. Luke and Mara let them go. The Howlrunners took up position circling the crippled frigate, a far more pathetic defensive screen than they had been mere minutes before.
Luke reactivated his comm transmitter. “What now?”
“Back to the Errant Venture for me,” Wedge said. “To give protection until it makes the jump into hyperspace. I’m not going to get involved in the main battle. Honestly, I wouldn’t know whose side to be on.”
Mara asked, “How about you, Corran?”
Corran sounded just a little uncertain. “It’s kind of up to you, Luke. I’ve tended to all my personal business on Corellia, I don’t need to go back … where do you need me?”
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