by Troy Denning
Located in a repulsor-equipped satellite hovering on a station in front of the Yuuzhan Vong invasion route, Orbital Defense Headquarters was as large as a Mon Calamari floating city, and the control hub at its heart was the size of a full shock-ball court. Despite being packed to overflowing with weapons directors and traffic coordinators, the nerve center was also, at the moment Lando followed his escort through the hatch, as still as space.
Noting that every pair of eyes in the place was fixed on the ceiling, Lando lifted his chin and found himself staring through a large transparisteel dome at a vast abyss of spiraling magma trails and blossoming fireballs. Some of the explosions appeared close enough to lick the shields. Lando’s instinct was to drop for cover and crawl back to the Lady Luck as quickly as his hands and knees would carry him, but it was a matter of pride with him never to be the first to panic. Despite what his eyes were telling him, the station remained stable and, in a room packed with electronics, there was not a single crackle of pulse static.
In a deliberately calm voice, he asked, “Optical ceiling?”
“That’s right,” his escort, a winsome petty officer who would have made even Tendra frown with jealousy, said. “Sometimes it helps to point to the station and see what’s going on.”
“Uh-huh,” Lando said.
Now that he was sorting out the scene, he could see the blue circles of several thousand ion drives receding into the firestorm. Garm Bel Iblis had turned on the invaders like a cornered wampa, and Fleet Group Two was accelerating through the refugee screen to meet the enemy head-on. New Republic corvettes and frigates were vanishing by the dozens; cruisers and Star Destroyers were belching fire and falling away one after another.
Lando took his comlink off his belt and opened a channel to Tendra. “Have you finished with the weapons platforms yet?”
“I’m making the last delivery now,” she answered. “There’s still an open shield section on the far side of the planet, so I thought I’d drop the extras at the Imperial Palace.”
“You’d better hold off on that,” Lando said. “I think they’ll be closing that hole shortly. I’ll meet you at our rendezvous.”
“When?” Tendra sounded worried.
“Soon,” Lando replied. “Very soon.”
The petty officer leaned through the hatch and summoned the two YVH war droids Lando was delivering, then led the way across the control hub. By the time they had twined their way through the maze of aisles and checkpoints to the lift tube on the other side, Fleet Group Two had penetrated the refugee screen and was webbing the darkness beyond with turbolaser fire. The hostage ships themselves were accelerating forward, their dark shapes backlit by blue halos of ion glow.
The petty officer pressed her palm to a security pad to authorize access, then led Lando and his droids onto the command deck. Though General Ba’tra was already surrounded by aides and junior command officers—all speaking to him at once—the Bothan motioned the newcomers over immediately. Muzzle curled into a faint snarl, he looked the war droids over and grunted approval.
Gratified to finally find someone who appreciated the craftsmanship of the droids, Lando smiled warmly and extended his hand. “General Ba’tra, how nice to meet—”
“Cache it, Calrissian,” Ba’tra snarled. “We’re in the middle of a battle.”
Lando let his hand drop with his spirits, but kept the smile. “Yes, sir, that’s why I’m donating these war droids to your security detail.”
“Donating?”
“Free of charge,” Lando confirmed.
Ba’tra looked doubtful. “And what do you get in return?”
“Nothing, yet,” Lando said. “These are good droids, and I’m just trying to preserve the market long enough for people to realize that.”
“Preserve the market?” The Bothan smiled wryly, then plinked a claw off YVH 1-302A’s armor. “Quantum?”
“Better,” Lando said, deliberately duplicating the general’s brusque manner. Echoing the customer’s tone was one of his most effective sales techniques. “Laminanium. Developed it ourselves.”
“Ah.”
Sensing the Bothan’s approval, Lando said, “I have twenty more aboard the Lady Luck, if you have a use for them.”
“They’re not spoken for?”
Lando shook his head. “This is my last stop.”
A flare of orange light strobed through the control hub’s observation dome as a pair of space mines fired their rockets and accelerated toward a Ralltiiri refugee vessel. The converted freighter’s shields absorbed the detonation of the first mine, but the second slammed into the bow, igniting a wave of secondary explosions that vaporized the ship stem to stern.
“Answers that question,” Ba’tra commented, watching the vessel explode. “Definitely Vong guards aboard.”
A flickering sheet of orange filled the control hub as a dozen more mine rockets ignited.
The faces of the general’s assistants fell, and a Bith female asked, “Shall I have sector two-twenty-three deactivate, General?”
Before answering, Ba’tra turned to consult a tactical display hanging on the command deck wall. Wedge’s Fleet Group Three was sweeping down from behind, but even a quick glance at the situation revealed that Garm’s force could not hold the Yuuzhan Vong in place. While the remnants of Fleet Group Two had already carved out a sizable hollow at the front of the column, enemy vessels were sweeping past on all sides, chasing the refugee ships toward the mine shell.
The orange light in the control hub died away suddenly and was not replaced by the flash of detonating mines. Ba’tra’s head snapped back long enough to take in the sight of a dozen refugee vessels streaking through the mine shell unimpeded.
The Bothan whirled on the Bith who had suggested deactivating the sector. “I did not authorize that!”
What little color there was faded from the Bith’s face. “Neither did I.”
Ba’tra snatched his comlink from a pocket and stepped to the transparisteel wall that overlooked the control hub’s main floor.
“Activate sector two-twenty-three!”
The Bothan was staring at a lone Mon Calamari seated forty meters away in the heart of the giant floor. She merely folded her hands in her lap and looked out the ceiling. The mine controllers flanking her did likewise.
“I see.” Ba’tra snapped his comlink off and turned to Lando. “Are your droids as adept at dealing with traitors as they are infiltrators?”
Lando glanced at the controllers and swallowed, not certain that he wanted to answer truthfully.
“Do you know how quickly the enemy will reach us once they have cleared the mine shell?” Ba’tra asked. “And I should mention that you will not be leaving this station until I have an answer.”
“You designate targets and issue an override command,” Lando said.
“Which is?”
Lando did not answer, for his thoughts were suddenly full of thrust calculations and pitfalls.
“Calrissian?”
“General, do you have any way to keep your mines from targeting your orbital defense platforms?”
Ba’tra scowled, but looked to an Arcona assistant.
“We could give them the deactivation codes,” the aide suggested. “With a tight-beam transmission, they could kill the warhead and let the mine bounce off their shields.”
“Good,” Lando said. “Then I suggest you deactivate all sectors.”
“What?”
“Let them through,” Lando clarified. “The refugees, the Yuuzhan Vong, everyone.”
Ba’tra’s eyes narrowed in thought, and Lando could see that the general was already thinking along the same lines. This particular Bothan, at least, deserved his post.
After a moment, Ba’tra asked, “You know what will happen when those ships hit the planetary shields?”
Lando shrugged. “Your mines might stop the first hundred ships—”
“Not even that many,” the Bith said.
“So you might as
well put your assets to their best use.”
Ba’tra glanced up at the stream of hostage vessels pouring through the deactivated sector toward the surface of Coruscant. The first transports were already vanishing behind the rim of the observation dome, long needles of ion efflux trailing them as they accelerated into the planetary shield.
“You know this won’t save the hostages?” Ba’tra asked.
“But at least the New Republic won’t be the ones killing them,” Lando said. “And it just might save Coruscant.”
A bowl of golden light rose from the planet as the first refugee ship disintegrated against the shield.
Ba’tra winced, then nodded. “Very well, Calrissian. Do it.”
Lando’s jaw fell. “Me?”
“Your idea, your assignment,” the Bothan said. “I’ll have someone fetch you some stars, General. You’ve just been reactivated.”
By the time Fleet Group Three connected with Fleet Group Two, local space was too littered with battle debris to enter at anything approaching combat speed. Through the flotsam cloud, Mara could see half a dozen Star Destroyers and perhaps twenty or thirty smaller vessels using their turbolasers to clear an exit path, but even they were barely crawling. At least half were venting bodies and atmosphere, and a dozen were moving only under the power of a nearby vessel’s tractor beam. Clearly, Garm Bel Iblis and his followers were out of the battle.
The Yuuzhan Vong rearguard was pouring around the devastation on all sides, trading fusillades with Fleet Group One as they streamed past into the deactivated mine shell. Traest Kre’fey had apparently chosen not to engage until he joined up with Wedge’s group. The few thousand vessels remaining to him were all standing off, content to attack from a distance while the invaders poured into orbit and swarmed Coruscant’s defense platforms. Though they were badly outnumbered, Mara found it difficult to believe the admiral would be so cowardly. Despite his Bothan heritage, he had always struck her as an honorable soldier and loyal citizen.
The scene at the edges of Coruscant’s atmosphere made Mara’s heart race for Ben’s safety. A thousand-kilometer circle of shield glowed gold beneath the constant bombardment of hostage ships. Every new impact launched a kilometers-high pillar of fire and sent shock circles rippling across the surface. Occasionally, a refugee vessel broke away at the last second as the crew finally overpowered their captors. Every attempt ended badly, with the craft crashing into the shield anyway, or being blasted out of space by a waiting frigate, or disintegrating under the stress of trying to escape. For the most part, the Yuuzhan Vong suicide squads were forcing the pilots to hit the same area, and the largest detonations were already causing forks of disruption static to dance across the shield.
Danni Quee’s voice came over the channel. “We’ve got another yammosk.”
Mara dropped her gaze to the tactical display, where a targeting box had appeared around a heavy cruiser already deep inside the mine shell. A dozen weary sighs sounded from the comm speaker. This would be Eclipse’s fourth yammosk kill. They had taken out the second one with Saba’s glowball tactic, but the third kill had cost so many pilots that Luke had reorganized Eclipse’s forces into a single wing of two fifteen-pilot squadrons. When Danni had detected no more gravitic pulses, they had all dared hope they had killed the last one, but it now seemed apparent the invaders had been holding it in reserve.
Luke opened a channel to the Mon Mothma. “We’ll need that support, Command.” During their last rearming break, Wedge had offered the support of both Rogue Squadron and the Wraiths—who were being tapped for combat duty despite their status as an intelligence unit—for the next yammosk attack. “This is a tough one.”
“Negative, Farmboy,” Wedge responded. “You are not authorized for attack.”
Mara felt Luke bristle and knew how tired he was. Luke never let himself get so angry she could feel it.
“This is not time to be looking out for old buddies, Command. You can see how desperate things are. If we don’t take out that—”
“I said no,” Wedge interrupted. “I can’t order you to hold back, but trust me. There are some things I can’t say over a combat channel.”
Mara felt Luke perform the Jedi equivalent of counting ten. They still had no reason to believe the Yuuzhan Vong could eavesdrop on their communications—much less break military codes—but the same could not be said for the refugee ships. If any of those pilots happened to be smugglers in the Han Solo or Talon Karrde mold, they would have the finest comm-scanning equipment in the galaxy.
“Copy,” Luke said. “Let us know when we have authorization.”
“Count on it.”
“Wedge?” Mara was as surprised as anyone to hear herself saying Wedge’s name over the comm—and even she wasn’t sure why she had done it until she asked, “Can you patch me through to Coruscant civil communications?”
There was a slight pause, then Wedge said, “Sure, we can do that. Who do you want to talk to?”
“My brother-in-law,” she said.
The curiosity she felt from Luke lasted only as long as it took the next refugee ship to strike Coruscant’s shields. This time, the disruption static shrank back on itself and burned through the shields. Two more vessels crashed beside the hole, enlarging it by a factor of ten, then a third pilot guided his lumbering starliner through the breach to safety. The comm channels crackled with an odd sort of half cheer as Fleet Group Three gave voice to the jubilation of finally seeing a refugee ship survive. The accolades ceased when a pair of Yuuzhan Vong frigates darted through the hole after it.
Han Solo’s voice came over the comm speaker. “Mara? What happened?” The channel was full of static. “Is Luke—”
“He’s fine,” Mara interrupted. “Listen to me. The shields are going. Can you get Ben offplanet?”
“Threepio is already packing,” Han said. “We’ll be in the air as soon as we can reach the Falcon.”
“Thank you.” There was an awkward pause during which Mara found herself caught between saying again how sorry she was and apologizing for thinking Anakin’s mission had been a good idea, then she asked, “How’s Leia?”
“Hanging on,” Han answered. Mara flashed on an image of Leia clutching Ben to her breast, then Han said, “We’ll see ya.”
He switched off, leaving Mara and Luke alone with the war. She felt Luke reaching out to her through the Force, trying to fill her with a sense of reassurance she could tell he did not quite feel himself.
I’m fine, Luke, she thought.
But Mara could feel Luke’s irritation mounting, as well. Even Master Earnest was growing impatient with this strange game of follow-and-wait. More than a dozen Yuuzhan Vong vessels slipped through the overload breach into Coruscant’s atmosphere before planetary shielding finally brought a replacement generator on-line.
Fleet Group Three was almost at the mine shell when Wedge gave the order to cease pursuit. Though there had not been an enemy vessel close enough for X-wings to fire at in twenty minutes, Luke ordered the Sabers and Wild Knights to take up static combat stations two hundred kilometers ahead of the Star Destroyer. Puzzled by Wedge’s hesitation, both squadrons settled in to watch the deadly light storm being hurled back and forth by the big capital ships.
The puzzle was solved less than a minute later, when the entire mine shell sprouted rocket candles. The capital ships ceased firing. An astonished silence fell over the comm channels as the mines locked onto enemy vessels and curved after them. The Yuuzhan Vong maneuvered wildly, but they were trapped against Coruscant with nowhere to go. No sooner would they escape one mine than they ran afoul of another. Some vessels skimmed the planetary shields and were instantly torn into rubble. A few collided with each other, and still others grew so distracted they fell prey to missiles and turbolaser fire from the orbital defense platforms.
Eventually, the Yuuzhan Vong realized they were better off to stop and weather the storm, relying on their weapons and shielding singularities to destroy the ap
proaching mines. Many failed and were blasted into rubble. A thousand more suffered hull breaches and began to vent internal systems. Almost all took at least one hit, but an astonishing number showed little sign of damage. They returned to their missions, attacking the orbital defense platforms and herding refugee ships to destruction.
Then, almost as one, the crippled Yuuzhan Vong vessels dropped out of orbit, hurling themselves into the planetary shields. Disruption static shot across the atmosphere. Whole grids shimmered and winked out. Planet-bound generator stations exploded with flashes brilliant enough to be seen from space. Skips began to drop off the surviving Yuuzhan Vong vessels and dive toward the surface.
On Mara’s tactical display, the cruiser carrying the fourth yammosk was blinking slowly to show damage. But it was still intact, drifting toward the sunny side of the planet.
“Okay, Farmboy,” Wedge commed. “Now you are authorized to attack.”
FORTY-NINE
Even before Jaina peered into the sunken compound, she feared they might be too late. An oily column of pyre smoke was rising out of the pit, gathering beneath in a blackened valve that periodically cracked open to puff the fumes out into the vacuum. The air reeked of charred flesh and scorched bone, but also of slower kinds of decomposition that made clear why the place lay so far from anything else. Whatever the Yuuzhan Vong did with their dead, it did not involve preserving them.
Despite the guidance of her comlink’s signal finder, Jaina did not see Lowbacca until a powdery arm rose out of the ash and waved them onto the observation balcony outside the tunnel mouth. She dropped to her belly and, trying not to think about the fact that she was crawling through the incinerated remains of untold thousands of Yuuzhan Vong, advanced to the edge of the pit.
What lay below struck her as more of a processing center than a mortuary. About a tenth the size of the spaceport, the five-sided facility lay at the hub of a dozen large travelways, most of them emerging from the worldship’s murky interior. Many of the subterranean passages had been permanently sealed with yorik coral plugs. The rest were choked with Yuuzhan Vong mourners, their numbers no doubt swollen by the strike team’s efficiency—a thought in which Jaina found herself taking some solace. The Yuuzhan Vong had finally shattered the emotional armor that had been accumulating around her since Anni Capstan, her first regular Rogue Squadron wingmate, perished over Ithor. They had made the war hurt again, and now she wanted to hurt them back.