by Timothy Zahn
The blast doors ten meters down the corridor in either direction had closed when the blister had decompressed, sealing away this section from the rest of the ship. But with the breach now scaled and the emergency oxygen supplies repressurizing the area, the forward blast door opened for Lorana without protest.
In the distance she could hear shouting and screams, and could sense the fear and panic behind them. But for the moment, those people weren't her immediate concern. The Dreadnaughts were well equipped with escape pods, where the survivors could take refuge while the droids repaired the hull.
But there was one group of people who wouldn't have that chance: the fifty-seven so-called conspirators C'baoth had ordered locked away in the storage core.
The people she had locked away in the storage core.
Her legs were starting to throb now where the girder had landed on her. Stretching out to the Force to suppress the pain, she headed in a limping run toward the nearest pylon turbolift.
"We made a bargain!" Kav snarled. "You were to destroy Outbound Flight for us!"
"I never made any such bargain," Mitth'raw'nuruodo said. "I agreed only to do what I deemed necessary to eliminate the threat posed by the expedition."
"That was not what we wanted," Kav insisted.
"You were in no position to make demands," Mitth'raw'nuruodo reminded him. "Nor are you now."
There was a sudden hiss from the comm. "So," an almost unrecognizable voice ground out. "You think you have won, alien?" The display came alive . . . and a cold shiver ran up Doriaria's back.
It was Jorus C'baoth, pale and disheveled, his clothing torn and blood-spattered, one side of his face badly burned. But his eyes blazed with the same arrogant fire that Doriana had seen that day long ago in Supreme Chancellor Palpatine's office.
He groped for Mitth'raw'nuruodo's sleeve. "Kav is right—you have to destroy them," he hissed urgently. "If you don't, we're dead."
Mitth'raw'nuruodo's eyes flicked to him, then back to the comm. "I have indeed won," he told C'baoth. "I have only to give a single order—" His hand shifted slightly on his control board, his fingertips coming to rest on a covered switch edged in red. "—and you and all your people will die. Is your pride worth so much to you?"
"A Jedi does not yield to pride," C'baoth spat. "Nor does he yield to empty threats. He follows only the dictates of his own destiny."
"Then choose your destiny," Mitth'raw'nuruodo said. "I'm told the role of the Jedi is to serve and defend."
"You were told wrongly," C'baoth countered. "The role of the Jedi is to lead and guide, and to destroy all threats." The unburned corner of his lip twisted upward in a bitter smile.
And without warning, Thrawn's head jerked back, his whole body pressing back against his seat. His hand darted to his throat, clutching uselessly at it.
"Commander!" Doriana snapped, grabbing reflexively for Mitth'raw'nuruodo's collar.
But it was no use. The invisible power that was choking the life out of him wasn't something physical that Doriana might be able to push aside. C'baoth was using the Force . . . and there was nothing Doriana or anyone else could do to stop him.
In a handful of minutes, Mitth'raw'nuruodo would be dead.
Lorana was in a turbolift car heading down the forward pylon when she felt C'baoth's attack echoing through her mind like the sound of a distant hammer. For a minute she puzzled at it, sensing his anger and frustration and pride, wondering what in the worlds he was doing.
And then, abruptly, the horrifying truth sliced through her like the blade of a lightsaber. "No!" she shouted reflexively toward the turbolift car ceiling. "Master C'baoth—no!"
But it was too late. In his single-minded thirst for revenge, Jorus C'baoth, Jedi Master, had gone over to the dark side.
A wave of pain and revulsion swept over Lorana, as agonizing as salt in an open wound. She had never seen a Jedi fall before. She'd known it could happen, and that it had in fact happened many times throughout history. But it had always seemed something comfortably distant, something that could never happen to anyone she knew.
Now it had . . . and following close behind the wave of pain came an even more powerful wave of guilt.
Because she'd been his Padawan, the person who'd spent the most time with him. The one person, Master Ma'Ning had once suggested, whom he might have actually listened to.
Could she have prevented this? Should she have stood up to him earlier, with or without the support of Ma'Ning or the others, when he first began to gather power and authority to himself? Certainly she'd tried talking to him in private on more than one occasion. But each time he'd brushed off her concerns, assuring her that all was well. Should she have pressed him more strongly? Forced him—somehow—to listen?
But she hadn't. And now it was too late.
Or was it? "We don't have to kill anyone," she murmured, focusing her mind toward D-1, trying desperately to send the thought or at least the sense to him. She fumbled for her comlink, only to discover that she'd lost it in the attack on the weapons blister. "We don't have to kill them," she continued, pleading with him. "We can just go home. All they want is for us to go home."
But there was no reply. C'baoth could undoubtedly sense her protest, but all she could sense in return was his indifference to her anguish, and his determination to continue along the path he'd now set himself upon. It was indeed too late.
Perhaps, a small voice whispered inside her, it had always been too late.
The turbolift came to a halt and the door opened into the storage core. For a long minute she stood in the doorway, wondering if she should leave the prisoners where they were for now and try to get to D-1.
But she would never make it in time. And even if she did, it would do her no good. She could sense the rigid set of C'baoth's mind, and she knew from long experience that even if she were standing at his side there was nothing she could say or do now to stop him. He would continue his attack until he had killed Commander Mitth'raw'nuruodo, then more, until he had killed all the rest of the Chiss out there.
Her heart aching, she stepped out into the storage core and limped toward the trapped crew members and their families. Even a Jedi, she thought bitterly, could do only so much.
But what she could do, she would.
The bridge crew was on it in a matter of seconds, shoving Doriana roughly aside and clustering around Mitth'raw'nuruodo as they fought to free him from the unseen attack that was killing him. But their efforts were as useless as Doriana's had been.
Standing at the edge of the frantic activity, Doriana looked at the comm display and tried desperately to think. If the Chiss attack had weakened C'baoth enough . . . but there was no sign of weakness in the eyes blazing from that ruined face. Could Doriana shut off the display, then, and at least rob the Jedi of his view of his victim? But Doriana had no idea where that control was, and he didn't speak any language the rest of the bridge crew understood. Besides, he wasn't sure that cutting off the display would do any good anyway.
And then, his gazed dropped from C'baoth's face to Thrawn's control board. The board, and the red-rimmed switch.
It might be nothing. But it was all he had. Pushing past the crewers who stood in his way, he flipped back the cover and pressed the switch.
And then, even as they continued to pound mercilessly against the Vagaari warships, the droid starfighters abruptly turned from their attack and fled.
Car'das frowned, pressing the macrobinoculars tighter against his face. A sizable percentage of the Vagaari fleet was still untouched, the surviving ships scrambling madly for the edge of Thrawn's gravity projector field. Yet all of the starfighters were leaving. Had they drained their solid-fuel engines already?
He caught his breath. No; the starfighters weren't running away from the Vagaari. They were running toward Outbound Flight.
He was still staring in disbelief when the first wave hit.
Not simply attacking, blasting away with
laser cannons and energy torpedoes. They literally hit the Dreadnaughts, slamming at full speed into their hulls and vaporizing in brilliant flashes with the force of their impacts. The second wave did the same, this group striking different sections of the Dreadnaughts' hulls. Through the smoke and debris came the third and fourth waves, these groups pouring laser cannon fire and energy torpedoes into the damaged weapons blisters and shield generators.
And with a sudden chill, Car'das understood. The first two waves of starfighters hadn't been trying to breach the Dreadnaughts' thick armor plating. Their goal had merely been to create dents in the hulls at very specific points.
The points where the interior blast doors were positioned.
And now, with those doors disabled or warped enough to prevent a proper air seal, the rest of the starfighters were opening the Dreadnaughts to space.
More clouds of debris were blowing away from Outbound Flight's flanks as the starfighters blasted their way through the hulls, sweeping new waves of sudden death through the outer areas of the Dreadnaughts.
But for all the effect the attack had on him, C'baoth might not even have noticed it. His face remained as hard as anvilstone, his eyes burning unblinkingly across the Springhawk's bridge.
And Mitth’raw’nuruodo was still dying.
Doriana curled his hands into helpless fists. So it was finally over. If this second assault had failed to kill C'baoth, it was because he'd hidden himself well away from the vacuum that had now snuffed out all life in the Dreadnaughts' outer sections. Even given the thinner bulkheads and blast doors of the ships' interior sections, there was no way even droid starfighters could clear out the maze of decks and compartments in time.
An odd formation caught his eve as it shot into view outside the canopy: a pair of starfighters flying in close formation with a fat cylinder tucked between them. Not just one pair, Doriana saw now, but ten of them, heading at full speed toward Outbound Flight.
He remembered Kav mentioning this particular project of Mitth'raw'nuruodo's, and the vicelord's contemptuous dismissal of the cylinders as some sort of useless fuel tanks. Frowning, he watched as, in ones and twos, the starfighter pairs drove through the newly blasted holes in the Dreadnaughts' hulls and disappeared inside.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, abruptly, a haze of pale blue burst outward from the openings, nearly invisible amid the floating clouds of wreckage.
And with a sudden gasp of air, Mitth'raw'nuruodo collapsed forward against his board.
"Commander?" Doriana called, trying to get past the circle of crewers.
"I'm . . . all right," the other panted, rubbing his throat with one hand as he waved off assistance with the other.
"I think you got him," Doriana said, looking over at the comm display. C'baoth was no longer in sight. "I think C'baoth's dead."
"Yes," Mitth'raw'nuruodo confirmed, his voice quiet. "All of them . . . are dead."
A strange sensation crept up Doriana's back. "That's impossible," he said. "You only had one or two of those bombs in each Dreadnaught."
"One was all that was necessary," Mitth'raw'nuruodo said with a sadness that Doriana had never heard in him before. "They're a very special sort of weapon. A very terrible sort. Once inside the protective barrier of a war vessel's outer armor, they explode into a killing wave of radiation. The wave passes through floors and walls and ceilings, destroying all life."
Doriana swallowed. "And you had them all ready to go," he heard himself say.
Mitth'raw'nuruodo's eyes bored into his. "They were not meant for Outbound Flight," he said, and there was an expression on his face that made Doriana take an involuntary step backward. "They were intended for use against the largest of the Vagaari war vessels."
Doriana grimaced. "I see."
"No, you do not see," Mitth'raw'nuruodo retorted. "Because now, instead, we'll need to destroy the Vagaari remnant aboard the disabled vessels in shipboard face-to-face combat." He pointed out the canopy. "Worse, some of the war vessels and civilian craft have now escaped to deep space, where they'll have time to rebuild and perhaps one day will again pose a threat to this region of space."
"I understand," Doriana said. "I'm sorry."
To his surprise, he realized he meant it.
For a long moment Mitth'raw'nuruodo gazed at him in silence. Then, slowly, some of the tension lines faded from his face. "No warrior ever has the full depth of control that he would like," he said, his voice calmer but still troubled. "But I wish here that it might have been otherwise."
Doriana looked at Kav. For a wonder, the Neimoidian had the sense to keep his mouth shut. "What happens now?"
"As I said, we board the Vagaari war vessels," Mitth'raw'nuruodo said. "Once they've been secured, we'll free the Geroons from their prisons."
Doriana nodded. And so that was it. Outbound Flight was destroyed, its Jedi—especially C'baoth—all dead. It was over.
All, that is, except one small loose end. No matter what the outcome, Kav's warning echoed through his mind, in the end this Mitthrawdo will have to die.
And in the swirling chaos of a shipboard assault, accidents inevitably happened. "I wonder if I might have permission to accompany the attack force," he said. "I'd like to observe Chiss soldiers in action."
Mitth'raw'nuruodo inclined his head slightly. "As you wish, Commander Stratis. I think you'll find it most instructive."
"Yes," Doriana agreed softly. "I'm sure I will."
The vibrations from the Dreadnaughts above, transmitted faintly through the metal of the connecting pylons, finally came to an end. "Is it over?" Jorad Pressor asked timidly.
Carefully, Lorana let her hand drop from the bulkhead where she'd been steadying herself. The sudden, awful flood of death from above had finally ended as well, leaving nothing behind.
Nothing.
"Yes," she said, trying hard to give the boy an encouraging smile. "It's all over."
"So we can go back up?"
Lorana lifted her eves to Jorad's father, and the tight set of his mouth. The children might not understand, but the adults did. "Not quite yet," she told Jorad. "There's probably a lot of cleaning up they're having to do. We'd just be in the way."
"And would have to hold our breath," someone muttered from the back of the group.
Someone else made a shushing noise. "Anyway, there's no point in hanging around here," one of the older men spoke up, trying to sound casual. "Might as well go back to the Jedi school where we can at least be a little more comfortable."
"And where we'll be properly locked in?" Uliar added sourly.
"No, of course not," Lorana said, trying to get her brain back on track. "There's plenty of spare building material crated up in the storage areas. I'll cut a section of girder and prop open the door. Come on—everyone back."
The crowd turned and shuffled back the way they'd come, some of the children still murmuring anxiously to their parents, the parents in turn trying to comfort them. Lorana started to follow, paused as Uliar touched her arm. "So what's the real damage?" he asked softly.
She sighed. "I don't sense any life up there. None at all."
"Could you be wrong?"
"It's possible," she admitted. "But I don't think so."
He was silent for a moment. "We'll need to make sure," he said. "There may be survivors who are just too weak for you to sense."
"I know," she said. "But we can't get up there yet. The fact that the turbolift cars won't come implies the pylons are open to vacuum somewhere. We'll have to wait until the droids get them patched up."
Uliar hissed between his teeth. "That could take hours."
"It can't be helped," Lorana said. "We'll just have to wait."
23
The battle had been over for nearly three hours, and Car'das was starting to get seriously bored when he finally heard the rhythmic tapping at his back.
He half turned over and rapped the same pattern with the edge of the macrobinoculars. Then,
turning back around to face the stars, he worked the kinks out of his muscles and waited.
It came in a sudden flurry of activity. Behind him, the door to his prison popped open and he felt the sudden tugging of vacuum at his lungs and face as the air pressure in his bubble exploded outward, shoving him backward out into the corridor. He caught a glimpse of vac-suited figures surrounding him as he was enveloped in a tangle of sticky cloth. Before he could do more than scrabble his fingertips against it in an effort to push it away from his face there was a harsh hissing in his ears, and the cloth receded from him in all directions.
And a moment later he found himself floating inside a transparent rescue ball.
"Whoa," he muttered, wincing as his ears popped painfully with the returning air pressure.
"Are you all right?" a familiar voice asked from a comlink connected to the ball's oxygen tank.
"Yes, Commander, thank you," he assured the other. "I gather it all worked as planned?"
"Yes," Thrawn confirmed, his voice carrying an odd tinge of sadness to it. "For the most part."
One of the other rescuers leaned close, and to his surprise Car'das saw that it was the human who'd introduced himself aboard the Darkvenge as Commander Stratis. "Car'das?" Stratis demanded, frowning through the plastic. "What are you doing here?"
"Luring the Vagaari into my trap, of course," Thrawn said, as if it were obvious. "Or had you forgotten that the Chiss do not engage in preemptive attacks?"
"I see," Stratis said, still eyeing Car'das. "So those spy accusations you were throwing around aboard the Darkvenge were nothing but smoke? Something to cover you in case the whole thing fell apart?"
"It was protection, yes, but not for me," Thrawn said. He gestured, and the rest of the group began maneuvering Car'das's rescue ball down the corridor. "It was to protect Admiral Ar'alani, the officer commanding the transport that arrived an hour ago to take the freed Geroon slaves back to their world."