The Harrower II-class dreadnought, a combat star destroyer belonging to the Eternal Empire of Zakuul and bearing the grand name Smiting Hand that had passed through millennia, had barely dropped out of hyperspace and spent only a moment in solitude. To the eyes of an outside observer, a couple of blinks would have been enough for the blackness of space to be filled with the gray hulls of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul's combat starships.
"Admiral," Ebgart turned silently on his heels, watching as Lord Malgus and his apprentice moved from the turbolift doors toward him. The former commander of Ord Radama's defensive forces showed no fear or false submission at the sight of the Force-user. Only dry professional courtesy.
Ebgart bowed his head politely in a sign of respect to the Emperor's confidant, waiting until the armored figure of the Force-user drew level with him.
"Has the fleet exited the jump?" came the question from beneath the respirator. As if the almighty adept of the Force, a legendary hero for Ord Radama, did not know this himself.
"In full strength, my lord," the officer reported modestly.
In the capital of Ord Radama, the luxurious metropolis of Livievn-Magnus, a hundred-meter statue stood in the central square which, despite the thousands of years passed since its installation, still recalled the likeness of that powerful being standing now beside the Admiral. Darth Malgus—the former Sith Lord who had twice invaded Ebgart's homeland. Twice throwing out the Republic filth. And who had put considerable effort into restoring this world after serious combat operations. That is why Malgus is almost a legend among the inhabitants of Ord Radama. A conqueror who drowned the planet in blood. A merciful restorer. His name had been used to frighten restless children for millennia. Children, streets, and even several settlements were named in his honor.
In recent history, when the mechanical hordes of the Eternal Empire first set foot on the planet's surface, they were met with serious resistance. There were many casualties—until Darth Malgus reminded the locals who he was. Yes, many on Ord Radama wondered how he could have survived so many centuries without the slightest change... But no one dared to ask this question directly.
However, after the legend appeared to the people, there could be no talk of any resistance. One and a half billion living beings—the entire population of Ord Radama—swore allegiance to the Eternal Empire. As an independent unit, the armed forces and the small but well-trained fleet of Ord Radama ceased to exist. These people and starships became part of the Empire. Some followed Darth Malgus into the Impenetrable Caldera to restore the greatness of this section of the galaxy. There were many such people—in an overpopulated world on the edge of the galaxy, there are many who are ready to follow even into a Hutt's backside if they are paid and fed for it. And generously so— in both cases.
Ebgart was not among those who practically deified Malgus. To him, he was an ordinary, albeit outstanding, sentient. Even if he had somehow managed to live nearly four thousand years without aging a day, in modern realities this was not such a big problem.
The Admiral followed Malgus for an entirely different reason. The Ord Radaman was a military man to the marrow of his bones. And within the framework of his planet, he had achieved everything an honest serviceman could dream of. Joining the armed forces of the Empire was a new step toward his destiny. An introduction to new knowledge—and even if the Empire's military studied the training courses of the old Sith Empire, even these archaic documents were head and shoulders above everything the Republic's Justice Corps Academy, which Ebgart had graduated from many years ago, taught its officers.
And now, commanding a strike fleet, the Admiral was taking an exam before his immediate commander. With no room for error.
Distressingly little was known about the enemy. Only that this system, located near a pulsar and including only five planets, only one of which had a life-sustaining atmosphere, had been entered by Republic cartographers into the galactic astronavigational atlas under the name MZX33291. The star system had no proper name. Nor a population.
But at the same time, located on a secondary hyperspace route—the Veragi Trade Route—this system was literally on the borders of known space. There was no large traffic of merchant ships and caravans 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 was able to find a response in the hearts of the inhabitants of Ord Radama, located in the Outer Rim. However, the appearance of Lord Malgus changed much...
Including—allowing the Ord Radamans, from whom in
The majority of the organic crew members of Darth Malgus's fleet were the first to encounter an enemy never seen before.
The scouts spent several days in this star system, observing the enemy's movements. Any change in the system was carefully analyzed. Had the enemy begun to construct anything even remotely resembling a defensive network, every single ship under Lord Malgus's command would have appeared here without exception. Instead, a strike squadron consisting of six Harrower-class dreadnoughts, supported by an equal number of Terminus-class destroyers, had arrived. Ebgart preferred to keep the two dozen Marauder-class corvettes—which served as the capital ships' escort and the squadron's light forces—behind the main formation, so that their gravitational signature on scanners would merge, hiding the true number of Imperial ships from the enemy's tracking systems.
"Status of the enemy ships?" Darth Malgus inquired.
"Unchanged since the scouts' last report," the Admiral informed him. "One large ship, identified by us as a battleship; two dozen medium ones—they have been designated as 'destroyers'; and a multitude of the smallest ones—'fighters'."
"Excellent," the armored giant said ominously. "Admiral, proceed with Plan Beta."
"As you command, Lord Malgus," the Ord Radaman confirmed, duplicating the order to the watch officer.
The bridge of the Smiting Hand filled with the sounds of battle stations. The operators, already at their posts, hunched over their control terminals upon hearing the flagship's transition from "yellow" to "red" alert.
From the dreadnought's split bow, multiple fighters poured out: TIE/sk x1 Superiority Fighters and heavy air-superiority fighters—T-65 X-Wings. The Admiral did not see it, but he knew for certain that squadrons of ARC-170s had already fluttered out from his ship's side hangars. Even if the latter were not inferior in firepower to the "crosses," their tasks in a real battle were quite different.
They needed to gather as much data on the enemy as possible, and the powerful sensor suites of the ARCs were the most suitable equipment for this purpose. Therefore, all the ARCs from the squadron's ships were now fanning out across the system, arrogantly scanning it with their invisible feelers. The scouts' low observability allowed them to gather data with impunity for a long time—and the more that could be obtained during the upcoming battle, the better.
Hundreds of nondescript-looking but quite maneuverable small craft were spat out from the depths of the enemy ships to meet the strike squadron. The Admiral, meeting the eyes of the tracking systems officer, received confirmation: the GEMINI droids were already receiving data from the scouts. The number of small craft on each enemy starship, their speed, maneuvering capability, and the type and nature of their armament. While to the organic eye all of this was merely the subtle movements of distant spacecraft, for the GEMINI and those who would later study the droids' reports, every enemy movement was a statistic. And the more of it obtained now, the easier it would be in the future.
A moment later, the masterful pirouettes of the light forces turned into a bloody skirmish: the Empire's ships were attacked from all sides by myriads of fast enemy fighters. It would seem one should panic, but not here. Not now.
Ahead and slightly to the side, a pair of Terminuses opened fire on the enemy's small craft diving at them from all directions. Green streams of tibanna surrounded the heavy cruisers at the tip of the enemy attack like an energy web. No maneuvers by the enemy fighters could help them escape the precise shots of the Imperial gunners.
"Reinforcements are heading toward the enemy," the watch officer broke the tense silence of the bridge after receiving a report from one of the operators. "Four hundred signatures matching the 'fighter' characteristics."
"From where?" Darth Malgus asked lazily, not looking away from the unfolding battle.
"From the planet's surface," the officer added to his report. "Scouts have discovered two field airfields."
"Well then," Ebgart smiled. "Things are taking an interesting turn."
A large enemy starship, previously classified by GEMINI as a "destroyer," began to make a run on one of the Harrowers that had moved forward to cover the retreat of the pair of Terminuses.
"Punisher," Ebgart contacted the commander of the specified ship. "Use only turbolasers. I want to see the defenses of their capital ships."
"Yes, sir," the Harrower commander responded. In the same second, the dreadnought slightly turned its split bow, and thirty-two twin turbolaser towers began to drench the awkwardly shaped enemy starship in a green sea of fire.
Sixty-four guns shuddered at once, delivering the most destructive salvo that military personnel of any developed world could observe in modern reality. It seemed that this single salvo would be enough to tear the enemy spacecraft to pieces, and...
The turbolaser bolts simply vanished.
"Curious defense," Malgus hissed, commenting on what he saw. Ebgart chose to remain silent.
"The enemy is using gravitational defense systems," the commander of the Punisher reported. "Turbolaser weaponry is useless. GEMINI is registering the use of this weapon against the dreadnought's shields."
"Maneuver," the Ord Radaman ordered. The last thing he needed was for the enemy to inflict irreparable damage on a capital ship. And gravity was nothing to joke with.
The enemy ship, frozen in place, continued to absorb the turbolaser beams being generously poured upon it by the Punisher, which was slowly but surely drifting from its original position, compressing them with such a strong gravitational field that they seemed to simply disappear.
"The enemy is beginning a hull rotation," a new report came from the observation post. The Admiral cast a searching glance at the Sith, but he remained silent, as if turned into a statue.
"Transitioning to the 'Skirmisher' formation," Ebgart informed the communications officer. The officer, confirming receipt of the order, instantly transmitted it to the other ships of the squadron.
In the next moment, the Harrowers, as prescribed by the plan, moved forward in a single front toward the enemy's capital ships, maintaining continuous fire from all turbolaser batteries. However, it was already clear—the enemy had bristled with gravitational defense systems and was calmly waiting for the storm to subside. At the same time, the Terminuses, positioned in the second line, aimed their hulls toward pre-assigned targets.
"Three seconds to salvo," Ebgart commented. Malgus continued to watch the enemy's defensive maneuvers intently, while his apprentice, meeting the soldier's eyes, gave a barely perceptible nod.
"Terminuses—fire," Ebgart commanded. The six heavy cruisers, thanks to the work of their maneuvering thrusters, were positioned significantly higher than their thick-skinned brethren, spitting out slugs larger than some shuttles; almost immediately—after a few seconds—they fired a new salvo. Then another, and another...
The angle at which the heavy cruisers delivered their extremely painful strikes allowed them to send multi-ton projectiles past the plane of the enemy's gravitational anomalies, resulting in the enemy destroyer having several massive holes after the very first salvo. The slugs that smashed through its hull detonated inside, gutting the ship from bow to stern.
"Your projectiles are quite effective," Darth Malgus noted.
"Our weaponsmiths did their best," Ebgart shrugged.
The standard ammunition for the mass-driver cannons of the Terminus-class destroyers consisted of massive slugs made of refractory materials with a small amount of nergon—the explosive material used in the production of proton torpedoes. The weapons manufacturers on Ord Radama, having encountered the Empire's weaponry, had suggested several small, at first glance, but extremely effective improvements.
First and foremost, this concerned the filling for such projectiles. From then on, the mass of the explosive substance made up two-thirds of the projectile's total mass, and the type of explosive itself had undergone significant changes. Now, the Terminuses were equipped with ammunition that could, if desired, contain the same nergon, or baradium, hydrogen, and even—long-forbidden nuclear payloads. The latter had just been demonstrated to the unseen enemy.
"Registering a change in the overall battle pattern," a hologram of GEMINI-94 appeared on the bridge—the droid replacing the ship's central computer.
"Source?" Darth Malgus perked up.
"Not established," the droid said with an unblinking gaze. "Enemy effectiveness has increased by forty percent."
"Battle coordination?" the apprentice asked her master. Ebgart listened to their conversation. This pair piqued his keen interest. Primarily because Darth Malgus, for reasons unknown to him, periodically called the apprentice a "Falleen." Although, the relatively pretty girl was a far cry from a green-skinned semi-reptile.
"I don't think so," Malgus rasped. "At least not in the sense we understand it. They are not felt in the Force..."
"You can't feel them either?" the girl was surprised. "I thought it was a problem with my abilities."
"No," Malgus cut her off. "The Emperor warned of such things. In fact, this entire operation is one big trial by fire. Admiral!"
"Yes, Lord Malgus?" the Ord Radaman responded.
"What will you do?"
Ebgart glanced at the sensor readings.
Yes, the battle picture had changed drastically. While in the initial stage of the battle the enemy, despite their advantage in fighters, was significantly inferior to the Empire's fighters, now the enemy's seemingly disjointed tactics had taken the form of a harmonious and coordinated enterprise. The enemy fighters no longer engaged in one-on-one duels with the Empire's ships, grouping into wings and using their numerical superiority. The X-Wings—the most advanced fighters to date—could barely handle the onslaught of enemy fighters. To say nothing of the Superiority Fighters, which could only be saved by their insane speed, but certainly not by their low-power guns and relatively light deflectors.
"Marauders—transition to missile strike," the Admiral commanded.
In that same second, the corvettes belched out hundreds of lethal projectiles. For the most part, they proved useless—the enemy fighters, using the same gravitational field tactics, intercepted the missiles, neutralizing the threat to themselves. However, at the same time, they proved vulnerable to third-party attacks...
"General order," Ebgart activated the intra-fleet communication channel. "Advance toward the planet."
"Admiral?" The most obvious question hung in the air.
"Whatever is coordinating our enemy's actions is either on their battleship or on the planet," the Ord Radaman explained his actions. "The battleship is in orbit and is not seeking to engage us, relying on the fighters."
"You want to destroy their coordination center?" Darth Malgus's apprentice clarified.
"I want them to think so," the officer said with a sigh. "Whatever it is, it's boosting their pilots. I think it's best to study it. If, as you say, this fleet is merely scouts, then I fear we simply won't be able to handle a larger number of ships without figuring out exactly what we're dealing with."
"A bold plan," Darth Malgus appraised. Touching the comlink on his bracer, he said, "Marshal Mephisto, prepare your men for boarding."
The Empire's 13th Assault Corps was a newcomer to warfare. Less than two weeks had passed since they arrived on Korriban—the capital of Sith Space. And they had not participated in any battles until now. Ebgart's plan was built on using "Skymen" 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—directing a space battle, without cluttering his head with the intricacies of infantry strategy.
And here he had plenty of worries as it was: his flagship, the Smiting Hand, was besieged on all sides by clouds of enemy fighters that somehow managed to evade laser fire. From the bridge, numerous furrows plowed by enemy ships in the dreadnought's armored plating were already visible. Right now, from the outside, the Harrower looked more like an acklay scratched by a space monster—enraged, but not defeated.
The other ships of the squadron looked no better. The Punisher was crawling away from its place in the formation, its mangled engines smoking. The Eviscerator was frozen in place, barely showing signs of life—its solar stabilization generator gaped with a massive hole, as a result of which the dreadnought could barely provide itself with energy through internal backup reactors borrowed from Republican Venators. Only, unlike the latter, the Empire's destroyers had only one such unit—specifically for power backup, not for participating in battle.
The Cry of Ragnos was triumphantly finishing off two enemy destroyers that had surrounded it on both sides. The dreadnought, whose sides were ablaze from concentrated enemy fire, snarled back fiercely, pinning all the enemy ships' attention to itself, while its air wing, completely ignoring their class opponents, slammed proton torpedoes into the enemy's medium ships.
The Intervener was doing the same, with one exception—the Imperial ship was unmercifully tormenting the enemy's lone destroyer, which, for the most part, no longer showed signs of life—its volcanic-growth-like guns were silent, movement had ceased, and now, held by tractor beams from the Imperial dreadnought's side, the enemy was absorbing a sea of green energy, losing hundreds of meters of hull plating with every passing second.
Ebgart was about to give the order to stop the beating 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 of numerous hordes of "Skymen" from the side hangar of the Harrower facing the mangled ship. The white dots of the droids, drawn to the coveted goal by jetpacks, instantly crossed the space between the ships, disappearing into the holes of the enemy ship. As soon as the boarding wave was on board, the Intervener, continuing to hold its victim with tractor beams, retargeted its guns on new opponents—a trio of similar destroyers whose crews, apparently, did not like their comrade's plight at all.
The Resolute, living up to its name, was dueling four enemy destroyers at once: two of them held in the forward hemisphere, and two more on the sides. And each of the enemy starships was receiving fire from at least two heavy turbolaser batteries. The enemy desperately held back the onslaught with gravitational fields, but judging by the enthusiasm with which the Terminuses—operating in range conditions, unthreatened by large enemy ships—slammed their monstrous mass-driver slugs into them, it wouldn't be long.
The last enemy destroyer decided to play out a duel with the Imperial squadron's flagship. In the best traditions of the line tactics of past eras, the ships converged on reciprocal courses, exchanging painful blows. The Smiting Hand shuddered several times from direct hits to the port side.
Ebgart felt the deck nearly slip from under his feet, but he managed to stay upright. He greedily tracked the enemy's movement, and as soon as he drew level with it broadside to broadside, he commanded:
"Target and activate tractor beams on it!"
The enemy ship, as if hitting an invisible wall, stopped. Its port side immediately caught a massive salvo of turbolasers and concussion missiles, causing the enemy destroyer to begin rotating around its axis.
"They are presenting the unarmored side," Darth Malgus commented. And in confirmation of his words, the enemy, deploying gravitational protection, seemed to exhale, catching absolutely everything the Imperial flagship could throw at it.
"Marauders—salvo," Ebgart ordered.
A minute later, dozens of concussion missiles literally tore the damaged ship apart, penetrating its soft interior through the holes in the port side. The Smiting Hand was literally struck by dozens of various types of debris, many of which looked more like decent-sized asteroids.
"Towers A-three and A-four are out of commission," the senior gunnery officer reported.
"We have thirty more," Ebgart noted reasonably. "We're going to assist the Punisher and the Eviscerator. Call backup repair parties to the side hangars—we'll transfer them to the dreadnoughts."
"Admiral," Darth Malgus's apprentice drew attention to herself. "We can strike the enemy battleship. Our dreadnoughts are capable of looking after themselves..."
"That piece of rock," the Ord Radaman nodded at the huge alloy of space slag floating serenely in orbit, looking as if it had recently been spat out by the maw of a massive volcano, "is surely capable of standing up for itself. It is at least three times the size of my Harrower, and without the support of the rest of the fleet's ships, I'm not poking it."
"But it's defenseless!" the girl continued to insist. Darth Malgus silently placed his mighty hand on her head, returning the girl to observing what was happening outside the Empire's starship.
"Continue, Admiral," the Sith ordered.
Ebgart had already figured out the peculiarities of the enemy's defense system.
Their gravitational systems are, of course, magnificent. They are able to absorb anything. But they are completely unsuited for prolonged bombardment. And the power of the turbolasers firing at them had no effect on the nature of the gravitational fields' operation. Which means...
"Transmit to the ships," he directed. "When firing at the enemy defense system, reduce turbolaser power to the minimum—they can't tell what power we're hitting them with anyway."
This made sense for several reasons. First, it reduced the overconsumption of tibanna, the quantity of which is always limited. Second, it helped keep the enemy's defense constantly active. Whatever they used to power those systems—everything must have a limit. And it was better for the enemy to reach theirs first.
The result was not long in coming. The enemy did not realize that changes had occurred in Imperial tactics, and therefore, the enemy's defense systems, which collapsed every now and then, became excellent practice for the Imperial gunners.
Less than an hour had passed since the start of the battle, and all of the enemy's large starships had either been subjected to merciless missile and turbolaser fire or had boarders on their decks. The boiling confrontation had moved from the external to the internal.
The Imperials didn't have it easy either. A significant portion of the dreadnoughts' and heavy cruisers' air wings had already been destroyed by the enemy, who, incidentally, had also lost many of their flight craft. In addition to the disabled Eviscerator and Punisher, the Resolute was added to the list, having traded its hull integrity and most of its artillery for the destruction of three of its four opponents. The last enemy destroyer, having received quite serious damage, was moving at full speed toward the battleship, intending to avoid the fate of its comrades-in-arms.
However, the five Terminuses (the sixth, unable to withstand the coordinated onslaught of enemy fighters, had turned into a blazing thermonuclear bonfire in front of the entire fleet, eventually detonating with most of its crew who hadn't managed to evacuate in time) had their own opinion on that matter. At the limit of their main battery's rate of fire, they pelted the last enemy destroyer with slugs containing a very interesting internal filling.
"Reporting from the Resolute that they have multiple targets on the hull and in the internal compartments," the communications officer informed the Admiral.
"Enemy boarders?" Darth Malgus asked grimly.
"Some kind of creatures, resembling fairly large insects," the comms officer added to his report. "They destroy everything they touch with their acid. The 'Skymen' are fighting them, but there are quite a lot of the monsters."
"And how did they get on board?" Admiral Ebgart inquired, simultaneously ordering his own contingent of boarding droids to be sent to the ship's aid.
"Before retreating, the enemy ship fired at the Resolute using projectiles resembling missiles," the hologram of the appearing GEMINI-94 explained. "Presumably, these organisms are analogs of the Confederacy's buzz droids."
"I see," the Ord Radaman chewed his lips. An unpleasant surprise. "Isolate the Resolute from the other ships. Send as many free 'Skymen' to it as possible—the faster we deal with these beasts, the faster we return to the main objective."
Having received the order, the communications post officer retreated.
"We are winning," Darth Malgus's apprentice noted. Zul Xiss. The Admiral finally remembered her name. It seemed she was once a Jedi, but that wasn't certain—the Empire's command was very reluctant to share information about those who were previously in the service of other states.
But despite all that, the obvious could not be denied.
The enemy's fighters had simply run out.
The remnants of the Empire's aviation and the Marauders' missiles had very effectively approached the issue of destroying the enemy's light forces. Which could not but affect the result. Even at the cost of heavy losses (and it could not 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.
"Aviation losses?" Darth Malgus asked the GEMINI-94 hologram.
"TIE/sk x1 Superiority Fighters—seventy-four percent; T-65 X-Wing fighters—forty-eight percent. ARC-170 reconnaissance fighters—twenty percent," GEMINI-94 reported.
"It could have been worse," Darth Malgus commented.
"It could have been better," the Admiral noted, checking the statistics. "Three dreadnoughts are out of commission and require extensive repairs, one Terminus destroyed, two damaged. Four Marauders destroyed, five damaged. Effectively, the squadron as a combat unit is half-incapacitated—and we still have a battle ahead with a capital-class ship that we don't know what it's capable of throwing at us."
"Well, certainly not aviation," Zul Xiss smirked.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Ebgart said gloomily.
***
Closing my eyes, I immersed myself in the Force, forming new connections in the Force time after time, second after second.
The cockpit of an X-Wing can hardly be called comfortable. But on the other hand, it's not a Naboo pleasure yacht, but a combat fighter. During a battle, comfort is the last thing that worries you. And the Spartan austerity of the cockpit didn't allow for relaxation.
For some reason, an old joke came to mind about how the roads in Russia are the way they are not because people steal and do a crappy job, but because only the potholes prevent domestic drivers from speeding at full tilt and wrapping themselves around poles at every convenient opportunity. Like, when there's a pothole and a bump every meter, you can't relax, you won't loosen your control over the machine—who wants to repair the suspension because you were daydreaming and flew into a hole, coming out of it without a wheel that broke off at the hub and is rolling, merrily bouncing, toward the ditch? So to speak, the "Safe Roads" program in all its harshness of being.
Connecting your mind with a dozen Jedi is no simple task. First, you must build a mental wall that will fence off my own memories and thoughts from the perception of the others. Stuff everything that outsiders shouldn't know behind this wall. Pack it down deeper. Hide all of it in your own mind with a heap of everyday information.
And only then, realizing that the roar of the warming engines of the neighboring squadron doesn't reach your ears at all, reach out through the Force to the others.
First in line is Oli. A cold mind, contact with which even makes me recoil for a moment. Fortunately, the girl, catching the call, responds without unnecessary movements. Our minds touch, and I feel with the edge of my consciousness how she is finishing the same procedure I performed before. A moment—and in the Battle Meditation, there is only a young girl, a Padawan, with thoughts untainted by anything.
Next into the merger comes Ahsoka. She is already prepared, her thoughts and consciousness put in such order that you can't find a flaw. I send her mental praise, to which Oli reacts with an image that almost makes my eyes bleed, and Ahsoka betrayingly blushes. And where on earth did Oli find out about her friend's reverse-grip bedroom antics? Ah, it's just a guess? Sure, sure. I send Oli a sharp thought. The image melts behind the mental walls of our minds.
Fourth to our lovely love-triangle company, I connect Aayla. The Twi'lek is participating in our merger for the first time; I clearly feel her excitement and impatience. She doesn't particularly like flying in a fighter, but she doesn't make a scene about it (how about that, Obi-Wan?). I touch her mind encouragingly, dampen the slight excitement, and share concentration and peace.
Fifth in line is Xiaan Amersu. The Rutian, unlike her friend, on the contrary, likes piloting light ships, knows how, and does it better than most Jedi I know. Including myself. She is relaxed, not burdened by heavy or vulgar thoughts. I feel a slight anxiety in her. Concentrating on this, I go deeper... She is worried about Hett's fate. Nothing has been heard of him for quite a long time. Yes, it's all sad, but it shouldn't distract us from the main mission. We are Jedi, after all. Amersu, in gratitude for the support, fills the merger with her warmth and gratitude. Oli, noble and indifferent, does not react to this. That's my clever girl...
Yes, I praised her too soon. The Force bonds allowed my apprentice and me, even without resorting to Battle Meditation, and in many ways without even touching it, to communicate one-on-one without worrying that someone could "eavesdrop" on us. Having withstood the onslaught of scandalous pictures in which she seemingly sees how I am blissing out surrounded by every single participant of the raid and then personally rips out their spines, I send her a mental kiss. On the lips, of course. The girl deserved at least a little affection. She had withstood the trial I arranged for her with honor and came out of it stronger than she was. I'm sure that after everything, she won't just kick the asses of most Jedi in the Order, but will be able to thrash a couple of Council members too.
Oli accepts the flow of affection as a given. Yeah, well, that was hurtful. Oh well, I'm not proud. I'll survive.
Sixth, I connect Master Utrila to our Force Wi-Fi. B'ink seems the picture of composure; however, I feel her concern for her Padawan. Omani, who falls into our nets next, is quite impulsive but also cautious. The girl likes flying, and the X-Wing is clearly to her taste.
Racha Sitra, as it turns out, is afraid of flying, period. Images of a crash flash by, memories of the fight for the "Sky Station" in the Ruusan system. I have to send flows of encouragement here too. I feel like Santa Claus. Only instead of presents, it's a wagonload of support for everyone.
Larant Tarak joins us with cold rationality and impatience for the upcoming fight. She wants to crush droids and burn out enemy starships. This scares Racha, alarms Utrila, and causes indignation from Rennax Omani. I have to call everyone to order.
A few minutes to calm the minds. Getting used to the sensations that are new for most of those present. Everyone must feel everyone else. Become part of a single whole. Understand each other's abilities, take an objective look at one's own abilities. I act as the coordinator of this entire gathering.
Nine very different minds that must temporarily become a single organism.
Oh right... not nine. Sorry, ladies, plans change. No, don't be indignant. Yes, we will still act as one squadron. But the number of participants will be... a bit larger.
Declann is coordinating the actions of such a massive formation of ships for the first time. Right now, he isn't commanding ship crews consisting mainly of clones. These are mixed teams where the diversity of thoughts could simply drive one mad. And therefore, he needs support. He needs strength. He needs more Force to spread his influence over the entire fleet.
The Admiral already has sufficient experience in handling Battle Meditation. Though his training is fragmented and unsystematic, he is a narrow specialist. He won't be a first-class swordsman. Although an interest in lightsaber fencing has awakened in him. But that's all for later. We'll take back Allantin, and I'll even give you an upgrade on Belsavis.
Connecting with Nial's mind brings a slight chaos into our orderly collective. I have to back him up, independently erecting his mental barrier, and I admit, it's freaking hard. I feel my body getting wet, and sweat is literally pouring down my face. But it has to be this way. I am the nodal element of this entire construction. To keep it from falling apart with the most dismal consequences, I have to be at the center of events.
The tension... will pass. I've already experienced something similar, connecting my mind with the guard, the Hands. The Wrath... I'll withstand this too.
Declann's mind gives us the understanding that the exit of the Spirit of Fire, as well as the entire Blade Fleet, from hyperspace is near. Five minutes.
Enough to finish the Battle Meditation. I return my thoughts to the general flow again. The participants have calmed down a bit. Only Nial is somewhat worried. No matter, he'll manage.
Meanwhile, I reach out with my mental paw beyond our interest group.
I feel 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 welcomes the grim readiness of the Christophsians. Everyone on board the flagship is ready for the upcoming battle.
Emotions permeate the Force so much that it seems—reach out your hand and you can touch them. As if they have become something tangible. Never before have I experienced anything like this. If I wanted to, I could...
concentrate on any sentient being or group. I literally saw the bridge crew officers staring tensely at the terminals of their control consoles. I felt every commander dictating final orders before the battle. The trepidation of the recruits from the deck crew—today, as many as seventy-four people would experience the frantic rush of working on the deck of a ship in combat for the first time. They knew the theory, they had experience in standard, training conditions. But today was their baptism by fire.
I felt the composure of Mara Cross, who sat near the tactical terminal, tracking data coming in from different parts of the flagship. Focusing on the girl, I could feel how she, casting aside everything superfluous, ran the plan for the upcoming battle through her head over and over again. Clever girl. You know how to give yourself completely to the work. I should reward you somehow. Contact Damon and find out what he squeezed out of Organa? Yes, probably. But after the battle.
However, my mental probe was searching for something else entirely. Five lights in the far part of the bay allocated to the X-Wing squadron seemed brighter than the rest. Gifted. My five padawans. Taking their places in the fighters. Yes, they were still the same X-Wings. And an outside observer might tell me that children have no place at the helm of a combat ship. I, for my part... will tell you to go to hell with such notions.
These children are gifted. I won't crawl into their heads to solicit support. They are the future of the Order. And I must earn their loyalty to me, rather than to the Jedi, through personal example.
And it would all begin with me doing what they wanted—to be in a real battle. Something that Yoda and the other Jedi kept as far away from them as possible. "Not grown up yet," they'd say. As if.
These children know how to kill—some of them have already been in battles—especially Nuru. The Chiss is a real leader among the padawans in the skill of getting into situations where one must draw a blade and chop the enemy into kebabs.
The others—with the exception of Oli, Ahsoka Tano, Aayla, and Larant—do not approve of my actions. I feel it through the Battle Meditation. But. It is merely a murmur of objection. No rebellion. We are a single organism.
Zett Jukassa becomes the tenth member of the squadron. The boy is focused but childishly impatient. Bene, joining next, is by contrast composed and ready. Whie Malreaux is indifferent. But that is only a mask. The others don't feel it, but I sense his anxiety for the next member of our alignment. Tallisibeth. The girl, who pays him no mind, the boy likes. To distraction. And he tries in every way to hide it. He panics, realizing that his innermost thoughts have become the property of my attention. He expects a lecture, a reprimand. But instead, he receives only encouragement and advice. Don't hide. Act. Girls don't like timid dorks. Girls like the bold and decisive.
The boy is taken aback. He expected any other reaction from me, but certainly not this. Well, what can you do, kid. I'm not an ordinary Jedi. And in love—a bright and kind feeling—I see nothing wrong. Only it must not cloud the mind. Your feelings are yours alone. Don't worry, I won't tell. I'm on your side. Yes, we didn't get along from the start, but that happens. Chin up, padawan.
The last to connect to the Battle Meditation is Nuru Kungurama. The lad is too cheerful. Too distracted. I see through his eyes and give him a mental slap upside the head. Connect the auxiliary deflector generator, you ignoramus! In battle, who's going to pump up your damaged shielding? Master Yoda? Now, where are you reaching? Second toggle on the left. There, good job. When we get back, you'll get it. He rode a skyhopper, yeah right. As a passenger, by the looks of it.
However, it's not a problem. The Battle Meditation allows us to share knowledge. To support one another. I feel Xiaan Amersu's desire to help the young Chiss. She worries for the boy and asks permission to be his wingman. Fine, I don't mind. He'll be safer that way.
I fly in one flight with Oli. Xiaan and Nuru are the second unit. B'ink Utrila and Rennax Omani are the third. Aayla and Bene are the fourth. Racha Sitra and Whie are the fifth. Larant Tarak and Zett are the sixth. Ahsoka Tano and Tallisibeth are the seventh. A standard squadron numbers a dozen ships. Ours has fourteen. A little more than the regulation. No big deal.
The ship's chronometer counted down the final seconds. I checked the coordination of our ragtag unit one last time. The connection was strong, though it wasn't easy for me. I could already feel a slight tremor in my hands. Oli felt it too. The girl, though far from my talents, was tacitly backing me up. Her mental techniques were better than mine. I am, in essence, just brute Force, while Starstone is arguably the best specialist in this part of the Galaxy Far, Far Away. My little star-stone...
A thought from Nial finally swept all extraneous musings from my mind.
"Let's begin, boys and girls," I commanded, opening my eyes. The world returned to its familiar state.
Little Brother notified me of the exit from hyperspace.
"Thanks, pal, I'm aware," the landing struts retracted into the fighter's fuselage, and my black-and-silver X-Wing, nose tilted slightly up, pierced the atmospheric shield of the bay with its hull.
From the cell, I entered a long, narrow launch chute. On ordinary ships, there is 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 from the top, but at the far end of the hangar.
On the Spirit of Fire, instead of traditional plates over which the fighters were supposed to fly, there was an electromagnetic accelerator in this spot. A technology similar in design to mass drivers, except instead of a projectile, it launched light fighters. And the speeds to which the "projectiles" accelerated were much lower—it was due to the fact that the hangar here didn't have solid walls, and the acceleration blocks had to be installed on the ends between the sections reserved for the parking of the first-wave fighters.
My X-Wing, like the one piloted by Oli positioned nearby, was caught by an invisible force that, without much ceremony, spat the machine out in front of the bow of the carrier Star Destroyer at a distance of several dozen kilometers.
Quickly pulling into a bank, I broke away from the launch point, simultaneously surveying the field of the upcoming fray while the remaining fighters of Rogue Squadron (and again, forgive me Wedge Antilles) appeared outside.
Starstone's "cross" held to my left and rear as if glued, just as intended.
Meanwhile, events were unfolding. And the faster, the more interesting.
The Hammerhead-class cruisers, upon whose lot fell the entire weight of the line battle, having formed a vanguard in two equal echelons, were already busily covering the enemy ships with turbolaser salvos, whom we had apparently caught by surprise. The first to perish was a Recusant-class light destroyer that had appeared here God knows how. The light destroyer with its sharp, swept-back hull literally vanished in a thermonuclear flash—yes, brother, bad luck. Keeping deflectors active at all times while stationary is a bit expensive for the budget, as the generators eat up quite a lot. That's why they were turned off while the ship was out of combat.
The Arquitens-class light cruisers took their positions between the echelons of cruisers, acting simultaneously as participants in the line slaughter and as support ships for the heavy cruisers, which managed in the first few minutes of the battle, while the seps and pirates were coming to their senses, to nullify two more ships produced by the InterGalactic Banking Clan. Namely—Munificent-class star frigates.
But it couldn't go on like this for long. The Separatists, of course, weren't happy about being caught like teenagers shitting in the bushes and getting whipped on the backside, so, quite logically, in the turmoil of the starting battle, they began to retreat.
At this time, the Spirit of Fire, positioned together with the ships of the landing order—two dozen Acclamators—and the medical frigates in the second unit, whose main purpose was to break through to the planet and land the deliverers of democracy on solid ground.
To the left of the vanguard was a unit of Marauders, unmercifully crushing the enemy and mixing the numerous fighters they had managed to launch with cosmic dust. For now, the missile and turbolaser fire was enough to hold back the scattered enemy fighter units, despite the fact that there were more and more of them every minute.
To the right of the sandwich of Hammerheads and Arquitens-class light cruisers, like cavalry destined for the sweetest part, a unit of Consular-class cruisers materialized. Without any hesitation, having oriented themselves in space, they rushed forward with the clear intention of thoroughly plucking the huddle of pirate starships that desperately wanted to be far away from the brawl. But soon enough they realized that, firstly, the Consular-class cruisers were alone and had no strong capital ship in their unit, and secondly—evidently someone smart from the ships' crews looked out the viewport and counted the steeds of my improvised cavalry.
With the clear intention of feasting on the crunch of breaking Consular-class cruiser hulls, a rather uniform unit dove out from the line of pirates. The Sabaoth mercenary squadron.
"Admiral, we're waiting for the start of the bacchanalia," I said into the comlink on the fleet's general tactical frequency. It wasn't strictly necessary, of course, since there was the Alignment, but habit is second nature.
"They're already on approach," Nial replied.
And before Rogue Squadron finally left the second unit to join the beating of the vulture-droids—all that the enemy could launch by this time and throw at our Hammerheads and Arquitens-class light cruisers—near the vanguard, the space above the Separatist ships literally bloomed with the silvery light from the hulls of a multitude of ARCs and wishbones, exiting hyperspace exactly where the enemy least expected them—literally over the center of the enemy formation.
A massive salvo of proton torpedoes, like a lilac-purple wave of death, crashed down upon the CIS ships and their allies, turning dozens of ships into flying scrap metal in the blink of an eye. Among those hit were the Sabaoth who had intended to pluck my Consular-class cruisers; their already modest numbers turned truly laughable as soon as the wishbones turned their attention to them.
Yes, they managed to raise their shields—after all, they were going to fight against "cruisers," as the Consular-class cruisers were officially called from time to time. But against a massive salvo, and from not the greatest distance... no deflector was designed for such abuse. And particle shields, which protect space objects from physical attacks, were traditionally not supplied to Separatist ships. I had one on the Telos—a hellishly expensive thing. And that was not even the most advanced model. Pity it didn't save the former flagship from its sad fate.
Ten minutes after the start of our attack, the enemy, having suffered irreparable losses of at least a third of their own fleet, began to react to the situation adequately. The stupid deployments of Vulture-class starfighters into a completely useless slaughter on the front lines ended. From then on, the enemy fighters began to hunt our bombers, repeatedly intercepting the sluggish proton torpedoes.
That's it, finita la commedia. The element of surprise is lost. The enemy has begun to stir.
"Nial, recall the bombers," I sent the mental command, simultaneously banking my X-Wing to the side and allowing Oli to use her guns to blast an especially persistent Vulture-class starfighter into atoms, which had suddenly decided to go head-to-head with me.
Our light machines, having exhausted the remains of their bomb load, began to pull up vertically relative to the position of the Separatist ships. A few agonizing minutes passed, during which we lost at least a squadron, and the "boomers" vanished, jumping into hyperspace. The retreat was a pre-arranged step. Everyone involved in planning the operation—me, Larant, Nial, Mara, Aayla—understood that the "boomers" wouldn't be able to harass the Separatists for long. The confusion of the first strike would pass. We had made their mission success easier—diverted part of the enemy forces, the Sabaoth squadron, by presenting them with the Consular-class cruiser unit as a tasty morsel.
Forcing our fighters to continue causing a stir in the depths of the "huddle of pregnant banthas" formation authored by the Separatist command was criminal. One cannot risk needlessly—the pilots had already done more than the staff had planned: it was assumed that at best a fifth of the enemy unit would suffer from their raid. But to knock out a third with a single blow...
Pulling into another turn, I supported Whie Malreaux with gun fire; a pair of Vulture-class starfighters were dragging on his tail. One, unable to withstand the meeting with the four lasers of my X-Wing, literally turned into a miniature supernova, while the second literally burst from indignation, catching a personal meeting with a concussion missile that had left the launch tube under my X-Wing's belly a moment earlier.
Our vanguard, meanwhile, was also taking losses. The Separatist ships, having stopped running, suddenly decided to sign up as heroes, initiating a closing maneuver on full afterburners toward our Hammerheads. At the same time, the heavy turbolasers of the Munificent-class star frigates, positioned so awkwardly that one had to move the entire ship's hull to aim them, were now in a winning position. Since wherever you spit on our side—there were targets everywhere.
With coordinated fire, two Munificent-class star frigates were able to strip one of the Arquitens-class light cruisers of its headway and steering. The light cruiser rolled out of formation, threatening to ram its neighbor. I felt Nial, like a virtuoso pianist, directing the crews of both cruisers, forcing the damaged cruiser on its last breath to surge forward, ahead of the first unit's line, taking the brunt of the fire, making a turn to the right, after which, kicking in the afterburners, it exited the kill zone.
But at the same time, this brought the Arquitens-class light cruiser closer to the planet's atmosphere, where the wounded ship would very, very unlikely be able to fight gravity. Especially considering the number of Vulture-class starfighters that rushed after it.
"Spirit of Fire-Control, this is Rogue Leader," I opened the channel to the flagship's dispatch. "We're going after the crippled Arquitens-class light cruiser before the droids eat it."
"Copy, Rogue Leader," the coordination officer responded. "We are directing two Peltas to recover the wounded and tow the cruiser to the rear."
"We'll cover everyone," I assured. Following that, I switched to the squadron's tactical frequency.
"Boys and girls, we're heading to our crippled cruiser, providing its convoy and escort."
"But we could be of much more use here, on the front line," Whie persisted. The boy was jumping out of his skin to prove his fearlessness. For obvious reasons.
"Rogue Nine," I addressed Racha Sitra. "After the battle, take the trouble to explain the subtleties of subordination to your wingman."
"Yes, Rogue Leader," the purple-skinned Twi'lek promised.
Fourteen X-Wings, spitting jets of ionic flame from their engines, sluggishly trading shots with attackers, rushed toward the cruiser. Two squadrons of Vulture-class starfighters tagged along after us, but it led to nothing except a decrease in the number of the enemy's functional droid-fighters.
"Rogues," Master Utrila's voice came over the squadron frequency. "We have a problem."
"I see it," I replied dryly, throwing the fighter into another dive.
Another Recusant-class light destroyer materialized in the upper layers of the atmosphere (where do you even get them all!?) and moved at low thrust toward the damaged light cruiser, which, according to the data provided by Little Brother, was called the Revanche. Oh, it looks like the latter is about to get it "good," since the Republican starship simply had no cover except for our squadron. Meanwhile, the Recusant-class light destroyer did not hesitate to dump dozens of Vulture-class starfighters and no less than two squadrons of Hyena-class bombers into the surrounding space. The plan was simple to the point of impossibility—while the Vulture-class starfighters held us back, the Recusant-class light destroyer itself and the enemy "boomers" would dismantle the already barely-breathing light cruiser into scrap metal. Whose artillery had, naturally, suffered significantly during the initial stage of the battle.
"There are too many of them," Zett said in a panic, his fighter performing a barrel roll to avoid a burst from a droid-fighter. The pair following him, Ahsoka Tano and Tallisibeth, ended the Vulture-class starfighter's life cycle. "We need help!"
"Don't whine, Rogue Twelve," Oli advised. Her X-Wing spat fire, splitting another enemy machine into pieces. "We'll manage."
I wish I had her confidence.
Because I was starting to dislike the situation.
It began to dawn on the enemy commander that the battle in orbit of Daalang was lost. More than half of the Separatist ships and the allied squadrons of pirates and mercenaries were already scrap metal. Half an hour at most, and the Blade Fleet would grind down the rest. Evidently, in a desperate attempt to turn the situation in their favor, the nearest Separatist squadrons were being pulled toward Daalang.
In the end, victory will be ours—that is certain. But to lose even one ship pointlessly, one that could be restored and put back into circulation—no, such prospects do not suit me.
The dry chirping of the astromech warned of the appearance of Peltas to our right. Medical frigates, which were ordered to drag the victim away from that merciless bitch—gravity.
At eleven clicks behind us, a Munificent-class star frigate appeared. This was bad. One such "frigate" could carry on average another three squadrons of enemy droids.
I had to describe a wide arc, surveying the surroundings one last time along the way. Then my fighter gave afterburners. The X-Wing's foils, folded during the flight to the battle site, split 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 snapped angrily, seeing the enemy fighters, having left the Munificent-class star frigate hangars, moving rapidly toward our Peltas.
"Rogues Nine and Ten," I called Racha and Whie on the link. "Break off from the battle, take over the protection of the medical frigate marked as 'First'."
Touching the tactical monitor, I marked the ship.
"Eleven and Twelve—you protect 'Second'."
"Copy," Larant responded dryly, leading her wingman to intercept the enemy fighters.
"Thirteen and Fourteen—deal with the Munificent-class star frigate," I ordered.
Ahsoka Tano, confirming receipt of the order, along with the fighter piloted by Tallisibeth, turned back.
So, there were only eight of us left. Is that enough to cover the Arquitens-class light cruiser, resist hordes of Vulture-class starfighters, and also tickle the nerves of the Recusant-class light destroyer? Were ordinary pilots in our place, I would most likely say it's not enough. But at the same time, we are gifted. And I wouldn't be in a hurry to write us off.
"Rogue Leader, engaging," I notified the squadron. "Two—on me. Three and Four—you have space control and interception of leakers. Five, Six, Seven, and Eight—protection of the Revanche."
"Copy, Leader," Amersu answered for everyone.
The astromech heralded the appearance of three droid-bombers, then changed its tone; for some reason, it preferred to report the joining of enemy fighters to the picture with a tenor rather than the usual falsetto.
"Mark the bombers as targets one, two, and three respectively," I requested. Unlike the "pairs" scheme used in Ghent (army) and the Empire, enemy squadrons, like the Republic's fighters, acted in "flights" of three machines each.
Twist the calibration screw on the control stick—forward deflector reinforced at the expense of the rear. Look at the display. Almost three clicks between the detected flight of bombers and the Vulture-class starfighters covering them.
I hissed 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-fighter. The droid obnoxiously dropped the targeting visor over my face.
"Get it away, Little Brother," I smirked. "Use the Force, Luke."
The astromech erupted in a tirade, stating its opinion on shooting without precision instruments. Well, I naturally won't be taking it into account.
As soon as the image of the enemy machine was fixed in the computer's memory, the frame on the tactical monitor changed color to green. The cockpit vibrated from the astromech's screeching (I had been baffled by this for a long time, like, how can the sound of a droid located in a vacuum be heard in the cabin at all, until a mechanic told me that in the cockpit, according to some technical notes, along with a binary-to-human translator, a converter was installed that voiced the text of the droid's message exactly in binary. For those pilots who took the trouble to master the speech of their buckets on wheels), my finger on the trigger jerked, the guns fired three times.
The first shots missed the target (the astromech snidely commented on the failure), but the next ones hit right into the bomber's cockpit. Its predatory foils 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 a second Vulture-class starfighter from God knows where began to warm up my forward shield with lasers, and I lost visibility for a while. Behind me, the astromech was howling, complaining about its miserable fate. No, I definitely need to isolate my Little Brother from communicating with the R2D2 given by Senator Amidala to Ahsoka Tano. Of course, the Naboo woman didn't reveal the details that she had once given it to her secret husband, Anakin Skywalker, and that dog, ungrateful as he was, returned the gift, throwing a fit the size of a fascist helmet. The Togruta didn't see any pitfalls in the gift at all—she had grown used to the little astromech over the past year of ups and downs with the Chosen One. But the little, long-unformatted brat had managed to make friends with all the droids of Rogue Squadron. And by the looks of it—this communication had thoroughly spoiled the characters of the latter. Little Brother had never been such a sarcastic whiner before.
Oli, seizing the initiative, swept the Vulture-class starfighter away with a concussion missile. Yes, the girl wasn't planning to stand on ceremony. I mentally thanked her, receiving a mental air kiss in return.
The Force suggested that the situation for the others was no better than ours—we had to fight outnumbered, but our advantage—the Battle Meditation—allowed us to at least partially negate the enemy's superiority in numbers.
It was time to take another victim.
The frame changed color to red. Little Brother shrieked on a single note. It sounded unexpected (Hutt take Ahsoka Tano's astromech! What has he turned my quiet one into?), I flinched, instinctively pulling the trigger. Another Vulture-class starfighter became a memory.
"New target," I asked the astromech.
Another Hyena was a couple of clicks away. Catching it on afterburners was a matter of seconds.
The frame flashed yellow, then turned red again. There wasn't much time to stand on ceremony, so I switched the fire selector to missiles, sending one of them after the invention of the Separatist military machine.
The numbers on the counter ran merrily toward zero until the first message blew the bomber apart. A second later, having locked onto the last one, I sent a "hello" to it as well. A couple of seconds—and another flash, miniature against the background of what was happening in the planet's orbit.
A Vulture-class starfighter flashed past just at the moment when I, pushing the levers forward, led the machine in a wide arc, simultaneously switching the fire control system to guns and pulling in behind a new enemy.
"This one's yours," I told Oli, transmitting the telemetry from my onboard computer. The girl, asking no questions, banked away, mirroring the enemy's actions, after which she began to sting it with guns at minimum power. Toying with it, presumably.
I, however, was interested in a completely different enemy fighter.
"Rogues, attention," I opened the communication channel with the squadron members. "The enemy has organic pilots."
"From where?" Rennax Omani's voice bore no emotional coloring, but judging by her emanations in the Force, the girl was seriously agitated. Well, yeah, it's one thing to crush droids—those are quite predictable—and quite another to fight against organics. Who will do anything just to survive.
"Registering four Rogue-class starfighters," Ahsoka Tano reported. "Rising from the surface."
"Shit," Xiaan commented. "Those fighters are quite dangerous and maneuverable."
These machines were developed by the Separatists based on local fighters stolen on Utapau. And General Grievous, damn him, loved to send his MagnaGuards into battle on such apparatuses. Except right now, in the Force, I felt that inside the Rogue-class starfighter fleeing from me was indeed a sentient.
The Rogue-class starfighter pilot tried to dodge a burst intended to blow apart the right side of his fuselage. First, he jerked his awkward, metal-clad-foil-looking ship from side to side, then began a long right turn, but I had no intention of losing such a tempting target. Not letting the fighter get far from me, I repeated all the maneuvers tried by the doomed pilot.
The Rogue-class starfighter, sensing with its nozzles that things were bad, tumbled like a madman, so I had to keep up. Had my flight continued in a straight line, I would have had a guaranteed chance of a miss. Now, within the framework of the Battle Meditation, the vacuum was like solid ground under my feet, and all these tumbles were no more than a minor nuisance. I fired twice more, and eventually the awkwardly bloated enemy ship exploded.
Little Brother erupted in a trill, saying everything it thought about my desire to fly through the cloud of debris left by the enemy.
"Sorry, bucket," I apologized for one of the fragments hitting the astromech's dome-shaped head. The latter did not accept the apology. Well, fine, you'll be asking me for an oil bath yet.
Another Rogue-class starfighter flashed nearby. And it did so quite rapidly, licking a few percent of the deflector off my X-Wing. No, pal, I don't forgive such insolence.
Turning the machine, I found the fleeing enemy, who had duped two Rogues, heading straight for the Revanche. Around which a serious battle was boiling.
Dozens of Vulture-class starfighters threw themselves at the ship, burning out the remains of its engines. Meanwhile, an entire squadron of Rogue-class starfighters set upon B'ink Utrila, Rennax, Aayla, and Bene. Xiaan and Nuru were chasing Hyenas with all their might, not letting them near the Revanche. But their strength was clearly insufficient. Hutt, where are Ahsoka Tano, Tallisibeth, Larant, and Zett? They should have led the frigates out...
The Togruta informed me through the Force that things weren't great for them either—the number of Rogue-class starfighters wanting to feast on the Peltas had already reached a significant amount. Both frigates were moving at full steam toward the Spirit of Fire. Thanks to Nial Declann, the carrier Star Destroyer was moving toward us at full speed, stuffing the Munificent-class star frigate with missiles and turbolaser bolts. Moreover—Nial had a tactical advantage, coming at the enemy frigate from above—where the number of the Separatist's guns was minimal. A squadron of ARCs from the Spirit of Fire joined the defense of the Peltas, freeing the four Rogues from the need to break away from the group.
"Rogues, change of mission," I ordered. "Everyone cover the Revanche. Five minutes until the flagship arrives—and then we can consider the cruiser saved."
The Jedi and padawans took turns confirming receipt of the order. And the X-Wings, breaking the battle pattern on the fly, mercilessly forcing their engines, rushed toward the long-suffering Arquitens-class light cruiser.
The Separatist fighter, as if nothing had happened, trotted along to the cruiser, not a care in the world. And from the direction of the atmosphere, another five Rogue-class starfighters were already coming in, though they still had a considerable distance to cover.
The astromech re-entered the automatic targeting program and locked the sight on the resilient Separatist. In the time it took for the yellow light to turn red, confirming the lock, it seemed several stars could have been born. I launched a missile, watched as it met the Rogue-class starfighter, and cursing—another squadron of Vulture-class starfighters was moving toward the cruiser—turned to the new guests.
"Little Brother," sensing that Oli, Xiaan, and Nuru had pulled in behind, I threw the X-Wing to intercept the new guests. "Organize an intercept point for me six clicks from the Revanche."
The astromech whistled happily, as if surprised that the pilot couldn't perform the simplest calculations in his head. I was about to snap back, but found that I had no more than a minute to settle matters with the bombers coming in on target. That wouldn't be much.
Sacrificing shields, I direct energy to the engines. Compensation took a moment, and then the machine surged forward, picking up such speed that my body was pressed into the back of the seat. The three Jedi following me, repeating the maneuver, raced after.
Distance to intercept—three clicks.
"Calculate the lead on the Vulture-class starfighters for concussion missiles," I requested. Little Brother hung for a moment, then reminded me that the magazine for the rockets was, generally speaking, not infinite.
"Do it," I ordered in a tone slightly sharper than necessary. "And transmit the telemetry to the machines following us."
The holographic targeting system demonstrated that my fighter was going forty-five degrees past the target. I hastily returned the generators to their previous mode, then again redistributed power between the four fusion engines, thought for a bit, and fed some energy into the shield.
These intricate rearrangements significantly reduced the speed. Well, let's get to work.
The grid didn't stay yellow for long; almost immediately the square of the frame turned red. The missile went to the target. Following it, jets from projectiles fired by Oli's machine flared. Through the Force, I felt Kungurama's frustration—he had already fired all his ammunition and could now support us only with his gun fire.
"Nuru," I said into the comlink on the squadron frequency. "You dumped your missile magazine completely in vain—the mechanics are going to soap your blue neck for that."
Through the Force, I felt the Chiss turn red.
My sight filled with blood again.
The astromech hissed angrily. The last of the Rogue-class starfighters left the intercept point
The battle was far behind, and now he was barreling toward the Revanche unhindered. The pilot sent the predatory machine into a slow, almost lazy rotation, and I couldn't get a lock on him. My X-Wing's gyros wailed, signaling they had exceeded their normal operating limits. What the hell! Since when did enemy mercenaries get so inventive? It seems I celebrated the arrival of the T-65 too early. The machine is still too raw for stunts like this.
The rest of the Rogues, pushed back by other Separatist craft, couldn't stop the Rogue-class starfighter from reaching its target even if they wanted to.
The Revanche, large, clumsy, and devoid of speed, hung pointlessly in space; easy prey even for a novice. Yet, in the Rogue-class starfighter's flight pattern, one could feel a steady hand.
"We have guests," Oli reported, informing me through the Force of the appearance of another Munificent-class star frigate—in the immediate vicinity of the defenseless Revanche.
"Hutt's sake!" I cursed. "Control, how much longer? Our cruiser is about to be eaten!"
"We're doing what we can," the coordinator assured me.
"It looks like we've lost the Revanche after all," Xiaan stated grimly.
"The day isn't over yet," I replied.
After all these stunts and maneuvers, we were five clicks away from the light cruiser. Too far to hope that by the time we arrived, the Revanche wouldn't be burning out, falling toward the planet in a glowing cloud.
But then again, there's always a way out...
The Banking Clan designers clearly slacked off by not providing the frigate's bridge with any serious protection—since they placed it right in the bow. As far as I recall, this ship has no auxiliary bridge, so...
"I'm with you, Master," Oli responded, catching my thought through the Bond.
"What are you talking about?" Xiaan tensed.
Submerging myself in the Force, I let it guide my hand as I entered the jump coordinates. A moment—and the hyperdrive lever goes forward. Another fraction of a second—and it comes back.
The X-Wing, nearly clipping the rear of the Munificent-class star frigate's superstructure, arched like a snake, rounding a technological protrusion. Oli repeated the maneuver behind me, but managed to slam one of her two remaining missiles into the superstructure. Pointless. That part is heavily armored, so...
"What happened?" B'ink Utrila tensed, feeling the Battle Meditation break for a sliver of time, as did the others.
"A micro-jump," Xiaan noted sullenly. "Mindless and dangerous."
In single file, together with my apprentice, ignoring the remarks raining down on our heads, we described a loop over the bridge. Then, finding ourselves on the same side where we began the maneuver, with a sense of deep satisfaction, we slammed our remaining concussion missiles into the green transparisteel of the bridge.
A hit.
The jolt was so violent I was nearly thrown from my seat. The emergency alarm shrieked, competing in volume with the astromech's aria. Both demanded I feed the exhausted deflectors. Nothing for it; I had to comply. The X-Wing tossed like a dry leaf in the wind, but what wouldn't you do to avoid suffering in plumes of flame.
But, to be honest—the fire drenched me from nose to nozzles.
Now the fighter was completely black—sooted up to the point that gourmets might start flocking to it. The droid shrieked about a damaged targeting array—several fragments had gutted the X-Wing's nose. Sad, but not fatal.
"Oli?"
"I'm fine," my apprentice replied restrainedly. "But one of the engines was torn off along with the S-foil. And yes, if you have nothing else to do—could you cover me until the rescue teams arrive? I don't want to spin around this blazing hulk alone."
Chuckling, I glanced at Oli's fighter rotating around its axis and slowly moved toward it. Somewhere behind us, the uncontrolled enemy Munificent-class star frigate was diving into the dense layers of the atmosphere. A Recusant-class light destroyer that tried to push through the breach received very unfriendly "greetings" from the finally arrived Spirit of Fire. The second Munificent-class star frigate thought it best to clear out while the going was good—having finished grinding the Separatist ships into scrap metal, a couple more Arquitens-class light cruisers moved toward the battle site, followed slowly by a Hammerhead-class cruiser.
The odds were clearly not in the enemy's favor. And the droid commanding the last Munificent-class star frigate realized this. For a moment, its ship froze, then, stretching into an arrow for a fraction of a second, it vanished from our sight.
"We're done with the Separatists," reported Aayla Secura, whose X-Wing, decorated with blue stripes, appeared next to my machine. "Daalang's orbit is ours."
"Excellent," I replied, breaking the Battle Meditation. Fatigue rolled over me instantly, like a morning hangover. My eyelids were heavy, my body felt as if it were pumped full of lead.
Therefore, without further ado, the Immortal Emperor went to sleep right in the cockpit of his own fighter.
Well, why not? I can afford it.