Lieutenant Jainer spotted movement ahead.
He dumped altitude and speed, not allowing himself to slip past the injustice he'd noticed.
A lone StarViper, with a commander's insignia daubed across its fuselage, lurked behind a huge chunk of debris that had once been part of an Aggressor-class Star Destroyer recently burst open by strike gunships.
The other interceptors in his squadron passed within a hundred meters of their squadron commander, heading off to finish escorting the returning gunships, which had expended their payload and turned not only the first pair, but also the neighboring Aggressor that had darted in to help them, into ruins.
And if the first two were just scrap metal, the third still showed signs of life—by the intermittent light flaring in the few viewports that remained intact.
And one of the few surviving Vipers in this part of space had clearly decided to lie low.
This kind of behavior hadn't been observed before.
Krig opened a comm channel.
"OCC—Chimaera, at point six-zero-three there's a crippled Viper with commander markings; what do I do?"
"There's plenty of work. Gray Leader. Return."
And where, exactly, is this "plenty"?
You couldn't find a combat-capable enemy even among a hundred units.
Could "chat" with the enemy—maybe it'd be possible to recruit him.
A squadron commander was a valuable trophy.
The lieutenant would have done exactly that, but a new voice cut in—abrupt, crisp in a military way:
"Do I have the honor of speaking with the commander of the squadron that destroyed my pilots?"
Krig took a deep breath.
If Creb were here, he'd definitely say that negotiating with the enemy like this was "snotty wet nonsense."
He wouldn't have put it any more precisely, but he'd absolutely think it exactly that way.
As sure as drinking. Exactly that.
The former wingman of Jainer had nothing human in him at all.
If Krig hadn't known Thrawn started using cloning cylinders before the commander of Black Wing ever even appeared in the crew, he'd have certainly thought his former leader had been grown in a tube solely for waging war.
Forgetting to mention that peaceful life exists.
"That's right!" he said breezily. "I'm Lieutenant Krieg Jainer, Dominion Pilot Corps. Who are you?"
"My name is Jong. I'm the leader of the Sabaac Squadron. You know," came a muffled cough, "until now we were considered the best. Since the Battle of Yavin."
The well-trained, velvety voice didn't fit the exhausted, almost chopped-up phrases.
As if the man was trying to say everything as fast as possible while he still had oxygen.
"You fought at the Battle of Yavin?" Krig decided to ask after a moment's hesitation.
"Yes."
"On whose side?"
"Side?!" His opponent chuckled softly. "I was on every side, Lieutenant. I was a Republic pilot who accepted the Empire. I was an Imperial who went over to the Alliance. I ran from the Alliance to the Consortium. Looked for where it was better. Where it was more right. Where there was law and order after all. And a nice, ringing credit, of course—why hide it. And all I found was—" he coughed again, "—a piece of rebar in my lung."
"Power down your weapons and our shuttle will pick you up in a minute," Krig offered. "I guarantee full immunity and prisoner-of-war rights if you surrender."
"If," the baron agreed. "That won't work, squadron commander. Surrendering isn't the Zann Consortium's way."
"Then why are we wasting time here?" Krig snapped, feeling himself about to lose it. "No offense, squadron commander, but I've got things to do. I have duties, and I have a duty to the state I serve…"
"My condolences."
"For what?"
"I had all that too. And I blew it all to hell, Lieutenant!" Jong admitted. "Chased money, and now…"
"What is this, a dying confession?" the lieutenant asked suspiciously. "Sorry, but I'm a combat pilot, not a confessor."
"You're funny!" the enemy laughed. "I was the same when I was young. You're a good kid. So I wasn't wrong."
"Wrong about what?"
"About picking you."
What does that even mean?
"So how exactly can I help you?"
"When I said surrendering isn't the Zann Consortium's way, I didn't mean I'm fanatically devoted to it," Jong explained. "My ship is booby-trapped, kid. It'll blow if the canopy is opened or if there's a landing anywhere that isn't on a Zann Consortium ship. I might want to live, kid—but they did everything they could to make sure we don't end up captured."
"Nothing easier," Krig declared. "We'll tow you, hit you with an ion cannon and—"
"Kid, let's skip the fantasizing, yeah? One lung's already collapsed. The other's punctured. Life support will hold a bit longer—then everything goes up once I die."
"You called me just to tell me that?" Lieutenant Jainer asked, completely thrown.
"Not only," Jong said. "You're a young kid, right?"
"Well… sort of…"
"Then you still know what honor is." The man's voice weakened noticeably with each new phrase. "I've got two daughters left. Adopted. I got together with their mother back during the Clone Wars. It's… complicated. Oh, Sith, it hurts… Jainer, promise me something."
"Seriously? Want me to get you a posthumous pardon too? What in a Hutt's name should I be doing this for?"
"Lieutenant, don't you dare promise anything to this man," the controller suddenly spoke up—reminding Krig that he still hadn't switched the comm channel. "He's been offered surrender…"
"OCC is such OCC," Jong laughed weakly. "Never changes. Listen, Jainer. Find my girls. At least try. Lie to them about something, so they… don't know… how… I died… like… a vagrant…"
For some reason, he felt sorry for the man.
Wandering in search of a better life, chasing money—and it all ended not even in an instant death in battle.
OCC fell treacherously silent.
"Fine, I'll do it," Krig decided. "How do I find them?"
He had no intention of doing it, of course.
No one in their right mind would let him go when every pilot was counted, and with combat against the Zann Consortium looming.
And even more so—no one would let him go Hutt-knows-where to look for Hutt-knows-who.
"Passik," Jong said. "Their mother's surname… You'll find them… through it. From mine… they… renounced… both…"
Krig listened with half an ear to the directions—where to fly, whom to look for.
Obviously he wasn't going to become someone's executor.
But to leave a man—an enemy, sure—at the last moment with an unfulfilled request…
He was going to die anyway.
So let him at least think that someone set out on his behalf and carried out the final request.
"You wrote it down?" Jong asked.
"Me and OCC," Jainer confirmed.
"Thanks, kid," Jong said. "Don't think I… was… always like this… I… I'll reward you…"
"Like I need a souvenir from the afterlife."
"Destroyer," Jong continued. "The one hit last… It isn't finished… off…"
"What?!"
Krig glanced at the scanner.
No—his instruments showed the mangled structure giving no sign of life.
One guide—an ion cannon—was severed in the middle.
And the second—the plasma one—was sooted up at the forward corners and looked deformed too.
"I've got… a better… angle," Jong said. "Bombers… didn't… hit… the plasma… They're… fixing it… They'll… fire… soon…"
"Shit, shit, shit!"
Thoughts spun in Krig's head.
Now, when even rasping no longer came through the channel with Jong—which indicated the man's death—and Krig saw a forming plasma bud appearing at the bow of the damaged ship…
The distance between Chimaera and that not-quite-dead hulk was thirty units.
If it fired, it would be bad.
That filth flew slowly, but it was enough for a flagship.
Chimaera wouldn't have time to react and avoid the collision.
"Thank you, Jong," Krig said, accelerating his craft. "OCC—Chimaera, I'm one unit from the crippled Aggressor. It's locked onto you. Anyone nearby? A gunship? A Scimitar?"
"Negative, Gray Leader. You're the only one. Nearest Scimitar is one hundred twenty units from your current position. A message has already been sent…"
"Copy," Jainer ground out through clenched teeth.
He oriented himself extremely fast.
Six seconds—that's what a Scimitar would need to get here and line up on a combat course.
But that assumes straight-line acceleration, in which fast bombers are, of course, unmatched.
A few more seconds—for target lock and torpedo launch.
Nine or ten seconds—and the problem would be solved.
Chimaera's gunners were currently smashing four Interceptor IV-class frigates, and the enemy crippled Star Destroyer was off the flagship's starboard quarter, closer to the stern of the Dominion flagship.
One of Chimaera's eight-gun turrets was already working it over, but that was unforgivably little.
Too little to win.
With a quick, repeated barrel roll, Krig dropped his craft into a dive, aiming into the thickest debris to reach the target by the shortest route.
As he came out along the projected position of the StarViper whose pilot he'd just spoken with, the squadron commander of Gray Wing understood everything.
The Scimitar raid really had destroyed the enemy ion cannon.
And damaged the plasma one.
But the enemy had done repairs, "hotwiring" a set of power cables to the comparatively surviving mount.
Despite the fact that the forward part of the guide was destroyed, and twisted frames and armor fragments sat before the muzzle, none of that mattered to the main caliber in the slightest.
Chimaera's turbolasers that could fire into that sector were shooting, breaking up the improvised covering for the mount, but it was clearly pointless.
The plasma would easily vaporize any small obstacle in its path, only reducing the charge's power by a certain fraction.
If the projectile discharged on any more-or-less sizable shard, there'd be no point in using such a monstrous weapon.
Space is full of all kinds of debris—comets, meteors, ship parts—scattered across the galaxy.
Under gravity and stellar wind, they "migrate" from one end of the galaxy to the other.
Space isn't as clean as it might seem.
That was why the Scimitar wouldn't make it here in six seconds.
It wouldn't take a straight course, but a broken one, and would reach the point after a longer interval.
And most likely by then the Aggressor would already have fired—judging by the huge glowing sphere at its bow, it had charged its main caliber quite a lot already.
So there could be only one solution to this problem.
The targeting computer fixed the aiming frame on the bow section of the cannon as it gathered power.
The red crosshair shifted to green, and all four rockets left their launch rails.
They shredded the makeshift power cables feeding the main gun, which, in theory, should have affected the pumping intensity…
Yes—the enormous plasma flower no longer swelled so rapidly.
But the charge kept growing anyway.
Either the mount had a buffer, or the power of four shaped-charge rockets wasn't enough to tear through the armored housing and completely cut off the energy supply.
Krig switched to his laser cannons and slammed the trigger as hard as he could into the grooves of the interceptor's control grip.
All four cannons of his craft began spitting fire.
At a rate of fire that made the barrels noticeably overheat, and the green, throttled streams of light merged into almost four continuous beams, he was able to bring down on what remained of the mount's protective casing a level of force he would never reach at normal cadence.
And he had only one hope—that he'd reach his goal before…
With an ugly warning tone, the onboard computer reported that the weapon circuits had fused.
"Damn you all!" Jainer cursed in rage.
Just three more seconds—and he would have blown that Hutt-damned mount to molecules.
As it stood, he'd only managed to destroy the improvised ship-armor casing and expose the innards of the plasma cannon, glowing as a lilac bud.
Ripe and ready to bloom at any moment.
"Gray Leader," the controller said. "A Scimitar will be on your position in three seconds."
Krig looked at the chronometer.
Ten seconds were up.
In three more, it would already be too late.
He glanced at Chimaera.
The destroyer was already maneuvering, realizing it couldn't get out from under the strike, and so it tried to present its least vulnerable section.
But in any case, casualties would be counted in hundreds, if not thousands, of lives.
And in the destruction of a third of the destroyer's main engines.
Which would turn it into a practically immobile target.
Worst of all, the greatest damage would be dealt to the superstructure—which already smelled like an operation failure.
Whatever that operation even was.
There was only one decision.
"Understood, OCC," he said, while routing all power to his engines.
Sound doesn't carry in vacuum.
But there was atmosphere in his cockpit.
And even through his helmet, he could hear the hysterical shriek of the twin ion engines, which ran away as they received the maximum possible feed.
Only like this would he make it in time.
Only like this would it work.
The higher the speed, the fewer questions about the consequences of impact.
The twin ion engine and a reactor pushed into runaway would blow hard enough that no one would find it funny.
Maybe the principle of decreasing interference would kick in.
Maybe one wave would cancel another.
Krig pointed his craft straight at the target.
"Gray Leader, you are forbidden!"
"Interceptors could really use an autopilot," Krig sighed, holding the control grips with hands trembling slightly from nervous tension.
Yeah, it would be nice to lock course and climb out through the hatch.
Too bad then nothing would work—the craft wouldn't reach the target.
Somehow, it even felt calm inside.
He had been an Imperial pilot.
He became a Dominion pilot.
And he knew clearly that a member of the Pilot Corps—either way—must do everything possible and impossible to protect comrades and save the operation.
A lone TIE interceptor, accelerated to speeds indecently high even with DSUD use, like a fiery candle in which even the twin ion engines had overheated, by inertia slammed into the huge cylindrical muzzle of the Aggressor's plasma cannon.
The lilac-violet plasma flower, which had reached the size needed to launch, never got its acceleration.
The lone TIE interceptor tore apart all the control equipment necessary to fire the main caliber.
It burst like an overripe fruit, instantly vaporizing the destroyer's forward section.
Two seconds later, two units from the blazing starship, Scimitar-01 appeared.
"Well, shit…" was all Alex managed. "He rammed the emitter and the buffer accumulator!?"
The mangled Star Destroyer began to come alive.
Obviously, the enemy, realizing their ambush plan hadn't worked, decided to use turbolasers and a self-destruct system.
But not today.
"Yes," Tomax said curtly, correcting his course. "How many left under the belly?"
"Six, Commander."
"Prep everything."
"We still have two targets besides this—"
"I. Said. Prep. Everything!"
Palms clenched the control grips until they hurt.
But this wasn't the place for emotion.
Result.
Only that mattered.
"Understood," Alex replied. "Ready, Commander."
"On combat," Bren said. "I'm going in. Who worked him over?"
"Checking the flight log…"
Scimitar-01 dove from the upper tier to the lower.
The tier where the Aggressor was.
For ground and space battles, spatial orientation differs, but the fact remained: by tradition, a rapid approach "from top to bottom" was also called a dive by starship pilots.
"Torpedoes away," Tomax said, rolling aside.
The onboard computer calculated an egress trajectory.
"Burst."
Scimitar-01 was already twenty units from the enemy destroyer ripping itself apart a second later.
All six proton torpedoes hit their targets.
A chain of detonations ran from stern to bow and turned the Aggressor into a tumble of debris and scrap.
So small, so scattered, and so incapable of even remotely resembling something that looked like a warship.
"OCC—Chimaera, this is Yatagan Leader," Tomax reported. "Bomb bay empty; requesting landing for rotation."
"Approved, Yatagan Leader. As always—first cell."
"Copy." Tomax switched to comms with the flight mechanic. "Did you find out what I asked?"
"Yes," knowing his commander's temper, Alex's voice didn't sound optimistic. "Fifth crew."
Tomax looked at the control panel.
Opposite the mark for Scimitar-05, a green light was on.
So he was alive.
He wasn't on the scanners.
So the bomber was on rotation.
"Heading for Chimaera," Tomax said, engaging DSUD.
A second later they were already under the rectangular mouth of the flagship's main hangar.
The craft "rose," caught by a tractor beam that placed it into the proper first launch cell for the air wing commander and his squadron.
The squadron commander turned his head, seeing another Scimitar secured along the rack.
Right at the fifth launch position.
And two figures in black coveralls standing on the catwalk while a technician, using droids and manipulators, mounted deactivated proton torpedoes into the bomb bays.
The moment Scimitar-01 locked into the securing manipulators, Tomax yanked the emergency canopy release lever toward himself.
His trained body found itself on the platform by reflex.
The helmet torn from his head fell onto the seat.
If the technician who was supposed to load their bomb bay was surprised by the wing commander's behavior, he certainly didn't show it.
"Bren, your hyperdrive!" Alex's canopy opened next; he stared at his commander's back as the man moved with a fast step—almost a run—along the catwalk toward the pair of pilots of the fifth bomber. "Commander, damn it! He wasn't worth it!"
You could only tell the pilot from the flight mechanic, dressed absolutely identically in black flight coveralls, by the patch on the right sleeve.
"You attacked Aggressor—target nineteen," Tomax said without any preamble, addressing the pilot.
Somewhere behind them came the clatter of Alex's boots running along the metal catwalk.
"Yes, sir, I did," the pilot said uncertainly.
That bleating—something even a vocoder couldn't hide—put everything in its place.
"Helmet off!" Tomax barked.
The pilot obeyed.
The man facing him wasn't his clone—Tomax understood almost immediately.
An ordinary middle-aged man.
"Where is Bren-05?" the squadron commander asked, turning to the flight mechanic of their crew.
"We got hit on the second target," the mechanic said quickly. "He was hospitalized… Aggressor—target nineteen is our third target."
No further explanation was needed.
On Dominion ships there were always not only spare parts for the air wing's craft, but also a small percentage of "extra" pilots and technicians who could replace wounded crew members of small craft—provided the craft could be brought "back to life."
"Sir," the fifth crew's flight mechanic, realizing something extraordinary was happening, tried to smooth the sharp edges, "Commander and I—only two months out of the Defense Forces…"
"Why was the strike on the main caliber of Aggressor—target nineteen delivered to the ion cannon and the plasma power system?" the wing commander continued, looking at the pilot.
He was the craft commander.
He pulled the trigger.
"Sir, I…" the man looked away. "Missed, I guess…"
"Your father missed," Alex said, stepping shoulder to shoulder with Tomax. "The result is what we see now. You wanted to get 'bonus' pay for capturing valuable enemy tech!"
That practice existed.
Payments of rewards for capturing or obtaining military or other equipment of interest to the Dominion—equipment possessed by any side in the galaxy.
A Zann Consortium plasma cannon was a very valuable trophy in credit terms.
"No, sir, I…" the pilot's eyes darted.
"I contacted OCC," Alex said flatly. "You reported it right after the strike. You—Tomax! Damn you!"
He didn't put much force into the punch, but the fifth craft's pilot went down onto the catwalk, clutching his broken nose.
The fifth crew's flight mechanic twitched to defend his—temporary, but still—commander, but Alex stopped him unambiguously, demonstratively cracking his knuckles.
A head shorter and twenty kilos lighter than the flight mechanic of the flagship craft, the "fifth" prudently stayed put.
"Because you wanted to stuff your pockets, pilot, the commander of Gray Wing sacrificed himself," Tomax said. "You reported the enemy destroyer disabled! It got removed from the target list! And it drifted toward Chimaera while fixing its weapon! If not for Krieg Jainer, Chimaera would've had half her side and superstructure torn off! For a hundred thousand credits you almost killed a third of the watch, you son of a bitch!"
"Sir, I didn't know…" the pilot whined through his stuffed-up nose.
"Your job is to carry out the order," Tomax repeated. "No more, no less. Trophy collection is the last thing to be doing in a battle! Today, because of you, a fine officer died—an officer who in half a year flew more successful sorties than you have in your entire life! He paid with his life for your greed!"
"Sir, forgive me, it's not my fault, he chose it himself—"
"Yes, squadron commander," the fifth crew's flight mechanic spoke up, "we did our work. No one asked him to ram; he could've just shot it up with his guns…"
Tomax swung again, seeing that the brazen face still hadn't understood the lesson delivered in simple, clear language.
But he couldn't—Alex caught his hand.
The squadron commander's gaze met the flagship flight mechanic's.
"Don't, Bren," the partner said clearly. "They're not worth it. There'll be an investigation anyway. They came into the regular fleet to earn. They're not the first, and they won't be the last. The problem with these is they're too stupid to understand the full set of reasons why Jainer did it. They'll learn during the tribunal. Don't dirty yourself on them any more."
Glancing at the former "conscripts," Tomax understood Alex was right in every sense.
"You both are relieved," he declared, seeing a squad of stormtroopers running along the catwalk led by a ship security officer. Apparently one of the witnesses had whispered to "security."
"I'll inform the controller about the replacement myself."
"Major Tomax, what's going on?" the counterintelligence officer threw a grim look at him, drilling the crew of the fifth Scimitar.
"Because of this crew's actions, our pilot died," Bren said. "They didn't carry out the order; they didn't destroy the enemy destroyer's weapons so they could claim it as a trophy…"
"Hey, hey, hey—what does that have to do with me?" the flight mechanic of the fifth crew panicked. "I just—"
"You just input the target coordinates into the warheads on a paired launch," Alex supplied him with the correct answer.
"As a result, to save Chimaera from damage and protect the crew, Squadron Commander Jainer of Gray Wing was forced to ram," Bren finished his short account.
"Is that true?" the counterintelligence officer drew his brows together, burning the fifth crew with his stare.
"Just wanted to make some money…" the commander of the indicated crew said plaintively.
"Arrest the crew of Scimitar-05," the "security" officer ordered the stormtroopers present.
"Take them," came the next order, and the procession moved toward the exit.
"Sir," the ship's counterintelligence officer lowered his voice to Tomax. "You must understand that assault is a crime. Whatever provoked it."
Alex sighed heavily, as if to say, "Told you so."
"Understood," Tomax replied. "I'm not looking for excuses. I'll face the tribunal if required."
"When required," the counterintelligence officer corrected.
He looked at the new pair in black coveralls running along the catwalk toward the fifth craft.
"Today we've lost many pilots—both regular and 'replacement'," he said. "There are almost no reserves. I… We'll have to write a lot of explanations, of course, but… You have time until the end of this fight and the all-clear to fight properly. Then I'll be obliged to place you under arrest, just like those two."
"Understood," Tomax nodded. "Thank you."
"Blow up a couple ships for me too," the counterintelligence officer smiled weakly. "Let's hope it all goes without harsh sanctions like Kessel…"
"Let's hope," Bren nodded, calming down. "Alex, let's go. We've got a lot of work ahead."
***
"A foul situation," Tschel commented on the latest news received from the hangar.
"Unpleasant, but quite explainable by the emotional overload our pilots are experiencing," I commented.
"Nothing can explain violating an order for material gain," Tschel objected.
"My words referred to Major Bren," I clarified. "Not to the crew of Scimitar-05."
But what happened clearly demonstrated that the situation was beginning to slip out of control.
"Captain, have all designated targets been stripped of camouflage?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," Tschel frowned, not understanding why the conversation had returned to business. "Aren't you going to take measures regarding the pilots who broke the law?"
"There is a tribunal for that, and there will be a more favorable setting," I cut him off. "We are moving to the second phase of the operation, Captain. Inform the Scimitars of the change in priorities. Now they are switching to destroying enemy ships."
"Sir, the enemy has split into two groups," Tschel reminded me. "If we can still clear zone Alpha, then Beta…"
He fell silent, meeting my gaze.
"Carry out the order, Captain," I said sharply. "And inform our communications officers that in the near future one of the enemy's small transport ships may broadcast our identification signal. It will be necessary to protect that starship and escort it beyond the combat zone."
"It will be done, sir."
Stroking the ysalamir asleep on my knees, I activated the comlink built into the armrest of the chair.
Time to make a few important calls, so the rout could begin.
Despite being ready for it, the yellow-alert buzzer caught Creb off guard.
He'd been awake for a long time already, feeling fairly rested, fresh, and ready to perform the assigned combat tasks.
It took him a few seconds to close the ventilation valves of his coveralls (no point sitting for hours in a practically sealed semi-suit while waiting for an alert command), reconnect it to the life-support controller on his chest, and, pulling his helmet down, return his gloves to their place, cutting himself off from the remaining atmosphere in the launch cell.
Then came the upper hatch, the harness straps, and the already mandatory ritual of a glance at the combined holophoto.
Engines warmed, fuel topped up, one more preflight check completed.
Soon they'd give the command.
The Scimitars had already gone.
Which meant it would get truly "hot" soon, and the remaining craft still in reserve would be needed.
He felt a light tingling in his fingers.
He looked at them with surprise, trying to remember when he'd last felt that.
It turned out it was back at the Academy, when he, still green, had just begun piloting.
At first the tingling went with fear of failure.
Then—with trembling anticipation of flight.
Now it was all the same.
No fear—only the desire to finally get out of this huge metal box that had surrounded him for weeks.
And get out—not for training, drills, rehearsals, and combat coordination with the rest.
Get out for battle.
Real.
Merciless.
Face to face with the enemy.
A tone sounded in his helmet, indicating a comm link with the controller directing flight.
"Leader, are your people ready for launch?"
A strange question.
"Ready and waiting, controller," Creb snapped.
"And I am too," he added to himself.
"That's good…"
The man frowned.
Unregulated phrasing.
A heavy sigh.
A meaningful pause.
"OCC, is there a problem?" he asked directly.
There was something his flight controller wanted to say.
Something he couldn't bring himself to voice.
Because he knew Creb wouldn't like it.
That was why he hesitated.
Something on the edge between personal and duty, causing dissonance in a senior officer.
"Creb," came a dry click of switching to a personal channel. "I'm not supposed to tell you this, actually…"
"Then why are you telling me?"
"There's bad news, son."
"I've never seen you in my life, controller, and judging by your voice you're barely ten years older than me."
"Listening, sir."
"If there's another sortie cancellation, I'll transfer to any patrol tub, just to fly."
"Information has been received that Krieg Jainer is dead," the controller said.
Creb felt the skin on his face tighten, his teeth grinding against each other.
"How, sir?" he asked.
That was all he had.
"Went in to attack an enemy destroyer, with gunship cover. As it turned out, the Xg-1s worked it over with their full loadout, but the 'Zanners' somehow brought their plasma cannon online. Krig went for a ram. Looks like he had only lasers left—meaning he'd fired all his shaped-charge rockets—and scanner data shows none of ours nearby… Son, he died saving the flagship; because of him, everyone's alive…"
"Understood, sir," he answered. "Why tell me?"
By military law, news of a servicemember's death or missing status should be delivered to the closest relatives.
"Looks like he doesn't have anyone else, Creb," the controller replied. "No one at all… And he was your wingman…"
Now it was clear.
A leader-wingman pair was the foundation of the Pilot Corps.
An unbreakable monolith that could accomplish any task and was obliged to stand for each other.
And, in fairness, the wingman often had it worse than the leader.
"Understood, sir," Creb said. "I'll take note."
"I know you will, son," the controller continued. "I just want you to know. The enemies won't end today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after. Don't go into the fight thinking life is over."
"Some crooked psychology."
"Understood, sir."
"Live, Creb," the controller continued in an insinuating tone. "Live to remember those whom no one else can remember. You rush into that meat grinder with a hot head, with all your fire—and you won't come back. I want you to fly through the magnetic field fully aware that you've got something to come back for."
"As long as you're remembered—you're immortal."
For some reason, a thought appeared: he wasn't the only one who knew about the photograph on the panel.
And then came another conclusion.
A vocoder hid intonations.
And even if the OCC duty officer had a vocoder installed, not a simple microphone like a comlink…
"Sir," he said slowly. "Who am I speaking with? State your personal number and clearance level."
A barely audible chuckle followed.
"Beta-Alpha-2-1-Leader-Giant," such a personal number could make your hair go gray in your free time. "Want the clearance level too, son?"
"No, sir," Creb hurried to answer. "Everything is perfectly clear. I heard your instruction. I will do everything in my power to return. And to remember those whom no one else can remember."
A personal number like that would bring anyone to attention.
And clear the head.
And rumor had it—he'd even carried out physical punishment of some, within disciplinary measures long not applied to officers.
"Good," the "controller" continued. "Now fly and kick their asses."
The red lit up.
Launch.
The craft slipped easily off its brackets and rushed into the rectangular maw of the hangar cell.
The Avenger jolted as, through the magnetic field shield, a bubble of air burst into the vacuum along with the craft.
A second time—when they broke through the second field and emerged into the open space of the battlefield.
A place of a grand battle, flooded with the red-white-green and blue fire of lasers, turbolasers, and ion cannons, smoky rocket trails, explosions, and a whirl of death.
Where they had to put the final point.
Creb clenched the stick until his knuckles whitened.
He didn't see it—he felt it.
He'd grown used to it over so much time.
So many battles, so many losses.
Now Krig too…
Chimaera's air wing had been his family.
Twenty-four TIE interceptor pilots, of whom he knew only those who hadn't yet flown their "allotted" sorties before death.
Jainer had been the last.
Now—no one was left.
"As long as you're remembered—you're immortal."
The phrase hit like a cold shower.
Creb shook his head and matched his course with OCC telemetry.
Off by a degree.
Nothing—fix it now.
And hit.
To live.
Because not all interceptor pilots from the Black Wing and Gray Wing squadrons had died.
He was alive.
He remembered all of them.
And he would live to understand.
To avenge.
To kill.
So others could live.
"Leader, everything okay?" his wingman asked.
"No, Creb-611," the pilot answered. "Krieg Jainer is dead."
Clones didn't possess emotional attachment.
To be honest, Creb had never even been interested in what of his past they inherited besides piloting skill.
"Was he a friend?" the wingman asked.
The voice sounded like a droid's pronouncement.
"He was my wingman," Creb explained. "Before you. And before Creb-215. And before Creb-48. And before Creb-23. And before Creb-2."
"Acknowledged, Leader," Creb-611 said. "We are flying to avenge?"
"No, wingman," the original rejected it. "We are flying to work."
A cool head.
In battle, he was a machine.
But only in battle.
"Copy, Leader. Working."
A few minutes later, when the mass of TIE interceptors and TIE Avengers entered effective range of their own weapons, every one of the Crebs in the air wing knew Krieg Jainer was dead.
And knew he had been wingman to Major Creb.
That was more than enough for their approach to the enemy to be fully appropriate to the situation.
Fortunately for the StarViper pilots, by then they had almost all been destroyed.
Unfortunately for the remaining "Zanners," the last of them were still alive.
For now.
But the storms of turbolaser, ion, and rocket fire crashing down on them had already begun to reduce their numbers.
***
The expression on Captain Tschel's face could be described with one extremely apt phrase.
He now looked like a fish thrown onto shore.
An open mouth, silently closing from time to time when thoughts came to him that he wanted to voice—but could not fully formulate.
Bulging eyes staring at a deadly rain that had spilled out of nowhere.
Now he seemed to understand the reason I had ordered only that the enemy be stripped of their camouflage fields, rather than wasting time on completely destroying their ships.
"Channel twenty-five," he finally managed to whisper, pointing at the silhouette visible through the viewport. "The transmissions were coming from there?"
"Correct, Captain," I agreed.
"But… how?"
"A crystal gravfield trap," I explained. "The only functioning one in the galaxy. And now we have made its mobile copy, capable of slipping under camouflage on its own."
"Clear…"
Creb's tone suggested the opposite.
"Sir," he addressed me again. "At Perimeter, when we first arrived at the station, you said other ships should receive docking instructions. Was that about this?"
"Yes, Captain," I confirmed, stroking the ysalamir's belly. "They were with us. Our invisible escort."
"And…?"
"How long?"
"Yes, sir."
"Since Kessel."
"Since Kessel," Tschel repeated, stunned, staring unblinkingly at how two waves of annihilation methodically chewed through the enemy fleet.
Ion shots—for the transports we would still need ourselves in future work.
Turbolasers and rockets—for the warships.
"Since Kessel," the commander of my flagship said again. "And I didn't even suspect!"
"Don't blame yourself, Captain." The remark made Tschel look at me. "No one was meant to know how deep the black hole was until they were needed."
"They," Tschel repeated as if enchanted, looking back out the viewport. "I only see one…"
The captain looked at me as if an answer he could understand might be written on my face.
"Many wondered when I would bring my super Star Destroyer into play," I said, and Tschel stopped blinking entirely. "Well, the time has come. With only one difference: I did not meet the hopes of those who thirsted."
"In what sense, sir?" physiology finally won, and Tschel blinked.
"It was expected that I would bring my Executor into the fight," the captain finally closed his mouth when he realized that a bit more and the sight of the enemy fleet's beating—now trying to flee en masse with the plan of pushing past Eternal Wrath and breaking free—would make him drool. "I didn't postpone the premiere. I brought both."
"Both?!" Tschel shouted, greedily peering out the viewport.
He didn't have to search long.
Fellblade dropped its camouflage, revealing its nineteen-kilometer hull directly above our Interdictor—just as Guardian had appeared above Chimaera a few minutes earlier.
And both superheavy bruisers began a competition in rapid-fire extermination of enemy starships.