The Old Republic Series

by Sean Williams

  Ula reassured himself that this wasn’t Jet’s style, that if he were ever to try to change the course of the battle, he would do so in a much subtler fashion. Still, Ula would be on the ball for anything at all, and had armed himself with a new hold-out blaster, just in case.

  “Deploy fighters,” he ordered the fleet. “Commence bombardment of primary targets.”

  Instantly the dots in the main display began to shift. Four squadrons of mixed Mk. VI Imperial interceptors and Republic XA-8 starfighters would strafe the orbital shell of hexes with laser cannons and proton torpedoes, creating holes in four crucial locations. Two of those locations would allow the all-important troop transports access to lower orbit, there to discharge the free-jumpers, Larin among them. It was vital they weren’t interfered with en route. The other two orbital holes would provide critical windows for the bombardment from Paramount, mainly by B-28s with Imperial pilots. In the first engagement, 20 percent of the missiles launched at the planet had been disabled during descent by interfering hexes. Every shot fired now had to count.

  The interceptors and starfighters hit the shell of hexes. Space lit up with explosions, sparkling almost delicately in the distance. The Auriga Fire maintained a respectful distance from both main attack forces and the combined Republic–Imperial fleets, stationed at a point equidistant between the planet and its moon, but it wasn’t the only ship ranging freely across the battlefield.

  “We’re receiving a hail from the First Blood,” said Jet.

  “Put him on.”

  “I’m noting an increase in subspace communications,” said Dao Stryver in miniature. His face was one of several at the bottom of the Auriga Fire’s main holodisplay. The crescent of his ship swept across the battlefield in a silver streak. “Since the black hole warps all attempts to communicate outside the system, I suggest that these are all short-range messages, originating on Sebaddon.”

  “The hexes,” said Ula. “Could this be how they communicate with one another?”

  “It’s a strong possibility that this is the voice of the coordinating intelligence. We’ve detected no other meaningful signals by radio or microwave.”

  “Can you locate the source?”

  “I’m working on it. With two more ears listening, I’ll be able to triangulate.”

  “Consider it done,” Ula said, making a mental note to requisition the resources from Colonel Kalisch and Captain Pipalidi.

  “Launches,” announced Jet.

  “Us or them?”

  “Them.”

  Two locations on the globe of Sebaddon had been highlighted. Six missiles were rising on ion engines, their payloads most likely intended to patch the holes the interceptors and starfighters had made in the orbital defense.

  “Get those transports through,” Ula broadcast to the fleet’s commanders. “Those holes might not last long.”

  Confirmation came from both sides. A dozen medium-sized vessels broke ranks, accelerating at the maximum capacity of their drives. Imperial Vokoff-Strood VT-22 light troop transports raced Celestial Industries NR2 light transports, each carrying hundreds of men and women, humans and aliens, Jedi and Sith, and combat droids, all intent on doing what they could to crush the hex threat.

  Already he regretted pressing Larin onto Captain Pipalidi’s staff. It had been worth it for the look of surprise and delight on her face, but what if something were to happen to her? Was that a cost he was willing to bear?

  “Don’t forget what Stryver wanted,” said Jet.

  “I haven’t,” he said, although it had entirely slipped his mind. “Put me through to Colonel Kalisch.”

  The Imperials claimed a lack of resources, and so did Captain Pipalidi when he got through to her. It could well be true, Ula thought, but it was still frustrating.

  “Not even one ship?” he pleaded. “It doesn’t have to be battle-worthy. We can be the third ourselves, if necessary.”

  “All right,” she said. “You can have my personal transport. Its arms and shields were stripped, so don’t put it in harm’s way.”

  “You have my word. Thank you, Captain.”

  “Transports through,” said Jet.

  Ula kicked himself for not paying attention to the bigger picture. The descending troop transports had powered through the temporary gaps in the orbital shell. Most were unaffected, but one was releasing its jumpers prematurely, fighting a swarm of hexes released from a close-passing missile. All were accompanied by interceptors and starfighters, which would remain under the shell once it closed, to do what damage they could from underneath.

  “Launch second bombardment,” Ula ordered. Anything to keep the hexes busy while the free-jumpers fell.

  “Confirmed,” said Jet. “No, wait. Kalisch wants to attack a different target. Some of the missiles came from a location that wasn’t on our grid. He’s requesting permission to take it out.”

  Ula ground his teeth. On the one hand, it was good that Kalisch had asked permission first. On the other, there wasn’t any doubt in Ula’s mind that he would do what he wanted regardless what Ula said. The Paramount was the ship most at risk from ground launches. As the largest in the combined fleet, it was only natural that the hexes would target it first.

  “Tell him to stick to the plan,” Ula said, “and next time I ask for resources, he’d better comply. He can hit that target in the next round.”

  Jet grinned as he relayed the order. Kalisch’s response was curt, but he did obey.

  “Where are my ears?” asked Stryver.

  “Uh, on their way,” said Ula, hastily noting that Pipalidi’s shuttle had left the Commenor and was awaiting instructions. Jet sent the pilot permission to obey Stryver’s orders, within reason, and synchronized its comm with the First Blood’s.

  “We’re your third ship,” Ula told the Mandalorian. “You can use our location as a fixed receiver.”

  “Don’t forget to share your data,” said Jet. “If Clunker can work out their code, we might gain ourselves a better tactic than just blowing things up.”

  “You think you could slice into their command systems?” Ula asked.

  “I’m not promising anything.”

  Something else for them to keep an eye on, thought Ula. As if there weren’t enough things already.

  One of the ground-launched missiles hadn’t exploded in low orbit or targeted the Paramount. It was headed for the moon, and coming very close to the Auriga Fire.

  “That’s either aimed at us,” he said, “or it’s the first escaping factory.”

  “First of all, let’s get out of its way,” said Jet, activating the ship’s ion drives. “Second, Kalisch seems to have it covered already.”

  Ula noted only then the dozen Blackhawks pursuing the missile with weapons locked. He was glad that someone else was on the ball.

  As the Auriga Fire moved out of the path of the approaching missile, he noted that all the free-jumpers had left their transports and begun their descent. Behind them came the infected ship. Its drives were locked on full, powering nose-first into the atmosphere. That was official fleet policy now: when infected beyond all hope, crew members were to aim their vessel at the nearest target and ditch. Already its skin glowed bright red, and fragments of hull metal were peeling away, providing both cover and hazards for the free-fallers.

  Voices called for him over the comm. A hundred data streams awaited his attention. He couldn’t sit staring at the holo forever.

  Good luck, Larin, he thought, trying not to feel like he was saying good-bye forever. I hope this is what you wanted.

  THE VT-22 TRANSPORT rattled and shook so much that Larin could barely hear the countdown. Was that one minute or ten to go? She checked the inside of her helmet, which displayed different views of the planet below, their path toward it, and the many, many hexes in their way. Two minutes—that was the answer. She resisted the urge to quadruple-check her airfoil and jet-chute before the hull opened up beneath her and dropped her into the void. Better to use that
time to breathe deeply and calmly, and to remember who she had once been.

  “Nahrung—keep an eye on those orbital sweeps,” she said to her sergeant over the platoon’s private channel. “If you see anything that looks like a central complex, flag it.” New intel was pouring in every second from the transport and its escorts as they approached the surface of the world. “Ozz—watch the weather. It’s your job to make sure we don’t land in the middle of a volcano.” Ozz was an Imperial, short on words but willing to follow her orders, so far. “Mond—your squad’s the first down. Come in hot, take no prisoners. I want you to put your best shots first. Jopp, for instance. Let’s see if he’s as good at firing a rifle as he is his mouth.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Mond. The Zabrak, Ses Jopp, muttered something too quiet to catch. He had been nothing but insubordinate ever since he had crossed her path again. Reinforcing the chain of command was the best way to deal with people like him.

  “When we’re down, first priority is to take out the factory. Target supply lines, power lines, conveyor belts, heavy lifters—whatever looks essential. Don’t stop to count kills. There’ll be plenty of hexes for everyone. And remember—they redesign fast, so don’t take anything for granted, even if it’s not moving. We don’t know exactly what they’re building down there. Treat everything with caution until you’ve blown it sky-high.”

  “Twenty seconds” came the announcement from the transport’s bridge.

  The bay doors opened, letting in the light of the black hole. It happened in near-silence, since there was no atmosphere outside. Only mechanical vibrations came through her suit and the harness holding it in place, adding a low whine to the general hubbub.

  “Ten seconds.”

  The transport rotated to bring its bay doors directly in line with the planet below. Hundreds of troops held their collective breath at the sight. Sebaddon looked forbidding enough in holoprojectors. Rivers of lava, near-molten mountain ranges, and patchy mirror-flat lakes—now known to be sheets of gleaming metal, frozen solid—were clearly visible through the hazy atmosphere.

  “Five seconds.”

  One last burn put the transport on the correct trajectory. Their destination was the pole, on a completely different path from those heading for the equator. Shigar was among the latter cohort, and even in that moment, with the voice counting down individual seconds, she had time to think of him, and to feel a sudden flash of shame and hurt.

  “One.”

  “Go.”

  Suddenly she was weightless and the transport was rising above her, repulsorlifts flashing, receding rapidly as she fell. All around her were troopers adopting the same position as she was, face forward, arms and legs swept back into straight lines. There was no drag as yet, and there wouldn’t be for some minutes, but atmosphere was unpredictable. She’d heard of limbs and even heads pulled right off by simple telemetry errors. The deceleration when it came would be crushing.

  “Good launch, people,” came Major Cha, just one suited being among so many. Clumps of TRA-9 battle droids hung motionless among them, as silent as stone. “Now find your squadmates and tighten up your formation. Maintain comm silence at all times. Going to intel blackout … now.”

  Larin’s helmet views suddenly simplified as the company’s network went largely dormant. In order to present the illusion that the falling objects were innocent debris, there would be no internal chatter and no data feeds from the ships above. It would stay like that until the ground was just seconds away. Until then, barring emergencies, it was just her and the data collected so far.

  She felt strangely isolated, descending among so many people without exchanging a single word. Other falling troopers, identified by bold black markings on their helmets and chute-packs, clustered into groups of ten or twelve, and those groups in turn fell into their own formations. She stayed where she was, and let her squadrons fall in around her. A rough color-coding system had been improvised to ensure the mixed troops didn’t get their command lines tangled. Like the rest of the lieutenants—brevet or otherwise—Larin’s helmet was green; the three sergeants’ were blue. Major Cha was orange, hanging on his own in the center of the formation.

  From far across the other side, she saw another green-helmeted figure give her a thumbs-up. She returned the gesture, knowing it was Hetchkee.

  One of her sergeants approached, attitude jets puffing to bring him into physical contact with her. It was Nahrung. They touched faceplates.

  “Map grid twenty-five-J,” his muffled voice said. “That’s my best guess.”

  She called up the last sweep received before the blackout. The grid reference showed an artificial X, a giant complex of some kind, with numerous smaller tributaries running off in all directions. The blackhole jets cast long shadows across the polar landscape, shadows that might have come from smokestacks—or weapons emplacements.

  “That’ll do,” she said. “Good work.”

  Something bright and fast flashed by them: a missile, followed by three more in quick succession. Bombardment from the ships behind them, softening what lay ahead. Nahrung drifted away, and she resumed the ready position. Her display was blinking: nearly time to hit atmosphere.

  Conscious of everyone watching her, she nudged herself closer to Mond’s squad. Jopp was at point. She came in alongside him then moved a fraction ahead, hoping to send a message to him: that, while she might have put him on the firing line, she wasn’t afraid to be there with him.

  Yellow and white mushrooms blossomed on the ground below.

  The first fingers of atmosphere touched her, whistling faintly, rocking her almost gently from side to side.

  Then she slammed forward, feeling as though she had hit a brick wall. She roared in defiance at the air screaming past her, adding her own noise to the deafening racket. Her first experience of Sebaddon shook and hammered her, rattling every bone in its socket. Her brain rattled and vision blurred. Time became meaningless. There was no point counting the seconds when each overwhelmed her, and nothing changed.

  It had to end, and it did, finally. The shaking and shrieking eased. Her suit’s external temperature readings dropped out of the red. The view was no longer vacuum-perfect, since they were in atmosphere now. The neat formation around her gradually re-formed.

  Instead of counting the seconds since launch, she was studying an altimeter countdown. The surface of the planet was only kilometers away. They had drifted off-course, probably due to a stronger-than-expected high-altitude wind, but it wasn’t a disaster. Giant mushroom clouds gave her a visual fix on their target. Her suit’s internal guidance system confirmed it.

  Clicking twice over her suit radio, she warned the platoon to get ready.

  They steadied, angling at a forty-five-degree angle.

  When she clicked once more, their airfoils unfurled neatly, like birds in a flock opening their wings at the same time. The wings didn’t open all the way just yet; a full spread would have been torn to shreds, even at such rarefied pressures. As their altitude and speed dropped, they would slowly unfurl to their full extent. One hundred meters from the ground, their jet-chutes would kick in, allowing them to control their landings to the second. They were still moving very quickly. An unassisted landing would result in certain death.

  Jopp gusted closer to her, caught by turbulence. The master factory was directly below them, barely five hundred meters away. Intel would be kicking in any second now. Larin checked her suit’s targeting systems and unlocked the rifle she’d handpicked from the quartermaster’s weapons store. The hexes wouldn’t be sitting idly as the assault teams grew near. They would be working busily on something, she was sure, but there was no way to tell yet what that might be. She would just have to be ready for anything.

  Her HUD cleared and refreshed with data broadcast from above. The target appeared in perfect clarity, revealed underneath the smoke by radar.

  “You know the drill, people,” said Major Cha. “Keep low and tight until you reach your
objectives, then disperse. If comms are jammed, follow the flares. If you can’t see the flares, move so you can. This isn’t a free-for-all. Anything with blood in it is not a viable target.”

  “You heard the man,” Larin said. “Jet-chutes in thirty seconds. Watch those washes. Don’t singe the head of anyone coming in before you.”

  She took a quick scan of the rest of the battlefield.

  The Paramount was still intact, although under siege from several directions at once. Some of the orbital hexes had linked bodies to form an energy weapon like the one Jet had taken out earlier. Missiles from below had repaired the holes in the orbital defenses, and there seemed to be some kind of fuss out near the moon. One of the Imperial VT-22s had been infected and was on its way down. Its fiery wake was visible by satellite, carving a black streak across the globe’s upper atmosphere and due to impact near the suspected CI location.

  Quickly, not really wanting to know, she checked the manifest of the falling ship. Her heart sank. Shigar had been on that transport. Now it really pained her to think about what had happened in the ready room. If that had been the last time they saw each other, how could she live with herself?

  A beeping in her ears told her it was time for her jet-chute to kick in. She pushed the superfluous intel—and feelings—to one side in order to concentrate on the maneuver to come. The jet was little more than a modified thruster retrofitted to suit standard-issue Republic armor. Riding it down would be like taming a wild horse.

  “Burn!”

  On her command, the platoon lit up the sky. Spears of downward-pointing flame stabbed at the surface of Sebaddon. The silver airfoils reflected the light, transforming the troopers into fiery angels that were visible from below. Intel confirmed that at least some of the tall stacks were weapons emplacements. Perhaps they were swinging to track her and her troopers even now. She braced herself for the first shots even as she tried to keep her bucking jet under control.