by James Luceno
“Wings of starfighters are converging on the fleet,” the droid reported. “Assault cruisers, destroyers, and other capital vessels are arrayed in a screen formation above night-side Belderone.”
Klaxons were blaring in the corridors, and gunner droids and Neimoidians were hastening to battle stations.
“Order our ships to raise shields and form up behind us. Vanguard pickets are to fall back in shield formation to protect the core vessels.”
“Affirmative, General.”
“Roll the ship starboard to minimize our profile, and reorient the deflector shields. Deploy all wings of droid tri-fighters and ready all port-side batteries for enfilade fire.”
Grievous braced himself against a bulkhead as the cruiser was shaken by an explosion.
“Ranged fire from the Republic destroyers,” the droid said. “No damage. Shields functioning at better than ninety percent.”
Grievous quickened his pace.
On the bridge, a real-time hologram of the battle was running above the tactical console. Grievous took a moment to study the deployment of the Republic ships and starfighter squadrons. Made up of sixty capital vessels, the battle group wasn’t large enough to overwhelm the Separatist fleet, but it packed enough combined firepower to defend trivial Belderone.
On the far side of the dun-colored planet, a convoy of transports was angling toward the lesser of Belderone’s two inhabited moons, starfighters and corvettes flying escort.
“Evacuees, General,” one of the droids explained.
Grievous was stunned. An organized evacuation could mean only one thing: the Republic had somehow learned that Belderone had been targeted! But how could that be, when only the Separatist leaders had been apprised?
He moved to the forward viewports to observe the strobing spectacle of battle.
He would learn how he had been foiled. But survival was the first order of business.
With its stubby wings and bulbous aft cockpit, Anakin’s starfighter was closer in design to the Delta-7 Aethersprite he had flown at the start of the war than it was to the newer-generation V-wings and ARC-170s flown by clone pilots. But where the Delta-7 was triangular in shape, the silver-and-yellow starfighter had a blunt bow composed of two separate fuselages, each equipped with a missile launcher. Laser cannons occupied notches forward of the wings. As with the Delta-7, the astromech socket was located to one side of the humpbacked cockpit.
Plus, Anakin had made a few significant modifications.
Already a veteran of battles at Xagobah and other worlds, the craft looked as if it had been around for ten years. But it handled better than the modified Torpil he had flown at Praesitlyn, and was faster, as well.
Launched from the Integrity, Anakin poured on speed in an effort to catch up with the ARCs and V-wings that had been first to deploy from the assault cruiser’s massive ventral bay. An instrument panel monitor indicated that the starfighter’s ion drive was functioning at just under optimal.
“Artoo,” he said toward the comlink, “run a diagnostic on the starboard thruster.”
The starfighter’s console display translated the droid’s toodled response into Basic characters.
“I thought so. Well, go ahead and make the adjustments. We don’t want to be last to arrive.”
R2-D2’s plaintive mewl needed no translation.
The drive readout graph pulsed and climbed, and the starfighter surged forward.
“That’s it, pal. Now we’re moving!”
Settling back into the padded seat, he flexed his gloved hands and exhaled slowly through his mouth. Enough spying, he told himself. He wasn’t any closer to Coruscant, but at least he was back where he belonged, wedded to a starfighter, and prepared to show the enemy a thing or two about space combat.
Ahead of him—spearhead to groups of needle-nosed pickets that were screening the capital ships—slued hundreds of enemy craft. Some were thirteen-year-old Vulture fighters with paired wings that resembled seedpods; others were compact tri-fighter droids; and still others were space-capable Geonosian twin-beaked Nantex starfighters. Just now the lead ARC-170s were weaving through permutations of close combat with the droid fighters, the glowing pulses of energy beams turning local space into a web of devastation.
Not since Praesitlyn had he soared into such an enemy-rich environment.
Target practice, he thought, allowing a grin.
He took his right hand from the control yoke to activate the long-range scanners. The threat-assessment screen displayed the signatures and deployment of the Separatist capital vessels: Trade Federation Lucrehulks and core ships; Techno Union Hardcells, with their columnar thruster packages and egg-shaped fuselages; Commerce Guild Diamond cruisers and Corporate Alliance Fantails; frigates, gunboats, and communications ships featuring huge circular transponders.
The whole Separatist parade.
Switching his comlink over to the battle net, Anakin hailed his wingmate.
“I say we leave the small stuff to Odd Ball and the other pilots, and go straight for the ones that matter.”
Accustomed to Anakin’s disregard for call signs, Obi-Wan answered in kind.
“Anakin, there are approximately five hundred droids positioned between Grievous and us. What’s more, the capital ships are too heavily shielded.”
“Just follow my lead, Master.”
Obi-Wan sighed into the comlink microphone. “I’ll try. Master.”
Anakin scanned the threat-assessment display, committing to memory vector lines of the closest enemy fighters. Then he reopened a channel to R2-D2.
“Battle speed, Artoo!”
Again, the starfighter shot forward. Indicators on the console redlined. Just short of the roiling fray, when he could sense the droid ships drawing a bead on him, he shoved the yoke into a corner for a pushover and streaked out of the maneuver with all weapons blazing.
Droids flared and flamed to all sides of him.
Wending through clouds of expanding fire, he locked down the trigger of the laser cannons and made a second pass through the enemy wave, destroying a dozen more fighters in a heartbeat. But the tri-fighters were onto him now, eager for payback. A sunburst of scarlet beams seared past the bubble canopy, and a fighter appeared to starboard. An instant later, a second volley sizzled down from overhead. R2-D2 loosed a series of urgent whistles and tweets as the starfighter was rocked to its shields.
Blue lightning coruscated across the console, and droid fighters appeared to port and starboard. More bolts found their mark, throwing Anakin hard against the safety harness.
“Just what I needed,” he said, in appreciation.
Swerving hard to starboard, he caught the first ship with a sideslip shot. The second fighter sheared off as quickly as it could from the expanding fragmentation cloud. As it did, Anakin raced into its aft wash and triggered the lasers.
A ball of fire, the droid careened into a flak-dazzled tri-fighter and the two of them exploded.
Anakin checked the display to make certain that Obi-Wan was still with him.
“Are you all right?”
“A bit toasted, but okay.”
“Stay with me.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Always, Master.”
Deeper into the melee now, ARC-170s, V-wings, and droid fighters were joined in a great cloverleaf of combat, chasing one another, colliding into one another, twirling out of the fight with engines smoking or wings blown away. Weapons themselves, the droids were accurate with their bolts, but slower to recover, and easily confused by random maneuvers. While at times this made for effortless kills, there were just so many of them …
Anakin squared off with the enemy leader of the cloverleaf clash, and began to harass it with laser bolts. Adapting to his tactics, Obi-Wan fell back; then leapt his starfighter into kill position and opened up.
“Nice shot!” Anakin said when the wing leader vanished.
“Nice setup!”
Signaling Obi-Wan to follow
, Anakin climbed out of the main battle, veering tangent to it, and rocketed toward the nearest of the Separatists’ needle-nosed picket ships. Loosing two missiles to draw the picket’s attention, he yawed to port, pushed over, then came back at the vessel with lasers.
“Run the hull! Target the shield generator!”
“Any closer and we’ll be inside the thing!”
“That’s the idea!”
Obi-Wan followed, unleashing with all cannons.
They were in the thick of the heaviest fighting now, where ranged fire from the Republic capital ships was breaking against the particle and ray shields of their targets. Blinding light pulsed behind the canopy blast tinting. The picket Anakin had piqued with missiles was under heavy bombardment. He grasped that a high-yield torpedo would be too much for it, and rushed to deliver it.
The torpedo tore from between the starfighter’s cockpit-linked fuselages and burned its way toward the picket.
The picket’s shield failed for an instant, and in that instant the huge incoming turbolaser bolts did their worst. Struck broadside, the picket burst like an overripe fruit, venting long plumes of incandescence and spilling light and guts into space.
Anakin jinked away, whooping into the comlink.
“We’ve got a clear shot at Grievous!” he told Obi-Wan.
With its tapered bow and large outrigger fins, the general’s cruiser resembled a classic-era Coruscant skyscraper laid on its side.
“This hardly seems the time to bait him, Anakin. Have you had a look at those point-defense arrays?”
“When are you going to learn to trust me?”
“I do trust you! I just can’t keep up with you!”
“Fine. Then I’ll be right back.”
Anakin pushed the starfighter to its limits, paying out plasma and missiles that exploded harmlessly against the great ship’s deflector shield. He peeled away from the fiery wash, only to fall back at the ship in predatory banks, breaking ultimately for its 200-meter-tall conning tower.
The cruiser’s in-close batteries came alive, chundering, gushing enormous gouts of spun plasma at the pest that was attempting to besiege it. Snap-rolling, Anakin slid the starfighter hard to port, belly-up, and continued to fire.
Again he tried to harry the invulnerable bridge with bursts of his lasers. And again the batteries of the colossal vessel tried but failed to get him in target lock.
Anakin pictured Grievous standing stalwart behind the transparisteel viewports.
“A taste of what’s coming when we meet in the flesh,” he growled.
Grievous’s reptilian eyes tracked the audacious maneuvers of the yellow-and-green starfighter that was attempting to strafe the bridge. Firing with precision, anticipating the responses of the forward batteries, taking chances even a clone wouldn’t take … the pilot could only be a Jedi.
But a Jedi unafraid to call on his rage.
Grievous could see that in the pilot’s dauntless determination, his abandon. He could sense it, even through the Invisible Hand’s shimmering shields and the viewport’s transparisteel. Oh, to have the lightsaber of that one dangling from his belt, he thought.
Anakin Skywalker.
Certainly it was him. And in the starfighter that was guarding Anakin’s stern: Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Thorns in the Separatists’ side.
Elsewhere in the battle arena Republic forces were demonstrating similar enthusiasm, atomizing droid fighters and punishing the capital ships with long-range cannon fire. Grievous was confident that, if pressed, he could turn the tide of battle, but that was not his present mandate. His Sith Masters had ordered him to safeguard the lives of the Council members—though, in fact, the Confederacy needed none other than Lords Sidious and Tyranus.
He turned to watch the simulation playing above the tactical console, then swung back to the viewports, recalling the ARC-170 pilots who had hounded Gunray’s shuttle only days earlier. He waved for one of the droids.
“Alert our vessel commanders to stand by to receive revised battle orders.”
“Yes, General,” the droid acknowledged in monotone.
“Raise the ship. Prepare to fire all guns on my command.”
There is no death; there is only the Force.
Obi-Wan wondered if he had ever witnessed a more lucid demonstration of the Jedi axiom than Anakin’s Force-centered, death-defying harassment of Grievous’s ship. His speck of a starfighter all but nose-to-nose with the mammoth cruiser, leaving Obi-Wan to deal with the vengeful droid fighters Anakin was either ignorant of or deliberately disregarding.
“He really is going to be the death of me,” Obi-Wan mumbled.
But he was indifferent to his own fate, wondering instead: What if Anakin should be killed?
Could he even be killed?
As the Chosen One, was he destined to fulfill both the title and the prophecy? Was he immune to real harm, or—as someone born to restore balance to the Force—did he require defenders to guide him to that destiny? Was it Obi-Wan’s duty—more, the duty of all the Jedi—to see to it that he survived at all costs?
Was that what Qui-Gon had intuited so many years earlier on Tatooine, and had motivated him to attack with such resolve the Sith who had revealed himself in that parched landscape?
Though the cruiser’s shield was removing the sting of Anakin’s laser bolts, he could not be deterred from persevering. Even Obi-Wan’s repeated attempts to hail him through the battle net had had no effect. But now the huge ship was beginning to climb and reorient itself.
Obi-Wan thought for a moment that Grievous was actually going to bring all forward guns to bear on Anakin. Instead, the cruiser continued to rise until it was well above the plane of the ecliptic, with its bow angled slightly Coreward.
Then it fired.
Not at the Republic battle group, nor at Belderone itself, but at the convoy of evacuees and its escort starfighters.
Obi-Wan felt a great disturbance in the Force, as ship after ship disintegrated or erupted in flames. Thousands of voices cried out, and the battle and command nets grew shrill with shouts of dismay and outrage.
The follow-up volley Obi-Wan waited for never arrived.
Tri-fighters and Vulture droids were suddenly slinking back to the ships from which they had been disgorged. At the same time, the entire Separatist fleet was turning tail. Of course Grievous realized that his barbaric act had caught the Republic forces by surprise, but he had nothing more in mind than escape into hyperspace. The general had obviously made up his mind that Belderone simply wasn’t worth the risk—not with so many defenseless Outer Rim worlds still up for grabs.
“Anakin, the evacuees need our help!” Obi-Wan said.
“I’m coming, Master.”
Obi-Wan watched Anakin’s starfighter break off its futile pursuit of the cruiser. Farther out, Separatist ships were disappearing from sight as they made the jump to lightspeed.
“Vessels of the main fleet are safely away,” a droid reported to Grievous as soon as the cruiser entered hyperspace. “Expected arrival at the alternate rally point: ten standard hours.”
“Losses at Belderone?” Grievous said.
“Acceptable.”
Beyond the forward viewports, the smoky vortices of out-raced light.
Grievous ran the fingers of his clawlike hand down the bulkhead.
“Instruct my elite to meet me in the shuttle launching bay on emergence from hyperspace,” he said to no droid in particular. “When all ships have arrived at the rally point, advise Viceroy Gunray that I will be paying him a visit.”
Trained well by Dooku, General Grievous was,” Yoda said. He and Mace Windu were in Yoda’s chambers in the Jedi Temple, each atop a meditation dais. “Entrapped, they strike at the weakest. Force us, they do, to choose between saving lives and continuing the fight.”
Yoda recalled his duel with Dooku in the solar sailer’s docking bay on Geonosis. Dooku bested, left with no alternative but to distract and flee …
&nb
sp; “Representatives from Belderone have expressed their gratitude to the Senate,” Mace said. “Despite the losses.”
Yoda shook his head sadly. “More than ten thousand killed. Twenty-seven Jedi.”
The muscles in Mace’s jaw bunched. “Billions have died in this war. Belderone was saved, and, more importantly, we were able to keep Grievous on the run.”
“Know where he jumped to, we do.”
“We’ll chase him to the ends of known space, if we have to.”
Yoda fell silent for a moment, then said: “Speak with the Supreme Chancellor, we must.”
“Without apology,” Mace said bluntly. “Our deference to him has to end.”
“With the war’s end, it will.” Yoda turned slightly to regard Mace. “A terrible warning, Belderone is. Increasing, the power of the dark side is. Rooted out, Sidious must be.”
Mace nodded gravely. “Rooted out and eliminated.”
General Grievous has left the docking bay,” a Trade Federation lieutenant relayed to Gunray in his lavish quarters in the core ship’s port-side command tower.
“Which docking bay?” Gunray said toward the comlink’s audio pickup. “Below, or in the tower?”
“The general’s shuttle availed itself of the tower docking ring, Viceroy.”
Gunray swung around to face Rune Haako. “That means he will be here any moment!”
He turned to a large circular screen that displayed a realtime view of the antechamber outside his suite. The Neimoidian guards stationed there had also been alerted to Grievous’s arrival. Armed with blaster rifles taller than they were, the four wore bulky torso and lower-leg armor, and pot-shaped helmets that left their red eyes and green faces exposed.
“It has to be the mechno-chair,” Gunray said, striding back and forth in front of the screen.
“What did you tell him?” Haako asked.
Gunray came to a halt. “Immediately on being apprised by Shu Mai of the Belderone rendezvous, I contacted Grievous, expressing anger that he hadn’t informed me personally. I accused him of purposely leaving me out of the command loop.”
Haako was horrified. “You said that to him?”