The 'Harrower II'-class dreadnought, a battle Star Destroyer belonging to the Eternal Empire of Zakuul, bearing the resounding, millennia-old name 'Smiting Hand', had barely dropped out of hyperspace and existed in solitude for barely an instant. To an outside observer, it would have taken only a couple of blinks for the blackness of space to fill with the grey hulls of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul's warships.
"Admiral." Ebhart silently turned on his heel, watching as Lord Malgus and his apprentice moved from the turbolift doors toward him. The former commander of Ord Radama's defensive forces showed neither fear nor false deference at the sight of the Force user. Only dry, professional courtesy.
Ebhart politely inclined his head in respect to the Emperor's confidant, waiting until the armored figure of the Force user drew level with him.
"The fleet has emerged from the jump?" came the question from beneath the respirator. As if the all-powerful Force adept, the legendary hero of Ord Radama, didn't know this himself.
"In full strength, my lord," the officer reported modestly.
In the capital of Ord Radama, the magnificent metropolis of Livien-Magnus, on the central square, stood a hundred-meter statue that, despite the millennia since its erection, still resembled the form of the mighty being standing now beside the Admiral. Darth Malgus—former Sith Lord, who had twice invaded Ebhart's homeworld. Twice driven the Republic scum out. And had put no small effort into rebuilding that world after the fierce fighting. That was why Malgus was almost a legend among the people of Ord Radama. The Conqueror, who had drowned the planet in blood. The Merciful Restorer. His name was used to frighten restless children for millennia. Children were named after him, streets were named after him, even a few settlements bore his name.
In recent history, when the mechanical hordes of the Eternal Empire first set foot on the planet's surface, they met serious resistance. Casualties were heavy—until Darth Malgus reminded the locals who he was. Yes, many on Ord Radama wondered how he had survived so many centuries without the slightest change... But no one dared to ask that question directly.
However, after the legend's appearance to the people, there could be no more talk of resistance. One and a half billion living beings—the entire population of Ord Radama—swore fealty to the Eternal Empire. As an independent entity, the armed forces and the small but well-trained fleet of Ord Radama ceased to exist. These people and these starships joined the Empire. Some followed Darth Malgus into the Unapproachable Caldera, to restore the grandeur of that part of the galaxy. Those were the majority—in an overpopulated world on the edge of the galaxy, there were plenty ready to follow anyone to a Hutt's arsehole if they were paid and fed for it. Generously, in both cases.
Ebhart was not among those who practically worshipped Malgus. To him, he was an ordinary, albeit outstanding, being. Even if he had somehow managed to live almost four thousand years without aging a single day, in modern reality that wasn't such a big problem.
The Admiral had followed Malgus for a completely different reason. The Ord Radaman was a military man to the bone. And within the framework of his planet, he had achieved everything an honest soldier could ever dream of. Joining the Empire's armed forces was a new step toward his destiny. Access to new knowledge—and even if the Empire's military studied the training courses of the old Sith Empire, even those archaic documents were head and shoulders above everything the Republic's Judicial Forces Academy, which Ebhart had graduated from many years ago, had taught its officers.
And now, commanding a strike fleet, the Admiral was taking an exam before his direct commander. With no margin for error.
Frustratingly little was known about the enemy. Only that this system, located near a pulsar and containing only five planets, only one of which had a breathable atmosphere, had been entered into the Republic's galactic astronavigation atlas under the name MZX33291. The star system had no proper name. No population either.
But at the same time, situated on a secondary hyperspace route—the Veragi Trade Route—this system lay literally on the borders of known space. There was no heavy traffic of trade ships or convoys here. There were no Republic bases—the Republic generally didn't care what happened beyond the Mid Rim sectors. No wonder that in the first months of the war, the Confederacy of Independent Systems had found an echo in the hearts of Ord Radama's inhabitants, located in the Outer Rim. However, Lord Malgus's appearance had changed many things...
Including allowing the Ord Radamans themselves, who made up the majority of the organic crews in Darth Malgus's fleet, to be the first to encounter an enemy never before seen.
The scouts had spent several days in this star system, observing the enemy's movements. Every change in the system was meticulously analyzed. Had the enemy started building anything even remotely resembling a defensive network here—every single ship under Lord Malgus's command would have shown up. Not just a strike squadron of six 'Harrower'-class dreadnoughts, supported by an equal number of 'Terminus'-class battlecruisers. Two dozen 'Marauder'-class corvettes, comprising the capital ships' escort and simultaneously the squadron's light forces, Ebhart preferred to keep behind the main formation—so their gravitational signature on the scanners blended together, hiding the true number of Imperial ships from the enemy's tracking systems.
"Status of the enemy ships?" Darth Malgus inquired.
"Unchanged since the last scout report," the Admiral reported. "One large ship, which we've identified as a battleship, two dozen medium ships—designated 'destroyers'—and many very small ones—'fighters'."
"Excellent," the giant in armor spoke ominously. "Admiral, we proceed with Plan Beta."
"Understood, Lord Malgus," the Ord Radaman confirmed receipt of the order, relaying it to the watch officer.
The bridge of the 'Smiting Hand' filled with the sounds of battle stations. The operators, who were already at their posts, upon hearing the flagship transition from 'yellow' to 'red' alert status, buried themselves in the monitors of their control terminals.
From the bifurcated bow of the dreadnought, numerous small craft streamed forth—SIE-TIE 'Supremacy' interceptors and T-65 X-wing heavy space-superiority fighters. The Admiral didn't see it, but he knew for certain that squadrons of ARC-170s had already launched from his ship's side hangars. Though the latter were not inferior in firepower to the X-wings, their tasks in the coming battle were quite different.
As much data as possible about the enemy needed to be gathered, and the powerful sensor suites of the ARCs were the most suitable equipment for this purpose. So now, all ARCs from the squadron's ships were spreading out in a wide fan through the system, arrogantly probing it with their invisible feelers. The scouts' low observability allowed them to collect data with impunity for extended periods—and the more that was obtained during the upcoming battle, the better.
From the depths of the enemy ships, hundreds of nondescript-looking but highly maneuverable small craft were spat out toward the ships of the strike squadrons. The admiral, meeting the eyes of the tracking systems officer, received his confirmation — the GEMINI droids were already receiving data from the scouts. The number of small craft on each enemy starship, their speed, maneuverability, type and nature of armament. Let all of this be just barely perceptible actions of distant space ships for the organic eye — for GEMINI and those who would later study the droid reports, every movement of the enemy was statistics. And the more that was gathered now, the easier it would be in the future.
An instant — and the virtuosic pirouettes of the small craft turned into a bloody melee: the Imperial ships were attacked from all sides by myriads of swift enemy fighters. One would think panic was in order — but not here. Not now.
Ahead and slightly to the side, a pair of Terminus-class destroyers opened fire on the enemy small craft diving at them from all directions. Green streams of tibanna, like an energy web, surrounded the battlecruisers situated at the tip of the enemy attack. And no maneuvers by the enemy fighters could help them escape the precise shots of the Imperial gunners.
"Reinforcements are heading for the enemy," the watch officer broke the tense silence of the bridge, having received a report from one of the operators. "Four hundred contacts matching the characteristics of 'fighters.'"
"From where?" Darth Malgus inquired lazily, not tearing his gaze away from the unfolding battle.
"From the planet's surface," the officer added to his report. "The scouts have discovered two field airfields."
"Well, then," Ebhart smiled. "This is taking an interesting turn."
A large enemy starship, previously classified by GEMINI as a 'destroyer,' began to approach one of the Harrowers that had moved forward to cover the retreat of the Terminus pair.
"Subjugator," Ebhart contacted the commander of the designated ship. "Use only turbolasers. I want to see their capital ships' defenses."
"Aye, sir," the Harrower's commander replied. In the same second, the dreadnought slightly turned its forked bow, and thirty-two twin turbolaser batteries began to douse the awkward-looking enemy starship with a green sea of fire.
Sixty-four guns shuddered as one, delivering the most devastating salvo the military of any developed world could have ever observed in modern reality. It seemed that this single salvo would be enough to tear the enemy spacecraft apart, and...
The turbolaser bolts simply vanished.
"Curious defenses," Malgus hissed, commenting on what he saw. Ebhart chose to remain silent.
"The enemy is using gravity defense systems," the Subjugator's commander reported. "Turbolaser armament is powerless. GEMINI is registering the use of this weapon against the dreadnought's shields."
"Maneuver," the Ord Radaman ordered. The last thing they needed was for the enemy to inflict irreparable harm on a capital ship. And gravity was nothing to trifle with.
The enemy ship, frozen in place, continued to absorb the turbolaser beams with which the Subjugator was generously dousing it, slowly but surely slipping from its original position, compressing them with such a strong gravitational field that they seemed to simply vanish.
"The enemy is beginning a hull rotation," a new report came from the observation post. The admiral cast a studying glance at the Sith, but he remained silent, as if turned into that very statue.
"Moving to 'Skirmisher' formation," Ebhart announced, addressing the communications officer. He, confirming receipt of the order, instantly relayed it to the other ships of the squadron. The next instant, the Harrowers, as prescribed by the plan, advanced in a unified front toward the enemy's capital ships, maintaining continuous fire from all turbolaser batteries. However, it was now clear — the enemy had bristled with gravity defense systems and was calmly waiting for the storm to subside. Meanwhile, the Terminus-class ships, positioned in the second line, aimed their hulls toward pre-assigned targets.
"Three seconds to salvo," Ebhart commented. Malgus continued to intently watch the enemy's defensive maneuvers, while his apprentice, meeting the soldier's eyes, gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
"Terminus ships — fire," Ebhart commanded. The six battlecruisers, thanks to their maneuvering drives, had positioned themselves significantly higher than their thick-skinned brethren. Spitting out slugs larger than some shuttles, almost immediately — a few seconds later — they delivered another salvo. Then another, and another. The angle at which the battlecruisers delivered their extremely painful strikes allowed them to send multi-ton projectiles beyond the plane of the enemy's gravitational anomalies, resulting in the enemy destroyer acquiring several enormous breaches after just the first salvo. The slugs that had breached its hull detonated inside, tearing the ship apart from bow to stern.
"Your projectiles are quite effective," Darth Malgus remarked.
"Our weaponsmiths did their best," Ebhart shrugged.
Standard ammunition for the mass driver cannons of the Terminus-class battlecruisers consisted of enormous slugs made from refractory materials with a small amount of nergon — an explosive material used in the production of proton torpedoes. Weapons manufacturers on Ord Radama, having encountered the Empire's armaments, proposed several improvements that seemed small at first glance but were extremely effective. This primarily concerned the payload for such projectiles. From then on, the mass of the explosive charge constituted two-thirds of the projectile's total mass, and the type of explosive itself had undergone significant changes. And right now, the Terminus ships were equipped with munitions inside which one could, if desired, place either the same nergon, baradium, hydrogen, or even — long-prohibited nuclear payloads. The latter were precisely what was being demonstrated to the unprecedented enemy right now.
"Registering a change in the overall battle pattern," a hologram of GEMINI-94 — the droid replacing the ship's central computer — appeared on the bridge.
"Source?" Darth Malgus became animated.
"Not determined," the droid stated with an unblinking gaze. "Enemy effectiveness has increased by forty percent."
"Battle coordination?" the apprentice asked her master. Ebhart listened in on their conversation. This pair aroused a keen interest in him. Primarily because Darth Malgus, for reasons he didn't understand, periodically called his apprentice a 'Follyn.' Although, she was very, very far from a green-skinned half-reptile, being a relatively pretty girl.
"I don't think so," Malgus rasped. "At least not in the sense that we understand it. They are not sensed in the Force..."
"You can't sense them either?" the girl wondered. "I thought it was a problem with my abilities."
"No," Malgus cut her off. "The Emperor warned of something like this. In fact, this entire operation is one big combat test. Admiral!"
"Yes, Lord Malgus?" the Ord Radaman responded.
"What action will you take?"
Ebhart glanced at the sensor readings. Yes, the picture of the battle had changed dramatically. While in the initial phase, despite their advantage in small craft, the enemy was significantly inferior to the Empire's fighters. Now, the enemy's seemingly disparate tactics had taken on the appearance of a well-organized and coordinated effort. The enemy fighters no longer engaged in one-on-one duels with Imperial ships, but instead formed into flights, using their numerical superiority. The X-wings — the most advanced fighters currently available — barely coped with the onslaught of enemy small craft. Let alone the Supremacy-class, which could only be saved by their insane speed, certainly not by their low-power cannons and relatively light deflectors.
"Marauders, switching to missile strike," the admiral commanded. In that same second, the corvettes spewed out hundreds of deadly projectiles. For the most part, they proved useless — the enemy fighters, using the same tactic of gravitational fields, intercepted the missiles, neutralizing the threat to themselves. However, at the same time, they became vulnerable to external attacks...
"General order," Ebhart activated the intra-fleet communication channel. "Advancing toward the planet."
"Admiral?" The most obvious question hung in the air.
"What is coordinating the actions of our enemy is either on their battleship or on the planet," the Ord Radaman explained his actions. "The battleship is stationed in orbit and is not eager to engage us, relying on its fighters."
"You want to destroy their coordination center?" Darth Malgus's apprentice clarified.
"I want them to think that," the officer said with a sigh. "Whatever it is, it's enhancing their pilots. I think it's best to study it. If, as you say, this fleet is just scouts, then I'm afraid we simply won't be able to handle a larger number of ships without understanding exactly what we're dealing with."
"A daring plan," Darth Malgus assessed. Touching the comlink on his wrist comm, he said, "Marshal Mephisto, prepare your men for boarding."
The 13th Assault Corps of the Empire was a rookie in military affairs. It hadn't been even two weeks since they arrived on Korriban — the capital of Sith Space. And they hadn't participated in any battles so far. Ebhart's plan was based on using Skywalker droids, but it seemed Lord Malgus had decided to make his own adjustments. However, that was his right. The Ord Radaman preferred to do what he knew and was good at — commanding a space battle, without cluttering his head with the nuances of infantry strategy.
And here he had his hands full as it was: his flagship, the Smiting Hand, was besieged from all sides by clouds of enemy fighters that somehow managed to dodge the shots from the laser cannons. Numerous furrows plowed by enemy ships into the dreadnought's armored hull were already visible from the bridge. And right now, the Harrower looked more like an Aklay scratched by a space monster — enraged, but not defeated. The other ships of the squadron looked no better. The Fellblade was crawling away from its place in formation, smoking from its mangled engines. The Eviscerator was frozen in place, barely showing signs of life — its solar stabilization generator gaped with a huge breach, leaving the dreadnought barely able to power itself through internal backup reactors, borrowed from Republican Venators. Only, unlike the latter, the Empire's destroyers had just one such unit — strictly for a power reserve, not for combat. The Cry of Ragnos was triumphantly finishing off two enemy destroyers that had surrounded it from both sides. The dreadnought, its sides blazing from concentrated enemy fire, snarled back fiercely, pinning the attention of the enemy ships, while its fighter wing, completely ignoring its class counterparts, slammed proton torpedoes into the enemy's medium ships. The Intervener was doing the same, with one exception — the Imperial ship was mercilessly tearing into a single enemy destroyer, which had generally already stopped showing signs of life. Its cannon-like volcanic growths were silent, its movement had ceased, and now, held by tractor beams from the Imperial dreadnought, the enemy absorbed a sea of green energy, losing hundreds of meters of its hull every second.
Ebhart was about to give the order to stop the slaughter and shift fire to another target — at least eight more enemy destroyers were pressing the Imperial fleet's ships. But GEMINI-94 informed him of the launch from the side hangar of the Harrower, facing the mangled ship, of numerous hordes of Skywalker droids. The white dots of the droids, propelled toward the coveted target by their jetpacks, instantly crossed the space between the ships, disappearing into the breaches of the enemy vessel. As soon as the boarding wave was on board, the Intervener, still holding its victim with tractor beams, re-targeted its guns on new opponents — a trio of similar destroyers, whose crews, apparently, greatly disliked the plight of their comrade.
The Resolute, true to its name, was dueling four enemy destroyers at once: two held the forward hemisphere, and two more were on its flanks. And each of the enemy starships was being hit by at least two heavy turbolaser batteries. The enemy desperately held back the assault using gravity fields, but judging by the fervor with which the Terminus-class ships, operating in ideal range-finding conditions and unengaged by enemy capital ships, were slamming their monstrous mass driver slugs into them, they didn't have long.
The last enemy destroyer decided to play out a duel with the flagship of the Imperial squadron. In the best traditions of line tactics of past eras, the ships met on opposite courses, exchanging painful blows. The Smiting Hand shuddered several times from direct hits to its port side. Ebhart felt the deck nearly slip from under his feet, but he managed to stay upright. He eagerly tracked the enemy's movement, and as soon as it drew alongside, he commanded: "Target and activate tractor beams on it!"
The enemy ship, as if hitting an invisible wall, froze. Its port side immediately received a powerful salvo of turbolasers and assault missiles, causing the enemy destroyer to start spinning around its axis.
"They're presenting their vulnerable flank," Darth Malgus commented. And in confirmation of his words, the enemy, deploying its gravity defenses, seemed to exhale, absorbing absolutely everything the Imperial flagship could throw at it.
"Marauders, salvo fire," Ebhart ordered. A minute later, dozens of assault missiles literally tore the damaged ship apart, penetrating its vulnerable interior through the breaches in the port side. The Smiting Hand was literally struck by dozens of various kinds of debris, much of which resembled sizable asteroids.
"Batteries A-three and A-four are out of action," the chief artillery officer reported.
"We still have thirty," Ebhart reasonably noted. "Moving to assist the Fellblade and the Eviscerator. Call backup repair crews to the side hangars — we'll transfer them aboard the dreadnoughts."
"Admiral," Darth Malgus's apprentice drew attention to herself. "We could strike the enemy battleship. Our dreadnoughts are capable of taking care of themselves..."
"That hunk of rock," the Ord Radaman nodded toward the huge amalgam of cosmic slag serenely floating in orbit, as if recently spewed from the maw of a giant volcano, "is certainly capable of defending itself. It's at least three times larger than my Harrower, and without the support of the rest of the fleet, I'm not going near it."
"But it's defenseless!" the girl insisted. Darth Malgus silently placed his powerful hand on her head, returning the girl's attention to the events unfolding outside the Imperial starship.
"Continue, Admiral," the Sith commanded.
Ebhart had already figured out the peculiarities of the enemy's defense system. Their gravity systems were magnificent, of course. They could absorb anything. But they were completely unsuited for prolonged bombardment. And the power of the turbolasers firing at them had no effect on the operational characteristics of the gravity fields. Which meant... "Relay to the ships," he ordered. "When engaging the enemy's defense system, reduce turbolaser power to minimum — they can't tell what power we're shooting them with anyway."
This made sense for several reasons. First, it reduced the waste of tibanna, which was always in limited supply. Second, it helped keep the enemy's defenses constantly active. Whatever they used to power these systems, everything had a limit. And it was better for the enemy to reach theirs first.
The result wasn't long in coming. The enemy didn't realize that the Imperial tactics had changed, and as a result, the frequently collapsing defensive systems of the enemy became excellent target practice for the Imperial gunners.
Within an hour of the battle's start, all of the enemy's capital ships had either been subjected to merciless missile and turbolaser fire, or had a boarding party on board. The seething confrontation had moved from external to internal.
Things weren't easy for the Imperials either. A significant portion of the dreadnought and battlecruiser fighter wings had already been destroyed by the enemy, which, by the way, had also lost plenty of its own aircraft. Adding to the disabled Eviscerator and Fellblade was the Resolute, which had traded the integrity of its hull and most of its artillery for the destruction of three of its four opponents. The last enemy destroyer, having suffered quite serious damage, was moving at full speed toward the battleship, intending to avoid the fate of its battle comrades. However, the five Terminus-class ships (the sixth, unable to withstand the coordinated onslaught of enemy fighters before the eyes of the entire fleet, turned into a blazing thermonuclear bonfire, eventually detonating with most of its crew, who hadn't managed to evacuate in time) had their own opinion on the matter. At the maximum rate of fire of their main-caliber guns, they were bombarding the last enemy destroyer with slugs containing a very interesting internal payload.
"The Resolute reports multiple targets on their hull and in their internal compartments," the communications officer reported, approaching the admiral.
"Enemy boarding party?" Darth Malgus inquired grimly.
"Some kind of creatures, resembling rather large insects," the signalman added to his report. "They're destroying everything they touch with their acid. The Skywalkers are engaging them, but there are quite a lot of the monsters."
"And how did they get aboard?" Admiral Ebhart inquired, at the same time ordering his own contingent of boarding droids to be sent to assist the ship.
"Before withdrawing, the enemy ship fired projectiles resembling missiles at the Resolute," the hologram of the appearing GEMINI-94 explained. "Presumably, these organisms are analogues of the Confederacy's buzz droids."
"Understood," the Ord Radaman chewed his lip. An unpleasant surprise. "Isolate the Resolute from the other ships. Send as many available Skywalkers to it as possible — the faster we deal with these creatures, the faster we can return to the primary objective."
Having received the order, the communications post officer withdrew.
"We are winning," Darth Malgus's apprentice remarked. Zule Xiss. The admiral finally remembered her name. It seemed she was once a Jedi, but that wasn't certain — the Imperial Command was very reluctant to share information about those who had previously served other states. But despite all this, the obvious couldn't be denied. The enemy's small craft had simply run out. The remnants of the Empire's aviation and the Marauders' missiles had approached the task of destroying the enemy's light forces quite thoroughly. This was bound to affect the outcome. Even if at the cost of heavy losses (and it couldn't have been otherwise, given the enemy's overwhelming advantage in aviation at the very beginning of the battle), the Imperials had managed to neutralize the threat from these small but nimble ships.
"Losses in aviation?" Darth Malgus asked the hologram of GEMINI-94.
"SIE-TIE Supremacy-class interceptors — seventy-four percent, T-65 X-wing fighters — forty-eight percent. Model 170 aggressive reconnaissance fighters — twenty percent," GEMINI-94 reported.
"Could have been worse," Darth Malgus commented.
"Could have been better," the admiral noted, checking the statistical data. "Three dreadnoughts are out of action and require lengthy repairs, one Terminus-class ship is destroyed, two are damaged. Four Marauders destroyed, five damaged. The squadron is essentially half-incapacitated as a combat unit — and ahead of us lies a battle with a capital-class ship that could have who knows what to throw at us."
"Certainly not its air wing," Zule Xiss snorted.
"Let's not jump to conclusions," Ebhart said gloomily.
* * *
Closing my eyes, I immersed myself in the Force, over and over, second by second forming new connections to the Force. The cockpit of an X-wing was hard to call comfortable. But, on the other hand, it wasn't a Naboo pleasure yacht, but a combat fighter. During a battle, comfort was the last thing on your mind. Plus, the Spartan asceticism of the cockpit didn't allow you to relax.
For some reason, I remembered an old joke about how the roads in Russia are the way they are, not because of theft and shoddy work, but because only the potholes prevent local drivers from speeding at full throttle and wrapping themselves around poles at every opportunity. Like, when every meter has potholes and bumps, you can't relax, you can't loosen your control over the car — who wants to repair their suspension because you got distracted and hit a hole, from which you drove out already missing a wheel that tore off at the hub and rolled, bouncing merrily, toward the ditch? So to speak — the 'Safe Roads' program in all the severity of reality.
Merging your mind with a dozen Jedi was no simple task. First, you had to construct a mental wall to shield my own memories and thoughts from the perception of the others. Shove behind this wall everything outsiders shouldn't know. Pack it down deeper. Hide it all within your own mind under a pile of everyday information. And only then, realizing that the roar of the warming engines of the squadron standing nearby had nothing to do with your ears, reach out through the Force to the others.
First in line was Oli. A cold mind, touching it made me shudder for a moment. Fortunately, the girl, catching the call, responded without unnecessary fuss. Our minds touched, and I felt with the edge of my consciousness how she was finishing the same procedure I had just done. An instant — and in the Battle Meditation, there was only a young girl, a padawan, with utterly untainted thoughts.
Next into the meld came Ahsoka. She was already ready, her thoughts and consciousness put in order so impeccably you couldn't find fault. I sent her a mental commendation, to which Oli reacted with an image that almost made my eyes bleed, while Ahsoka treacherously blushed. Where on earth did Oli find out about her friend's bedroom acrobatics with the reverse grip? Ah, it's just a guess? Well, well. I sent Oli an angry thought. The image dissolved behind the mental walls of our minds.
Fourth, I connected Aayla to our lovely little love triangle company. The Twi'lek was participating in our meld for the first time; I could clearly feel her excitement and impatience. She didn't particularly like flying in a fighter, but she didn't make a scene out of it (how do you like that, Obi-Wan?). I reassuringly touched her mind, dampened the slight nervousness, shared concentration and calm.
Fifth in line was Xiaan Amersu. The Rutian, unlike her friend, on the contrary, loved piloting light ships, was good at it, and did it better than most Jedi I knew. Including myself. She was relaxed, not burdened by heavy or vulgar thoughts. I sensed a slight anxiety in her. Focusing on it, I delved deeper... She was worried about Hett's fate. Nothing had been heard of him for quite a while. Yes, it was all very sad, but it shouldn't distract us from our primary mission. We were Jedi, after all. Amersu, in gratitude for the support, filled the Meld with her warmth and appreciation. Oli nobly and indifferently didn't react to it. You're my clever girl...
Yes, praising her was a mistake. The Force Bond allowed me and my apprentice, even without resorting to Battle Meditation, and often without even touching it, to communicate one-on-one, without worrying about someone being able to 'eavesdrop' on us. Having endured the onslaught of lewd images, in which she seemed to see me blissfully surrounded by every single female participant of the raid, and then personally tearing out their spines, I sent her a mental kiss. On the lips, of course. The girl deserved at least a little affection. She had honorably passed the trial I had set for her and emerged from it stronger than she was. I was sure that after all this, she wouldn't just kick the ass of most Jedi in the Order, but could probably beat up a couple of Council members too. Oli accepted the stream of affection as a given. Yes, that part was a bit hurtful. Oh well, I wasn't proud. I'd survive.
Sixth, I connected Master Utrill to our Force WiFi. B'ink seemed to be the epitome of composure itself, however, I could feel her concern for her padawan. Omani, who fell into our net next, was quite impulsive, but also cautious. The girl liked flying, and the X-wing was clearly to her liking.
Racha Sitra, it turned out, was terrified of flying, period. Images of a crash flashed by, memories of the battle for the 'Heavenly Station' in the Ruusan system. I had to send streams of encouragement here too. I felt just like Ded Bay. Except instead of gifts, it was a whole trainload of support for everyone.
Larant Tarak joined us with cold pragmatism and impatience for the coming battle. She wanted to smash droids and burn enemy starships. This frightened Racha, alarmed Utrill, and provoked indignation from Rennax Omani. I had to call everyone to order.
Several minutes to calm the minds. Getting used to sensations new to most present. Each must feel each other. Become part of a single whole. Understand each other's abilities, take an objective look at one's own. I am the coordinator of this entire gathering.
Nine very different minds that are to temporarily become a single organism.
Ah yes… not nine. Sorry, ladies, plans have changed. No, don't protest. Yes, we'll still operate as a single squadron. But the number of participants will be… a bit larger.
Declann is coordinating such a massive formation of ships for the first time. Under his command right now are not the ship crews, mostly consisting of clones. These are mixed teams, where the diversity of thoughts could drive one mad. And therefore, he needs support. He needs strength. He needs more Force to spread his influence across the entire fleet.
The Admiral already has sufficient experience with Battle Meditation. Even if his training is patchy and unsystematic, he's a narrow specialist. He won't be a first-class swordsman. Although an interest in lightsaber fencing has awoken in him. But that's all for later. We'll take back Allantin first, then I'll give you an upgrade on Belsavis, even.
Connecting with Nial's mind brings a slight confusion into our well-ordered collective. I have to support him, personally building up his mental barrier, and I admit, this is fucking hard. I feel my body getting damp, sweat literally streaming down my face in rivulets. But it has to be done. I am the nodal element of this whole structure. To keep it from falling apart with the most dire consequences, I have to be at the center of events.
The strain… it will pass. I've experienced something similar before, linking my mind with the Guard, the Hands. The Wrath… I can endure this too.
Declann's mind gives us the understanding that the emergence of the Spirit of Fire, and the entire Blade Fleet, from hyperspace is close. Five minutes.
Enough to finish the Battle Meditation. I return my thoughts to the common flow. The participants have calmed down a bit. Only Nial is somewhat anxious. It's nothing; he'll manage.
Meanwhile, I extend my mental tendril beyond our little circle of interest.
I sense the emotions of the crew members. I feel the tension reigning in all compartments of the Valiant. I am familiar with the emotionless resolve of the clones. My mind acknowledges the grim readiness of the Christophsians. Everyone aboard the flagship is ready for the coming battle.
Emotions saturate the Force so much that it seems you could reach out and touch them. As if they had become something tangible. I had never experienced anything like this before. If I wanted, I could concentrate on any individual or group. I literally saw the officers from the bridge crew peering tensely at the terminals of their control consoles. I felt every commander dictating last-minute orders before the fight. The tremble of the new recruits from the deck crew — today, seventy-four people are experiencing a ship battle station for the first time. They know the theory, they've had experience in ordinary, range conditions. But today is their baptism of fire.
I felt the imperturbability of Mara Cross, who was taking her place next to the tactical terminal, tracking data coming from different ends of the flagship. Focusing on the girl, I could sense how she, casting aside everything extraneous, ran the plan of the upcoming battle through her head time and again. Smart girl. You know how to give yourself completely to the work. I should reward you somehow. Get in touch with Damon, find out what he got out of Organa? Yes, probably. But after the battle.
However, my mental probe was looking for something entirely different. Five lights in the far part of the compartment allocated for the squadron's X-wings seemed brighter than the rest. Force-sensitives. My five padawans. Who are taking their seats in the fighters. Yes, these are the same X-wings. And an outside observer might tell me that children have no place at the helm of a combat ship. Me… I'd tell you to go to hell with that reasoning.
These children are Force-sensitive. I won't intrude into their heads to memorize support. They are the future of the Order. And I must earn their loyalty to me, not to the Jedi, by personal example.
And it will all start with me doing what they want — being in a real battle. The very thing Yoda and the other Jedi kept as far away from them as possible. 'They're not ready yet,' they'd say. Yeah, right.
These children know how to kill — some of them have already been in battles — especially Nuru. The Chiss is practically a leader among the padawans in terms of ability to get into a situation where you have to draw a blade and chop the enemy into kebab.
The others — except for Oli, Ahsoka, Aayla, and Larant — do not approve of my actions. I feel it through the Battle Meditation. But. It's just a murmur of objection. No rebellion. We are a single organism.
The tenth member of the squadron is Zett Jukassa. The guy is focused, but childishly impatient. Bene, who joins next, is, on the contrary, collected and ready. Whie Malreaux is indifferent. But that's just a mask. The others don't feel it, but I sense his worry for the next member of our union. Tallisibeth. The girl who pays him no attention — the boy likes her. Madly. And he tries his best to hide it. He panics, realizing his innermost thoughts have become known to me. He expects a lecture, a reprimand. But instead, he receives only encouragement and advice. Don't hide. Act. Girls don't like shy idiots. Girls like bold and decisive ones.
The boy is taken aback. He expected any other reaction from me, but not this one. Well, what can you do, kid. I'm not an ordinary Jedi. And I see nothing wrong with love — a bright and kind feeling. It just shouldn't cloud your mind. Your feelings are yours alone. Don't be afraid, I won't tell. I'm on your side. Yes, we got off to a bad start, but it happens. Keep your chin up, padawan.
The last one to connect to the Battle Meditation is Nuru Kungurama. The kid is too cheerful. Too distracted. I see through his eyes and give him a mental cuff. Connect the additional deflector generator, you oaf! Who do you think will pump up your damaged shields in battle? Master Yoda? Where are you reaching for? The second toggle on the left. There, good. We'll talk when we get back. He rode a skyhopper, huh. As a passenger, by the looks of it.
It's not a big deal, though. The Battle Meditation allows us to exchange knowledge. Support each other. I feel Xiaan's desire to help the young Chiss. She's worried about the kid and asks permission to be his flight leader. Fine, I don't mind. He'll be safer that way.
I'm flying in one flight with Oli. Xiaan and Nuru — second squad. B'ink and Rennax — third. Aayla and Bene — fourth. Racha and Whie — fifth. Larant and Zett — sixth. Ahsoka and Tallisibeth — seventh. A standard squadron numbers a dozen craft. Ours has fourteen. A little more than regulation. No big deal.
The ship's chronometer was counting down the last seconds. I checked the cohesion of our ragtag squad one last time. The bond is strong, even if it's not easy for me. I can already feel a slight tremor in my hands. Oli feels it too. The girl, even if she's far from my talents, silently backs me up. With mental techniques, she's better than me. In essence, I'm just raw power, while Starstone is arguably the best specialist in this part of the galaxy. My little star stone…
A thought from Nial finally swept all extraneous musings from my mind.
"Starting up, boys and girls," I commanded, opening my eyes. The world returned to its familiar state.
Little Brother announced the emergence from hyperspace.
"Thanks, little buddy, I know." The landing gear retracted into the fighter's fuselage, and my black-and-silver X-wing, its nose slightly raised, pierced the atmospheric shield of the compartment with its hull.
From my cell, I got into a long, narrow launch chute. On ordinary ships, there's a simple deck here for exiting the hangar through the single opening provided by the design. Everything is like on the Venators, with the only difference being that the exit is not at the top, but in the far part of the hangar.
On the Spirit of Fire, instead of traditional plates over which small craft were supposed to fly, there was an electro-magnetic accelerator in this spot. A technology close in design to mass drivers, except instead of a projectile — light starfighters. And the speeds to which the 'projectiles' were accelerated were much lower — the result of the fact that the hangar here didn't have continuous walls and the acceleration blocks had to be installed at the ends between the compartments designated for parking the first-wave fighters.
My X-wing, like the one piloted by Oli, stationed next to me, was caught up by an invisible force that, without much ceremony, spat the machine out right in front of the bow of the carrier Star Destroyer at a distance of several dozen kilometers.
Quickly banking, I veered away from the launch point, simultaneously surveying the field of the coming battle, while the remaining fighters of Rogue Squadron (and again, forgive me, Wedge Antilles) made their way outside.
Starstone's 'Cross' stuck to my left and rear like glue, as intended.
Meanwhile, events are unfolding. And the faster, the more interesting.
The Hammerheads, upon whose fate the entire weight of the line battle fell, formed up as the vanguard in two equal echelons, were already busily covering the enemy ships with turbolaser salvos, which, by all accounts, we had caught by surprise. The first to die was a Rebel that had somehow ended up here. The light destroyer with its sharp delta-shaped hull literally disappeared in a thermonuclear flash — yeah, brother, bad luck. Keeping deflectors constantly active during downtime is too expensive for the budget, because the generators eat up a hell of a lot. That's why they were shut down while the ship was out of battle.
The Arquitens were taking their positions between the cruiser echelons, serving simultaneously as participants in the line battle and support ships for the heavy cruisers, which managed in the first few minutes of the battle, while the Separatists and pirates were coming to their senses, to reduce to zero two more ships produced by the InterGalactic Banking Clan. Namely, Munificent-class frigates.
But this couldn't go on for long. The Separatists, of course, weren't happy that they had been caught like teenagers shitting in the bushes and started getting spanked, so quite logically, in the chaos of the initial battle, they began to retreat.
At this time, the Spirit of Fire, positioned together with the landing order ships — two dozen Acclamators — and medical frigates in the second squadron, whose main purpose was to break through to the planet and deliver the carriers of democracy to solid ground.
To the left of the vanguard was a squadron of Marauders, mercilessly smashing the enemy and mixing the numerous fighters they had managed to launch into cosmic dust. So far, missile and turbolaser fire was enough to hold back the scattered enemy small craft units, despite their numbers growing every minute.
To the right of the Hammerhead and Arquitens sandwich, like cavalry destined for the sweetest spoils, a squadron of Consulars materialized, oriented themselves in space without any hesitation, and rushed forward with the clear intention of giving a solid mauling to the huddled starships of the pirates, who wished with every fiber of their being to be far away from this mess. But they soon realized, first, that the Consulars were alone and didn't have a single strong line ship in their squadron, and second — obviously someone smart from the ship's crew looked out the viewport and counted the steeds of my improvised cavalry.
With the clear intention of profiting from the crunch of breaking Consular hulls, a rather uniform unit emerged from the string of pirates. The mercenary squadron Sabaoth.
"Admiral, we're waiting for the bacchanalia to start," I said into the comlink on the fleet's general tactical frequency. It wasn't really necessary, of course, since we had the Meditation, but habit is second nature.
"They're already on their way," Nial answered me.
And just before Rogue Squadron completely left the second squadron to join the beating of the droid starfighters — all that the enemy had managed to launch by this time and throw at our Hammerheads and Arquitens — near the vanguard, the space above the Separatist ships literally blossomed with a silvery light from the hulls of numerous ARC fighters and 'Crutches', which emerged from hyperspace right where the enemy least expected them — literally right over the center of the enemy formation.
A massive salvo of proton torpedoes, like a lilac-purple wave of death, fell upon the CIS ships and their allies, instantaneously turning dozens of ships into flying scrap metal. The Sabaoth squadron, which had intended to hassle my Consulars, also got hit; its already not-so-large numbers became truly laughable the moment the 'Crutches' paid attention to them.
Yes, they managed to raise their shields — after all, they had gathered to fight against 'cruisers', as the Consulars were officially and repeatedly called. But against a massive salvo, and not from the greatest distance… No deflector was designed for that kind of abuse. And particle shields, which protect space objects from physical attacks, traditionally weren't supplied on Separatist ships. I had one on my Telos — a fucking expensive thing. And that's not even the most advanced model. Too bad it didn't save the former flagship from its sad fate.
Ten minutes after the start of our attack, the enemy, having suffered irreplaceable losses of at least a third of their own fleet, began to react to the situation adequately. The mindless sending of Vultures to a completely useless slaughter on the front lines had ended. From now on, the enemy's small craft began hunting our bombers, intercepting the slow proton torpedoes.
That's it, finita la commedia. The element of surprise is gone. The enemy started moving.
"Nial, pull the bombers back," I sent a mental command, simultaneously pulling my X-wing aside and letting Oli blow an especially cunning Vulture that had suddenly decided to engage me head-on to atoms with her cannon fire.
Our light craft, having expended the rest of their bomb load, began to climb vertically, relative to the position of the Separatist ships. Several agonizing minutes passed, during which we lost at least a squadron, and the 'Beavers' disappeared, jumping into hyperspace. The retreat was a pre-planned step. Everyone involved in planning the operation — me, Larant, Nial, Mara, Aayla — understood that the 'Beavers' wouldn't be able to torment the Separatists for long. The shock of the first strike would pass. We made their mission success easier — we drew part of the enemy's forces — the Sabaoth squadron — aside, offering them the Consular squadron as a tasty morsel.
Forcing our small craft to continue raising hell in the depths of a formation styled as a 'dump of pregnant banthas' authored by the Separatist command would have been criminal. You can't take unnecessary risks — the pilot guys had already done more than headquarters planned: it was assumed that their attack would damage at best a fifth of the enemy squadron. But to disable a full third in one blow…
Banking again, I supported Whie Malreaux with my cannons, who had a pair of Vultures on his tail. One, unable to withstand meeting the four lasers of my X-wing, literally turned into a miniature supernova, while the second literally burst from the disturbance, catching a personal meeting with a concussion missile that had left the launch tube under my X-wing's belly a moment earlier.
Meanwhile, our vanguard was also taking losses. The Separatist ships, having stopped their rout, suddenly decided to become heroes, closing with our Hammerheads on afterburners. At the same time, the heavy turbolasers of the Munificents, positioned so inconveniently that aiming them required moving the entire hull of the ship, now found themselves in an advantageous position. Since wherever you spit from our side, there are targets everywhere.
Coordinated fire from two Munificents managed to disable the engines and controls of one of the Arquitens. The light cruiser rolled out of formation, threatening to ram its neighbor. I felt Nial, like a virtuoso pianist, direct the crews of both cruisers, forcing the damaged cruiser to lurch forward on its last breath, right in front of the first squadron, taking the brunt of the fire, make a turn to starboard, and then kick in the afterburners, exiting the kill zone.
But at the same time, this was bringing the Arquitens closer to the planet's atmosphere, where the crippled ship would very, very unlikely be able to fight gravity. Especially considering the number of Vultures that rushed after it.
"Spirit of Fire Control, this is Rogue Leader," I opened a channel to the flagship's dispatch. "We're going after the crippled Arquitens, before the droids eat it."
"Copy, Rogue Leader," the coordination officer replied. "We're sending two Peltas to evacuate the wounded and tow the cruiser to the rear."
"We'll cover them all," I assured. Following that, I switched to the squadron's tactical frequency.
"Girls and boys, we're heading to our damaged cruiser, providing convoy and escort."
"But we could be much more useful here, on the front line," Whie stubbornly objected. The boy was trying his damnedest to prove his fearlessness. For obvious reasons.
"Rogue Nine," I addressed Racha Sitra. "After the battle, take it upon yourself to explain the finer points of subordination to your wingman."
"Yes, Rogue Leader," the violet-skinned Twi'lek promised.
Fourteen X-wings, spewing streams of ion plasma from their engines, exchanging sluggish fire with the attackers, rushed toward the cruiser. Two squadrons of Vultures tagged along after us, but it led to nothing except a reduction in the number of operational enemy droid starfighters.
"Rogues," Master Utrill's voice sounded on the squadron frequency. "We have a problem."
"I see," I answered dryly, throwing my fighter into another dive.
Another Rebel materialized in the upper atmosphere (where the hell do you keep getting them!?) and headed on low thrust toward the damaged light cruiser, which, according to the data provided by Little Brother, was called the Revanche. Oh, looks like the latter is about to get its ass seriously kicked, since it had no cover whatsoever except our squadron. Meanwhile, the Rebel didn't hesitate to disgorge dozens of Vultures and at least two squadrons of Hyenas — bombers — into the surrounding space. The plan was simple to the point of impossibility — while the Vultures kept us busy, the Rebel itself and the enemy 'Beavers' would break down the already barely breathing light cruiser into scrap metal. Its artillery, of course, had suffered considerably during the initial phase of the battle.
"There are too many of them," Zett said in a panic, whose fighter had barrel-rolled to avoid a burst from a droid starfighter. The following pair of Ahsoka and Tallisibeth ended the Vulture's life cycle. "We need help!"
"Stop whining, Rogue Twelve," Oli advised. Her X-wing spat fire, splitting another enemy machine in two. "We'll manage."
I wish I had her confidence.
Because I was starting to like the situation less and less.
The enemy commander was beginning to realize that the battle in orbit of Daalang was lost. More than half of the Separatist ships and allied pirate and mercenary squadrons were already scrap metal. At most, half an hour would pass, and the Blade would grind down the rest. Obviously, in a desperate attempt to turn the situation in their favor, the nearest Separatist squadrons were being pulled toward Daalang.
In the end, victory would be ours — that was certain. But losing even one ship that could potentially be repaired and put back into service — no, that prospect didn't suit me.
The dry chirping of the astromech droid warned of the Peltas appearing to our right. Medical frigates, which were tasked with dragging the casualty away from the merciless bitch — gravity.
Eleven clicks behind us, a Munificent appeared. This was bad. One such 'frigate' could carry an average of three more squadrons of enemy droids.
I had to describe a wide arc, surveying the surroundings one last time along the way. Then my fighter kicked in the afterburners. The X-wing's wings, which had been folded during the flight to the battle site, spread into combat position.
"Spirit of Fire Control, get the Peltas out of the zone," I requested.
"Already working on it," the dispatcher replied. "Three minutes and the frigates will leave…"
"Too late," I spat angrily, seeing the enemy small craft, having left the Munificent's hangars, moving rapidly toward our Peltas.
"Rogues Nine and Ten," I called Racha and Whie on the comm. "Pull out of the fight, take up guard duty over the medical frigate marked 'First'."
Touching the tactical monitor, I marked the ship.
"Eleven and Twelve — you protect 'Second'."
"Copy," Larant replied dryly, leading her wingman to intercept the enemy fighters.
"Thirteen and Fourteen — handle the Munificent," I ordered.
Ahsoka, confirming receipt of the order, together with the fighter piloted by Tallisibeth, turned back.
So, there are only eight of us left. Is that enough to cover the Arquitens, oppose the hordes of Vultures, and also rattle the Rebel's nerves? If ordinary pilots were in our place, I'd probably say it wasn't enough. But at the same time, we are Force-sensitives. And I wouldn't count us out so soon.
"Rogue Leader, engaging," I announced to the squadron. "Wing Two — on me. Three and Four — space control and interceptor duty. Five, Six, Seven, and Eight — protect the Revanche."
"Copy, Leader," Amersu answered for everyone.
The astromech droid announced the appearance of three droid bombers, then changed its tone; for some reason, it preferred to report the addition of enemy fighters to the picture in a tenor voice, rather than its usual falsetto.
"Mark the bombers as targets one, two, and three, respectively," I requested. Unlike the 'pair' operating scheme adopted in Gent and the Empire, enemy squadrons, like the Republic's small craft, operated in 'flights' of three machines each.
Adjust the calibration knob on the control stick — frontal deflector strengthened at the expense of the rear. Look at the display. Almost three clicks between the detected flight of bombers and the Vultures covering them.
I whistled the air into my lungs, exhaled, squeezed the control stick in my palm, stroking the trigger with my thumb. At two clicks, the targeting system drew a yellow frame around the lead droid starfighter. The droid obsessively lowered its targeting visor over its face.
"Dismiss it, Little Brother," I chuckled. "Use the Force, Luke."
The astromech burst into a tirade, stating its opinion about shooting without precise instruments. Well, I naturally wasn't going to take that into account.
As soon as the image of the enemy machine was locked in the computer's memory, the frame on the tactical monitor changed color to green. The cockpit vibrated from the astromech's shrieking (I was dumbfounded by this for a long time, like, how can you even hear the sound of a droid located in a vacuum inside the cockpit, until a mechanic explained that in the cockpit, according to the requirements of some technical notes or other, alongside a translator from Binary to Basic, a converter was also installed, which vocalized the droid's message text in — you guessed it — Binary. For those pilots who had bothered to learn the language of their buckets on wheels), my finger on the trigger twitched, the cannons fired three times.
The first shots missed the target (the astromech snidely commented on the failure), but the next ones struck the bomber right in the cockpit. Its predatory wings flew apart, and the central part exploded, turning the Hyena — no longer a machine, but scrap metal — into a ball of incandescent gas.
But immediately, another Vulture, which had appeared from nowhere, started warming up my front shield with lasers, and I lost visibility for a while. The astromech was howling behind me, complaining about its unfortunate fate. No, I definitely need to isolate my Little Brother from communicating with R2-D2, Senator Amidala's gift to Ahsoka. Of course, the Naboo woman didn't reveal the details of how she had once given it to her secret husband, Anakin Skywalker, and he, the ungrateful dog, had returned the gift, fucking her over with a problem the size of a fascist helmet. The Togruta generally didn't see any hidden pitfalls in the gift — she had grown used to the little astromech over the past year of the Chosen One's escapades. But the little, long-unformatted bastard had managed to befriend all the droids of Rogue Squadron. And apparently, this communication had thoroughly spoiled the latter's characters. Little Brother had never been such a sarcastic whiner before.
Oli, seizing the initiative, wiped out the Vulture with a concussion missile. Yes, the girl wasn't going to stand on ceremony. I mentally thanked her, receiving an equally mental blown kiss in return.
The Force told me that the others were no better off than we were — we had to fight outnumbered, but our advantage — the Battle Meditation — allowed us, at least partially, to negate the enemy's numerical superiority.
It was time to take another one.
The frame turned red. Little Brother shrieked on a single note. It sounded unexpected (Hutt's astromech of Ahsoka! What had he done to my silent one?), I flinched, instinctively pressing the trigger. Another Vulture turned into a memory.
"New target," I asked the astromech.
Another Hyena was a couple of clicks away. Catching it on afterburner was a matter of seconds.
The frame flashed yellow, then red again. There was no time for ceremony, so I switched the fire selector to missiles, sending one after the Separatist war machine's invention.
Numbers ran cheerfully on the counter, racing toward zero, until the first message blew the bomber apart. A second later, having locked onto the last one, I sent a "hello" his way too. A couple of seconds — and another flash, miniature against the backdrop of what was happening in the planet's orbit.
A Vulture flashed past just as I pushed the sticks forward, guiding the ship in a wide arc while switching the fire control system to cannons and settling into the tail of a new enemy.
"This one's yours," I told Oli, transmitting telemetry from my onboard computer. The girl, without asking questions, veered off, mirroring the enemy's actions, then started stinging him with her cannons at minimum power. Taunting him, I supposed.
I, however, was interested in a completely different enemy fighter.
"Rogues, attention," I opened the comm channel to the squadron members. "The enemy has organic pilots."
"Where from?" Rennax Omani's voice carried no emotional coloring, but judging by her emanations in the Force, the girl was seriously agitated. Well, yes — one thing was shredding droids, which were fairly predictable, and quite another was fighting organics. Who would do anything to survive.
"I'm registering four Rogues-class starfighters," Ahsoka reported. "Rising from the surface."
"Crap," Xiaan commented. "Those fighters are pretty dangerous and maneuverable."
These machines were developed by the Separatists based on stolen local fighters from Utapau. And General, damn it, Grievous, really loved sending his MagnaGuards into battle on such craft. But right now, in the Force, I felt that the Rogue fleeing from me contained a sentient being.
The Rogue's pilot tried to dodge the burst meant to tear apart the right side of his fuselage. First he jerked his awkward ship, a plane-like shape plastered with metal, from side to side, then he started a long right turn, but I wasn't about to lose such a tempting target. Not letting the fighter get far, I repeated all the maneuvers the doomed pilot had tried.
The Rogue, sensing through its nozzles that things were bad, tumbled like crazy, so I had to keep up my end. If my flight had continued in a straight line, I'd have had a guaranteed chance of missing. But now, within the Battle Meditation, vacuum was like solid ground under my feet, and all this tumbling was no more than a minor inconvenience. I fired twice more, and finally the absurdly bloated enemy ship exploded.
Little Brother burst into a trill, telling me everything he thought about my desire to fly through the cloud of debris left by the enemy.
"Sorry, bucket," I apologized for one of the debris pieces hitting the astromech's dome-shaped head. The latter didn't accept the apology. Oh well, you'll be asking me for an oil bath soon enough.
Another Rogue flashed by nearby. And it did so pretty swiftly, licking a few percent off my X-wing's deflector. No, buddy, I don't forgive that kind of audacity.
Turning the ship, I spotted the fleeing enemy, who had clipped two Rogues, heading straight for the Revanche. Around which a serious battle was raging.
Dozens of Vultures were throwing themselves at the ship, burning out the remains of its engines. Meanwhile, a whole squadron of Rogues had piled onto B'ink, Rennax, Aayla, and Bene. Xiaan and Nuru were doing their best to chase after the Hyenas, keeping them away from the Revanche. But their strength was clearly insufficient. Hutt, where were Ahsoka, Tallisiet, Larant, and Zett? They should have brought the frigates out long ago…
The Togruta informed me through the Force that things weren't great for them either — the number of Rogues wanting to feast on the Peltas had already reached a significant amount. Both frigates were moving at full speed toward the Spirit of Fire. Thanks to Declann, the carrier destroyer was rushing toward us at full speed, stuffing the Munificent with missiles and turbolaser bolts. And Nial had a tactical advantage, approaching the enemy frigate from above — where the Separatist's number of guns was minimal. The AIR squadron from the Spirit of Fire had joined the Peltas' defense, freeing the four Rogues from the need to break away from the group.
"Rogues, change of assignment," I ordered. "Everyone covers the Revanche. Five minutes until the flagship arrives — and then we can consider the cruiser saved."
The Jedi and Padawans confirmed receipt of the order in turn. And the X-wings, breaking the battle pattern on the fly, mercilessly overdriving their engines, rushed toward the long-suffering Arquitens.
The Separatist fighter, as if nothing was wrong, was trundling toward the cruiser, not a care in the world. And from the atmosphere, another five Rogues were already coming in, though they still had a considerable distance to cover.
The astromech droid re-entered the auto-targeting program and locked the sight onto the tenacious Separatist. During the time it took to confirm the lock, the yellow light turning red, it seemed like several stars could have been born. I launched a missile, followed it with my eyes as it met the Rogue, and cursing — another squadron of Vultures was moving toward the cruiser — I turned to face the new arrivals.
"Little Brother," catching that Oli, Xiaan, and Nuru had fallen in behind me, I threw the X-wing across the path of the new guests. "Set me up an intercept point six clicks from the Revanche."
The astromech droid whistled happily, as if surprised the pilot couldn't do the simplest calculations in his head. I was about to snap back, but realized I had no more than a minute to deal with the bombers coming in on target. That was too little.
Sacrificing the shields, I channeled energy to the engines. The compensation took a moment, and then the ship shot forward, accelerating so hard that my body was pressed into the seatback. The three Jedi following me repeated the maneuver and sped after.
Distance to intercept — three clicks.
"Calculate the sight on the Vultures for assault missiles," I asked. Little Brother hung for a moment, then reminded me that the rocket launcher magazine wasn't exactly infinite.
"Execute," I ordered in a tone slightly sharper than necessary. "And transmit the telemetry to the ships following us."
The holographic targeting system showed my fighter going at forty-five degrees past the target. I hastily returned the generators to their previous mode, then redistributed power between the four fusion engines again, thought about it, and fed a little energy into the shield.
These intricate adjustments significantly reduced speed. Well then, let's get to work.
The grid didn't stay yellow for long; the frame square turned red almost immediately. The missile went to the target. Streams from the projectiles fired by Oli's ship flashed after it. Through the Force, I felt Kunguram's frustration — he had already expended all his ammunition and could now support us only with his cannon fire.
"Nuru," I said into the comlink on the squadron frequency. "You wasted your missile magazine completely — the mechanics are going to soap your blue neck for that."
Through the Force, I felt the Chiss flush.
My sight filled with blood again.
The astromech droid hissed angrily. The last of the Rogues had left the intercept point far behind and was now heading unhindered toward the Revanche. The pilot sent the predatory ship into a slow, almost lazy spin, and I couldn't lock onto him. My X-wing's gyroscopes howled, reporting that they had exceeded their normal operating limits. What the hell was this! Since when had enemy mercenaries become so inventive? It seemed I'd celebrated the arrival of the T-65 too soon. It seemed the little ship was still too raw for these kinds of stunts.
The other Rogues, pushed back by other Separatist ships, couldn't stop the Rogue from reaching its target even if they wanted to.
The Revanche, large, clumsy, lacking speed, hung stupidly in space; easy prey even for a novice. And in the Rogue's flight pattern, a confident hand could be felt.
"We have guests," Oli reported, informing me through the Force of the appearance of another Munificent — in the immediate vicinity of the defenseless Revanche.
"Hutt knows what!" I swore. "Control, how long are you? They're about to eat our cruiser!"
"We're doing what we can," the coordinator assured me.
"It looks like we've lost the Revanche after all," Xiaan stated grimly.
"It's not over yet," I said.
From us to the light cruiser, after all these twists and maneuvers, it was five clicks. Too far to hope that by the time we arrived, the Revanche wouldn't be burning up, falling to the planet in a cloud of superheated gas.
But, on the other hand, there was always a way out…
The InterGalactic Banking Clan's designers had clearly been slacking off, not protecting the frigate's bridge with any serious defense — since they'd put it in the bow. As far as I remembered, this ship had no backup bridge, so…
"I'm with you, Master," Oli responded, catching my thought through the Bond.
"What are you talking about?" Xiaan tensed.
Sinking into the Force, I let it guide my hand as I entered the jump coordinates. A moment — and the hyperdrive lever went forward. Another fraction of a second — and it came back.
The X-wing, nearly scraping the back of the Munificent's superstructure, curved like a snake, skirting a technological protrusion. Oli repeated the maneuver behind me, but managed to slam one of her two remaining missiles into the superstructure. Wasted. That part was heavily armored, so…
"What happened?" Utrilla tensed, like the others, sensing for a fraction of time that the Meditation had broken.
"Micro-jump," Xiaan noted grimly. "Reckless and dangerous."
In single file, the two of us with my apprentice, ignoring the comments raining down on our heads, looped over the bridge, then, finding ourselves on the same side we'd started the maneuver from, with a feeling of deep satisfaction, we drove our remaining assault missiles into the green transparisteel of the bridge.
Hit.
The jolt was so strong it nearly threw me out of the seat. The emergency alarm shrieked, competing in volume with the astromech droid's aria. Both demanded I feed the depleted deflectors. Nothing for it, I had to comply. The X-wing was tossed around like a dry leaf in the wind, but you do what you have to do to avoid getting caught in the plumes of flame.
But, to be honest — the inferno washed over me from nose to nozzles.
Now the fighter was completely black — so soot-covered that gourmands would be flocking any minute. The droid shrieked about the damaged guidance system — several fragments had torn open the X-wing's nose. Sad, but not fatal.
"Oli?"
"I'm fine," the apprentice replied calmly. "But one of the engines was torn off along with the wing. And yes, if you don't have anything else to do — could you cover me until the rescue team arrives? I don't want to be spinning around this blazing hulk alone."
Smirking, I glanced at Oli's fighter, spinning on its axis, and slowly sidled up to it. Somewhere behind us, the crippled enemy Munificent was diving into the dense layers of the atmosphere. A Rebel that had tried to push through the gap received some very unfriendly "hellos" from the finally arrived Spirit of Fire. The second Munificent thought it better to back off while the going was good — after finishing grinding the Separatist ships into scrap metal, another couple of Arquitens moved to the battle site, followed leisurely by a Hammerhead.
The odds were clearly not in the enemy's favor. And the droid commanding the last Munificent understood that. For a moment, his ship froze, then, stretching into an arrow for a fraction of a second, vanished from our sight.
"We're done with the Separatists," reported Aayla Secura, whose X-wing, decorated with blue stripes, had pulled up next to my ship. "The orbit of Daalang is ours."
"Excellent," I replied, breaking the Battle Meditation. Fatigue hit instantly, like a hangover in the morning. My eyelids stuck together, my body felt like it was filled with lead.
So, without further ado, the Immortal Emperor went to catch some shut-eye right in the cockpit of his own fighter.
Well, what of it? I can afford it.