“True. Still—trainees.” Wedge suppressed a shudder.
Han put out a hand. “Good luck, Commander. Sorry you didn’t get that rest I was offering.”
Wedge took it. “Either way, I’m going to get it pretty soon.”
20
“Accuracy was nearly ideal, sir,” said Captain Raslan—or, rather, his holographic image now wavering in the security foyer of Iron Fist’s bridge. “Efficiency, however, is another matter. The jump here used nearly three times as much energy as it optimally should.”
Zsinj kept any annoyance out of his face. This was not bad news. He’d gambled almost everything on the assumption that Razor’s Kiss actually was as complete as its builders claimed and had made it to safety with his new prize. All other considerations were minor ones. “What about damage?”
“It appears that, contrary to safety regulations, some of the Kuat workers had jammed an airlock open where the access armature attached from the station to Razor’s Kiss. When the ship blasted free, that section vented its atmosphere rather precipitously. We’ve corrected the problem. The Kuat Drive Yards workers who were on duty at that portion of the ship perished, of course. Instant corrective measures for those who disobeyed the rules.”
Zsinj grinned, then suppressed it. “Very well, Captain. Carry on. Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.” The image faded.
Zsinj turned and jumped. General Melvar stood right behind him, his makeup removed and his features returned to their usual cheerful blandness. “You did it again,” Zsinj said, cross.
“Yes, sir.”
“All the pirate captains happy?”
“Not one of them was happy, but none of them shot me, which I took to be a good sign. I think most of them will work with us again. Especially once those who took the credit vouchers take them to their systems of origin and determine that they’re real.” He gave Zsinj a curious look. “I’m surprised you’re not over there now. On Razor’s Kiss, looking at every rivet and dab of paint.”
“Oh, I will be soon. Best to wait until Security has removed the last Kuat forces and possible saboteurs.”
There was a sudden surge of noise from the crew pit, voices raised in fast exchanges. Iron Fist’s captain, Vellar, a stern-faced man just now going to fat, leaned over the command walkway to peer down into the midst of the noise, then looked back at Zsinj, unhappiness in his expression. “Several ships have just dropped from hyperspace in our vicinity. One dead ahead as we bear, the rest situated to our starboard and trailing. The one ahead is tentatively identified as a Mon Calamari cruiser.”
Zsinj felt as though he’d been dropped into a polar breeze. He suppressed a shudder. “Mon Remonda, here?”
“That’s not determined yet, sir, but—”
“Shut up. Signal Razor’s Kiss. Coordinate a five-light-year hyperspace jump on this course and execute it.”
“Sir, the cruiser is maneuvering directly into our path. We’ll be on her before it’s time to jump. Shall we change course to avoid?”
“No, you idiot. One Mon Calamari cruiser in the path of two Super Star Destroyers? Bring all guns of both ships to bear. Before we make the transition to lightspeed, we’re going to rid the galaxy of the Rebels’ most annoying cruiser … and of the legacy of Han Solo.”
• • •
Her comlink suddenly crackled with activity on New Republic bandwidths, and Shalla jumped in surprise. Guiltily, she checked her life-support unit. She’d fallen asleep and the thing had run down almost to empty. A really stupid way to die, she told herself. She removed another unit from the storage compartment beneath her seat and put it on.
The comm transmissions were all encoded, but by straining her eyes she could see, in the incredible immensity of the starfield ahead of her, a distant needle of light that could not be a star. Her sensors might tell her what it was … then again, if activated, they might alert the Razor’s Kiss crew to her presence.
But the domes to the right and left of her suddenly pulsed with power, bringing their mighty shields up over the Super Star Destroyer, and she decided the ship’s crew had other things to worry about. She began her power-on sequence.
Wedge roared out of Mon Remonda’s port hangar, came around to a course matching the cruiser’s, and waited as the others formed up on him.
Kell flew Piggy’s X-wing, but that left the unit shy one snubfighter. Dia was in one of the TIE interceptors, hastily painted in Wraith Squadron grays to disguise its recent activities with the Hawk-bats. Wedge tried to force a nagging voice of worry from his mind. He didn’t need to tell Wes to look after his underdefended wingman. He just wanted to.
The last members of his unit to launch, Face and Lara, formed up. Moments later, Rogue Squadron began emerging by twos, Tycho Celchu and Corran Horn first, and forming up by wingmates. On the opposite side of Mon Remonda, the A-wings of Polearm Squadron and B-wings of Nova Squadron would also be assembling.
Han’s voice crackled in his ear. “They’re aware of us. They’re not deploying their fighter screen. That suggests they plan to blow their way through and launch back into hyperspace.”
“The rest of our group?” Wedge asked.
“Coming up fast in their wake.”
“Please inform them that if they’re very nice, maybe we’ll leave them something to shoot at.”
Han Solo watched the universe tilt through the viewports as Mon Remonda turned on its intercept course.
He could feel Captain Onoma’s eyes on him. He turned to the captain and shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “Save your fire. This is going to be a slugging match.”
“You sound regretful.”
“I hate slugging matches.”
Piggy activated his power-on sequence.
Nothing happened. The fighter’s interior remained dark and silent.
Shalla’s sensors showed four squadrons of starfighters approaching.
When should she act? The later she made her assault on the shield projectors, the better it would be for her unit. But she knew her fellow pilots had to be suffering, approaching without any knowledge of whether she’d be able to accomplish her task.
She calculated their rate of approach based on sensor data. When they were thirty seconds short of firing range, she activated her repulsorlifts, bringing her interceptor up a mere meter above the deck of Razor’s Kiss and well back from the domes. She swung toward the starboard shield projector dome and fired.
The dome blew apart in an impressive display of flaming gas and metal shards; she heard shrapnel bounce off her hull. She rotated and fired again, obliterating the second projector with similar finality.
Then she settled down again atop the rubbish-strewn tower. She’d wait a moment to launch—wait until space was crowded and confused, when she wouldn’t be such an easy target.
• • •
“Razor’s Kiss reports catastrophic failure of topside shield generators!”
Zsinj stared at the captain as though the man had suddenly grown a Devaronian’s horns and teeth. “Tell me you’re lying.”
The captain shook his head helplessly.
Zsinj slammed his hands on the nearest bulkhead. “Change course to eight-five. Tell Razor’s Kiss to follow closely and use us for protection from Mon Remonda. Calculate a new jump on that course and initiate it as soon as possible.” He looked at Melvar. “Launch all fighters.”
Wedge’s sensor board showed the second Super Star Destroyer’s topside shields evaporating. It displayed the information without emotion, without understanding of how that fact made the pilots’ hearts jump.
“All squadrons, this is Wraith Leader. Prepare for strafing run on the second Destroyer. Ignore Iron Fist for now. X-wings, B-wings, commence with proton torpedoes. Save some for the engines.” Wedge heeled over, changing course toward the second destroyer, and sent up a silent cheer for Shalla.
Iron Fist surged forward, her bow guns opening up on the oncoming starfighters, and began a slow maneuver to st
arboard as the second destroyer dropped back behind her. Wedge adjusted course, bringing his squadrons up over Iron Fist’s bow at a considerable altitude.
And then they were in the midst of it, ion cannons sending energy washes between them, laser batteries making space brilliant all around them. Wedge felt hair stand up all over his body as an ion blast came too close; his cockpit lights dimmed, but the computer and his R5 astromech did not suffer power loss. He heard one cry over the comlink—the cry of a survivor who’d just seen a wingman evaporate; Polearm Five disappeared off the sensor board.
Then they were past Iron Fist, the ship’s horrendous field of damage tracking and following them, and the second Destroyer’s guns opened up.
But now they could reply. “Fire at will,” Wedge commanded, and some of the starfighters were launching proton torpedoes before he had the second word out. Faint blue trails leaped out from the starfighters, homing in on the Destroyer’s bow, detonating split seconds later in huge balls of incendiary destruction.
Ahead, a tiny spark—ion-engine emissions—leaped off the command tower, then curved around in front of that projection and opened fire. Minuscule needles of green flashed between it and the destroyer’s bridge … and Wedge watched as the bridge viewports blew in, then vented out just as suddenly in a hail of debris and atmosphere.
“New Republic forces, this is Wraith Ten. Sending transponder data. Please flag me a friendly.”
“Confirm that friendly,” Wedge said. “People, this is the lady who just opened the front door for us.”
Cheers sounded over the comlink. Then the starfighters flashed past the command tower and its ruined summit, past the friendly interceptor that looped around and struggled to catch up. They rained their torpedoes down on the Super Star Destroyer’s stern, then looped around to add the ship’s engines to their list of victims.
A grating voice, Mon Calamari: “Assault force, this is Mon Remonda. Sensors show starfighters launching from Iron Fist in considerable strength.”
“Understood,” Wedge said. “All squadrons, stay in formation. Turn to course nine-oh but keep firing on the target destroyer until you no longer bear. Prepare for individual action.”
“The Razor’s Kiss bridge is no longer responding to communications,” the captain said. His voice was dull with this recitation of what was only one new set of bad news. “Sensors show serious damage to the bridge. I think we’ve lost them.”
Zsinj stared at the holoprojection of a live image of Razor’s Kiss. The Super Star Destroyer, so powerful, so beautiful just minutes ago, was now awash in flame from bow to stern. Hundreds of gouts of fire had erupted from her top deck.
“What about our man on the auxiliary bridge?”
“Also not reporting. Possibly killed during the barrage.”
On a fully staffed destroyer, crews would be putting out those fires. More officers would be occupying the auxiliary bridge and getting back in contact with Iron Fist. But this was not a fully completed Destroyer.
When Zsinj spoke, his voice was quiet, calm. “What’s her course?”
“She came to eight-five as ordered. But she has not come back up to flank speed. Unless we reduce speed, we’re going to leave her behind.”
“Reduce—”
A voice rose from the crew pit: “Communication from Razor’s Kiss!”
Zsinj shouted, “Well, bring it up!”
The dismal image of the crippled Destroyer was replaced by a faded holoprojection of a stormtrooper. His helmet was off, revealing a big face on a big neck, black hair just a little too shaggy to be regulation, a determined expression. “This is Trooper Second Class Gatterweld.”
Zsinj frowned. He knew the names of all his agents aboard Razor’s Kiss. This man wasn’t one of them. “You’re part of the ship’s security detail?”
“Yes, sir.”
The warlord smiled. A social call from an enemy who wasn’t even an officer. The ridiculousness of it pleased him. “And what can I do for you this fine day, Trooper Gatterweld?”
“Sir, I’d just taken the auxiliary bridge to gain control of this ship when the attack came. But I’d prefer to see this fine lady intact in your hands rather than destroyed at the hands of the Rebels.”
Zsinj’s knees went weak. “I’m going to put a communications officer on. He’s going to talk you through the process of slaving Razor’s Edge to our bridge. Then we’ll save her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gatterweld, I’m going to make you a very rich man.”
“I don’t care about that, sir. I’m just doing my duty.”
Zsinj tottered away to let Melvar take over. Suddenly exhausted, he sank into a chair at the communications console.
Events like this reminded him, from time to time, that there was good in the universe, that with enough faith and determination he could win. He could win everything.
Piggy was up to his armpits in wiring when he found the problem. His port-side ion engine was completely out of commission, its connections severed, with trailing cables from the power generator having fallen into other wiring, destroying he knew not how much additional equipment.
He’d have to cut the destroyed engine out of the loop, patch everything else back together as best he could, and then see if the thing would start. He devoutly wished Kell, with his mechanic’s skills, were here.
On the other hand, he wouldn’t wish “here” on anyone he actually liked.
He got to work.
They boiled out of Iron Fist’s sides like angry stinging insects emerging from a shaken hive, squadron after squadron of TIEs—fighters, interceptors, even bombers. They curved in their streams back toward the New Alliance squadrons.
Face heard Wedge issue orders, perhaps the last set of group orders they’d receive before this fight was done: “Break by pairs. Take shots at Iron Fist when you can, but your main objective is to protect yourselves and hold the starfighters. Polearm, you’re our spearhead—break up their formation, deny them their united inertia before they get to us. Rogues next. Wraiths, hang back, every pair protect a pair of B-wings. That’s all.”
“Polearm Leader acknowledging.”
“This is Rogue Leader, we’re on it.”
“This is Nova Leader, thanks.”
From the Wraiths there were only a few scattered groans. Face felt like complaining himself. To be relegated to babysitting duty while the Polearms and Rogues were up front—but Face knew, deep down, the reason for it. More than half the Wraiths were just back from an earlier action. They were tired, even if they didn’t realize it yet.
Ahead, the A-wings of Polearm Squadron roared toward the massed TIEs with speed no X-wing could match. Face could see the deadly formation of starfighters stream straight into the squadrons of TIEs, their laser fire reaping heavy casualties in the target-heavy environment. The enemy forces seemed even more to be a swarm of stinging insects as their formation lost coherence, groups of two and four and six TIEs going after each A-wing.
Then the Rogues were among them. Face watched the unit expertly break up into pairs, each pair moving as one, each pilot firing with the skill of years of experience. Face felt something like a shudder of dread, a feeling nearly of sympathy for the TIE fighters facing those formidable pilots, and suddenly he felt inadequate. He knew he wasn’t up to their standard of performance.
“Orders?” That was Lara’s voice in his ear, calling him back to the present situation.
“Right. Follow me.” He dove relative to the formation and brought himself and his wingman up before a pair of B-wings. He dropped transmission power. “This is Wraith Eight and Wraith Thirteen. We’re your escorts for this evening. What’s your pleasure?”
“You have Nova Three and Nova Four. We can play with the TIEs, but we’re much better suited to unloading on that ugly hunk of metal the warlord is driving.”
“Tuck in tight, we’ll get you close.” Face goosed his thrusters and the foursome of starfighters veered off, away from the cen
ter of the dogfight, toward Iron Fist.
Ahead, a group of fighters—nine, nearly an entire squadron—broke from the main engagement zone and moved out to intercept them. Face switched to dual fire and opened up with his lasers at maximum range.
The backstop for his fire was Iron Fist. No expended fire would be wasted.
The TIEs came on, twisting, bobbing, weaving, difficult targets. Face wished he hadn’t expended all his proton torpedoes on the other Destroyer. On the other hand, it burned nicely, and he had no time for regrets.
One of the oncoming TIEs exploded under Lara’s sustained fire and he heard a hissed “Yesss” from her. Why? Oh, yes, she entered this fight with four silhouettes on her canopy. She’d just made ace.
Another TIE drifted right through the ion-cannon wash from one of the B-wings and went ballistic, helplessly rolling in uncontrolled straight-line flight. Face saw one of the oncoming TIEs was making unpredictable moves at predictable intervals; he waited for the next interval, guessed at the pilot’s next move, fired in that direction, and was rewarded when the fighter drifted right into his fire. It detonated and its wingman flew right through the debris, emerging intact.
Face felt a blow as his forward shields were hit and some of the laser energy penetrated to score his hull. Then they were past, nothing between them and Iron Fist.
“Thirteen, drop back, shore up your rear shields,” he said. “Let’s give the Novas all the protection we can.” In other words, let’s be targets for a while. The way the raiders on the first Death Star trenches were before they died.
“Understood.”
Wedge, unencumbered by a wingman, switched his encryption code so only the Rogues would hear him. “This is Wraith Leader. Any sign of the One Eighty-first?”
Tycho Celchu’s voice, strained: “We’re in the thick of them. You offering help?”
Wedge sighed. He’d like nothing better than to demonstrate to Baron Fel the error of his evaluation of Wedge’s flying skills. Then he glanced back at the pair of B-wings following in his wake. “I’d love to. But can’t. They’ll be here soon enough.”
Star Wars: X-Wing VI: Iron Fist Page 31