By the time they had spent inside the cache, Afaar's eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting of the portable lanterns strung up like a garland around the room.
Everywhere the eye could turn, there was equipment torn to shreds, scattered across the floor, shattered computer terminals, walls clawed and scored.
What the Imperials hadn't destroyed in their retreat, the brood had helped finish off.
The guards and scouts meticulously gathered everything that might aid them further.
A black spherical interrogator droid lay in the corner with its electronic innards spilling out.
The rest of its "brothers" had escaped damage because they were a bit further away, in a special niche.
The rat had torn off the armored doors, but for some reason, hadn't touched the droids.
She had probably "burned" herself on the inedibility of one of them and decided not to touch the others.
"My people are almost done," Jahan stated as he approached. "Everything clean outside?"
"Two minutes ago I got reports from all the sentries," the Zygerrian replied. "No sign of Imperials. They're still messing with the rubble from the sabotage."
"And the rebels?" the human inquired.
"Most of the ships have already launched," Afaar reported. "They're setting up blockades with droid turrets and heading to the last evacuation transports. Observers report that the stormtroopers have thrown their reinforcements into the attacked districts mostly not for clearing rubble, but for assaulting Republic positions."
"They don't care about the wounded," Jahan stated. "Just like under the Empire—casualties are collected after the battle's over. Didn't get help in time? You're probably dead. Stupid."
"The Remnants still think they're the Empire," the Zygerrian noted philosophically. "They don't get that manpower is finite now and just throwing away sentients like that is illogical."
"Better for us," Jahan smirked. "The more Imperials kill themselves against the Republicans, the less they'll harass the Dominion."
"And not the slightest regret that sentients are dying," Sagaal Shana noted.
Cross had changed a lot in that time.
Especially since they'd gone hunting for Blackhole.
And no doubts that he was alive...
What if Thrawn was just using the former Imperial agent's personal tragedy for his own ends.
"How bad is it here?" Afaar asked, to change the subject.
"Almost everything's destroyed, but we managed to salvage some things," Jahan admitted. "The Emperor kept this place in great secrecy. Probably didn't want the residents of the Imperial Center to know that people and other sentients were being deliberately carved up into pieces here."
"I didn't notice any 'slaughterhouse' as such," the Zygerrian objected. "More like this deep interrogation sector was used for its purpose. But some specific one."
"We'll see what the analysts say," Jahan shrugged. "I'll say one thing—diving into this cesspool was worth it."
He nodded unambiguously toward one of the tables, next to which a guardsman stood, protecting everything they'd found.
Afaar squinted, peering into the darkness at some bundle of energy harnesses, flat crystals fanned out, a control panel a bit scratched and cracked but not destroyed...
A chill ran down his spine.
Memories flooded back of entering Imperial Intelligence.
And that "gadget," after meeting which some cadets and applicants vanished without a trace.
"Recognize it?" Cross inquired.
"I'd never forget shit like that even in a nightmare," the Zygerrian admitted. "Now I get how 'specific' this interrogation sector was."
Together they approached the device, and the non-human, with his senior comrade's permission, began poking around it.
"Wiring's cut in places, but one of the reader crystals is still functional," the non-human muttered.
"Damage is easy to fix," Cross stated. "Circuitry's intact, so it's operational."
"You're really planning to hand the Dominion a 'Jedi scanner'?" Afaar asked tensely.
"Why not?" the agent replied. "It's valuable equipment. The Emperor's bloodhounds used them to detect hidden Jedi during the Great Purge."
"I know what this thing is!" Afaar snapped. "Capture teams used this gadget as a Force detector to find hidden Jedi. Those who knew about it feared this thing to death. Remember how many innocents just vanished when the reader detected above-normal Force sensitivity in them?"
"Yes, some weren't lucky—they had the Force," Cross agreed reluctantly.
"Some?" The Zygerrian grimaced. "Heard anything about what happened to them after the scanner pinged on them? Personally, I never saw them again. Given how Palpatine treated Force manifestations in sentients, they were gotten rid of. Just because they were born that way!"
"You're wrong there, Afaar," Cross stated. "The Inquisitorius didn't come from nowhere."
"Yes, it was filled with former Jedi..."
"Who died on missions," the human continued. "But that didn't kill the Inquisitorius. One of the Grand Inquisitors—Malorum—never even served in the Jedi Order. He was just found—maybe with help from this thing—and put to work. Add Palpatine's Shadow Guard, formed entirely from Force-sensitives. And the Emperor's Hands? Half of them were Force-sensitive. No, friend, whatever the Emperor and official propaganda said about the danger of Jedi, Palpatine wasn't stupid enough to throw away such assets. So I'm more than sure that motivated, pro-Imperial cadets and applicants ending up in Imperial Intelligence or the ISB didn't end their lives in some ditch. They were put to work, officially listed as dead."
"They didn't make me any such offers back then," Afaar stated. "As soon as they found out I was a bit more Force-sensitive than the standard sentient, they ran me through the system's grinder, wearing me down to the last. And I'm sure death was inevitable at the end if your father hadn't intervened."
"Maybe you weren't good enough for them," Cross suggested. "If he averted your bad future, maybe it was the same for the others."
"And what's the guarantee the heir of Thrawn won't run purges through the population with this Force detector and eliminate sensitives so they don't defect to the New Republic or the Alliance?" the Zygerrian inquired.
"He doesn't need to exterminate anyone," Cross said quietly, glancing around. He was clearly checking that no one was eavesdropping. But the guards seemed to pay them no mind at all—they were packing discovered items of interest into their backpacks. "The Dominion already has an order of Force-sensitive sentients in service."
"What are you talking about?" Afaar wondered.
"When it came out that Elli had been used by the Zann Consortium, she was checked for 'brainwashing,'" Cross explained. "Including, on Thrawn's orders, by sentients calling themselves Jensaarai. They use the Force like Jedi do. And as far as I know, they help customs and counterintelligence track saboteurs and spies using that same Force. And no, anticipating your next question—they're not the Inquisitorius. No racial discrimination or preferences. There's even a Mon Calamari among them, mentoring the young. And somehow I didn't notice threats or fear in the group I observed."
"You'll say next they refuse orders if told to wipe out Jedi," Afaar said skeptically.
Intellectually, he understood that if Cross's words were true, his fears—including for his own skin—were unfounded.
And if so, maybe he didn't need to hide anymore from full-time service to the Dominion...
Look, even Aveka, who loved "freelancing" so much, had gone "on payroll," joining the Dominion Intelligence staff.
And it took at least good pay to interest that lady enough to even hear a pitch.
Otherwise, she didn't work.
And neither did Afaar.
No agent-freelancer would go "on staff" with intelligence if the pay differed much from what they could get without binding commitments to any state.
"I think if Jedi threaten the Dominion, anyone—even Jensaarai with their 'Only protection' ideology—will go to war."
"A knockoff of the Jedi Order," the Zygerrian grimaced. "They talked about 'protection' too. Want me to remind you how they 'protected' Zygerria in the past? Or Mandalore?"
"Stop clowning," Cross shook his head. "As if the slaving Zygerrian Empire didn't deserve what the Jedi did to it. Or we Mandalorians don't have a habit of uniting every millennium and putting on a show with crusades against the whole galaxy?"
"Agreed, bad example," Afaar waved a hand. "By the way, if you didn't know, the Empire collaborated with Zygerria."
"I knew perfectly well," Cross replied. "And it's disgusting. Talking about fighting slavery to their faces, then dealing with slavers behind their backs."
It was Sagaal Shana's turn to shrug.
"Slaveholding isn't a heinous act if you're a slaveholder," he recited an ancient Zygerrian proverb.
"I expected no other answer," Cross clucked his tongue. "And this sentient judges me for planning to hand a Jedi detector to my government..."
"Everyone has their flaws," Sagaal Shana chuckled.
Internally, he noted that while telling about the Jensaarai, Cross was calm, eyes not darting, no change in breathing rate.
So Jahan wasn't lying.
He could fool most, but not the one whose father saved his life and with whom he'd completed the full Intelligence academy course.
After that, command had found "their path" for each...
So the rumors weren't wrong.
The Dominion really had its own Jedi.
They said dark Jedi helped Thrawn in his campaign—that's why he always struck so devastatingly at the New Republic and avoided critical counterstrikes.
If so, he could think about approaching their Intelligence director and becoming a permanent external agent.
Or a well-paid freelancer responsive to monetary jobs.
Too bad Thrawn died—this could have been discussed with him personally.
After all, the Zygerrian had helped the Dominion solve plenty of problems in the Corporate Sector.
So why not continue helping?
Of course, if the pay matched.
But first—Blackhole.
If he was alive, that is.
"We're done here," Cross reported, seeing the guards pack the last finds and ready to move out. "To the exit. Heading to the second base point."
Throwing the Zygerrian an encouraging glance, he added:
"Once we get there, I'll introduce you to someone."
What a surprise.
And who else had Cross dragged with him to this occupied planet, moving around it like parading down Coronet Treasure Ship Row?
***
Built in Imperial yards and refitted by Dominion shipwrights, the star destroyer was merciless.
Dangerous, ruthless, and knew its worth.
The disintegrating Kaloth-class battlecruiser was testament to that.
Kaloth-class cruiser.
This comparatively inexpensive class of starship for its size was beloved by all who had enough money and connections to crew and maintain an armed vessel.
Mercenaries, large pirate communes and gangs, some regional governments.
Under normal circumstances—a fairly tough opponent.
Even for a star destroyer.
But not after a full salvo of proton torpedoes from TIE bombers slammed into it.
Then boldly seasoned what still showed signs of life with turbolaser and ion cannon barrages from Chimaera herself.
And now the star destroyer's gunners were chewing through the shields of a second such ship.
Which Chimaera's tractor beam operators held bow-on to the destroyer, allowing the Dominion flagship's entire turret artillery to salute the bold fool's broadside as he tried to go one-on-one with them.
Now the insolent one suffered—his deflector on the right broadside facing the destroyer flared red and dissolved.
Time for retribution.
Captain Tschel watched the Black Sun emblem on the kaloth's hull with indifference and detached disgust.
And noted that the gunners were placing their shots tightly, literally melting and breaching the battlecruiser in one spot.
The enemy shuddered, belched flame, jerked sideways, even spat proton torpedoes, but in vain.
The Raider-class corvette hugging under Chimaera's belly, in the space between the two combatants, vigilantly kept watch protecting the flagship starship.
Long green beams of laser cannons kept appearing in front of the destroyer's bow, knocking down kinetic projectiles, turning them from deadly ordnance into useless chunks of material.
The captain briefly wondered why the grand admiral and the shipwright overseeing the "Imperials" refit program had approved installing Mandalorian-designed laser cannons but balked at placing mass-driver anti-aircraft guns.
Which had been on Zann Consortium ships in their time, and with their rapid-fire shots not just destroyed missiles and torpedoes but sometimes the accelerated metal shrapnel—mass-driver rounds—took down Imperial and Republic starfighters.
In fact, he put that question to the grand admiral, eyes fixed on how Chimaera's turbolasers had apparently severed the kaloth's power conduits.
Because the enemy ship plunged into pitch blackness.
"Sorry to distract you from the battle, sir..."
"Actually a good question, Captain," Thrawn said. "You're commanding the engagement, not I. If you have the bandwidth to monitor the battlefield and chat, well, I won't deny you that."
Backing down would cast him in a poor light.
He hadn't thought of that issue, but decided not to retreat.
Just don't lose focus on the battle picture.
"Sir," the watch officer reported. "Flight control reports that Lieutenant Jainer was successfully intercepted by our pickets exiting the system. Pilot's alive, but he took a beating from the gees."
"Convey my thanks to Eternal Wrath's commander for help corralling Lieutenant Jainer," Tschel replied. "Inform Grey Two he's temporarily taking squadron command."
The operation to rescue Grey Leader was a real edge-of-your-seat sci-fi adventure thriller.
How to slow a ship accelerating hard when intercepting it would inevitably breach the hull, and tractor-beaming it with the destroyer would be like braking against a wall.
The lieutenant would just smear across the cockpit.
Same if he'd started maneuvering—the craft would disintegrate mid-flight.
Needed a sharp but soft speed dump.
But luckily it was a TIE Avenger, equipped with a standard reliable hyperdrive.
After the Grey Wing squadron commander could no longer direct the strike gunboats and left the combat zone.
Then Eternal Wrath adjusted one of its gravity wells to cross Jainer's path.
The Avenger jumped to hyperspace.
Sublight speed had no effect on the ship—crossing the light barrier voids some laws of physics.
Despite the TIE Avenger objectively moving faster than seconds ago, pulling it from hyperspace went without catastrophe.
And without risk to the pilot.
Paradox?
Yes, paradox.
Catching a pilot at insane speed in realspace with an energy beam—deadly dangerous.
Fishing him from hyperspace with a gravity well—simple as pie.
"Gunners starboard, shift fire to the armed liner approaching on vector three," the young star destroyer commander ordered.
The turrets obediently stopped tormenting the dying kaloth and switched to a worthier, more dangerous target.
The battle continued.
Chimaera's squadrons rotated regularly and spewed from the star destroyer's belly in swarms.
Laser beams rained hot torrents across the main viewport.
Green turbolaser bolts and white-blue ion cannon flashes furrowed black space, but at this range and enemy density, missing was extremely hard.
The armed transport didn't hold.
The starship with characteristically smooth Mon Calamari curves lacked good armor, strong deflectors, or powerful shipboard guns.
Riddled with holes, the ship—still at thirty units—bloomed in silent, rumbling blood-red dawn.
A wave of escape pods fired from compartments, but low-power engines couldn't cope with the monstrous fighter traffic, all rushing to battle.
Resulting in a crush and pointless deaths.
Tschel watched the liner perish.
The doomed ship's lower decks and hyperdrive began exploding as internal detonations reached the reactors and fuel tanks of the smugglers' vessel.
Enveloped in flame clouds merging with gases devoured by the Maw, the starship exploded.
"Sir, reports from the assault teams," they had been sent to seize two relatively intact, least-damaged-by-Chimaera-gunners carracks. "Both light cruisers fully under our control. Minimal personnel losses."
Trophies... The first the star destroyer captain had taken in independent combat.
A very, very valuable "catch."
This class of ships was designed during the Clone Wars era.
There were plenty of armament layout variants for the light cruiser, but judging by how the initial quintet had snapped back, they were the "anti-air variant."
Meaning—a dozen heavy turbolasers, twenty laser quadlasers—all packed into a three-hundred-fifty-meter ship.
Carrack-class light cruiser.
"Form provisional crews immediately and bring the ships online to secure Chimaera," Tschel ordered.
The confirmed order went down the chain, while the young commander continued monitoring the battlefield.
He'd bet right having Chimaera directly engage the enemy's big ships.
Because the foe didn't have that many—at least not direct "heavyweights" like those kaloths.
The bulk—converted civilian ships.
And Chimaera cracked them like nuts.
Now, after destroying the last kaloth, the enemy had only hordes of starfighters left.
So Tschel wanted the carracks in the current fight.
Forty extra laser cannons and twenty heavy turbolasers never hurt, and here they could support the Dominion starship nicely.
Because, though Chimaera's pilots were the best of the best on star destroyers, the enemy still had numerical superiority in pilots and craft.
Holding it off for now, but the battle had raged nearly four hours.
Pilots were tiring.
Some machines destroyed, others damaged.
Incredibly, but fact: with Grand Admiral Thrawn's arrival, the duration of routine space battles had increased by orders of magnitude.
If Imperial starships used to spend half an hour, at most an hour, on such engagements, now those figures had grown significantly.
Which seemed unfamiliar, even alien, to many new regular fleet servicemembers.
Not so for Thrawn's flotilla veterans, for whom this was just another op.
But in any case, such a standoff first hit the enemy hardest.
If the first hour was Chimaera defense while the rabble attacked, now the sides had swapped.
The star destroyer's counteroffensive proved so successful that, frankly, Tschel inwardly scolded himself for missing how the Mirax and Booster Terrik escape pod saga ended.
Yes, he hadn't joked when saying he'd stuff them in a pod and send them straight at the attackers.
And he'd kept his word.
Whether pirates destroyed them or the smugglers escaped—frankly didn't matter now.
Horn couldn't leave the system—Sentinel and Eternal Wrath stood guard, plus their escorts and strike force.
Not even a Jedi could slip such a blockade.
"Returning to your question on using mass drivers as anti-air," the grand admiral said unexpectedly. "Still interested in my opinion, Captain?"
"Always, sir," Tschel hastened to say.
"Mass drivers are extremely effective weapons—no one argues that," Thrawn said. "Nor that most starfighters, and larger ships too, use deflector shields protecting only from energy attacks, not kinetic."
"Which boosts mass driver effectiveness."
"A credit has two sides, Captain." The grand admiral philosophized. "Laser, let alone turbolaser rounds move at speeds beyond mass drivers. Yes, at comparable speeds, the latter wins on impact mass. The issue is that with the same number of mass drivers on Dominion destroyers as laser cannons, the power draw from the solar ionization reactor skyrockets."
"Which directly impacts the whole ship's power supply," Tschel got it. "Yes, sir, I see now. Shame I didn't get there myself. And that they didn't teach it at the academy, where they beat all the civilian out of me, drilling in the fleet way."
"You're not alone, Captain," Thrawn stated. "The Imperial Remnants, partly understanding, partly rejecting the obvious, are rapidly losing quality in training their fighters. Battles with New Republic cadre will cull a good number of Remnant veterans with practical skills. And their places will go to those of your classmates unlucky enough to not drop from the 'accelerated training program' in time."
"Pity those guys..."
"Hardly," the grand admiral objected. "All adults. Each chose a side per their convictions. No mercy for the enemy, Captain, even if the face is familiar. Especially if familiar. A backstab from those closest hurts worse than death from a stranger's hand."
"I'll remember, sir," the Chimaera's commander rasped, eyeing the tactical display. "Scimitar bomber squadron, attack large transports in the formation center. Enemy's rotating fighters onto them—until we destroy them, this battle could go forever. And I have other plans for tonight."
***
"Scimitar-01" fired proton torpedoes at the battered Mon Calamari MC40a light cruiser, then veered away from defensive fire.
Tomax tried to escape the hurricane of fire from the advancing horde of ships, throwing the craft side to side, aiming to simply break out of the fire sack for a run.
But the opponents, having lost several cruisers and one sniffed-out old Separatist "Rebel," had clearly pegged these unknown, very nimble ships that always appeared nearby before inevitable big-ship explosions as a far greater threat than standard Dominion fighters.
Though, in Alex's opinion, the upgraded TIE interceptors equipped with low-power but actual deflector shields, plus launchers for shaped-charge missiles, had been quite the surprise for the foe.
As had the massed missile salvo from assault gunboats and the Raider-class corvette, which had turned more than one fleet squadron near Kessel to debris.
As soon as their ship's course stabilized, Alex lovingly stroked the laser quadlaser triggers with his thumbs, which he'd "bolted on" during Chimaera's refit.
Tomax had looked askance at this mod but wasn't thrilled that the power for broadside lasers now also fed the aft turret.
But Alex had pushed the change, reminding that now with more Scimitars and them proven in destroying enemy starships, better worry about the stern.
Cracking Scimitar tactics was easy—see them in battle once.
And survive.
Deflectors and PLAE were fine, but in situations like Sluis Van and now Kessel, where the melee of fighting ships demanded the crew get as far from the thick of it as possible and return for rotation, covering the aft was necessary.
Alex sent a burst of green plasma bolts and satisfyingly noted the reactor flare on the little fighter bearing the sonorous name "Z-95 Headhunter."
Even its deflectors didn't save it.
The crippled fighter peeled off, smoking from the ruined wing and half its engines.
The craft dove down and vanished into Kessel's clouds.
The flight engineer—who'd added "flight gunner" to his resume—hoped a soft landing wasn't in the cards for that foe.
But no time to ponder events.
For one downed ship, the enemy had three combat-ready.
And the enemy answered with a firestorm.
Plus a nearby-seeming X-wing cranked its lasers full, hunting gaps in Scimitar-01's defenses.
In moments, Tomax and Alex's ship slipped from the grinder, fully stripped of shields.
The commander bucked the vessel side to side, futilely trying to slip away.
One glance at the panels sufficed to see—deflectors gone.
Now nothing to cover with.
And one quadlaser against four undamaged enemy fighters was basically a signal gun.
But Alex kept firing and scored a hit: one pursuer—a TIE fighter—flared into a fireball and plummeted into Kessel's thin air.
No, that one definitely wouldn't live—flames even jetted from the canopy.
Crimson flashes blinded momentarily, but Alex, undaunted, squeezed the triggers and fired blind.
Vision cleared to find one pursuer's accurate fire melting the gun.
The targeting monitor died.
Now the triggers and remote gun control were just dead weight.
The flight engineer slapped switches, diverting aft dual buffer power to deflectors.
And just in time—the next X-wing pass shattered against the energy shield, no harm done.
Well, except stripping their defense again.
"Commander, we're shieldless," Alex reported.
"You think I don't know!" Bren snapped, and helmet audio filled with the gun's whine.
The pilot was clearing a path through the few foes darting across course.
Few as they were, they still hindered acceleration.
And per instruments, ahead lay only Kessel itself.
"Commander, doesn't it seem like they're herding us..."
"Not seeming! It is!"
So it wasn't imagination—the enemy was indeed driving them to a forced landing on Kessel's surface.
But what to do?
"I won't give them the Scimitar!" the major said, as if hearing his partner's thoughts.
"And I wasn't insisting," Alex noted.
"Fuel status?" Tomax asked.
"Less than a tenth," came the instant reply.
No sense sugarcoating.
With that fuel volume, not only no run—they couldn't even fly straight.
Too much burned in engines during maneuvers amid the enemy fleet.
And nearby, no safe harbor—let alone "friendlies" among small craft.
No rescue coming.
Fuel wouldn't magically appear in the tanks.
So—they'd been herded from Chimaera, boxed in, and prepped for a Kessel landing.
And there, the machine would be studied and disassembled to bits.
Win or lose—the Dominion bomber's data would leak "sideways."
Meaning, internals of the PLAE and craft principles would be known...
No need to guess—in a couple months, the shrewdest black-market traders would sell full schematics, maybe even Scimitar and PLAE parts.
Unacceptable.
So...
"Cabin pyro cartridges checked?" Tomax asked.
"Yes," Alex replied tensely.
So it would be that, which he hadn't wanted to think about since Scimitar launch.
"Chimaera OCC, this is Yatagan Leader," Tomax's voice sounded in the helmet. "Enemy forcing landing. No chance to extract craft. Fuel critical. Ordnance expended. Preparing crew ejection, awaiting pickup at surface point three-seven-seven. Correction scale six."
Which, translated to Basic, meant: take the correction number, divide by coordinate count—three here—and add the result to each digit of the stated coords.
In other words, the real search spot for the pilots post-landing: point five-nine-nine.
Simple and effective.
"Yatagan Leader, understood," the controller's voice came. "Hang in there, boys, sending help."
Yeah, right.
Just like that, sending a lone shuttle through the whole battle for SAR?
"Five-second ready." Bren ordered. "Activate self-destruct."
"Tomax, you know that'll just break the machine, not total destruction?" Alex asked.
Self-destruct assumed at least twenty percent fuel left—then detonation would vaporize the craft.
With eight percent max, best hope was wrecking most structure, maybe the PLAE going critical.
"Do as I say!" Tomax bellowed.
"Ejection ready," Alex confirmed, checking harnesses, pyros, and armed self-destruct indicator.
Under pilot and flight engineer's seats: emergency kit with all needed to survive on surface till SAR arrived.
Nyeah... Lately pilots rarely dropped from sky to ground—FRT mostly fished "lucky ones" from space.
The alarmed swarm of attackers whirled in space as the Scimitar dissolved into Kessel's white mist, suddenly diving straight for surface.
Alex instinctively gripped his seat as the ship tore heavy cloud wadding.
Then dozens of laser beams struck them.
But missed, true...
Hundreds of icy streams screamed full voice, pouring into cracked armor fissures: air hissed out.
Damn!
So they hit after all.
Cockpit depressurized from the enemy's unaimed fire.
If instruments and the stench seeping through the console were believed, they'd taken a solid hit.
Scimitar-01 descended steadily.
Or rather, "unstoppably plummeted."
Tomax clearly tried keeping moderate descent speed to not burn up in thin air.
The wing commander clearly had something in mind.
Somehow he needed to keep the Scimitar intact, not shattered.
Likely because in such thin air, bits breaking off at hypersonic descent wouldn't burn proper, giving foe analysis chance.
But a moment later, Alex grasped the commander's plan for the speed bomber.
Piercing upper atmosphere layers, the Scimitar slid toward ground—right over one of the gigantic air factories.
The factory's colossal engines catalyzed rock and pumped cyclones of breathable gas mix through titan pipes.
And the doomed machine, ceasing to burn, accelerated to design max.
Fuel remainder indicator plunged steadily.
"In seven seconds activating PLAE," Tomax ordered. "On command, ready to jettison cockpit—I won't make it."
"We won't go through the planet!"
"We don't need to. Just maximize impact speed," Bren stated.
Alex got the commander.
Activated PLAE would blow on impact like any warhead would envy.
And the major's target wasn't random.
"Go!" Tomax yelled.
Alex, hand on ejection lever, yanked it up simultaneous with his gut slamming spine as the speed bomber made its final dash.
The two-sentient cockpit, with hideous screech and whistle, shifted vector, borne sideways by solid-fuel rockets carrying both crew and meager gear far from landing site.
The enemy X-wing appearing astern the Scimitar fired helplessly, hoping to blow the craft before target reach.
Failing lock, they opted to destroy it, avoiding too much damage.
But the X-wing's lasers lacked agility to reach critical PLAE systems, safely armored.
Cockpit lateral accel let them, at respectable distance, watch the giant plant pierced by the speed bomber.
For a fraction-second nothing happened, then a massive fire-smoke pillar rocketed up, turning the plant's updraft into a fire tornado.
Into which the X-wing flew.
Wings and engines sheared clean off.
And the pursuer, like a dry fallen leaf in wind, was left to physics, tumbling wildly in vacuum on inertia.
Other aero fittings shattered when the pilot futilely tried breaking free using repulsors, it seemed.
Alex's triumphant yell fittingly scored the bright sight of the flaming ship.
And then Kessel's surface, and the air plant itself, bucked like a bronc.
A huge fire cap, like Alex had seen only in slides of Mandalorian nuclear strikes (and that long ago), rose over the Scimitar wreck.
The shockwave rippling out flattened structures, toppling the weakest into charred ruins of what remained.
The blast spun the cockpit, engines dying against the maelstrom.
Through rising wind howl in punctured hull cracks, trying to affect things somehow, Alex bellowed:
"Try restarting them!"
But Tomax had no time to reply—the Scimitar-01 cockpit slammed into Kessel's lumpy hard ground.