"Very well, thank you, Mister Ferst." Markas nodded at the report of his tactical officer and surveyed the busy activity in the bridge pit below. So far, everything was going according to standard procedures. The convoy was moving on its projected course through Sholoth's Landfall, keeping a tight formation. The order to maintain EMCON, Emission Control, had been given upon entering the system, resulting in all ships powering down their sensor and communications devices so as to prevent any powerful electromagnetic emissions that could be picked up at great ranges. Communications, if absolutely necessary among convoy units, were handled via short-range tight-band directional transmissions and secure laser comms. Effectively, operating without sensors left them extremely short-sighted, but even in passive mode, the sensor arrays could still receive emissions coming from other ships or from stellar bodies like nearby stars. Also, Combat Fighter Patrols circled the herd of ships at a distance, and recon drones had been launched. In addition, the two remaining Patrol Boats were "sprinting" far ahead of the convoy in intervals, dashing forward in short bursts at flank speed with active sensors, then drifting for prolonged periods of time, listening and reporting back their findings over secure communication lines.

So far, it had worked. The tactical display on the main viewscreen was still blank except for the icons representing the convoy, but he had a bad feeling that this would not stay that way for long. At the call of "First Officer on the Bridge" he turned his head to see Bjarnesson storm out of the lift cabin, Commander Paragrin in tow. Both headed straight toward his command chair, reporting for duty. He shot Paragrin a disapproving look for her unsuitable attire, but said nothing.

"May I ask what prompted the alert, sir?" Thor was the first to ask.

Captain Markas checked his timepiece. "About five minutes ago, a Combat Fighter Patrol from Vengeance discovered and intercepted a single small craft shadowing the convoy. Might be nothing, but I have placed all escorts at yellow alert."

Bjarnesson nodded, considering this particular bit of information. Then he looked up. "Commander Paragrin, your opinion?"

"With your permission, I would like to talk to the wing leader of that fighter patrol personally before voicing an opinion, sir. I have a suspicion, but I would like to confirm it first." From her looks and the undertone of her voice, Markas could tell she was seriously worried.

"Granted." He watched her run off and virtually jump down the stairs to the crew pit, and the bad feeling in his stomach rose to a new pitch. "Thor?"

"I have to assume she knows what she's doing, sir. Certainly, I'm no wiser than you right now. Could be pirate raiders again, considering our present environment." Both men watched Paragrin leaning over the shoulder of a comms technician, pressing the headphones against her right ear, asking, as it seemed, several curt questions and nodding at the replies. When she returned, her face was even more grave. "As I suspected, Captain. The wing leader has positively identified the destroyed craft as a Longprobe, but apparently, this detail of his report wasn't forwarded to us." There was more than a hint of accusation in her voice.

"Go on." Markas barked. He certainly wasn't in the mood for discussions now.

"Yes, sir! A Longprobe is a single-seat long-range reconnaissance craft employed by the Alliance Navy, basically a refitted Y-Wing, and…."

"I know what a Longprobe is, Commander Paragrin!"

"Of course, sir. Point is, our fighters killed one Longprobe, but Longprobes never operate alone, only in pairs, with one craft gathering the data while the other one acts as comms relay station to transmit them long-range without being triangulated."

"So we must assume they still got a warning out before we silenced them."

"Precisely so. And worst-case, there's already somebody out there who's been eavesdropping all the time. But the most important factor is this: a Longprobe would have been able to follow this mass of ships at a sensor range much greater than ours, greater even than our standard patrol range for TIE fighters. I believe this particular pair has been shadowing our convoy for the past few hours, ever since we entered the system. Even with our EMCOM state in force, they could have easily continued to do so without risking detection if that was their only mission. If one of them dared coming so close to the convoy now that we could detect and intercept it, they must have had a special reason for doing so."

"Like, perhaps, gathering as much data as they could prior to an imminent attack?"

Her nod confirmed Markas' worst fears. He tapped the keypad in his chair's armrest. "Comms, give me the convoy command channel. Ultra Quiet State is revoked." He waited for the green light, then spoke up.

"Attention, all convoy units, this is King. Be advised, Threat Warning Red is in force, attack is imminent. I say again, Threat Warning Red is in force, attack is imminent. EMCON Ultra Quiet State is revoked. All units maintain Formation Alpha; all escorts execute Defense Plan Gamma. King out." As the link was cut, the command line had already exploded with activity.

"Permission to prep my squadron for launch, sir?" Paragrin cut in crisply. That sudden formality surprised him. He would have expected her to be halfway into the lift before he could even issue the order. And what was that look she had just exchanged with Bjarnesson about?

"Dismissed." He rose from his chair. "Good hunting, Commander."

Watching her running for the lift doors, he turned his head towards his First Officer. "Something's wrong with that young one, Thor. I just heard her ask for permission twice inside of five minutes."

Commander Bjarnesson's face was impassive, his eyes straight ahead, hands folded behind his back, voice level. "Might be an aftereffect of the training accident, sir. Do you want me to mark her for examination by the medi-droids?"

"Not at all. If we're lucky, she stays that way." He patted his second-in-command on the arm. "Right, you have the bridge. We just blew our cover, so whoever's out there will know we know he's there. Whatever he's going to do he can be expected to do soon. Head straight for the jump point, stick to Defense Plan Gamma, and we're going to see this through. I'll be in the strategy center, coordinating the defense."

"Aye, sir, I have the bridge. All stations, First Officer has the bridge." Bjarnesson occupied the empty command chair, smoothly slipping into the role of the cruiser's acting Captain while Markas, now actively taking over as nominal commander-in-chief of the whole convoy, made for the strategy center, a separate Command, Control and Communications room situated behind and below the bridge inside the main hull. Most cruiser-sized ships had such an installation from where officers, surrounded by adjutants, droids, tactical feeder monitors and a massive holocube, could oversee the actions of a whole battlegroup in realtime, assess situations, access tactical data and issue orders. On Star Destroyers, these rooms were sparely used because most Admirals preferred to exercise their command from the spacious bridge. Not that there were enough Star Destroyers around these days to form as large a battlegroup as to warrant the use of the strategy center on most occasions, especially with specialized command ships better suited to such roles, but, on the other hand, Admiral Thrawn was said to have turned even his private flag suite into one. With this sheer number of ships either under his command or under his protection, Captain Markas felt he needed to make use of his C³ center to properly oversee everything. Also, it was an additional precaution against attacks from Rebel fighters, who were notoriously given to strafing bridge towers - as more than one unfortunate Imperial Admiral had found out, much to his own discomfort, over the past.

And right, no sooner had Markas taken seat in the back-angled, leather-padded command chair, nodded a brief greeting to the dutiful tactical staff and plugged himself into the command comms net than the first bad news started to arrive.

"Captain, this is the bridge." His First Officer sounded seriously worried.

"I hear you, Thor. What's the news?"

"Sensors have just detected several capital ship size hyperjump signatures. We're picking up multiple comms traffic, standard Alliance Navy encryption. I'm live-feeding the data into your computers right now." As if on cue, the holocube lit up, showing not only the light blue glowworm column of the convoy, but also five spots blinking an angry red, arrayed in a roughly u-shaped line, somewhat in a distance still, but obviously closing in fast. Hostiles.

Surrounded about and about. They're not even making an attempt at covering up their approach. Alphanumerical columns had started scrolling rapidly next to each new contact as the tactical computer displayed the as-yet undeciphered enemy radio traffic. Blanket broadcasts. They want us to know they're coming. They want us to be scared.

"Thor, have word sent to any and all Imperial vessels in the area. Report our status and position and request immediate support!"

The Sholoth's Landfall system was mostly void of Imperial military presence, but apart from several small, asteroid-based listening outposts, there was at least one ore mining facility on one of the larger moons, he remembered from the navigational charts, and there was always the possibility of an Imperial warship swinging by to empty its brig cells brimming with Rebels after a successful counter-insurgency operation.

There is still a chance! His mind was racing as he calculated and weighed their options. They seem to have misjudged either our position or our speed, otherwise there would be no open space left in front of us. If we can keep them off our backs for some time, they won't be able to overtake us and cut us off. It'll be touch and go, a running battle, but we might yet pull the rug out from under them.

"Aye, Sir!" Long seconds passed. "Sir, message is away, but the Rebels have started jamming our communication lines. We can't tell if word got out, but we're keeping it up."

Markas didn't reply as he took in the picture that was unfolding before his eyes in the holocube as the seconds trickled past and stretched into minutes, the thin, haggard, slow-moving line of ships that was his convoy, the distance to the jump point up ahead, the preying pack of Rebel ships zeroing in on them from both flanks and the rear, slowly but surely edging ever closer, obviously intent to make good their original misjudgment. As of now, though, they were still too far away for a proper identification.

But something was wrong. He could feel it, smell it. It kept nagging at him more with every passing second.

And then he knew it. That contact has been steaming up our rear for the past few clicks, but given our current speed, it should already be much closer. He checked the course and speed vector projections the computer was providing for the contact. The bastard is actually decelerating! That's why they haven't closed up on us yet. That's what the blanket broadcasts are there for. We're not being encircled, we're being driven!

"Captain!" Bjarnesson's alarmed voice confirmed his worst fears a second later. "Emergency SitRep from the Patrol Boats! They're under attack!"

"Patch it through!"

Heavy with static, chopped and intermittent due to the Rebel jamming, Commander Vitrell's voice crackled over the line, eerily distorted and barely audible. "… under massive attack… enemy fighters… don't… ahead… warning… please respond!"

"Pawn, this is King! Fall back! I repeat, break and fall back!"

Silence, static-laden.

"Pawn, this is King, report your status!"

Nothing.

"Sir…" Thor's voice was level, deadpan. "The signal from Pawn has been cut at the source."

Markas clenched his fists in helpless anger. He knew what the report meant. The empty space in front of them wasn't empty at all. It was deadly quicksand, swarming with as-yet invisible Rebel forces, and it had just swallowed dozens of good Imperial soldiers. And it was lurking precisely down the projected course towards the jump point. Even without more Alliance ships to both sides and to the rear, this was the direction they were forced to take.

There would a high price to pay for the convoy if they wanted to make it through there. If they would make it at all.

* * *

"Bay Control, this is Rapier Leader. Rapier Flight is all-lights-green and ready for launch."

Nia flicked the last set of switches and was rewarded with another battery of green status lights waking up on her overhead boards. Well, she was getting a little ahead of herself with her report, but there wasn't any time to waste. Not that she had wanted to waste any, but she had a bad feeling telling her the sooner she got her flight out there to fight, the better. The familiar excitement of the battle to come filled her, along with the emotional backwash of the night that lay behind her. She was hot and eager to get to grips with the Rebels. A tiny voice in the back of her mind wanted to chide her for being so reckless, but she willed it to be silent. Self-recriminations were the last thing she wanted at the moment. The fight ahead would be hard, merciless even. She relished that prospect. Right now, she felt better than she had in a long time. Right now, she felt almost invincible.

"Rapier Leader, this is Bay Control, I confirm Rapier Flight is all-lights-green. You're cleared for launch."

"Roger, Bay Control. I confirm launch clearance. You may commence launch sequence."

"Word is launch. Go with grace!"

And with that, it was on. She was pressed into her seat when the tractor beams took hold of her bird and catapulted her forward, to be joined half a second later by the additional kick of her afterburner. The bay wall rushed past her front window with rapidly increasing speed, there was the familiar crackle of the containment field, and then the noise of displaced air ceased as the blackness of space embraced her craft. Easing back on the throttle, she leaned her fighter into a long, sloping turn and watched the other Defenders being launched one after the other, falling into squadron formation behind her immediately. The squadron line was alive with banter as her fellow pilots, almost as eager as she was herself, hurled the usual mix of boasts and insults at each other.

"Cut the chatter!" Her curt order swiftly silenced them, and nobody dared talking back, as she realized with silent satisfaction. "Maintain formation and squawk your transponders. This is going to be point-blank. And remember, there's lots of friendlies out here, so place your shots carefully." Active transponders would aid all properly equipped Imperial vessels in telling friend from foe when things got confused, thus - theoretically - eliminating friendly-fire casualties. In real life, though, things were a lot more difficult. In a real close pinch, even with active beacons, more than a few pilots were simply unwilling to waste that precious second or two checking transponder codes before spraying their target, and she seriously doubted that many of those cargo crates did actually possess the necessary devices to properly pick up a transponder, let alone read it correctly. But it never paid to take any chances anyway. She just hoped that those civilians would refrain from simply, aimlessly, blasting everything that got too close to their junk trucks.

She switched to Command line. "Fighter Ops, this is Rapier leader, Rapier squadron is spaceborne and reporting on the grid."

"Rapier Leader, this is Fighter Command, I confirm your flight on the grid, read you loud and clear." The voice of the invisible Fighter Control Officer aboard the carrier vessel Swift Vengeance was unfamiliar to her, yet his cool, controlled tone was somehow reassuring to hear. "Maintain holding position and await further orders. Fighter Command out."

"Roger. Wilco." Nothing more remained to be said. The carrier had its own Ops Center specifically tailored for directing several flights of attack crafts at once under battle conditions, and it was from there that the fighter battle would be orchestrated. Even though Captain Markas had expressively placed her squadron at his personal discretion, she would be getting orders from Fighter Command in case he permitted their intervention, so as to allow seamless coordination of all the convoy's fighter strengths. As they approached the carrier, she noticed not only the small TIE fighters taking off from its massive launch decks in rapid succession, but also the way the lined-up freighters were huddling ever closer together around a core formed by the carrier and three bulky Star Galleon troop transports, tightening the spaces between each other as far as they dared. Imperial fighters strengths would take on their Rebel counterparts in that small, deadly space inside the formation, thus avoiding having to face the superior Alliance crafts one on one, across an open range, on a ground of their choosing. On the one hand, this meant that the escorts, forming the outer layer of the cylindrical formation, could maintain a tighter protective screen and so better concentrate and overlap their fire without the additional fear of accidentally hitting their own kin, and enemy attack crafts making it past the outer defense screen would find it nearly impossible to establish a missile lock in the very few seconds they were actually inside the convoy. On the other hand, it greatly reduced the space for the Imperial fighter crews in which to engage their targets. By any standards, it would be close quarters, and no mistake, a bloody, utterly merciless melee, where reactions had to be swift and firing sure, where a second of hesitation could mean death. Following an opponent outside the convoy line meant entering the zone where the capital ships would clash and trade massive broadsides, virtually certain death to a small fighter craft. One of those turbolaser blasts would vaporize her bird completely and not even slow down. She shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

All ships were moving at a faster rate now, too, numerous drive flares still clearly visible even in the distance, about as fast as the slowest ships would allow. They couldn't hope to outrun the Rebels, though, but they could well hope to give them a good run for their money. Nevertheless, it would be touch and go. As her squadron took up its assigned relative position, and each individual craft slowed down to a comparative crawl besides their much larger, much more cumbersome brethren, her mind drifted again, back to him, went through last night's sensations again and again. As much as she longed for this fight to begin, she longed all the more for it to be over so she could return into his arms for some more sweet, exquisite love-making. In addition to everything else, he had proven an excellent lover, strong and athletic, yet gentle and skillful in every detail, and her body still remembered it. Not in a long time had she thirsted for a man like that.

Yet now, there was no helping it, only the bittersweet self-excruciation of longing. The waiting was on, and the waiting was worst.

* * *

The waiting, he decided, was worst.

For the time being, Thor could do nothing but sit in his borrowed command chair, watch his well-trained crews go about their business virtually on their own accord and keep his mind from drifting back to her over and over again. Boy, but that woman had gotten him hooked good and proper. Last night in her arms had been pure bliss. To distract himself, he tried to kill one of the contacts on the viewscreen by grimly staring at it. He failed, of course, both at the distracting and at the killing, and abandoned this fruitless game barely seconds later. It was absolutely annoying, being unable to do anything but sit and wait for the inevitable to arrive. And arrive it would, rather sooner than later. The Rebels kept coming, fast and in force, and the besieged Imperials would find themselves hard-pressed to prevail. They couldn't hope to outrun the Rebels, not with all the burdensome freighters in tow, but they could well hope to give them a good run for their money. Thor was sure that their fleet elements would put up a good, solid fight every step of the way and make the Rebels bargain hard for their claim if they wanted it. And he trusted that the discipline and cohesion of the freighter herd had improved over the last few days. Yet this time, the fighting was sure to be even more severe, and he silently prayed for their line to hold this time. Not another stampede… Not another Endor.

"All-ships call, Sir. The Captain on the Command line." The report from his communications officer interrupted his brooding line of thoughts.

"Let me hear that!"

The speakers set into the armrests of the chair crackled into life, producing the voice of Captain Markas, heavy with emotion. "Attention, all units, this is Convoy Command. The enemy is upon us now, and we must fight. Defense Plan Gamma remains in force. All ships are cleared to engage available targets in self-defense. All escorts are weapons-free to engage enemy capitals as they commit and present. Hold the line, keep it tight and solid and we'll see this through!"

He coughed, audibly clearing his throat once more. "Brave men and women of the Empire, know this: This is the day of our trial, this is the very hour when we must stand strong and proud and face down the foe. Now we man the ramparts against encroaching anarchy, now is the time for every man to do his duty and fight in his unshrinking station. Let there not be a silent gun! Let us be remembered for our deeds on this very day! Long live the Empire! Convoy Command, over and out!"

Even as the brief, curt speech ended, Thor found that it had served to fill him with righteous, patriotic anger. Let the Rebels come, he thought, with drums and colors, and let their banners flout space itself and fan our people cold. Let them assault our line a thousand strong. Let them break against us like waves against the rocks, that they may flee back to their brethren in shameful defeat and bear testimony that we are the Empire, and we are invincible.

Yet he had to admit that this was much easier thought than done as he regarded the tactical situation for the umpteenth time. The Strike Cruiser was at the very tip of the cylindrical convoy formation, which made sense considering the particular strengths of the ship. Bearing the reputation of a mass-produced stopgap vessel hastily pressed into service to fill the breaches in the Imperial lines, the medium cruisers of the Strike class were, more often than not, underestimated by their opponents. Smaller in size than, for example, one of the hulking Dreadnoughts, they were yet much faster and more maneuverable than these ancient spacefaring veterans, and their crabshell-like hull carapace was more massively armored than their looks would suggest, able to withstand even the most brutal punishment. Combined with their shields, they were able to soak up fire that would wreck and cripple many larger ships, and also to return it blow for blow, as many an overconfident Rebel had had to find out in the past, much to his own detriment. With her formidable turbolaser and ion batteries concentrated mostly to the fore, Gun Crate had been a natural choice for point when the defense formation had been devised, while the classical ships-of-the-line, the Dreadnought Dire Wolf, the two light cruisers and the frigates, with their broadside guns would shield the flanks from harm. The three Star Galleons and the escort carrier Swift Vengeance would form the solid backbone of the formation and provide close support fire against enemy attack crafts that might successfully run the gauntlet to unleash their payload of torpedoes. It was as sound a plan as could have been found under the given circumstances, but, of course, it had its weaknesses, some more obvious than others. Yet they would be able to pull this off if all escorts played their part properly. Well, in theory at least, and he had a bad feeling that this theory was about to be put to the test.

And, of course, the Alliance ship captains and fighter group commanders would be able to read their maps, too, and see the pattern. And they would be free to adapt to it and change their tactics accordingly, while the Imperial defenders, pressed into the defense, would decisively lack that very flexibility. All they could do was hold the line and fight back hard, something that did not sit well with an Imperial Navy that had, for much too long, trained for offensive tactics and all-out, decisive capital ship engagements. Even in the face of a rising Rebel Alliance, as Grand Admiral Thrawn had once put it, the Empire had continued to prepare for the wars it wanted to fight, not for the ones it would be forced to fight in the foreseeable future.

Right at this moment, the tactical computer started producing identifications for the approaching Rebel capitals. Next to him, Tactical Officer Ferst let out an audible gasp, and Thor had to fight down the rising bile in his stomach as he read them.

Oh, great, that's a Mon Calamari MC 65a Light Cruiser and a corvette on our Starboard flank, a Nebulon-B and at least one more corvette to our port and an Attack Frigate coming up our rear. Not counting upwards of fifty enemy attack craft, fast and straight inbound. And still no idea whatsoever about what could be lurking ahead. If that MonCal cruiser is the enemy flagship, we're talking another frigate at least. If not, worst case, a Liberty class, or a Duskalo cruiser. Rather the latter, judging from how swiftly they dealt with our P-boats. Either way, we're done for. That's no splinter fleet, that is an Alliance cruiser battlegroup, no less.

A grim certainty rose unbidden to his mind. What are the chances that a whole battlegroup is on the loose behind our lines and accidentally wanders across our convoy out here in no man's land? No, they knew precisely when and where to find us. And that means we have been sold right from the start.

He wanted to grind his teeth in rage at the very thought of treachery, but dismissed the thought seconds later for being unlikely. Over time, the Imperial military had acquired tremendous skills at counter-espionage and counter-infiltration. Only a few people outside the assigned escort group had known about the route they were going to take, and he seriously doubted that it had been one of them to give it away. Not even the merchants had been told all the exact arrival and departure times, or all the destinations either. And with all the clashes and skirmishes fought along the way, it was quite likely that the Rebels had pieced the necessary information together bit by bit, and after that, all they had possibly needed had been some serious map-reading, a little wild guessing, tactical insight and a bunch of scout ships.

And, doubtlessly, here they were.

The Assault Frigate was a tough opponent and could get the better even of a Dreadnought, but it was certainly not invincible. Roughly the same could be said about the MC65a Light. The Nebulon and the two corvettes were somewhat less of a threat, but the sheer number of Rebel fighters was definitely going to be painful. In an open battle, with the Imperials being able to maneuver and play their tactics, the odds would have been very much even. As it was, they were far from it. And that calculation did not even include the unseen enemy ahead.

"Sir, enemy fighter waves are now coming into weapons range." Lieutenant Ferst's voice could not conceal his anxiety as he relayed the report from the sensor station. "Course vector projection indicates they are going for the convoy center. So far, no target locks have been achieved against our ship. Enemy capitals still two minutes out of range. Dire Wolf and the Carracks are engaging as per defense plan."

"Very well, Lieutenant. Let's see that."

The first flashes of heavy turbofire lit up the blackness of space. Battle had been joined.

* * *

Battle had been joined.

Inside the holocube, Markas could see the different icons wink and flash as several ships at once reported enemy contact. Rebel fighters were swarming the perimeter in a classical pincer move aimed right at the center of both flanks, with the capital ships not far behind.

They are trying to apply pressure to the line, to scout our weak spots, to see if we will break so they can have us piecemeal.

The Dreadnought Dire Wolf and the two Carrack Cruisers Bloodthirst and Sabredance had begun pounding the leading attack craft formations on both sides at range with their broadside batteries, but their fire was sparse, poorly guided and seemed to have little effect. Still, Markas had to admire the courage of the enemy pilots as he watched the small, nimble Rebel crafts break formation to spin and weave their way through the barrage, trying their best to confuse and discourage the Imperial gunners. Flying up against such heavy guns demanded a huge amount of nerve and daring, not to mention tremendous piloting skills.

So many brave young men and women who should be striking beside us, not against us, he brooded as he witnessed an X-Wing spark and fade, briefly touched by the fleeting, murderous caress of a turbolaser. So many who could lead a promising life as loyal Imperial citizens, had not vile Rebel propaganda misled their ideals and convinced them to take up arms against their patron nation. Oh, how I hate the Rebels for forcing this unto me. Forcing me to order their killing to save my own.

He tensed, intently watching the scenario develop inside the cube, feeling the moment approach. Having braved the ineffective defense fire with minimum casualties so far, the Rebel attack crafts were now coming into missile range, visibly straightening their lines and falling into formation again to commence torpedo attack runs on their individual targets.

The moment was at hand. Leaning forward involuntarily as he fingered for the comms button, Captain Dren Markas felt his throat go dry.

"Now, if you please, Commander Kull!"

Raptly spoken, the words set the sky ablaze.

In space, distances are measured in hundreds of thousands of kilometers, millions of them even, and even a large ship can sometimes appear small, insignificant, across such distances. Nonetheless, it cannot hide. Even dead in space, it still remains a massive chunk of metal that is bound to reflect electromagnetic waves and so can be detected by active sensor devices. With its own power plant, drives, sensors and weapons active, it is a constant source of electromagnetic emissions, a brightly lit beacon to all who have the properly equipped eyes to see. Jamming can temporarily blind sensors, and cloaking devices, sometimes employed by those who have reasons to remain undetected, can suppress emissions to a certain degree, but still, they only have their limited use and can be overcome if an opponent knows how. Yet, no matter how much technology one party puts to use to gain an advantage over the other, ultimately, there is always a mind behind it all, and minds can be deceived. Thus, in battle, where the difference between seeing or being seen first can be equal to the difference between life and death, a constant war of minds is waged alongside the war of technological superiority, a battle of stealth, cunning and deception versus discovery, detection and identification. Even experienced ship captains could not make their vessels invisible, but they most certainly knew ways to make them disappear, to conceal them behind other stellar objects or to alter their emissions, thereby making them appear as something completely different. It was a science of its own, the origins of which dated back to the days where men had still braved the wrath of the elements crewing ships that were no more than fragile nutshell hulls, conquering the waters of some distant, long-forgotten home world. The rules of this game had not changed since then, and there had always been - and would always be - some who knew to play it better than others.

Moving inside the trampling freighter herd, shields, guns and electronic systems powered down, the two Lancer Class Flak Frigates had so far gone completely undetected, nothing but two more helpless cargo vessels to the unsuspecting onlooker behind a screen that showed them as such. This changed drastically as their powerful gun batteries and multiple targeting arrays came online and gave away their true identity, but by then, it was far too late for the Rebel attack craft pilots. In one moment, space around them had still been virtually empty. In the next, it was drenched by murderous fire as dozens of quad laser turrets raised their thundering voices in unison. At the same time, the heavy fire from the Dreadnought and the cruisers doubled in intensity and found its true mark.

The effect was utterly devastating.

The first wave of Rebel fighters and bombers on either flank was completely eradicated in a matter of seconds, ten crafts fireballing before their pilots even had time for evasive maneuvers. The surviving ones frantically broke formation and sped away from the deathtrap as punishing fire ravaged their ranks. Their reactions were remarkably quick, their flying flawless, but the sophisticated Lancers, specially designed to combat the threat of fighter attacks, would not relent. Vengeful Imperial gunners methodically picked their targets and harvested the opposition, scoring seventeen more kills in eight seconds and throwing the Rebel lines into complete disarray. The outclassed and outdated Y-Wings, slower and less agile than their fighter counterparts, suffered particularly heavy casualties as all Alliance fighter elements hastily withdrew. No sooner had the desperately evading Rebel crafts fled the gauntlet of fire than the two Lancers shut down their guns and targeters and slid back into the anonymity of the herd.

Captain Markas let out the breath he realized he had held for the whole time events had taken to evolve and leaned back into his chair again. His heart was hammering inside his chest, and there were beads of sweat on his brow. He almost couldn't believe it had actually worked.

Defense Plan Gamma. The last full measure.

Markas' Masterpiece, he had overheard it being called in whispered conversations outside strategy briefing sessions. Based on tactical concepts originally developed by the wily veteran Commander Kull, these concepts had been expanded and adapted for the particular situation at hand, thereby transforming the convoy's greatest weakness into its most potent weapon. Right now, Rebel fighter pilots and tacticians were looking at the mass of ships and were beginning to see concealed escorts everywhere. They would be coming again nonetheless, Markas was at no illusions about that, but they would most certainly be a lot more suspicious then. Their attack craft strengths were the Rebels' greatest asset. That asset had just suffered a severe blow, and so, accordingly, had their initial confidence. For the moment, the Imperials had blunted the edge of the attack and gained a brief respite, but no more. The initiative still lay with the Rebels. The true fight was yet to come.

* * *

For a second or two, Thor was tempted to join the surrounding bridge crews in their wild cheering as he witnessed the events unfold on the screen. The mood of relieved tension was almost tangible all around. He almost couldn't believe it had actually worked.

Markas' Masterpiece. The last full measure. The Doomsday Script. Stars, but it had actually worked!

He unclenched the fist he had restrained himself from shaking at the screen that showed the Rebel fighter elements beating a hasty, ill-coordinated retreat. This was not the time for such gestures. The Rebels would be back soon, and in force. He needed to get the situation under control. "Mister Ferst, cut it! Cut it!"

"Silence! Silence on the bridge!" The roared order swiftly restored discipline in the bridge pit as Lieutenant Ferst managed to produce just the right combination of volume and barely suppressed anger. "I want reports! Reports update now!"

"Sir, enemy fighter formations are now regrouping!"

"No damage reports on our side, sir, no reported fighter losses. Bloody Rebs didn't hit crap!"

"Maintain discipline!" Thor boomed at that last outburst.

"Sir!" The voice of the sensors officer had an alarmed quality to it. "Vector change by all enemy capitals! Massive energy spikes, contacts are powering up drives and guns!"

"Vector changes confirmed," a second voice cut in. "Enemy capitals are closing in, maintaining relative flanking position!"

Grimly, Thor nodded to himself as he watched the viewscreen. The Rebels' next move, though not unexpected, was surprisingly aggressive. A frontal assault, head-on, all guns blazing, was unusual tactics for them. Suddenly, he had another dreadful déjà vu of Endor.

On they came, on all sides, eager for the fight. Seeing that the Imperials would surely be able to repel another fighter attack, all Rebel capital ships rapidly closed with their Imperial counterparts and engaged the escorts over open sights as soon as distance would allow. Massive broadsides were traded as the behemoths clashed, and heavy fire was met with heavy fire. While the MC65a kept the Dire Wolf busy, the Alliance frigate and the two corvettes had ganged up on and bracketed one of the Imperial light cruisers and drove home volley after volley of devastating fire, causing massive ripples and cracks to appear in their target's overtaxed shields. Two small civilian freighters, struck by stray shots, became rapidly expanding fireballs, then another, then one more as the shooting became indiscriminate. It was this random brutality that wrenched Thor's guts. The open disregard for collateral casualties spoke of a clear intention. The Rebels had not come to plunder and pillage this time. They had come to eradicate.

Well, they would surely find this undertaking daunting at least. The Imperial defenders were certainly able to return fire against several targets at once simultaneously with their flank batteries, and for the moment, they kept doing so with textbook accuracy. But being under attack from two sides, they were unable to decisively reinforce one portion of their shields to counter a single threat, for risk of critically weakening another. The Rebels, however, with their outward flanks safe, were under no such demands, and they were exploiting their advantage to the fullest. It would only be a matter of time until one of the severely hammered Imperial ships had to succumb.

Thor realized he had cramped his fingers around the armrests of his chair. The most frustrating thing of all was that he had little opportunity to contribute to the Imperial efforts for the time being, all Alliance ships being outside the frontal firing arc of his main batteries. The flank batteries wouldn't do much good against targets of this size, but, by the living Empire, the least he could do was make them count. "Mister Ferst, find me a target!"

"Aye, Sir! Sir, I have a firing solution for that enemy corvette, for the starboard turbos!"

"Very well. Fire at will, fire for effect!"

For the first time of this engagement, Gun Crates weapons lit up, but her comparatively meager flank armament had little to add to the general hurly-burly, and the angle was odd. The targeted corvette did not appear greatly impressed by the fire coming her way, but did realign some of her own lasers in response. For the first time also, the Strike Cruiser felt the enemy guns, but her massive shields shrugged it off.

"Sir! The enemy fighters!"

He could see it, and in spite of everything, Thor had to admire the bravado.

Under the cover of their larger cousins, shielded from the scything flak barrage until the very last of moments, the Rebel attack crafts had closed the range once more, and now they came rushing forward on full afterburner, swarming all over the beleaguered defenders like venomous insects. Momentarily taken by surprise, the Lancers nonetheless powered up again in desperate response and thundered away at point-blank range, but their efforts were doomed to prove futile this time as range closed too quickly even for their sophisticated weapon systems to achieve proper target acquisition. Even though several Rebel crafts were brought down before they could break through, the remaining ones successfully deployed numerous anti-ship torpedoes.

Several ships sustained hits, but the cruiser Bloodthirst, whose portside batteries were largely silenced due to still-unrepaired battle damage, suffered worst. Struck by a sizeable number of warheads in rapid succession, her already weakened port and rear shields failed completely for several seconds before they could reset themselves, and explosions rippled along her flank. Hull patches, nowhere as strong as the original armor in whose place they had been installed, splintered and gave way, venting flame, smoke and freezing oxygen into space. Whole plating segments were torn off by massive secondary internal explosions as the stricken ship bucked and reeled. Still relentlessly firing from her starboard batteries, she began to tilt and drift slowly out of formation as several of her main drive jets sputtered and died, her whole portside in flames from prow to stern, trailing a comet's tail of spinning debris and freezing burn-clouds.

And, naturally, the closest Rebel ships immediately redirected their fire to capitalize. Even while avenging TIEs intercepted and engaged the Rebel fighters to keep them from making another devastating attack run, Thor could do nothing but watch in helpless frustration as the wounded, bleeding cruiser was systematically hammered from two sides and ground to pieces under the merciless firepower. With her shields collapsed, massive laser blasts and missiles struck her armored hull, melting and tearing loose building-sized steel plates and wreaking bloody carnage on her already badly maimed mid-section. Bloodthirst's return fire finally fell silent.

Then a beam from a heavy turbolaser entered the gutted ship on one side and exited on the other.

Another one punched clean through her. And another. And then she came apart.

It was not like the death of the raider frigate, where structural stress had rent the destroyed hull to pieces and finally culminated in a massive conflagration. Rather, internal explosions, aided by missile and laser impacts, finally ate up the last few frame girders and casing sections that had still connected the cruiser's rear engine compartment and her blunt nose. Off balance, both separate halves began to eccentrically spin away from each other end over end, still ablaze from internal fires that would continue to burn until all remaining oxygen had been consumed. The rear section finally blew as the main reactor core overloaded, the silent, eye-searing white fireball leaving behind nothing but a rapidly dissipating radioactive cloud.

The course of the action had been so fast that the cruiser had been reduced from a moving, fighting vessel to a drifting hulk in a matter of bare seconds. Not a single life pod had left the ship.

"Commander! Sir!"

Ferst's shout of alarm violently brought Thor's attention back to his immediate surroundings. "Report!"

"Enemy fighter formation, designated Assault Two, dead ahead, directly inbound! Headcount is sixty-plus! Closing fast!"

Worse news. The odds had never been in the Imperials' favor, but now they were rapidly turning catastrophic. The trap was closed, the encirclement finally complete. And now, the spearheading Crate was going to take the brunt of it.

The bridge had fallen dead silent. Most of the men were staring at their control panels, motionlessly, stony-faced. Several faces were turned towards him, tight-lipped. All too vividly, the image of the dying Carrack suddenly stood before his eyes. Suddenly, he felt the full weight of the responsibility press down on his shoulders.

Yet now, there was something he could do. Something he would do. His bridge crew was now looking to him for leadership right now. And Gun Crate certainly wasn't going to go without a fight while he was at the helm. Briefly, he searched most of the faces in immediate proximity for signs of fear. And found none.

"Issue Fighter Warning Red! Gunnery, I want a firing solution for the enemy fighter phalanx, all forward batteries! Reinforce forward shields. Damage control parties to battle stations. All close-in turrets, heads up for incoming torpedoes!"

There was a satisfying, raucous return chorus of affirmatives as his crewmen went back to their duties. Despite everything, even in the face of overwhelming odds, his crew was responding with trained professionalism and discipline. Suddenly, Thor felt a sense of death-defying pride swell his chest at the sight of these men. Fine soldiers they were to a man, and worthy sons of the Empire. His own native culture held such martial qualities in particularly high regard. Facing the foe with courage was one thing. Facing it in the company of such brave men was an honor.

"Sir, I have a firing solution!"

"Target and deny, Mister Ferst! By our fighting spirit shall they know us!"

When her main batteries raised their thundering voices, their sub-sonic response shook Gun Crate's deck below Thor's feet and caused a grim smile to briefly appear on his lips. Finally being able to resist the enemy, to make a stand and fight back, helped ease a great deal of the psychological pressure that had built up on him and the crew. It returned a sense of purposefulness, of self-assuredness, of dignity. It didn't feel like being a near-helpless target any more. It felt good!

And the Rebels swiftly learned that, this time, they had tried to take the wrong Bantha by the horns. The punishing fire meted out by the Strike Cruiser immediately caused them to frantically break formation, each craft conducting its own random evasive movements to fool the Imperial targeting systems, but not before several of their number had been incinerated, never even realizing what hit them. And even so, so overwhelming was the withering firestorm they were flying up against that each new volley from the massive batteries caused another one or two attackers to perish. Even near misses were enough to send starfighter systems haywire with electromagnetic interference.

But still, in spite of it all, they kept coming, and there were simply too many to kill them all before they would be swarming all over his beleaguered ship.

A distinctive warning sound became audible over the general noise of battle on the bridge, a sound that every Imperial Navy soldier dreaded and no one who had heard it once and lived to tell would ever forget, a sharp, buzzing noise, insistent and repeated. Thor met the gaze of Lieutenant Ferst and shook his head, freezing the unnecessary report on the young man's lips. No explanatory words were necessary.

The enemy had obtained multiple ordnance locks.

"Frontal shields to maximum." There was nothing more he could do before, barely seconds later, the torpedoes struck.

The shields absorbed the first thundering impacts before stress-induction left them faltering and overloading, crackling with uselessly discharging whiplashes of power. Deep in the bowels of the ship, a distant rumble spoke of at least one short-circuiting condenser bank.

"Shield burn-through, frontal starboard section!" A technician's voice, immediately drowned out by the whip-crack reverberation of impacting warheads. The bridge floor shook and rocked again, more violently this time as artificial gravity was momentarily desynchronized and righted itself again, almost causing Ferst to loose his balance. Only by ignominiously clinging to the back of the command chair was he able to remain upright. Several crew members, caught in mid-step, were thrown against the walls of the bridge pit below.

"Damage reports!" Thor had to shout to make himself heard above the clamor of battle and the alarmed yelps of men.

"Sir! Strafers above the deck, inbound!"

"Repel! All turrets, repel strafers!" Even as he hollered the order, he could see them coming, the tell-tale darting specks of reflected starlight, moving lightning-quick before the darker background of the cruiser's foredeck. Three, four, no, five enemy fighters at once, sharp, red stabs of fire spearing from their wing tips as they came. Safe from the cruiser's heavy guns for the moment, they stayed low, recklessly weaving and spinning their way through the criss-crossing lines of anti-fighter flak fire as close-in defense turrets proved mere fractions of a second too slow to pick them up.

This was it, the worst and most dangerous of moments, when even the mightiest of Imperial battleships were left exposed. The Rebels, albeit at terrible cost, had learned this lesson well. And they were exploiting it to the fullest. In a daring move, they were heading straight towards the most vulnerable point of an Imperial warship: the bridge tower and the fragile human contents it held.

Cannon blasts started exploding against the bridge deflectors as the Rebel starfighters achieved the range and angle to take the ship's nerve center under direct attack. If one of the enemy crafts still had missiles left, or one of their pilots was out for revenge and a medal…

Suddenly, unbidden, Thor had another painful, vivid déjà-vu of Endor, of the disbelieving shouts and oaths on the Predominance's bridge, of the stricken flagship Executor, veering helplessly out of control, a white-hot geyser of plasma flame where its bridge tower should have been, all semblance of control gone, to be powerlessly dragged into the Death Star's gravitational field, taking tens of thousands of good men and women with it as it burned. The memory made him clench his hands violently around both armrests.

Fire from several turrets simultaneously exploded the two leading Rebels as Imperial gunners found their marks not a second too early, making Thor wince involuntarily at the sudden outburst. A third one lost both starboard wings and engines to a devastating volley of laser bolts, spiraling out of sight end over end. A Y-Wing, panicky trying to aboard its attack run and pull up in the last of seconds, was caught in the crossfire and messily torn apart.

The last one kept coming.

An X-Wing, heedless of the firestorm of defense fire tracing his way, its blunt nose aimed directly at the bridge windows, blasting away with all four wing-mounted guns, the white-blue backwash of his engines on full afterburner clearly visible before the blackness of space. It was close enough for Thor to recognize the brightly red decorative markings on the off-white hull, almost close enough even for him to discern the pilot's helmeted face through the cockpit canopy.

With icy clarity, he was suddenly aware of the fact that the impact of even this relatively small vessel, at this speed, would be more than enough to immediately and completely wreck the bridge and kill every living being on it.

He rose from his chair, determined to look death in the eyes when it came to claim him, as befitted a warrior. All sense of fear had vanished from his mind.

Best to die with my wounds to the fore, then!

The bridge had fallen dead silent, all heads turned towards the main windows. He briefly noticed that Ferst was standing by his shoulder. Even though deathly pale, he, too, was facing the inevitable with as much stoic courage as Thor had ever seen in a man so young.

The enemy fighter seemed to be filling the view port.

And then it was gone.

It took a second or two for everybody on the bridge to start breathing again, to realize the fatal impact would not come. To realize the unthinkable had happened.

In the last possible of moments before the collision, the X-Wing had apparently tilted its course a mere fraction of a degree and had actually run past the bridge tower, not right through its windows.

Audibly, breath was drawn again all around him and word was given to oaths and prayers alike. Only when he had to sit down again to conceal the shakiness in his legs did Thor realize how closely he had been spared. The sudden rush of adrenaline was enough to make his breathing come raggedly, his heart hammering inside his chest.

Yet when another realization suddenly hit him, Thor found himself thinking for half a second that they would have been better off dead.

It had never been an attack run at all. It had been a diversion. The five fighters had played upon the Imperials' worst fears to draw all fire away from their comrades who were, by now, gunning for the convoy at flank speed. Their additional numbers would be more than enough to finally, fatally, turn the tide of the battle in favor of the Rebels. And with them now being well clear of his ship, there was nothing he could do about it.

He fumbled for his intercom earpiece with trembling fingers.

Damn, pull yourself together, man! There's still a battle going on around you!

"Captain, the enemy fighter swarm has passed us by. It seems we have sustained only minor damage, but they're still inbound for the convoy!"

"I know, Thor." Markas voice held something dangerously close to resignation. "I have just ordered the fighter reserve deployed. That should buy us some time."

"Understood, sir." The fighter reserve. That means her.

Suddenly he found he could not pay attention to the numerous damage reports any more. His mind was elsewhere, outside the shielded, heated and ventilated hull of the ship, out there in the airless, freezing depths of space, where Imperial pilots and crews, outgunned and hard pressed with numbers, were fighting a battle that was growing more desperate by the second.

And out there was a woman that he… .

No, he stopped himself from pursuing that dangerous line of thought any further, not liking where it would lead him, angry at his own conflicting emotions. She was doing her duty for the Empire, and right now, he was expected to do his, no less. If they were both to live to see the aftermath of this, they could talk about any future relationship then. If there was to be an aftermath at all. Right now, it wasn't looking much like that.

Outside, the fighter battle raged. On the screen, it looked brutal.

Concludes in Part Four