Tyrant's Test

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  “Damage control is reporting that the fire in the generator compartment has blown through and ventilated to vacuum.”

  “Noted. Weapons, launch all remaining CM-nines,” Inadi said with a frown. “Maybe we can set her up for the knockout.”

  Three missiles leaped from the bow launchers, another four from the stern tubes. An eighth, located in a launcher adjacent to the destroyed number eight battery, hung up in the tube, starting a third fire.

  “Incoming!” shouted the tracking officer.

  The Yevethan thrustship had answered Vanguard’s salvo with one of its own—a cluster of ten more of the swift, powerful missiles that had destroyed the particle-shield generators.

  “Helm, get us out of here,” Inadi said grimly.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  The 190-meter gunship was among the most agile of the New Republic capital vessels, but it could not come close to matching the acceleration of the enemy missiles. Inadi’s hope was that running would give the octets at the stern enough time to swat away all of the pursuing missiles. As she watched the gap close she regretted not having turned the ship sooner.

  “Our CM-nines should reach the target in eight seconds,” the tracking officer reported. “Bomber escorts have broken off—bombers are launching their missiles now. Confirming release of an egg from Black One—confirming release of an egg from Black Two—”

  Something struck Vanguard astern with so much force that the tactical officer was knocked to his hands and knees and Inadi was thrown hard against the plot table.

  “Missile impact,” the damage control officer called out.

  “Everything’s dead back of section forty,” the systems officer reported.

  “Engines two, four, and six are gone,” said the helmsman. “Thrust now at one quarter and falling.”

  Inadi stared at the plot table as two more fast-moving blips closed on her vessel. “Get to the pods,” she said hoarsely. “All stations, abandon ship—abandon ship—”

  Her answer was a roaring sound, darkness, a fierce light, and, finally, silence.

  Hovering five thousand meters above the barren, pitted surface of ILC-905’s third planet, Esege Tuketu and the other members of Red Flight watched the flashes of light overhead as they waited impatiently for their chance.

  The order to stand off had come just as they had begun climbing toward the shipyard for their attack run. “Hold your position until we have the results of the attacks underway,” said the tactical officer. “I need something in reserve, and you’re it.”

  “They’d better leave some for us,” Skids said over the bomber’s cockpit comm on hearing their instructions. “We come back with the racks full and no scratches on the paint, and we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Tuketu said nothing. His eye had been drawn by the first of several brilliant explosions, above and portside of them. “That was an egg,” he said, marking the distinctive pure white color of the flash. “And another.”

  The third explosion was different—smaller and yellower at first, but longer-lived, and larger and redder at its peak. As it started to fade, there was another series of flashes at nearly the same spot in the sky—three small blue-white flashes, then a blood-red irregular billow.

  When Tuketu looked back at his tracking display, both the trailing thrustship and Vanguard had disappeared.

  “What was all that?” Skids demanded. “Did we get one, Tuke?”

  “Yeah,” said Tuketu. “And so did they.”

  Both the successful attack on the second thrustship and the loss of Vanguard went nearly ignored on the bridge of Indomitable. The focus was the last few seconds of Blue Flight’s dive toward the shipyard.

  “Two thousand meters to shield boundary,” said the tactical officer. “Fighters are pulling out. Fifteen hundred. One thousand. Confirming release on Blue One—oh, blast, where’d he come from? Negative release on Blue Three. Somebody got ’im.”

  A Yevethan fighter streaking across at right angles to the attack vector had fired on Blue Three, first crippling it and then colliding with the debris. That tiny explosion was swallowed moments later by the detonation of Blue One’s egg.

  “Find out if the shields are down,” Brand said grimly.

  “Battery four, give me three bursts on the secondary target.”

  The laser bolts expended themselves uselessly against nothingness. The shields were still intact.

  “Commodore, maybe the thrustship that’s docked there is protecting it.”

  “No ship that size produces a shield envelope that large,” Brand argued. “How did we take out the other ship?”

  “Battle analysis says that Vanguard and Black Flight hit that Fat Man with seven CM-nines and ten CM-fives in the seconds before the first egg cracked. That must have pushed the shields close to their limit.”

  “Close to their limit,” Brand repeated, then stabbed a finger at the plot table, pointing at the thrustship attached to the shipyard. “What’s the standard radius of an Imperial particle shield?”

  “Two hundred meters.”

  “What’s the diameter of a Fat Man?”

  “Two hundred forty meters.”

  “So the one that’s docked—it’s not fully enclosed by the yard’s shields.”

  “So what? It has its own shields. Which are sure to be back up by now, even if it did have them down for unloading.”

  “Exactly. Which means that there should be an interference zone between the two shield boundaries,” said Brand. “If we can wedge something in there—”

  “Then the shields will concentrate and focus the blast, multiplying the effective yield.”

  “Can a K-wing targeting computer find the interference zone?”

  Still trading blows with the lead thrustship, Indomitable shook and groaned around them.

  “No,” said the tac officer, shaking his head. “But the E-wings ought to be able to light it up for them.”

  Brand nodded. “Signal Red Flight. Tell them what we need.”

  Tuketu found it eerily disconcerting to be climbing toward such a huge target and not be receiving any defensive fire. The thrustship docked at the shipyard was completely and inexplicably passive to their approach.

  “Tactical,” said Tuketu. “Has this Fat Man mixed it up at all yet?”

  “Negative, Red One. We have not seen any activity.”

  “Ignoring us so far, too, Tac.” He closed the link and called back to Skids, “Maybe it’s just a freighter. Or a dormitory.”

  “Doesn’t matter to me,” said Skids. “You get us there, I’ll dent it up the same no matter what it is.”

  They were not to go completely unmolested—that was too much to expect. Five Yevethan fighters screamed in from the starboard, sending one E-wing spinning down toward the planet on a plume of smoke and drawing two others away in pursuit. Tuketu increased both his speed and the rate of his evasive maneuvers, challenging his escort to keep up with him.

  “Who is that over there, Cover Four?”

  “They call me Dogo, sir.”

  “Well, Dogo, they tell me that somewhere about a hundred meters wide of that Fat Man there’s a seam between two shields. You paint it up so I can see it, and Skids here will do his best to rip it open.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  The E-wing jumped ahead and shortly after began firing its laser cannon at the invisible wall ahead, neatly sweeping his aim back and forth across its face.

  “There it is,” called Dogo.

  “I’ve got it—clear out,” Tuketu said at the same moment, looking at the line revealed by the E-wing’s laser fire. “Looks pretty tight, Skids. Hang on to the egg—see if you can get a CM-five in there.”

  “I don’t need any flapping target practice,” Skids grumbled, but complied. “Ready to fire.”

  “Clear to fire.”

  “Missile away.”

  Running up the big third engine, Tuketu began a dizzying pullout. “Red Two, what do you see?”


  “Sorry, Red One—your bird exploded at the shield boundary. Repeat, did not get in. Let me have a run at it.”

  “Negative,” Tuketu said, wheeling the bomber around for another pass. “There’s something I want to try—”

  There was a sudden crackle of static, then Red Two came back on, his voice suddenly tight with excitement. “Tuke, that lead Fat Man’s coming back this way—Cover Eight just got toasted.”

  “Run for cover,” Tuketu said. “Take my escort—I’ve got the target zeroed. Keep the yard between you and the Fat Man. If I don’t get in this time, I want you and Flick to put your eggs right on the seam, one-two. Got it?”

  “Got it. What are you up to?”

  “Just get clear and be ready to scamper.” Tuketu switched off the combat comm. “Skids?”

  “Here as always.”

  “I want to take her in and park right on that seam, zero velocity, so you can line it up from ten meters away. If it goes in, I’ll get us clear—their own shields will protect us long enough.”

  “You think so.”

  Tuketu glanced out the cockpit bubble at the shipyard. “This thing’s full of Star Destroyers, Skids. It’s got to go. Can you make the shot? It’s up to you.”

  “Yeah, I can make the shot,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  “What in the devil is he up to?” Brand demanded. “He didn’t drop his egg on the first pass, and now he’s just sitting there.”

  “I don’t know—his combat comm’s down,” said the tactical officer. “It almost looks like he’s trying to put himself right in the interference zone.”

  Brand looked away from the plot table and out at the shipyard just in time to see it enveloped in an enormous explosion that ripped the thrustship free and sent the yard into a slow, tumbling roll. Swallowing hard, he ordered the mains directed at the mortally wounded structure and watched as they tore through what was left, turning the jumble of vessels inside into a spreading cloud of burned and twisted debris.

  While the dissection continued, the damaged thrustship slowly fell planetward in a graceful death dive. The lead thrustship followed it part of the way down, then climbed out and away under full thrust, leaving half a dozen of its fighters scattered behind it, abandoned.

  Brand turned away and leaned heavily on the plot table with both hands, as though he needed support for shaky legs.

  “Now we know what it takes to beat them,” he whispered. “Begin recovery operations.”

  Three thousand kilometers above the plane of the star system, the thrustship Tholos slowed to a stop and turned end for end.

  During the climb out from the third planet, a full load of gravity bombs had been racked in the central drop chute, and the main batteries had been shuttled along their internal tracks until all eight were located in the ship’s upper hemisphere. From there, they could be directed at a single target during the attack dive.

  Hold nothing back when you go to kill—

  “Ko nakaza!” cried Par Drann, his fighting crests flushed and swollen. “Soko darama—for the honor of the viceroy, the Blessed, the All. Now, Proctor—there is our target. Speed! Before the vermin escape us—”

  Nil Spaar gently caressed the mara-nas hanging in alcove five. In only three days it had more than doubled in size, and the surface had taken on a rich iridescent sheen that foretold a superior nesting. Wrapping his tongue around his finger, he drew in the complex scent and taste of the oily secretions.

  Nitakka, he thought. A strong young male to carry my blood.

  There was a noise behind him, and the viceroy turned to see Tal Fraan standing in the doorway of the cell. Behind him, Nil Spaar caught a blurred glimpse of the keeper as he hurried away, his errand completed.

  “Darama,” Tal Fraan said, taking one step into the alcove and kneeling, his head lowered, his neck bared.

  “My proctor cogent,” said Nil Spaar. With a half stride forward, he reached out and lightly laid his hand on the back of Tal Fraan’s head, keeping him in the posture of submission. “Tell me—when you warranted your knowledge of the vermin with your blood, was it sincere, or simply what was expected?”

  “Most sincere, darama.”

  “Good,” said Nil Spaar, tightening his grip on the younger male’s skull. His fighting crests were a purplish red and swelling quickly. “Now let us be certain of my memory. Did you promise me that the prospect of an alliance between myself and these Imperial vermin would fill Leia with such fear that she would not dare make war against the Blessed? This was a shadow they feared and would not dare enter—did you say that?”

  “Darama, what has happened?”

  Nil Spaar pushed Tal Fraan’s head down sharply, until his neck was bent to the breaking point. He made a fist with his other hand, and the long, sharp dewclaw slid out of its retractile casing. “The vermin destroyed Black Nine, at Prildaz.”

  The resistance went out of Tal Fraan’s body. “I give you my blood as a gift to your child,” he murmured.

  “You gave me this gift once before,” said Nil Spaar. “But this time I will take it.” He struck with such sudden violence that Tal Fraan’s head was severed completely, coming free in his hand while the body dropped to the floor. Discarding the head with casual contempt, Nil Spaar stepped over the body and left the alcove as the keeper came running.

  “The sacrifice was unclean,” Nil Spaar said. “None of his blood is to go to my children. Make meal of his carcass.”

  “Yes, Viceroy.”

  Taking no notice of the blood spattered on his armor and vestments, Nil Spaar strode through the corridors with long strides and a vengeful countenance, driving those he encountered to flee before him. When he reached his quarters, he shouted for Eri Palle.

  “Yes, darama,” said the attaché, coming at a run. One glance was enough to tell him the viceroy’s state, and Eri Palle took care to abase himself well out of the viceroy’s reach. “How can I serve you?”

  “Send for Vor Duull. Tell Vor Duull to bring his boxes,” said Nil Spaar, plunging himself into the deep, comforting folds of his own nesting. “And then bring Han Solo to me—I have a message to send to the vermin queen.”

  For once, there was no craft or subtlety in a transmission from Nil Spaar—and for once, there was absolute silence in the conference room. Leia watched it with her arms wrapped tight against her body, one hand covering her mouth. When it was over, she left the room, her face white, her eyes dead.

  Ackbar was little better off, despite having looked away through the worst of it. Alole was weeping silently, fat tears painting her round cheeks. Behn-Kihl-Nahm wore a scowl of ultimate contempt.

  Alone in his office, Drayson wore a mask of cold rage.

  They had seen Nil Spaar savagely beating a bound Han for nearly twenty minutes—not just beating him, but kicking and hurling him about an empty compartment in an animal rage. The beating went on until Han was bleeding freely from his mouth, his nose, from gashes on his face and arms, his chest, his calf. The beating went on until Han’s blood was smeared on the bulkheads, the deck, and halfway up Nil Spaar’s powerful forearms. The beating went on until Han could no longer stand when the viceroy dragged him to his feet, not even with a wall to support him.

  For long seconds, Nil Spaar had stood in a half crouch over Han’s crumpled form. The viceroy was partly turned away from the lens, and they could not see his face. But they could see his thorax plates rise and fall, and one hand flexing menacingly as a great claw appeared, vanished, appeared, and vanished again.

  Then Nil Spaar had straightened and turned to face them. They saw that he was bleeding as well—tiny rivulets running from the two enlarged scarlet crests at his temples. Staring into the holocam, he had wiped at the blood with the back of one hand, then sucked his hand clean.

  Finally, he had made his message explicit, though with unusual economy of words—the only words spoken throughout the entire horror, delivered in a dark, angry growl:

  “Leave Koornacht now.”


  Chapter Eight

  Akanah was the first to discover the Yevethan starship orbiting J’t’p’tan.

  As soon as Mud Sloth dropped out of hyperspace on the fringe of the Doornik 628 system, Akanah slipped away to the service compartment. There she entered a deep meditation, submerging herself in the Current and searching for the presence of the Circle.

  Staying at the skiff’s controls, Luke first performed a sweep with Mud Sloth’s feeble sensors, then closed his eyes and entered his own reverie, connecting to his new surroundings and searching for local disturbances in the Force.

  Neither he nor the skiff found anything of note, but when Akanah rejoined him, she told him of her discovery.

  “How do you know? Can you actually see this ship?” he asked skeptically.

  “It is difficult to explain. Let me try to show you—”

  “In a moment,” Luke said. “Explain first.”

  “Is this important now? What does it matter how I know? I know.”

  “It matters if you expect us to base what we do on what you’ve told me,” he said.

  The unspoken tensions dating back to Utharis were fully awakened by then. “Have you become a skeptic, now?” she asked, her expression more hurt than angry. “You no longer trust my gifts?”

  “Akanah, I know there’s more than one source of knowledge and more than one kind of truth—”

  “Is it that the Jedi are unwilling to share the Force, then?” she asked. “Are you uncomfortable knowing I have a path to knowledge that doesn’t require you, that isn’t yet open to you? At the same time that you ask me to teach you, you seem to need to doubt, even to discredit—”

  Luke was shaking his head vigorously. “No—no, that’s wrong. The Force is a river from which many can drink, and the training of the Jedi is not the only cup that can catch it,” he said. “If we didn’t know that before we met the witches of Dathomir, we surely know it now.”

  “That is something, at least.”

  “But the truth lives side by side with lies, and errors, and self-deceptions—with hopeful dreams, and baseless fears, and mistaken memories,” Luke added gently. “And we have to try to know one from the other. All I ask is that you help me understand the source of your insight. That will help me know what weight to give it.”