Chapter Eight

Bacta. Blessed bacta. A substance more wonderful he was unable to imagine, even in his wildest dreams.

But, Force, he wanted to get out of this tank. He thought it had been almost a day. He had things to do. He needed to conference with the commanders of these vessels, discover the state of the Empire. And, as they were subordinate to him, tell them where they ought to be going.

He made himself relax. None of this frustration would get him out of the tank sooner, would make him heal any faster. So he might as well just rest, and gather his strength for the task to come: rebuilding an Empire...

~~~~~~~~

It was an undignified meeting. Two Vice Admirals and a Commodore in dress uniforms, and their superior officer, the best Admiral the Empire had ever seen, wrapped in absorbent towel and trying to dry off after a three-day dunk in a bacta tank.

But, since they were already uncomfortable, he decided to make use of the situation, try to gain a little power by milking their embarrassment for all it was worth. "You have something to report?" he asked, archly. "Something that couldn't wait?"

The male Vice Admiral winced. The Commodore, who had a striking resemblance to his brother, tried not to smirk, and almost succeeded. The female Vice Admiral, on the other hand, eyed him frankly, and seemed to be appraising more than just his health and fitness to command.

An interesting group, to be sure.

He made eye contact with them, one at a time, and tried not to let his gaze linger on VA Litsen, who was still apparently drinking him with her eyes. Force. He hoped he wasn't flushing _too_ red. "Well?"

"Admiral, sir." Commodore Andleton said. "Our orders from Madame Isard dictate that any survivors located are to be brought back to Imperial Center for questioning. However, sir, her orders cannot extend to you. They do not affect you unless you let them. Following the chain of command, it stands to reason that you should command us, and not some slinking, underhanded, overpaid spymaster with enough intrigue and ambition to shock a hapan assassin. Sir."

Piett smiled. How had this man reached his current rank without being shot for insubordination? And why in the seven hells of the Durasi system was that damned Vice Admiral still staring at him surreptitiously? Was he imagining it? Was-- Back to business, even if VA Misth was the only one in the room with any respect for protocol.

"So what you are saying is that you are mine to command. Does the Commodore speak for both of you, as well?" One glance showed that he did. Good. "Then set course for the Tanroial system. I have business to attend to there. Any further questions? Then you are dismissed." The business of rebuilding an Empire. There was a shipyard in orbit of Tanroial 2, and its commander had always been the most loyal of men. Piett glanced out the viewport, into space. The Emperor had been mad, at least in the end, but his dream was sane. Law and order brought to a galaxy filled with so many that cherished anarchy. A way to straighten out the wrongs that had been done, to assure stability and fairness for all.

He turned, and jumped, startled. Misth and Andleton were gone, but _she_ still stood there, eyes locked on him as though-- he made his voice icy, added an edge to it, concealing his uncertainty with irritation. "I said, dismissed." He could swear she was almost pouting as she left the room.

And he doubted his irritated act had fooled her. This was certainly an eccentric group of officers he found himself in command of. Quiet Misth, brash Andleton, and Litsen. He didn't think it was his imagination. Could it be.... But he had more important things to attend to, first, before he could even consider considering that. He had an Empire to rebuild, a dream to fulfill. And although the trials he had faced on Endor were over, the truth was that the ordeal was just beginning.

Chapter Nine

The starlines snapped back into single points of light once more as the Centurion slipped back out of hyperspace. The Tanroial system's primary, a white dwarf, lay dead ahead, around five hundred million klicks away.

Tanroial II was a mere twenty thousand kilometers to their starboard, a massive superterrestrial world of metallic grey-black that was laced with a web of silver lines that denoted the mining and ore processing installations. Thicker, more awkward looking frameworks of darker durasteel hung in the planet's orbit: the shipbuilding facilities themselves. The Sleipnir and the Omwat flickered their way into realspace on either side of the centurion, ending their hyperjumps with a precision rarely seen outside of official processions over Coruscant or Carida. On the Centurion's bridge, Piett smiled faintly. Good. After reviewing their records, he'd feared that none of these officers had enough discipline. Misth's record was the most exemplary, indicating that the quiet, reserved man was an outside-the-lines thinker. Given a fleet of ships, he used them like a starfighter squadron such as he'd commanded a decade before. The shock value this caused had won several battles on its own, and had paid off merely because of the pure logistic, mathematical accuracy that drove them.

Commander Andleton was a different story. He, too, had began as a TIE pilot, but after a Moff's son had died under his command, the man had been demoted, charged with insubordination, and sent out to serve on a mapping expedition in the Unknown Regions. The only thing preventing his immediate court-martial and summary execution was the fact that the ill-fated mission had been an phenomenal success. Upon his return to more civilized regions, he'd repeatedly gambled his command and his life with high-risk aggressive tactics, throwing convention and caution to the wind. He always won. A closer examination showed that before each engagement, he would painstakingly research the enemy and his environment, gaining insights into his opponent's mind, then exploiting that knowledge to his best advantage with every gamble.

Litsen, rather than being an ex-TIE jockey, was former Assistant Intelligence Director of Toprawa. She'd transferred to the Navy at the same time word of the first Death Star's destruction had spread. She had taken command of the Sleipnir after only two years in the Navy, and requested an assignment to Wild Space. Once there, she replaced most of the officers, one by one, with men and women who were misfits, about to wash out, and pulled their careers from the gutter. After she was done she was left with one of the most elite, innovative crews in the galaxy. With this crew, she'd disbanded three of the five largest pirate organizations in Wild Space in less than two months.

All three of them would bear watching. Especially Litsen.

The officer at the sensor station looked up at him from the crew pit. "Sir, three sensor contacts approaching us from the planet's day-side. They're issuing a standard IFF-challenge, and... sir, the ships are Imperial-issue Corellian Corvettes."

Disbelief tinged the man's voice, and Piett understood it fully. That a shipyard would be so lightly guarded was unbelievable. And that a ship as insignificant as a Corvette would be audacious enough to challenge their right to be in-system was fairly astonishing as well.

"Patch them in, lieutenant." Piett told him, carefully keeping his amusement out of his voice.

"This is captain Etisen Maxell of the Corvette Silver Hammer. Incoming vessels, please identify yourselves and your mission."

"Destroyers Sleipnir and Omwat, and Interdictor Centurion, Admiral Piett commanding. I'm here to make an inspection tour, Captain Maxell."

The Captain's tone changed, conveying far more respect with the same crisp formality he'd used in challenging them.

"Admiral Piett, sir! Welcome to Tanroial. When we heard the news from Endor we feared the worst, sir. The Executor was a good ship."

"Yes, Captain, she was. I suppose it would be too much to hope that you have a replacement ready?"

"Yes, Admiral, unfortunately it would. But we have something almost as good, sir. Does your vessel have an ECTD array aboard?"

Piett looked askance at the sensor officer, who replied promptly. "Energy Curtain Trajectory Detection, sir. We have an array, but it hasn't been used since the systems check on her maiden voyage, sir. ECTDs have been antiquated for decades, since CGTs started being produced."

Piett turned back to the comm system. "We have one, captain. Why do you ask?"

"If you could aim it aft of you, sir, and nine degrees dorsal, you'll see."

Piett nodded to the sensor officer, then glanced at the results... and then did a double-take. Behind them was a three-kilometer long ship that looked like a scaled-down SSD... and refused to appear on conventional sensors.

After a pause, Captain Maxell continued. "Project VX-731, sir. We call her the Phantom. The armor plating she's coated in masks her almost as well as a cloaking shield, and her power emissions only show up as residual radiation from solar flares or ion storms."

Piett smiled. "Excellent, Captain. How many operable ships are in-system?"

"Sixteen, sir. The original defense force's seven ships are in as good shape as the day they were finished. The Phantom was completed three weeks ago. We also have two Lancer-class frigates, two Interdictors, a Carrier, a heavily modified torpedo platform, and advanced Nebulon frigate, and an experimental gunship. There are also several squadrons of fighters and smaller craft at the orbital docks or based on the surface, sir. We're also constructing a modified VSD, a second gunboat, and another carrier, due for completion in two months."

Someone in the crew pit whistled in admiration, and Piett silently echoed the crewer's sentiments.

Captain Maxell, however, was not quite done. " If you'd like a tour, sir, Vice Admiral Hayden will be waiting for you at the orbital docks to show you around. And, Admiral?"

"Yes?"

"It's good to have you with us, sir."

Chapter Ten

The airlock hissed open, and Piett smiled. Hayden didn't believe in doing things halfway. He approved of that.

The hangar bay that lay before him had been cleared of all ships, but personnel filled every empty space, an full formal dress uniforms, standing at attention, facing the center of the room, where there was a clear corridor from the airlock to the doors on the opposite side of the bay where Hayden stood with his retinue.

Piett stepped out of the airlock, and every last one of the officers, conscripts, mechanics, agents, doctors, and designers saluted with precision and formality Piett hadn't seen since… well, since the Executor went down in flames. It was a large bay, there must be nearly two thousand men filling it.

"I thought you might like to inspect these new additions to your command, Admiral." Hayden called across the room. Piett let his gaze slip across as many of the officers as he could see. He recognized only a few of them, but no matter. All of them looked disciplined. They looked like a team; a sense of unity and camaraderie between them was obvious. There was individuality also: they weren't stormtroopers, totally interchangeable pieces; they were people, and it showed.

"At ease." Piett said, and the entire bay relaxed perceptibly. He moved forward, walking along the corridor, past row after row of nervous-looking conscripts, then passed the last of them, so he stood before the newest and most junior officers. There was almost no point in the inspection, if all the men were as disciplined as those he'd passed so far, but- he stopped, and turned to face an ensign whose expression was halfway between awe and abject terror. "Next time, ensign," Piett said, quietly, "Remember to polish your boots."

It was the only fault he could find with any of them.

Later, in the briefing room, looking at an overview of the shipyard's personnel, he saw that his optimism was justified. Ninety percent of them had been in the top quarter of their classes at the Academy. Many of them were decorated. He hadn't seen a more prestigious group of officers since… well, since the Executor. He missed her: The view from her bridge, the throb of her engines vibrating the deck, the brilliance of her crew, and above all the feeling of sitting in her command chair. Possibly the Superlaser operators on the death star had felt more power at their fingertips than he had, but it was not the power to destroy that he missed. It was the ability to impose justice and order in a solar system with one command, the secure knowledge that there was no ship better suited to defending the ideals of the Empire than his. He might never have that again, and he wanted it, badly.

The only thing he didn't miss about Executor was serving under Lord Vader. Had Vader been on the surface of Endor's moon when the Emperor died with his Death Star, and the supremacy of the Empire went with it? Perhaps. He thought it more likely that Vader, too, had been upon the station, that Vader, who had killed so many, was at long last dead.

The door to the briefing room hissed open, and Hayden entered. This first briefing was informal, a talk between the two of them. In the weeks to come there would be more briefings, more discussions, where he would deal with dozens of officers and several intricate plans, plans he was already mentally composing.

Hayden was smiling. "What do you think, Admiral?" Piett's inner ebullience faded, replaced with the gravity of a man watching a funeral. "The Empire is dead, Hayden. Nineteen separate factions worth mentioning, and hundreds of worlds, systems, and sectors cut loose to watch for themselves. Rebels springing up everywhere. And now, an invasion? These… Ssi-Ruuk, is it? They have swallowed two sectors, and the Rebels just barely drove them out of a third."

Hayden nodded. "We're directly along the path of their invasion corridor, sir."

"I know."

"We have perhaps two months to prepare for them. Ten weeks at most."

"I know. What do you think of our chances, Vice Admiral?"

"Our forces are about equal to the reported fleet that Bakura defeated. And we have weapons they do not. The Phantom, for example. We have as much tactical skill, if their progress so far is the best they can do. We have the element of surprise; this system is marked on starcharts as abandoned. We have enough time to convert our shields to deflect ion cannon. And, of course, we have two other assets: The best design team since Tarkin's think tanks on Omwat, and… the best commander in all the Fleet, sir."

Piett allowed himself a brief smile. "Thank you, Vice Admiral Hayden. An accurate assessment; except that the latest report, as of… ten minutes ago… reports that they have reinforcements. Double our forces here." He paused, making eye contact with Hayden, making sure that the news had sunk in. "A fleet is only as good as the crew that mans it, and we have few problems in that regard, but even with the Phantom, we're outmatched. I'd like to talk to your design chief…."

Chapter Eleven

Half an hour later Piett found himself wandering through the maintenance bays of the station, searching for Commodore Edlund. Apparently, the man had switched his comlink off. The whole situation struck Piett as more than a little funny. Edlund's rank was ridiculously low for the job he was doing. Running the maintenance, construction and the design teams was usually assigned to…well, An Admiral.

But Edlund was brilliant, dynamic, and eccentric. He spent much of his time working with his men on maintenance rather than behind a desk in the office that was technically his. Instead of a uniform, he preferred to wear a mechanic's coverall, stained with grease, fuel, piezoelectric gel, worn and patched from frequent use. Several of his previous commanders had transferred him or disciplined him as a result of this, but Piett and Hayden both tended to be more tolerant of original thinkers. If the Commodore could run a shipyard at one-hundred and fifteen percent above what was considered optimum efficiency, design combat vessels, and still find time to build or modify fighterships and high explosives… let him.

After almost tripping over him, he found the Commodore half-hidden underneath an Interceptor, doing something incredibly unorthodox to its power converters.

"Commodore?"

"Just a second, sir- damn!"

A hissing spray of thick violet-gold gas issued from beneath the fighter, followed a moment later by Edlund, looking slightly murderous and murmuring under his breath about the morrt-brained designers of the Interceptor.

As the Commodore stood and saluted, Piett restrained a smile. Well, Interceptors had more than satisfied Vader, and Vader had made certain the designers conformed to his… exacting standards. If they didn't satisfy Edlund… well, he could skip the preliminaries and get to the point. "Commodore, I assume you've been briefed on the situation concerning the Ssi-Ruuk."

"Yes, sir."

"May I further assume that you've familiarized yourself with the capabilities of their fightercraft?"

"Yes, sir."

Anticipating the Commodore's response to his next question, Piett concealed another smile.

"How would you like to design a fighter that could stop them?"

Edlund's eyes lit up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The four fighters were the latest triumph in an obscenely long series of triumphs that the Tanroial design team had presented to Piett since his arrival, five weeks ago. TIE Adversaries were sleek, narrow ships, hybrids halfway between Interceptors and Defenders. They were made for one purpose only: to counter the waves of Ssi-Ruuk drones sweeping across the sector like a robotic plague. Adversaries were antivenin to the alien poison. Drones were small and agile, but Adversaries had advanced targeting systems. The drones were heavily shielded: an extra reactor had been added solely to power the Adversary's three fire-linked cannon. Each drone had four ion-type weapons. The Adversary had shields tuned specifically to scatter ion- wavelength energies.

Only one flight had been constructed so far, and they had yet to be tested, but already the TIE pilots were eager to fly them. The cockpit was narrow, elongated, , peering out from between the three claw-like solar panels. Rather than the standard two-dimensional design, the panels were talon- like three-sided pyramids, thrusting forward around the fuselage. At the point of each was a single laser cannon, darkly glinting durasteel. Between the wing pylons that held the panels were engines, three of them, larger than the traditional ion engines used in other models of TIE. The shield generator rested between the engines, centered on the aft of the fighter.

It was the first time M'thas Char had ever regretted transferring to SpecOps. He wanted to fly an Adversary. He wanted it more than food, more than sleep, more than air itself, or at least he would have sworn that he did if asked to choose between them.

Lieutenant Mal didn't start worrying until lunch, the afternoon of the first test flight.

M'thas started complaining, as usual, that he was more qualified than "-all the would-be jockeys in orbit around this dismal rock. What do they know about flying? For them it's all flight specs and performance parameters, percentages and statistics. They're more like droids than real people, and there's a reason they don't let droids fly, dammit!"

That was okay, that was even normal. He'd heard this every day for two weeks, followed by a general dressing- down of TIE pilots in general, with the exception, of course, of himself, and Baron Soontir Fel, whom he held in the highest regard.

Today, he fell silent instead. Brooded. After five minutes of silence, he looked up and said something so absolutely out of character that Yovell wondered if they'd replaced the Ensign with a clone. "I wonder if the Corps would take me back."

Ensign Piper, halfway down the table, burst out laughing. Then he realized M'thas was serious. After a moment, he said "Probably not." In a half- choked voice, and started laughing again.

"You don't think they'd want me back?"

"You told General-Commander Sedlinne where he could stick his shiny black boots, sideways, along with his orders. You then told him you were sure they would fit, since he'd obviously already crammed his bloated head up there, in order to have issued said orders. So no, M'thas, they won't take you back, nor will they accept your children, grandchildren, or even great-grandchildrens' cousins' friends' roommates into their ranks."

"So I'll never get to fly one."

"You'll never get to fly one."

"Except…"

Yovell sighed. His head hurt. "Except what?"

"GC Sedlinne was put in direct command of the Death Star's TIEs. All that's left of him now is a few loose atoms floating around Endor at random. Carbon, hydrogen-"

"I don't believe this."

"No, really. The Corps no longer has a head. If we're calling this the true Empire, then the highest ranking pilot is GC of the Corps now."

"That would be Colonel Ratonje, on the Omwat. She hates you since… you remember."

"Yeah. So I'll never get to fly one."

"Never."

Chapter Twelve

Admiral Piett had never been a pilot. He had flown things, yes, and had done so competently. But piloting had never been his strong suit. He had gone from being an aspiring xenobiologist to an aquatic commando to a tac officer in a ground commando unit to a naval commander. The last time he'd been inside the cockpit of a TIE was perhaps a decade ago. But, like M'thas Char, he understood the lure of being strapped in an insufficiently shielded cockpit in front of a set of high-powered ion engines. It was seductive, like free-fall jumps from atmospheric transports, like operating heavy artillery on a battlefield, like commanding a miles-long vessel into battle. He was long past the time in his life when he needed that sort of adrenalin rush to make him feel alive. But he still felt its pull, like tractor-beams targeting his immaturity and dragging it to the surface. He could control it if he wanted, resist the urge to hit full sublight burn one more time.

He didn't want to. He wanted to fly, and unlike Ensign Char, he could pull rank to get himself in the cockpit.

Besides, it'd be good for morale.

The flight gear felt more heavy and restricting than it had the last time he'd tried it on, back in the days before a promising young officer, Lieutenant Commander Piett by name, had been assigned to Vader's Rebel-hunting task forces. The other pilots seemed more withdrawn than he remembered pilots as being. Of course, he'd known combat pilots rather than test pilots. And in those days he hadn't been flag officer of a fleet, but commander of a Guardian- class light cruiser. That probably had something to do with it.

Climbing into the cockpit brought back memories, but most of them were distant. He'd only flown TIEs a handful of times since Carida, and the Academy. Most of his shipboard memories were either of troop transports, from his commando days, or bridges of Navy vessels.

The hatchway sealed itself behind him, and once he was seated, the restraints slid into place automatically. He looked over the control panels. Most of them were at least vaguely familiar. Two were unlit: features that had been designed into the fighters but not yet added to the prototypes. Those didn't matter.

His comlink crackled. "Flight Control to Aleph Flight; begin preflights and report in."

Piett smiled and complied. He had left command of the test flight to those with the proper experience. Here, he had almost no experience that mattered; letting the experts do their job made sense.

"Aleph One to Flight Control: all systems green. Engines fully powered and on standby."

"Aleph Two checking in, everything's smooth as a glass of Whyren's Reserve."

It was his turn now. "Aleph Three to Flight Control. Engines lit, systems green."

"This is Aleph Four, FC: systems green, engines ready, pilot eager, can we get this show on the road?"

"Confirmed, Four. Aleph Flight, you are cleared for launch and series one test battery. Proceed when ready."

They launched. The first series of tests were aimed at the engines: optimum speed, optimum duration, optimum maneuverability and precision of control. The second series covered sensors, communications, and other mundane systems. The third battery of tests was weapons; the fourth was a simulated combat exercise.

The first three went smoothly. Nothing exceeded expectations; but then, Edlund's predictions of the fighter's capabilities were unrealistic on a data screen. It was also notable that, while none of the predictions were exceeded, none of them were disappointed. The fighters performed as promised.

"Aleph Flight; begin series four. Activate sensor program SET-1, power cannons down to minimum, calibrate to highest frequency. Break by wing pairs, prepare to engage targets."

"Confirmed, Flight Control."

As they broke, bolts of ion-blue energy seared through the vacuum, looking disturbingly real. The fighters were in a corridor of space at the system's edge, bordered by holoprojectors and sensor buoys capable of tricking a ship's sensors into seeing enemy vessels where there were none. Now, watching the sensor board, Piett saw three ships, closing fast. Each was around thirty meters long, composed of the stretched-out ovoids that seemed to be the signature of Ssi-Ruuvi construction.

Piett frowned. The fighters were designed to engage fighters, not gunships. On second thought, he supposed it was realistic; enemy cap ships would hardly be so obliging as to move out of the way for their convenience. Another barrage of ion bolts cut through the space around him, colliding with Aleph Two. Its shields flared blue, then collapsed, overwhelmed by the volume of energy. A follow-up bolt struck the hull, sending lightning skittering across the metal surfaces. It took him a full second to realize the implications. A holographic ion bolt would behave differently; when it struck, a sensor command in the sim program would simply shut Aleph Two's engines, weapons, and comm down. Lightning meant real ion bolts, which meant real ion cannon, which meant-- real Ssi-Ruuvi ships.

Sithspit.

He flicked his comm system on to warn the others, but was met only by squealing static. Jamming.

Hurriedly he deactivated the sim programming and powered his weapons to full strength again, clumsily taking evasive maneuvers as he did so, dodging the next wave of ion bolts. After double- checking that One and Four were doing the same, he turned in-system and rammed the velocity controls up to full, all the way across the board. He hated running, but three fighters against three gunships? Any fighter jock dumb enough to enter that battle deserved what he had coming to him. (In orbit of Tanroial, thousands of kilometers distant, Ensign M'thas Char, who'd been watching the sensor displays of the test flights, vaulted into an Interceptor's cockpit..)

Something on the sensor board pinged, and Piett glanced at it. The alien gunships had just deployed a dozen droid fighters. Fast as the Adversaries were, the droids were quicker. Running would only provide a temporary respite. He looked away, to the engine readouts, then turned back to the sensors. The capital ships were too close to risk a microjump, but too far to reach them at sublight in time.

Most of the fighter pilots were off-duty at the moment; their craft undergoing refits for the upcoming campaign against the Ssi-Ruuk.

He hadn't planned on pre-emptive strikes or recon runs. Thoughtless of him.

The droids were closing at an alarming rate. Well, forget simulations. This would be more than adequate as a test run.

He twisted the control yoke, and the fighter yawed to port, spinning in a nauseatingly tight circle to face back toward the droids. Inertia tugged at him briefly, before the dampeners compensated, and his lunch tried to make a quick escape. He swallowed quickly, stopping its rise. Vomiting into his life-support gear would be rather ill-advised, not to mention undignified. Behind him, One and Four executed similar turns. Piett mentally noted their courses, then turned his attention back to the droids, lining up the laser cannon as best he could while flying straight. Dividing his attention like this was excruciatingly difficult; there was a reason he wasn't a pilot. As the distance narrowed, the drones began firing. The range was too long for any real damage to be done, but their accuracy was disconcerting. Subsequent shots began to make the fighter shudder, but he waited. Their aim was better, but his cannon had more power. He had to be patient. He had to trust in the durasteel alloys that enclosed him, and in Edlund's skills, and in his own judgment. Had to wait… to hold back… to fire, now!

Verdant fire lanced out from all three cannon, tracing a pyramidal shape with his fighter as the base and the nearest droid as the point. He held the trigger tightly, willing the beams to hit, to burn, to destroy…. And the droid vanished in a blossom of varicolored flames. He threw his fighter into an awkward sideways roll, graceful as a drunken mynock but just as hard to hit, dodging the debris. Reports said it was radioactive, capable of taking out shields. Glancing at the sensors, he circled in again, looking for another target. Ahead, a trio of droids were closing on Aleph Four from behind at different angles, another was going head-to-head with him. Piett came in from above just as Four fired at the drone ahead of him, which dodged sideways… directly into Piett's sights. A precise burst tagged it, sending it spinning back the way it came, under Four's guns again. This time he didn't miss. Its explosion was mirrored by a second, larger one far to port. One was gone, and so was another droid. Piett was unsure if the collision had been deliberate or accidental. Three down, nine to go. An ion bolt passed less than a meter from his front viewport. Now that he wasn't running, the gunboats were closing fast. Death seemed imminent, which frustrated him, but it could be worse. Better the Ssi-Ruuk than the Ewoks. This morbid speculation wasted perhaps a quarter of a second, then he dismissed it. He was too busy to die now. Not today, sorry, come back in a few decades and maybe we can work something out. Until then… you'll have to catch me first.

The next ion bolt nearly did, and he started to curse himself for carelessness, then stopped. More important things to do now. He flipped the fighter onto its side as he turned it again, making a run on the scout ship's bridge. Not a suicide dive like the one that had destroyed Executor, though the irony therein tempted his suppressed morbid side. He just needed them to flinch. They did. The gunners' shots were panicked, wild; one of them hit a droid. At the last second, he pushed the Adversary into a dive, following the curvature of the gunship's hull, using it for cover. Once he was behind the ship, he turned, matched its speed, and settled in to making leisurely strafing runs of the engines, waiting for the eight remaining droids to catch on, if they weren't too occupied with Four. One of them winked out on the sensor boards, and Four followed suit shortly thereafter. He felt a twinge of remorse, a stupid emotion under the circumstances. Staying in the sights of three gunships was fine if you had a death wish. If the other pilot had followed him, he might still be alive. With the comm jammed, it was impossible to work out a plan between them. The remorse didn't go away, but it was a little distracted when a quartet of droids rounded the fuselage, closing in on four sides. Which is what he had counted on.

Piett cut engines and slammed on the braking thrusters, dropping back immediately so that the fighters were in his sights. One down… two down… he launched into another mynock-spin, trying to shake the remaining two before their friends showed up to join the party. They vectored after him, losing a little ground and a little accuracy… but not enough. They were already too close for tricks. Close enough that they'd practically fly up his exhaust vents if he slowed down suddenly. With that in mind, he focused all shields aft and hit the braking thrusters. There was an impact that felt like a massive hammer against his back, and then his fighter was spinning once again, this time truly out of control. Red lights glared on half the readouts, demanding his attention. Shields, out. Braking thrusters, out. Engines and maneuvering thrusters nearing critical. Diagnostics for weapons were out, so he had no way of knowing if they were still functioning. Solar panel circuitry jarred into misalignment, but that didn't matter, he was too far outsystem to rely on solar energy, and probably wouldn't live long enough to gather any respectable amount of energy anyway. Power relay system was out. Sensors were still working fine.

One of his pursuers was destroyed, exploded in the collision. The other was still intact, but not maneuvering. Three left. They had finally found him, and were nearing firing range. Behind them, the scoutships had turned their backs on the dogfight, preparing to make the jump to hyperspace. Mission completed, reconnaissance run finished. They obviously had no doubt that the engagement was as good as concluded already. Two vanished, but the third remained, no doubt waiting for the fighters to catch up. Piett fervently hoped they plotted direct courses into the nearest black hole, but that struck him as unlikely. He fought with the controls for some semblance of stable flight, and managed a near facsimile. The engines were close to giving out; he couldn't run. That left turning and hoping that his laser cannons still worked. For lack of a better plan, he did so, cutting his thrust to zero and executing a stationary, 180-degree turn, depressing the trigger constantly. To his relief, green fire streamed from two of the three cannon, tracking toward the approaching droids. Before his fire reached the right vector to score any hits, two disgustingly accurate bursts of answering laserfire blew the cannons apart, chewing solar panels and then engines to debris and brief flames. The lines of energy moved inwards, toward the cockpit, and Piett prepared to see his life punctuated with a brief and very final period writ in fire.

He was, from a certain point of view, disappointed. Four lances of emerald green struck the nearest droid, turning it to so much stardust, and then repeated the trick with the second droid. The third ceased fire and vectored back to the remaining gunship. Following the green laserfire at an unholy speed was an Interceptor. It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Piett had ever seen.

Continued... Part III: Warrior