“Excellent work.” Caedus took the datapad from her and tapped its screen, activating the hot spot acknowledging receipt of the report. He turned away, looking at the starfield again as he handed the device back to her. In his inattentiveness, he released it a moment too early. Tebut juggled and dropped it. It hit the bridge floor.
Caedus looked at her.
“My apologies, sir.” She stooped to pick up the datapad. She glanced at its screen. Caedus could see that it was undamaged. Tebut snapped it shut, saluted, and turned away.
Two steps later, she skidded to a stop and looked back at him.
“Lieutenant?”
Her voice was distant. “New anomaly.” She moved toward him again. “Sir, this is perhaps none of my business, but it has been my observation that you get rid of clothes when they become worn or stop being able to hold creases.”
Caedus nodded. “Not just clothes.”
“Yes, sir. So why are you wearing a patched cloak? If I may ask.”
“Patched?” He looked down at himself.
Tebut stooped again, then rose, bringing up the lower hem of his cloak, turning it so Caedus could see the backside. There, placed in a slightly crooked fashion, was a square cloth patch, five centimeters on a side, identical in color and texture to the surrounding cloak material.
Caedus took the hem and stared at it. He tugged at the corner of the patch. Reluctantly, it yielded, coming up from the cloak material, revealing glue and flexible circuitry beneath.
Though his good mood was spoiled, he kept the fact from his face. “We all make mistakes, Lieutenant, and it appears that one of mine was to let someone plant a beacon on me.” He undid his cloak clasps, folded the garment, and handed it to her along with the black patch. “Get that to our security technicians. I want to know its range of abilities. Soonest.”
“Yes, sir.” She saluted again and left.
Once she was through the doors at the stern end of the bridge, Caedus looked around and found Captain Nevil. “Did you see?”
“I did, sir.”
“I run a meritocracy, and the lieutenant shows merit. Put this incident on her record.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
TWO LIGHT-YEARS OUTSIDE THE CORELLIAN SYSTEM, ABOARD THE ERRANT VENTURE
The giant pleasure ship—once an Imperial Star Destroyer named Virulence, later a haven for gamblers, shoppers, and vacationers of all species and economic brackets—was oddly quiet, Han decided. Its main hangar bay was comparatively empty, devoid of the usual collection of privately owned yachts, shuttles, and transports that crowded the chamber from wall to wall. Now the only vehicles it hosted were one transport, large enough to evacuate the ship’s current skeleton crew, plus a couple of starfighter squadrons, two shuttles, and the Millennium Falcon.
Han slouched in the Falcon’s copilot’s seat. There were more comfortable places to be, but none was very interesting at the moment; the Errant Venture’s gambling halls were all temporarily closed. The ship was serving as a staging platform for Luke’s Centerpoint mission, and until this mission was done, her owner, Booster Terrik, had chosen to limit staff to the minimum number of tight-lipped crew members necessary for basic functions.
Below the Falcon’s cockpit were spread the other operation vehicles. Mechanics and some of the other pilots, many of them Jedi, worked among the starfighters. The Antilles and Horn clans sat at a folding table between two StealthXs, playing what looked like a cutthroat game of sabacc. Luke Skywalker walked among all the starfighters, trailed by R2-D2.
Han looked at the man in the pilot’s seat. He scowled. He really didn’t like seeing anything from this perspective. “Think you’ve got it, kid?”
Jag straightened up from his latest simulation run. “I’ve got it.”
“You know, there have never been many people I’d let fly this baby. Chewbacca. Leia. Lando. Now you.”
“She’s Corellian by design. I’m full-blooded Corellian by ancestry. We’ll get along just fine.”
“Make sure you do.” Restless, Han turned away. This was the fifth time they’d had this conversation, or one much like it, in the last few days.
Oh, well. The kid wouldn’t resent it too much. Jag had to understand the love of a man for his ship. Didn’t he?
A button on the comm board lit, and Booster Terrik’s voice, aged and hoarse, came across the speakers. “Jedi Recon Three reports the Anakin Solo leading a formation of ships out of Coruscant orbit. This looks like no drill.”
Han stood. “Good luck, kid.”
“You, too, s—Han.”
“That’s better.” Moments later, Han trotted down the boarding ramp, wincing at the unaccustomed, unwelcome sensation of leaving his first love in somebody else’s hands.
Kyle Katarn, moving easily, with C-3PO behind him, headed toward the Falcon and crossed Han’s path. Han trotted past, offering the Jedi Master a wave and calling back over his shoulder to the droid: “Don’t talk them to death, Goldenrod.”
“Oh, no, sir, I would never endanger a mission or my comrades through the employment of excessive verbiage. Though I appreciate your levity on this matter. As I have appreciated it many, many times in the past. They say the soul of humor is repetition…”
A few steps farther, and Han could no longer hear the droid over the sounds of engines being fired up and boots clattering across durasteel decks.
More pilots, mechanics, and Jedi were now running into the bay from turbolift access corridors. Myri Antilles and the woman she was named for, Mirax Horn, carrying the now folded table, passed them in the other direction, hurrying toward the distant operations center of the Errant Venture.
Han reached the foot of the shuttle Reveille, the first member of his crew to do so. He leaned against the hull, affecting a pose of boredom, tapping his foot while he waited.
Luke and Leia, he in black robes and she in brown and tan, were next.
Leia looked him over. “Sorry if we kept you waiting.”
“Do Jedi even carry chronos?”
She grinned and dashed up the ramp.
“Hey, do the preflight checklist while you’re up there.”
Luke waited with Han while the others arrived: Ben, wearing a black high-necked tunic that was neither Guard uniform nor dark Jedi garment but somewhere in between; Saba Sebatyne, silent and imposing in her fearsomely reptilian manner; Iella Antilles, in a black jumpsuit draped with matching utility belts, bandoliers, and backpack, her face and graying brown hair the only areas of color on her; and R2-D2, who hit the bottom of the ramp at speed and rolled up into the shuttle’s belly as though he were on level ground.
Luke headed up the ramp. “All present and accounted for.”
Han followed. “Do you have to talk that military talk?”
“Hey, you’re the one who went to the Academy. I thought you’d like it.”
Syal settled into her X-wing—borrowed from one of the Jedi, and she hoped she’d be able to return it in perfect shape—and ran through her checklist as the comlink crackled to life on her squadron frequency.
“Rakehell Leader to Squadron.” Her father’s voice, and it jolted her to realize that she was finally going to fly with her father, in combat. “Count off by number, and indicate readiness. Rakehell Leader ready.”
“Rakehell Two, armed and ready.” It was a woman’s voice, heavily flavored by an exotic accent—Sanola Ti, the Dathomiri Jedi, one of several squadron members Syal had not met before they transferred to the Errant Venture.
Tycho was next. “Rakehell Three, all green, optimal.” His comm board was slaved to the squadron frequency, as was Syal’s, and would be until the mission was well under way—a precaution implemented to keep him from informing Alliance forces of the true purpose of this mission.
Syal cleared her throat. “Rakehell Four, four lit and in the green.” Her knee began bouncing. She pressed down on it. Nerves—she had never flown an X-wing in genuine combat, all of her live-fire experience having been with A-wi
ngs and Alephs. But she’d flown X-wings before she’d ever handled an airspeeder, starting when she was a child, when her father would take her up in a twin-seat trainer and hand over the controls. She knew the X-wing like a housebound office drone knew the family sofa.
Other members of the squadron counted off, their roll call suggesting a Starfighter Command hall of fame. Five, Corran Horn, leading the second flight. Six, Twool—an unknown quantity, a Rodian Jedi whom Syal had never heard of. Seven, Tyria Tainer, a Jedi who had flown with Wedge long ago, before Syal was born. Eight, Cheriss ke Hanadi, onetime head vibroblade instructor for Starfighter Command.
“Rake Nine, optimal.” That was Jaina Solo, leading the third flight. Zekk called in as Ten; Volu Nyth, a Kuati woman who had flown with Rogue Squadron during the Yuuzhan Vong War, was Eleven; Wes Janson, Twelve, asked, “Is it over?”
Nerves. Syal wasn’t nervous about the prospect of dying—no more than usual. What terrified her was that she might manage to look like a rookie in front of her father, and her father’s friends. Dying would be less painful.
In the belly of the troop carrier shuttle Broadside, Kyp Durron snapped his visor shut and turned to Dr. Seyah. “What do you think?”
Seyah looked him over. He was dressed identically—in a good simulation of the all-black Galactic Alliance Guard uniform, though his helmet visor was still up. He nodded. “Not bad. At least you have the build to carry it off.” He patted his own, more expansive stomach. “They’re going to take one look at me and think, Rear echelon bantha fodder.”
Kyp looked back across the personnel bay of the Broadside, at the other ersatz Guard troops—Jedi such as Valin Horn and Jaden Korr among them, anonymous behind their visors. He raised his own visor and shouted back across the troops: “What’s our motto?”
They responded with a single, well-practiced roar: “Let the enemy do the work!”
Kyp nodded and gave them an appreciative smile. “That’s the spirit.”
ABOARD THE ANAKIN SOLO
Captain Nevil approached Caedus in his usual quiet fashion. “Boarding shuttles and Rogue Squadron are positioned, sir. They report ready to jump.”
Caedus nodded, keeping his eyes closed. He could feel them, the specks of life that constituted the famous starfighter squadron and the clusters of life representing the anonymous commandos and Guard troopers who would spearhead the assault on Centerpoint Station. All around them were the greater masses of life force, the crews of the capital ships of this operation.
And from them, probabilities and eventualities began streaming, glimpses of possible futures—some in logical succession, some mutually contradictory or exclusive. Caedus could focus on any one of them to see the likely next few minutes of a subject’s life. But he did not—he couldn’t afford to fragment his attention now, and he didn’t need to know the fate of every insignificant man or woman under his command.
Maintaining his Sith battle meditation through a hyperspace jump would be tricky enough. But he felt he was ready. He opened his eyes and turned to Nevil. “Go.”
The Quarren turned and gestured to his communications officer.
The word was given.
A moment later the starfield beyond the viewports seemed to elongate and twist as the task force made the jump to hyperspace.
CORELLIAN SPACE, NEAR CENTERPOINT STATION
Rakehell Squadron dropped out of hyperspace, the stars snapping back to single unwinking gleams, and directly ahead of Syal was Centerpoint Station in all its majestic homeliness. A round-tipped cylinder 350 kilometers long, with the center third bulging out to a width of 100 kilometers, it was the largest artificial construction she had ever seen, and even at her current distance—hundreds of klicks away—it seemed vast. Alongside it, a Super Star Destroyer would appear as a speck.
And there were specks nearing it. She saw tiny triangles and lozenge shapes hurtling toward the station, and more moving from the station’s vicinity to intercept them. Names began popping up on her sensor board: ANAKIN SOLO. VINSOR. PANTHER STAR. SAXAN’S PRIDE. ROGUE 1, ROGUE 2, ROGUE 3…
Syal’s breath caught. Rogue Squadron was here, the fighter unit Luke Skywalker and her father had founded, the elite force whose reputation alone was enough to turn back some enemies.
Well, she wouldn’t be fighting them. She flew in the same force they did. Her assignment here was simple—serve as Tycho’s wingmate, see that he made it back to the Alliance force as soon as their comm boards were unslaved and would allow direct communication.
“Rakehell Leader to Rakes.” Wedge’s voice did not suggest that he was rattled by the fact that his former command was ahead in the battle zone. Perhaps he hadn’t seen them on his sensors. “Reveille reports ready. Her target is the Anakin Solo. We’ll follow her in, shooting. Do remember to miss. Three, Four, you can follow us in if you like, but I have a feeling that your participation here might be seen as treasonous…”
“Leader, Three.” Tycho sounded similarly unconcerned. “No, I’ll follow…holocams blazing away. The recordings could prove interesting later.”
“As you wish. Don’t get shot. I don’t want Winter hunting me down.”
“No, you don’t.”
Tycho’s shuttle, Han Solo visible at the controls, moved out ahead of the Rakehells and accelerated toward the distant conflict.
chapter thirty-two
ABOARD THE ANAKIN SOLO
So far, so good. Caedus was satisfied for the moment. His task force’s arrival in the Corellian system had not caught Centerpoint’s defenders entirely unprepared—the Corellians had a defensive screen of capital ships in position to protect the station—but the enemy were apparently unprepared for the speed and ferocity of the attack, and were presenting less forceful resistance than anticipated. The first round of analysis suggested that they were low on proton torpedoes, concussion missiles, and other physical deterrents.
He lent a touch of urgency to the Panther Star’s commander, subtly pushing the Sullustan to greater speed, greater confidence. Too much caution would not benefit his task force.
Capital ships were breaking from orbit around Talus and Tralus, heading toward the conflict, which was halfway between the two worlds. Even when they arrived, the Corellian force would have less strength than his. The troop shuttles were nearing the station itself, only two of them lost so far to defensive fire…
He could feel more units in play than should have been present, and only detected them because the streamers of possibility predicting their actions did not align them with either the Alliance or the Corellians. He spared them a look. A fighter squadron, on a mission of…harrassment, rather than defense or destruction? He shook his head. The squadron commander had to be a coward, determined to keep himself and his subordinates out of the line of fire. Caedus would deal with them, make them an example to others, when time allowed.
CORELLIA, CORONET, COMMAND BUNKER
“What you’re talking about is treason.” Admiral Delpin’s words were straightforward.
With political skills that had served him well all through his professional life—reading character traits, instantly revising plans to accommodate changing circumstances—Denjax Teppler decided to make a slight alteration to the course of this conversation.
Which meant he had to lie, another of his political skills. “I’m not talking about forcibly removing Koyan from office. But I think you’ve seen as clearly as I have that he’s the sort of duelist who’ll shoot his own foot off before his blaster clears its holster. Inevitably, he’s going to remove himself from office. At that precise instant, what do we do? Sit obediently by while the war-dogs fight among themselves to choose a new Koyan, or take charge and improve things?”
Her expression didn’t change, but for the first time in the conversation, she didn’t respond instantly or predictably.
Teppler kept his own elation off his face. She’s considering it. Take the violent removal of Koyan out of the equation, and she has no problem with the idea.
She leaned forward. “Speaking hypothetically…I could probably secure myself in the role of Chief of State just with the backing of the military. Why would I then need you?”
“Two reasons. First, you don’t want to govern all of the Corellian system any more than I do, meaning that as partners we can keep each other’s decisions in perspective. Second, half the burden feels like a tenth the burden. I’ll manage the tasks you’re unwilling or not entirely competent to handle, and you’ll do the same for me.”
She took in a breath to answer, and then her comlink beeped.
So did Teppler’s, a high-pitched urgency signal.
They looked at each other with the misgivings of professional leaders who knew things were bad when comlinks went off simultaneously.
Teppler pulled out his comlink to answer while the admiral did the same with hers. “Teppler here.”
Moments later, they were in the corridor, trotting toward the bunker’s main situation room, Teppler struggling to keep up with Delpin’s long military strides.
The admiral tucked her comlink back into her tunic. “Where’s the Prime Minister?”
“Up on the station. Under attack.” Teppler considered. There had to be some way for him to use this situation to bring about the very change in government he’d just been proposing to the admiral.
“And the station? Is it operational again?”
Teppler almost spoke one of Koyan’s favorite conversation-ending phrases, That’s on a need-to-know basis. But he bit his tongue. Given Delpin’s efforts to convince Koyan to cooperate more fully with the Confederation Supreme Military Commander, Koyan had been cutting her out of the line of information flow more and more frequently. But Teppler decided she did need to know. This was a combat situation, and Centerpoint Station was a military resource. “Operational as of four hours ago. The techs also think they’ve overcome the programming that limited the scope of the last beam. If they’re right, on its next use the station could eliminate an entire planet or star. That’s why Koyan is there. He’s composing his surrender-or-die message to Admiral Niathal.”
Star Wars: Legacy of the Force: Fury Page 25