Rebel Stand: Enemy Lines II

by Aaron Allston

  “This would be as good a time as any, Luke,” Mara said.

  “No argument here.” Luke switched on the apparatus they’d wired into his comm unit, and the comm units of several of the prestige pilots of Lusankya’s guardian squadrons, just prior to the launch of this mission. “Broadcasting location,” he said. “I’m going to stay on the straight and narrow as long as I can stand to.”

  There was a touch of laughter to Mara’s voice: “You know, I’ve said that in the past.”

  “Very funny.”

  Luke’s forward shield flared into incandescence as something hit it—not a plasma ball, for he would have seen that coming, but something that had not been illuminated until it hit. Probably a grutchin. He tightened, clenching his jaw as though hardening his body could harden his X-wing against incoming fire. He was a sitting duck until his task was done.

  Mara moved up before him, drifting back and forth, making herself the main target of the oncoming skips but never moving so far that her shields did not offer protection to Luke.

  Luke could feel her reaching for him in the Force. It wasn’t a gesture seeking reassurance, not really; he could feel her confidence, her focus on her task.

  It took him a moment to understand. She wanted to be there, with him, in case something happened, in case one or the other of them suddenly winked out of existence. It was suddenly hard for him to swallow.

  Then his sensor board yowled as something huge materialized in space behind him, no more than two hundred meters in his wake.

  It was Mon Mothma, dropping out of hyperspace. The great Interdictor immediately began drifting to Luke’s port, away from the worldship’s surface; she had to have been on a slightly different course before entering hyperspace.

  A moment later, a cloud erupted from Mon Mothma’s underside—her complement of starfighters, squadron after squadron streaking away from the launching bays, some to guard the Destroyer, some to head off incoming coralskippers from ahead and behind.

  The crude gravitic sensor that was part of the X-wing’s new instrument package lit up. Mon Mothma had activated her gravity-well generators. If the plan was going according to schedule, she’d be activating her yammosk jamming, too.

  “Last act, Mara.”

  “Let’s catch our breath before we join the other players, farmboy.”

  “Let’s do that.”

  NINETEEN

  The worldship’s navigation crew did not have to be told to maneuver away from the Interdictor. But once they did set a new course, a noise akin to dismay wafted from their area.

  Czulkang Lah merely looked at Kasdakh Bhul. The warrior moved to the navigators, spoke briefly with them, and returned.

  In pained tones, he said, “There is confusion. Five dovin basal mines have just chased five Millennium Falcons into our immediate space. Their attempts to seize the infidel ships are interfering with the worldship’s dovin basals.”

  “Five Millennium Falcons.”

  “Yes.”

  “And even one is enough to cause us grief.”

  A few kilometers away, another New Republic ship winked into existence—Errant Venture. It immediately opened up with all guns, directing damage against the worldship’s surface, against the nearest Yuuzhan Vong capital ships.

  “I’ve breathed,” Luke said.

  “Let’s get ’em.”

  With four coralskippers closing on his tail, Wedge hurtled away from Ammuud Swooper’s course. The freighter was less than a minute from being able to enter hyperspace. A minute … surely Wedge could hold the skips here that long. Even at the cost of his life.

  Czulkang Lah watched as his fleet became uncoordinated. Suddenly coralskippers swarmed like awkward trainees. Villips everted as the commanders of his capital ships stopped receiving gravitic orders. The spike at the nose of Lusankya was now visible through the viewing lens above; more of the ship had eroded, revealing even more spike. The gravitic interdiction of one of the triangle ships in orbit above the worldship was keeping his dovin basals from maneuvering Domain Hul out of Lusankya’s path.

  He ignored his commanders. “Activate my son’s villip,” he told Kasdakh Bhul.

  A moment later, the villip installed in the most prominent niche everted and took on the features of Tsavong Lah. “What news, my father?” the warmaster asked. “Has Borleias fallen?”

  “Borleias has fallen,” said Czulkang Lah, his voice weary.

  “And have you slain all the infidels? Or do some of their forces remain to flee?”

  “Some forces remain.”

  “But still, a great victory.”

  “No, son. Limited facts can point at victory when in fact there is only defeat to taste.”

  The villip frowned. “Defeat? You have achieved the conditions of victory. You have once more brought glory to Domain Lah.”

  “In a minute I will be dead. Too many clever minds, however heretical they may be, have undone me.”

  “But—”

  “Be quiet, my son, and know that my last words were reserved for you. Fare well, and may the gods smile upon you, as they once did upon me.” Czulkang Lah reached up to stroke the villip. It inverted, carrying Tsavong Lah’s expression of bafflement with it.

  Kasdakh Bhul stepped before him. “We are on the verge of victory, old one. Pull one last strategy out of your mind. Give us that last success.”

  Czulkang Lah stared into the face of a warrior too stupid even to know regret. The old warmaster held his silence. He’d promised that his words to Tsavong Lah would be his last. He would not diminish their value by breaking that promise.

  One of his officers, his voice quaking in fear or anger—or both—asked, “Shall I give the order to abandon Domain Hul?”

  Czulkang Lah nodded.

  Suddenly space was swarming with New Republic reinforcements. Gavin let off his thruster and watched, bemused, as four TIE Interceptors off Mon Mothma strafed the coralskipper duo he and Nevil had been dueling, shredding them by virtue of fresh pilots and fresh lasers.

  “Rogue Squadron, regroup on me,” Gavin said. “Let’s let the latecomers escort Lusankya in. Blackmoons, how are you doing?”

  “Rogue Leader, this is Blackmoon Ten. We’re, ah, not doing too well. Four actives remain, not counting Blackmoon One and Two, who are detached.”

  “Recommend you sit back and watch for a minute, then.”

  “Can’t do it, Rogue Leader. One of our own appears to be in a furball back at Borleias. We’re going back after him.”

  “We’ll come with you.”

  Wedge finished his loop and headed back toward his four pursuers. They were firing long before he was aligned, but two of them, the survivors of Wedge’s proton torpedo attack, were not firing accurately; their undersides were charred, and Wedge suspected that those two coralskippers were damaged. Injured, and in pain.

  Not that two healthy ones couldn’t kill him. Wedge sideslipped, rotated to change his profile, juked and jinked to keep incoming plasma and grutchin fire off him.

  As he approached the coralskipper formation, he drifted to port and squeezed off some stutterfire laser at the healthy skip on that side. He fired for only a fraction of a second, letting the short series of beams drift forward from the target’s cockpit, watching as the skip’s voids moved with the streams of coherent light and swallowed them; then he switched the weapon over to quad-linked fire, flicked his targeting reticle back toward the cockpit, and fired, all in one quick motion.

  The voids continued forward for a brief, deadly fraction of a second. Wedge’s lasers slammed in behind them, punching through the pilot’s canopy, punching through the pilot.

  Wedge’s X-wing shook as plasma, not completely deflected by his shields, seared through his starboard lower S-foil. His diagnostics lit up with their report. Structural damage, but no interruption of engine power. The S-foil might collapse if flown into atmosphere, especially in firing position, but should hold up to all but the most rigorous of maneuvers in space.
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  The last healthy coralskipper and its two injured wingmates were on his tail, pouring plasma after him; he heard impact after impact as the superheated projectiles hit his rear shields, watched the alarming drop of his shield power.

  His sensor board beeped, alerting him to an object in his path, on collision course, less than a second away. He began to twitch the X-wing yoke, to sideslip him around the obstacle, but instead switched weapons controls back to proton torpedo and fired on it. Only then did he shove the yoke down.

  He saw the brilliant flash of the torpedo detonating above him, felt his X-wing rock as the shock wave from the explosion hammered him, but he switched back to lasers and hauled back on the yoke even as he was being battered. He was through the detonation zone in an instant—and there, meters above him, was the last healthy skip, its pilot still recovering from the unexpected detonation. Wedge fired and saw his lasers tear into the skip’s underbelly.

  There was another explosion, this one far less severe, as the skip vented gases through the crater Wedge’s lasers punched in the yorik coral. The skip suddenly ceased maneuvering.

  A shrill alarm had been wailing in Wedge’s ear since the explosion. Finally he could spare an instant’s attention to his diagnostics board.

  He cursed. His shields were down. Whether they had failed from the proton torpedo explosion or been stripped as a last act of the coralskipper’s voids, he did not know, but he suspected the latter; it would explain why his last shot against the skip’s underbelly was not blocked.

  Without shields, he was nearly as good as dead. He spared a glance for the two injured skips. They would be closing on him now, predators coming after injured prey.

  Instead, they were moving away at high speed.

  Wedge laughed. Seeing the last intact skip of the squadron destroyed had caused their nerve to fail; they probably hadn’t even detected that he had lost his shields. He wondered what they thought he was—another supposed godly manifestation, like Jaina?

  Then he stopped laughing. His sensors showed the coralskipper squadron from planetside had left the atmosphere and was racing up in the wake of Ammuud Swooper. They might intercept her before she reached a point from which she could launch into hyperspace.

  Unless he maneuvered himself in the way. Unless he persuaded a second squadron to duel with him.

  But if he did that, his X-wing shieldless and damaged, he would die. He would die alone, and he would die anonymous, flying another pilot’s X-wing with no record left behind of his having been here. Iella and his children would never know what had become of him.

  He swung around on an intercept course and hit his thrusters.

  Turning his back on the Ammuud Swooper, leaving her to be destroyed by the Yuuzhan Vong when she was so close to escape, would not allow him to live. It would just give him time to tidy up his affairs before guilt—the crushing weight of responsibility abandoned—caused him to find some other way to die.

  Coming in at an oblique angle to the new coralskippers’ course, Wedge fired at maximum possible distance. On his sensor board, he saw no indication that his laserfire had done any damage.

  But after a moment the squadron of skips vectored, angling toward him.

  He could have cheered. They, too, wanted a challenging kill rather than some defenseless freighter. Had their decision not guaranteed his death, he would have cheered.

  Wedge kept up his fire, jerking his X-wing back and forth in a bone-jarring evasive pattern, seeing plasma fire streak above, to port, to starboard. His sustained lasers fired straight down the voids of the foremost skip, only occasionally drifting far and fast enough to one side to hit yorik coral.

  He felt a tremendous impact and the starfield was suddenly rotating outside his canopy. The X-wing no longer responded to his control of the yoke. Systems failure alarms shrilled in his ears, and he knew he was dead.

  Eldo Davip locked down the auxiliary bridge controls, then slapped the button for the new door at the chamber’s rear. It slid open instantly, undamaged, revealing the Y-wing beyond.

  A Y-wing. He shook his head as he ran to the cockpit and clambered within. The starfighter was as old as he was, if not older; he suspected it was one of the assembly of “spare parts” vehicles that had been used to fabricate the pipefighters. As he closed the canopy, the door into the auxiliary bridge snapped shut and another bulkhead slid open, meters ahead of him, allowing him a view of space flanked by the emissions of Lusankya’s powerful thrusters.

  He started up the starfighter’s engines but couldn’t yet launch. A jury-rigged screen and set of controls went live, and once again Davip could see through Lusankya’s remaining forward holocams, could see instrument readouts.

  The dying Super Star Destroyer was drifting to starboard. This probably wasn’t navigational failure. Instead, some dovin basal on the surface of the worldship had to be exerting its gravitational power against Lusankya, trying to turn the vessel aside.

  It might work, too. No dovin basal was going to be able to entirely deflect the millions of tons of Lusankya, to counteract the tremendous kinetic energy built up during the ship’s constant acceleration toward the worldship. But a dovin basal might be able to turn her protruding spearhead aside, to reduce the penetration of impact.

  Davip wouldn’t have that. He resumed direct control of Lusankya and increased thrust output from her starboard engines, redlining them, bringing the spearpoint back in line.

  He’d just stay here and make sure everything went according to plan.

  * * *

  Czulkang Lah watched as the sharp prow of Lusankya grew in the sky, approaching with a meticulous precision that he could, with a growing sense of detachment, appreciate.

  Up close, the crudeness of the protruding spike became evident. He could see scarlike welds suggesting that the thing had been assembled in sections within the triangle ship. Still, its simplicity, and the fact that it had succeeded in serving its intended purpose, was admirable.

  It entered the worldship’s atmosphere and, a moment later, struck the viewing lens immediately above.

  And Czulkang Lah was gone.

  The prow of Lusankya hit the worldship.

  Eight kilometers up, before the shock of that impact had even been transmitted along Lusankya’s body, Eldo Davip fired his thrusters and shot out of the vessel’s stern.

  He passed between two of the vessel’s thrusters and saw his diagnostics light up as they anticipated possible life-support failure, but then the yellows faded to a safe green.

  But still he was feeling vibration. Had he sustained damage that the diagnostics didn’t detect?

  It took him a moment to realize that the vibration wasn’t from his Y-wing. It was from him.

  As he set a course to take him to a formation of allied starfighters, he tried to stop shaking.

  But he couldn’t.

  Coming around the far side of the worldship, Luke and Mara saw Lusankya dive into the worldship’s surface. It seemed to Luke that a ripple spread out from the point of impact, either a shock wave or an animal contraction of pain.

  The Super Star Destroyer, her kinetic energy scarcely slowed by the impact, continued to plow into the worldship. Hundred-meter-long remnants of the ship’s superstructure sheared off from the solid core, but that core plunged inexorably deeper into the worldship.

  In moments, as the orbit of the two Jedi brought them closer to the impact zone, Lusankya’s core was swallowed by the worldship, her superstructure scraped off and left behind, mountain-high, on the worldship’s surface.

  Then the surface of the worldship shuddered. Luke knew what that meant. Eight or more kilometers below the surface, the spearpoint of the core had exploded. Then the next hundred-meter section behind it would detonate, then the one behind that, a chain of destruction reaching all the way back to what had once been Lusankya’s stern.

  As they passed over the Super Star Destroyer’s wreckage, the mountain of scrap leapt skyward, propelled by a volcanolik
e eruption from beneath the surface as the last of Lusankya’s core sections detonated. The flash from the explosion was brilliant and the force of the explosion jetted into the sky, looking for one brief moment like a red-orange lightsaber blade kilometers in length.

  The surface of the worldship heaved. Great jagged cracks flowing with a red-black substance Luke did not care to contemplate spread out from Lusankya’s impact point as the worldship began to die.

  * * *

  His ship protected by the remains of Charat Kraal’s special operations group, Harrar watched the crash and detonation. He could feel blood drain from his face, could feel the strength of his legs begin to fail. He sat heavily in the captain’s seat, wordless.

  “The infidels appear to be grouping again,” his pilot said. “Shall we join these coralskippers in a counterattack?”

  “What’s the point?” Harrar whispered. “Take us back to Coruscant. Take us back where we can look on victory instead of disaster.”

  On his next spin, Wedge saw the squadron of skips turn back toward him. He aimed and fired after them, a final, defiant gesture, but his weapon failed to discharge.

  On his next spin, he could see the incoming skips but, beyond them, witnessed the brilliant flash of light that heralded Lusankya’s demise. “I’m not exactly going to miss you,” he said.

  The incoming coralskippers opened fire. At this range, only one of the plasma projectiles hit; Wedge felt it crash into and through the X-wing’s stern, and suddenly he was spinning even faster, watching the stars rotate by at bewildering speed.

  Then things became more complicated. Unable to quite resolve the picture outside his canopy into a comprehensible one, growing dizzier by the minute, Wedge thought he saw red lasers flashing among the orange-red plasma balls. He was certain he saw one coralskipper detonate, then two.

  There were E-wings and X-wings near him, the latter painted in the standard New Republic colors, and his comlink crackled to life—a woman’s voice, fading in and out: “Blackmoon Ten … Eleven. Are … with us?”