From a distance, it was a beautiful sight. The verdant planet, green and blue sometimes occluded by soft white cloud-drifts, continued to spin peacefully on its axis, as though purposefully ignoring the fireshow overhead. High above those clouds, explosions burst constantly against the black backdrop of space. Most were brief, tiny flashes, but others were bright pyres that never seemed to burn out. In between the explosions was the constant strobing laser blasts, red and green and blue all coming together to create a constant riot of color over Tralus.
The contrast was really what made it beautiful. From the distance, you could see them both: the aloof living world, and the colossal battle in orbit, where thousands were dying every minute.
The conflagration over Tralus was the largest pitched battle since Endor fifteen months back. Nearly a hundred capital ships on either side- star destroyers, strike cruisers, carriers, frigates- were throwing themselves at one another without mercy.
Grand Admiral Octavian Grant hadn't been at Endor, and hadn't seen the titanic battle there, but like every soldier of the Empire he could rattle off the litany of everything they'd lost that awful day: the Emperor, Darth Vader, the Death Star and the Executor, Grand Admirals Teshik and Declaan, Admirals Strage and Piett, on and on.
He had no doubt that Endor was the single worst disaster the strike the Empire. He also had no doubt that the Battle of Tralus was the worst thing he'd personally seen after a quarter-century in the Empire's service. In some ways it was even more humiliating. At Endor they'd been laid low by Rebel tricks; here, at Tralus, Imperial slaughtered Imperial by the thousands. They had no one to blame but themselves.
Grant watched from the bridge of his star destroyer Oriflamme, safe and distant adjacent to the massive Center-point Station around which Tralus and its twin world, Talus, orbited. He tried, very hard, to focus on how beautiful the battle looked from afar, because it was the only way to keep from feeling sick to his stomach. Somehow, he'd never believed things could get this bad, even though he knew, in his heart, that he should have seen it coming.
The Empire had begun to crumble the day Palpatine died. For twenty-five years it had staffed its upper echelons with the most ruthless, power-hungry generals and admirals and moffs, all loyal to nothing but their own ambition. Grant knew that better than anyone; he was one of them and had been for as long as there'd been an Empire. Without Palpatine to hold them together they were falling on them-selves like rabid gundarks. Even now, his fellow Grand Admirals Pitta and Grunger, the famous white-uniformed elite of the Imperial Navy, were desperately trying to murder each other over Tralus.
And Grant was standing back, at a very safe and pretty distance, letting it happen.
A throat cleared behind him, timidly. Grant turned around to see Oriflamme's captain standing over his shoulder, staring at him, a question in his eyes but unwilling to speak. Captain Bremel had been jumped up to his position after Endor, when Oriflamme's old captain was in turn jumped up to admiral in a desperate attempt to fill the hole left by senior officers dying, deserting, or, worst of all, switching sides. When Grant had been Bremel's age there'd been no Empire; the Old Republic hadn't even had a formal navy.
"Grand Admiral," Bremel finally managed to say, "Are we going to hold position here?"
It was a question that had to be on the mind of the entire crew. Acting on orders from Coruscant, that bright capital of a crumbling empire, Grant had brought the biggest force he could muster, on orders to stop Grunger and Pitta from fighting and force them to submit to the orders of regent Ysanne Isard. Unfortunately, the biggest force he could get was still half the size of either Grunger or Pitta's fleets.
"We will hold for now," Grant told Bremel. "I want to see how much stomach they have for a real slugfest."
Bremel's eyes darted to the lightshow far beyond the bridge. "They've been going at it for five hours, sir. No signs of slowing down."
"I realize that."
"Sir… Would it be wise to at least announce our presence with a broadcast? We are trying to get them to stand down, aren't we?"
Doing that would open the possibility of Grunger and Pitta turning around and both charging at him, though more likely the two grand admirals would keep straining for each other's throats. Grant shook his head. "I want to give them more time to tire down. As you may have noticed, Captain, our fleet is underpowered."
"I know, sir. I was thinking, ah..."
"Ah what? Don't trail off, Captain. Speak your mind."
"Well, sir… There's a lot of good Imperials dying out there, sir. It seems terrible just to… stand back and watch."
"And you thought I wasn't aware of that? You think I don't feel as disgusted as you by all of this?"
Bremel's blue eyes blinked. "Ah, no sir! I was just saying, I, ah, well, it doesn't feel right."
"Nothing's been since Endor," Grant said, "Frankly, our best hope is for Grunger and Pitta to annihilate each other. Then we ride in and mop up the mess."
Bremel swallowed. "Do you think that… likely, sir? I mean, knowing them like you do?"
Grant turned back and looked out the viewport. They'd been grand admirals, all three of them, appointed to their rank by the Emperor two years before Yavin and given their lovely snow-white uniforms and gold-braided epaulets. Pitta had gotten his gold birds less because of his skill and more for his fanatic anti-alien beliefs, themselves an attempt to compensate for his mixed heritage. He'd set himself up as a military overlord of the Corellian System's five worlds, probably with the intent of exterminating all those sub-humans on Drall and Selonia.
As for Grunger, he'd proven himself since the Clone Wars, and now that Palpatine was gone his ambition had gotten the best of him. He'd assembled dozens of star destroyers and captains loyal to him with the intent of plowing through Pitta and seizing the Corellian system as a stepping-stone for an assault on Imperial Center.
And Octavian Grant, who'd stayed loyal to Isard mostly because he wasn't sure where else to run, was charged with stopping them.
Finally, so softly Bremel could barely hear, Grant said, "Likely, Captain? I'm rather expecting it."
-{}-
A barrage of concussion missiles lanced out at the two Victory-class star destroyers hovering over Aggressor's star-board flank. Fire blossomed on their shields but didn't die, not as Aggressor let loose volley after volley from dozens of turrets spanned along the aft portion of its nineteen-kilometer hull. Pitta's two destroyers, pathetically tiny compared to Grunger's flagship, lasted less than five minutes before their shields collapsed and missiles tore apart their hulls, spilling flame and wreckage and thousands of bodies into space.
Josef Grunger felt no satisfaction at the sight. When Pitta sent those two destroyers to attack Aggressor's bridge, he surely knew he was sending those men to their deaths. Like Grunger himself, Pitta was more than willing to throw away his men's lives as long as there was a halfway decent reason for it. Grunger, hands clasped behind his back, stalked over to the tactical section and scanned the display holo. Sure enough, Pitta was sending another destroyer, Imperial-class, plus two Loronar strike cruisers to attack Aggressor's aft.
"Recall the second fighter wing," Grunger barked to the tactical lieutenant. "Have the bombers make their runs. Tell Reprisal and Anaxes Dawn to help them."
"Yes, sir."
"Tell Walen and Trigit to head for Pitta's forward line. Engage but no not press through until we arrive."
"We're moving forward with the attack sir?"
"It's time to stop playing around." Grunger snarled. "We have the superior force. We're going to break through and crack open Pitta's command station like an egg."
"Yes, Grand Admiral."
It always felt good, hearing his title. He had more a right to it than that mongrel Pitta. When Palpatine had put those gold epaulets on his shoulders he'd felt like destiny was laying its hand on him, and he'd known, deep down, that it would be his fate to rule once Palpatine was gone.
Grunger turned away from the tactical station so he could see the battle again with his own eyes. Far ahead of Aggressor's bow, a line of blue ion engines glowed bright as some twenty destroyers pushed toward Pitta's main force in Tralus' mid orbit. Against the blue-green glow of the planet, Grunger could make out the spherical form of Pitta's torpedo sphere. Often likened to a miniature Death Star, a torpedo sphere was primarily a siege weapon; its many torpedo and missile batteries were mainly designed to fire into a planet's gravity well at stationary surface targets, or to bust open planetary shields. It was not designed to combat a fleet in space, especially not one the size of Grunger's. That Pitta would pick one of those to base his command from just showed how out of his depth the Etti half-breed was. Aggressor, the second ship of its class to roll off the yards after Vader's own Executor, could dispose of it in minutes.
Reports came in from the crew pits; the bomber squads were beginning their runs on the attacking ships. One strike cruiser crippled. The enemy destroyer was firing but Aggressor's aft shields absorbed it all; the deck didn't even shudder.
Pitta's torpedo sphere slowly started to grow up ahead. Grunger stalked over to the tactical station and looked over the holo again; Walen and Trigit were holding positions, ready to charge Pitta's forward destroyers on his order. He was shocked to see how thin Pitta's line was; it was almost like he was spreading his ships thin, so as to defend multiple sectors, even though Grunger had clearly concentrated his forces for a single thrust.
Pitta was a fool, but it was hard to believe he was that stupid. Grunger glared at the tactical lieutenant. "Are there any other ships in this system I should be aware of?"
"Sir, we've noticed another fleet hanging in the sensor shadow of Centerpoint station." The lieutenant jabbed a finger at the ancient space station's blue holo-marker on the edge of the battle zone.
Grunger frowned. "Imperial?"
"Yes, sir. We could about two dozen ships, mixed classes. They haven't moved."
A fleet sent by Isard, probably, to stop his plunge into the Core. Pathetic; Grunger had more than twice as many ships, even after the attrition of the past few hours. Isard was a schemer, a spy, a flimsy spineless woman. She had no idea how to fight a proper war. It was why she didn't deserve to be holding Coruscant. Once he was finished with Pitta, Grunger looked forward to showing Isard her place.
Still, it had apparently set Pitta on edge, which was good enough. Grunger said, "Ignore them. Order Walen and Trigit to put their forward shields on maximum. Tell all forward batteries to prepare to fire."
"Yes, sir!"
Grunger allowed a smile to come to his face and he looked back out the viewport at the glow of all those engines, and the dark sphere of Pitta's command station, just ready to be broken.
He felt like he'd been waiting his whole life for this.
-{}-
"Closer, closer..." Grand Admiral Pitta's hands balled to fists at his side as he watched the tactical holo. Anticipation was building inside him, desperate for release.
Everything had gone to plan so far; Grunger, arrogant as always, had brought his whole fleet into the Corellian sector. Pitta's force was smaller, but it didn't matter. After sending enough ships to harass Grunger's flagship, the other grand admiral was finally ready to face Pitta head-to-head. With that precious Aggressor of his, he probably thought he was invincible. Pitta looked forward to teaching him his lesson.
Pitta stalked across the command deck to the gunnery station. The torpedo sphere's weapons chief was pacing up and down behind the backs of his seated crew; he looked just as anxious as Pitta. The grand admiral allowed himself a smile and said, "When will Aggressor be in range?"
"At her rate of approach, ninety seconds," the chief returned his grin.
Pitta looked out the forward viewport. The space ahead was starting to light up with explosions as Grunger's forward line of star destroyers engaged Pitta's own. The captains Pitta had sent to the front had to have been wondering why they weren't better reinforced; a few had even dared complain to Pitta personally. But in the end, they'd held their faith in his white uniform and retained their positions. Now their ships were being torn to shreds by Grunger's fast-advancing fleet. They could never know it, but at least those crews were making a worthy sacrifice.
"Sir," the chief said, "Aggressor is in range now."
"Excellent." Pitta deep a deep breath and savored the anticipation, the moment. With every passing second, Grunger's flagship was being drawn deeper into a trap and the pompous fool didn't even know it.
Before giving the order, Pitta asked, "Are we still receiving telemetry?"
"Yes, sir. Still streaming."
"And the stream is being piped directly into our targeting computers?"
"Guns are ready, sir."
Pitta gave a tight, satisfied smile and allowed himself to think of all the times Grunger has slighted him, looked down on him as a fool and a fanatic and a subhuman mongrel.
Pitta stabbed a finger at Grunger's looming flagship and said, "All guns, fire!"
-{}-
It hung in space far outside Tralus' orbit, unnoticed by any of the three Imperial fleets. Its engines were dead, and only sporadic, tiny bursts from its directional repulsors kept it from drifting too far from the battle zone. Nearly invisible, the T-65r Recon X-wing floated in the vacuum with all sensor buoys extended and a single tight-beam transmission constantly feeding all gathered data out of the system to another relay satellite on the edge of the sector, which in turn transmitted to New Republic's mobile military headquarters on Home One.
Back on the flagship all this data was decrypted and converted near-instantaneously into a tactical hologram just as detailed and comprehensive as those used by Pitta and Grunger themselves. The assembled military, intelligence, and political officials didn't get to actually see Pitta's counter-attack with their eyes, but even on the tactical holo-display that hung over the center of their round table, it took everyone's breaths away.
Pitta's torpedo sphere opened all its cannons at once, firing into space. Its warheads, normally designed to strike ground-based targets and constructed for long distances and atmospheric resistance, shot through the vacuum toward Grunger's fleet. Many cut straight for Grunger's advanced line and impacted on those ships' forward shields. Many more arced high, then dropped suddenly and slammed down on the aft and dorsal sections of the destroyers. One barrage of over fifty torpedoes slipped past Aggressor's forward shield wall and impacted on the super star destroyer's unprotected mid-section, rupturing the giant's hull and crippling its main hangar bay.
Such an attack was normally impossible; a torpedo sphere simply didn't have the sensors or targeting computers to calculate such a complex attack. Pitta, however, had been lucky; an agent on Aggressor was feeding telemetry data and ship status updates for Grunger's entire fleet directly to his torpedo sphere's targeting computers. Every missile knew exactly how high to fly, and the most vulnerable place on every destroyer on which to drop.
Pitta knew it all because that agent on Aggressor was working for New Republic fleet intelligence.
When the barrage hit, the tension that had been holding the room in silence broke. Cheer and claps erupted. By the time Admiral Ackbar succeeded in quieting everyone down, a second torpedo barrage was tearing up Grunger's attack force even more.
They watched the rest of the fight in silence again, but the mood had definitely changed. There was still the held breathing, the eyes glued to the holo, the palpable tension, but it was different. Wedge Antilles felt it as much as anyone. They were no longer watching to see if their gamble would work; they were watching to see how well.
Wedge still didn't know who had come up with the idea. Military intel already knew that Grunger was going to plow his way through Corellia on his way to Coruscant; whether they'd inserted a spy onto Grunger's flagship or had recruited someone was beyond Wedge's grade. He was just a fighter jock, and felt mildly surprised to be included at this meeting. In the light of the tactical holo he could make out so many august faces, all tense and attentive: Mon Mothma herself, Leia Organa and Borsk Fey'lya from the Provisional Council, Ackbar and Burke from fleet command, Airen Cracken from NRI, Hiram Drayson from military intelli-gence, plus a dozen more senior officers and staffers. And, of course, the leader of Rogue Squadron, who'd apparently earned a place among them.
They watched the tactical holo as the battle went on. Pitta's torpedo sphere unleashed a third volley, taking out four more destroyers on Grunger's front line. The mammoth Aggressor itself wasn't turning back; on the contrary, despite taking heavy damage it held position, firing on the torpedo sphere even as Pitta called in more destroyers to attack Aggressor's flank. All the while that third Imperial fleet was just sitting at Centerpoint, like it was waiting for who-knew-what. The T-65r was too far away to get any identification scan on that fleet, but Wedge bet it was some of Isard's forces.
It still amazed him how brutally the Empire was tearing itself apart. After overthrowing Palpatine's initial successor, Sate Pestage, Ysanne Isard was acting like a self-appointed empress on Coruscant, though Grunger was intent on storming the Core and usurping her throne. Zsinj, Teradoc, and Kaine claimed huge swathes of the Outer Rim while others, like Krennel, Delvardus, Harrsk, Brill, and Drommel secured smaller fiefdoms.
For the New Republic, buoyed but not overconfident after Endor, the real trick had been deciding which of their many fractured enemies deserved the most attention. Most agreed that Isard and Coruscant were the main prize, but if the Imperial factions wanted to savage each other, they weren't above helping the slaughter along.
As he watched the display, Wedge felt torn. Every star destroyer that winked off the tactical holo meant one less blast that might one day kill him or his pilots. At the same time, it meant thousands of men dead, most of them confused pawns of one power-mad warlord or another. What was happening over Tralus was a tragedy; it was also the biggest victory for the New Republic in months, and they weren't even on the battlefield.
He heard a collective intake of breath, and his attention was pulled from his conscience and back to the holo. Even amidst the swarm of flashing lights marking all those battling ships, it was clear the Aggressor, Grand Admiral Grunger's colossal flagship, was on the move. It was charging forward at what looked like maximum speed, and Pitta's torpedo sphere was dead ahead.
-{}-
"What the devil is he doing?" Pitta snarled. Aggressor was still a far distance away, but the super star destroyer's flat black-and-grey wedge was looming to fill the viewport. Pitta spun on his crew chief and barked, "Sitrep! Now!"
The chief's grin was long since gone. His jaw worked soundlessly for a second before he said, "Sir, he's… He's charging. He's stopped his guns and put all power to forward shields!"
"Tell all ships to concentrate fire on Aggressor! And our guns! Are the guns reprimed?"
The chief swallowed. "Sir, we fired off four full time-on-target barrages with all canons. Our systems are still strain-ing to cool down the guns."
Pitta stabbed a finger at Aggressor. "I don't care! Fire everything! We have to stop him!"
Outside the viewport, the star destroyer began smashing through the tattered remains of Pitta's forward line. Destroyers had encircled Grunger's giant on its aft and flanks but Aggressor seemed determined to leave them all behind now. Pitta watched in awe and dread as one of his frigates, stuck in front of the charging destroyer like a flit-gnat before a landspeeder, burst into flames as it struck Aggressor's forward shields.
"Where are those guns?" Pitta snapped.
"Firing solution is… ready sir."
"Do it! Do it now!"
Suddenly the entire torpedo sphere shuddered. He could see the thrust-trails of hundreds of torpedoes as they arced over Aggressor before dropping down, creating a field of fiery geysers on the star destroyer's black superstructure.
And still, Grunger kept charging.
"Fire again!" Pitta shouted.
"We can't, sir! The chief said. "We're getting weapon malfunctions all over the board. Reports say batteries A12 through B8 just exploded from overheating, we're getting hull breaches, and-"
The entire command deck rock. Pitta grabbed hold of the nearest console to keep from tipping over. Grunger kept coming, his shields up, his guns dead.
Realization dawn on the chief's face. He said, "Sir, he's going to ram!"
"He wants to take everything from me," Pitta snarled. He raised his voice to a shout. "I won't let him do this! Josef you bastard! I won't let you do this! I won't let you win!"
-{}-
As his beautiful, broken flagship plunged toward Pitta's torpedo sphere, Grand Admiral Josef Grunger still couldn't believe he'd been outfought by a miserable Etti half-breed.
It would have been better if it was someone else, another grand admiral. Makati, maybe, or even Grant. He would have been all right with Teshik or Syn, he'd always respected them, but they were both dead. But Pitta, a pathetic mongrel promoted only for his racial fanaticism, itself just a sad attempt to hide his disgusting subhuman heritage…
Grunger stepped over the body of his former helm chief and casually dropped his sidearm next to the man's smoking head. The rest of the crew, scared into obedience, wouldn't dare deny him now, even as he commanded them to their deaths. The thought, briefly, occurred to him that he could order an evacuation so most of the crew could be saved, but there was no point in that. There was no point in any of it. They'd be nothing without him anyway.
He walked up to the viewport. The peaceful face of Tralus, white clouds over green continents, had filled the entire space, blocking out the stars. Pitta's torpedo sphere sat silhouetted against the backdrop like a black hole. Explosions were breaking out on its surface but he didn't see any escape pods or evacuation shuttles.
He smiled a bitter smile. He and Pitta, well, maybe they hadn't been so different after all.
Just a day ago he'd been so confident of victory he'd been able to imagine in his head, in perfect detail, his triumphal march on Imperial Center. He'd been able to picture the adoration on the faces of the capital's citizens, and the shocked, shamed look on Isard's as he hauled the pathetic woman off to be executed.
Well, her time would come. It was coming for all of them, one way or another.
Grand Admiral Grunger straightened his white uniform, clasped his hands behind his back, and watched as Aggressor's bow stabbed into the heart of Pitta's torpedo sphere. Flame burst from the point of impact and rushed to meet him.
-{}-
The bridge of the Oriflamme fell into awful, mournful silence. Even from this far distance they could see clearly, with the naked eye, as Aggressor collided with the torpedo sphere. The resulting explosion flared bright and seemed to flare forever, even though in truth it lasted less than a minute before dwindling out.
Grand Admiral Grant cleared his throat and said, "Captain Bremel, take us in and prepare an open channel from my personal link."
The young captain nodded dumbly and, with visible effort, tore his eyes off the viewport. He relayed quick orders to the helm, comm, and tactical stations. Grant, standing at the fore of the bridge for all the crew to see, carefully plucked the commlink from his breast pocket. His hand was shaking. He tried to steady it but could not. He'd been hoping, even expecting, for Grunger and Pitta to destroy each other, but he'd never thought he would witness that.
The deck shuddered slightly as Oriflamme kicked its engines to full power. The rest of the fleet would fall in behind. All crew were on red alert, but Grant didn't think it would be necessary. Already, the laserfire between the surviving ships was dying down.
In a calm and level voice, he asked, "Captain, are we ready?"
"Yes, sir. The line is open."
Grant brought the commlink to his lips and said, "All vessels, this is Grant Admiral Octavian Grant. As you can see, Grand Admirals Pitta and Grunger are dead. We stand ready to offer medical and technical assistance to all ships in need. We also stand ready to fight. I have been authorized by the true regent of the Galactic Empire, Ysanne Isard, to grant a general amnesty to all captains and crew willing to forswear their allegiance to either of the late Grand Admirals and acknowledge her command.
"My fleet will be within firing range of your vessels in approximately ten minutes. Our comm lines will be open and willing to accept any surrenders until then. Any vessels that have not recognized the Empire's rightful rulership in ten minutes will be fired upon.
"I look forward to hearing your replies."
Grant switched off the commlink and placed it back in his breast pocket. He took a deep breath, in and out, then turned to Captain Bremel.
He raised one eyebrow in a wordless question. The captain, standing over the comm station, leaned in close to his lieutenants. Grant waited patiently, back to Tralus and the approaching fleet, until Bremel said, "Fifteen ships have contacted us so far. All offer surrender and seven request assistance."
Pretty good for the first minute, Grant thought.
"Then we'll give it to them," he said. "After all, they are soldier of the Empire and they need our help, correct?"
"Yes, sir," Bremel nodded. He looked relieved.
Grant turned back to the viewport and watched the approaching planet, the broken ships, the scattered fleets. They were all soldiers of the Empire again; it felt good for a moment. Then he wondered how long it would really last.
