The secret of the Super Star Destroyer Executor's current mission, as it turned out, had been even more closely kept than Han Solo had believed.

Darth Vader, too, had been in the dark, until Grand Admiral Thrawn shared their purpose with the rest of the task force commanders.

And that was as unnerving, as maddening, as anything had been in the Sith Lord's life; a life that had begun at the bitter end of another, in fire, and pain, and hatred.

And betrayal.

Betrayal.

Sitting in his private meditation chambers, chambers from which he had once commanded this, his former flagship, Vader's gloved fists clenched tightly. His cloak was removed, leaving only his black tunic, his helmet, and his stewing anger. The power of the Force crackled around him like a dark aura. It was as much for the safety of the Star Destroyer's crew, as for his privacy, that this chamber was sealed off; if anyone had wandered in, he might have lashed out at them, seeking desperately to exert some semblance of control over surroundings that he felt more and more detached from.

Palpatine might as well have spat in my face.

Withholding such basic information from him— it was unprecedented, even in a student-master relationship founded on mutual distrust and ambitious schemes at the expense of the other. It was an insult, a wordless suggestion that not only was he a disappointment to be replaced, but unworthy of confidence, as well.

An insult, all the more insufferable after that fateful confrontation on the second Death Star, before the face of the galaxy had been irrevocably altered—

After the Emperor had tried to dispose of him.

Had tried to dispose of him through the hand of his own son.

Vader held up a hand trembling with suppressed rage and frustration and stared at it, tinted red, like everything else, through the eyes of his mask.

He'd been a slave to the dark side of the Force for decades now; he was no stranger to the cruelties beings were capable of. He'd committed countless cruelties of his own, recklessly abandoning all scruples because—well, what did he have left to lose?

Nothing.

Thanks, incidentally, to the Emperor.

But even with all of his darkness, the depths of the Emperor's soulless manipulations, and the ruthlessness of his quest for power, filled him with anger. There was no respect for the Sith Master in Vader's heart; there never had been, he realized. Only disgust, helpless and inactionable: because for all of his desire to be rid of Palpatine, he was the only person Vader had in a galaxy he'd forsaken and which had, in turn, forsaken him.

And that was what it all came down to, really, the bitterness, once-repressed, that had returned to fill his entire world after Endor. Palpatine had deliberately taken everything from Anakin Skywalker so that he would become Darth Vader. Everything. And now, as soon as Vader had something again—as soon as he discovered that his son lived, that some trace of his former self still existed, as soon as a faint and delicate hope had blossomed in a heart long given up on such things—Palpatine had tried to take that, too.

It was the last time Vader would play the fool.

There's a reckoning coming, Palpatine, the Dark Lord brooded, as he had hundreds of times over the last two years. I know you feel it, too. When I return to Coruscant, one of us must die.

And it will not be me.

He would capture the boy. He would capture Luke Skywalker, as his standing orders dictated, orders that had remained implicitly in place ever since the young Jedi had escaped their grip.

But it would not be Palpatine the boy learned to call master.

A sustained, muted buzzing sound interrupted his thoughts. Vader glanced impatiently at the speakers on his maw-like meditation pod. He knew that no one on the Executor could be blamed for his being kept in the dark—for them, it was a matter of following orders, and he would expect nothing less once he'd overthrown Palpatine—but in his current mood, such distinctions became hazy.

He reached out with the Force and flicked on the pod's intercom. "What is it?"

"Lord Vader," Thrawn's modulated voice replied. "We will be emerging from hyperspace shortly. We would be honored by your presence on the bridge."

Vader's lip curled. He wanted to dislike Thrawn, but the Chiss was making it difficult. Some of the more arrogant Moffs could have learned a thing or two from him about courtesy.

Without replying, he cut off the intercom and rose to his feet; a wave of his hand brought his cloak drifting to him from across the room. As it secured itself to his shoulders, he closed his eyes and reached out with the Force.

Yes, he could taste it in every molecule drifting in the air. This would be a day to remember.

Everything was about to change.

The door opened with a hiss, and Darth Vader swept into the corridor beyond, determined to have a shaping hand in that change.


The Executor's bridge was strangely quiet. Crewmen whispered information to each other rather than calling it out; several looked frightened to interface with their computers too freely, lest their movements ruin someone else's concentration. Even the stormtroopers standing guard at various entryways and vulnerable consoles looked somehow more nervous than usual, checking equipment more often than was possibly necessary, repeatedly tightening and loosening their grips on E-11 blaster rifles.

Han almost didn't get it. They'd fought Rebels plenty of times in the past, and while it would be useful to have a few insurgent leaders locked up for questioning, it was hardly worth getting so anxious about.

Then he remembered how precious few victories the Empire had enjoyed in recent memory, and he understood. Everyone was waiting with bated breath to see if this operation would join a long list of failures, or become a rejuvenating success that would boost morale for far more than the crews of the five Star Destroyers hurtling toward a nondescript asteroid field in the Outer Rim.

Dimly, Han became aware that he was pacing restlessly next to the command chair, which was positioned in the center of the bridge walkway and currently occupied by Grand Admiral Thrawn. The blue-skinned humanoid was a stark contrast from the visible tension displayed by everyone else. He looked completely relaxed, sitting perfectly upright, uniform impossibly devoid of wrinkles, hands clasped easily in front of his stomach, watching the mottled hyperspace sky racing past the viewport.

"One minute to realspace," a navigations officer called out, wincing a little as her voice cut into the silence.

"Acknowledged," Thrawn said lazily.

With some effort, Han managed to stop pacing, ending up on the right side of Thrawn's chair. "Rowdy bunch, huh?" he muttered, hoping to lighten the mood—his mood, mostly.

"They have been watching their homes destroyed and conquered for the better part of the last two years," Thrawn said quietly. "Now they feel as though they finally have a chance to make a difference, however minor it may end up being. We will give them their victory today, Captain Solo."

"Yeah," Han said simply, wanting to point out a million things that could crush everyone's hopes—the vagueness of Thrawn's intel source for this mission, for one thing—but keeping his mouth shut, knowing that the Chiss was more than aware. "Hope your plan doesn't disappoint."

"I do believe I'm insulted," Thrawn said mildly. "When have my plans ever disappointed?"

And that did brighten Han's mood, because as hard as he scoured his memory he could not remember any such instance.

A resonating metallic oomph-ah drew into hearing range, coming closer and closer until Han turned to see Darth Vader striding up the bridge toward them, black cloak billowing, gloved hands hooked behind his belt. Falling into long-remembered protocol, he stiffened to attention, clicked his heels together, and raised his chin toward the Dark Lord, who lifted a hand—either in acknowledgment or dismissal—even as Thrawn, picking up on Han's cue, swiveled the chair around to face him.

"My lord," the Grand Admiral said, rising from his chair respectfully even though Han was almost positive he didn't have to do anything of the sort; the relation of their ranks in the Empire was vague, but he thought he'd discerned that they were of at least equal status. Such a thing wouldn't matter to Thrawn, of course, one of the only true gentlemen Han had ever met.

"Admiral," Vader rumbled in return.

After a moment, it was clear no further pleasantries were forthcoming, and Thrawn lowered himself back into the seat, turning to face the viewport once more. Han risked easing his posture and turned in that direction, as well, while Vader took up position on the opposite side of the command chair. In the back of his mind, Han imagined their trio must have looked almost comical.

"Five seconds," the navigations officer declared.

Thrawn stirred, letting his hands rest near the control panels on either arm of the chair; Vader crossed his arms over his broad chest, the constant rate of his breathing giving no hint to his anxiety level.

Han gulped.

"Exiting hyperspace."

With the usual jarring abruptness, the hyperspace sky transitioned into the countless white pinpoints of stars in the black vacuum.

Stars, and a small asteroid field.

They were mostly small in size, pebbles in a cosmic scale, but there were several of the large asteroids that smugglers and insurgents of all kinds saw as prospective hideaways, sizeable and stable enough to build on. Han's gaze immediately honed in on one, only the size of the tip of his thumb at their current distance, clustered near the center.

"Sensor readings?" He asked, willing himself to keep his expectations low. If Thrawn's intelligence source had been wrong…if they'd come out here for nothing, as Trenton had darkly speculated they might…

"Scanning now, captain," an ensign in the crew pit called up.

"Lord Vader?" Thrawn murmured. "Do your extrasensory abilities have any information to offer?"

The Dark Lord didn't answer, and for a moment Han thought he'd taken the question the wrong way, as a challenge instead of an honest request. But then he noticed that Vader was moving his head slowly from side to side, as though observing some data chart Han couldn't see—and, if he was really using that Force hocus-pocus, that was probably an apt description.

"He's here," Vader said, his powerful voice almost sounding soft. He turned his mask toward Thrawn. "Luke Skywalker is here. The Rebel base is indeed within the asteroid field."

Han felt his heartbeat pick up.

"Sirs," the ensign from before hailed them, plainly excited. "Readings are detecting technology indicative of a level-four settlement on one of the asteroids. Sending coordinates to navigation."

"Well, what d'you know." Han's lips twisted into a lopsided grin. He practically floated, so light was his step, over to his own command station, slightly off to the side of where he'd stood before. Electricity seemed to flow through his limbs as adrenaline began to pump into his system.

"Captain Solo," Grand Admiral Thrawn said. "Is my flagship ready?"

It was the traditional question-and-answer exchange the Imperial academy taught all its students, one that most officers didn't bother with; but Thrawn was not 'most officers.' "The Executor is at your command, admiral," Han replied dutifully, giving his mentor a nod.

The Chiss's red eyes glittered. "Then let the hunt begin."


Invasion.

Laying on his bed, snared in troubled sleep, Luke Skywalker's brow wrinkled. There was something in his mind, something that didn't belong—a presence that was not quite foreign, and not quite welcome—

Luke.

His eyes snapped open.

Luke threw himself forward so that he was sitting upright in bed. A hand flew to rest on his forehead, and he shuddered. That feeling of invasion, of another mind intruding on his own—of being probed…he hadn't felt it since Vader—

The young Jedi's breath caught in his throat.

"Father," he whispered, and then he scrambled out of his bed, pulling on his shoes with one hand even as he ran towards the exit of his quarters, taking out his comlink with the other.

"Leia!" he called into it. A buzzing sound was his response—jammed. Luke swore in a way that was quite unlike him and picked up his pace, blasting into the corridor—

To find it even more chaotic and packed than usual. Except, instead of a thick mob of people meandering casually from one location to another, AOH-113's inhabitants were running helter-skelter in every direction, shouting vague warnings Luke couldn't pick up on over the mayhem, several of them hefting blasters.

If the invasion of his mind and the jamming of his comlink hadn't been evidence enough, the chaos of the corridors settled it.

They'd been found.

Knowing that his friends would more than likely be in the center of the action, Luke swiveled on his heel and started making his way toward the asteroid base's command room. So fixated was he on pushing past panicked aliens gibbering in languages he didn't understand that he almost didn't hear the voice calling his name.

"Luke! Luke, for Force's sake, would you slow down a second?"

It was Wedge Antilles, and in situations like this, Luke was always relieved to see him. Wedge was one of his oldest friends in the Alliance, a black-haired and plain-featured ace pilot around his age, and, as it happened, the leader of the resistance's most fabled starfighter force—Rogue Squadron.

"Wedge," he shouted back, not slowing down; that was okay, though, because Wedge was working his way in the opposite direction, toward him. "What's going on?"

"Star Destroyer just popped out of hyperspace in our backyard," Wedge replied grimly, finally reaching him. "Our old friend, the Executor."

Luke's blood chilled. The Executor was one of the most massive war vessels he'd ever seen, and its appearance almost always went hand-in-hand with Vader's. "Great. So what's the plan?"

"What do you think?" Wedge shot back, already starting to edge his way past him. "We're getting the hell out of here. I'm gonna take the Rogues out to distract them as much as we can while everyone else evacuates. You coming?"

Luke opened his mouth to say yes—Jedi or not, piloting was still his first love, and he ached to be out there fighting with the others—but responsibility stayed his tongue. "I'd better go see where Leia needs me," he replied. He reached out and gripped his friend's forearm. "May the Force be with you, Wedge."

The Rogue nodded at him and ran off down the hallway. Luke watched for a second, fighting off an upsurge of fear—Rogue Squadron was good, the best at what they did, but they were still only a few starfighters against a Super Star Destroyer.

No. They'd gotten out of situations worse than this before. He would trust in the Force, and do what he could to help.

With a skid of his heel, he kept running.


For a few minutes, the Executor had appeared undetected; it plowed into the asteroid field with all the confidence borne by the best deflector shields and armor plating the galaxy had to offer, its elongated wedge-shaped hull plunging toward the Rebel base like a knife through butter.

That, predictably, didn't last too long.

"Captain, Rebel ships heading this way," the sensor officer, somewhere amongst the controlled mayhem of a war vessel's bridge in combat, declared. "Looks like…three squadrons of starfighters and three corvettes."

Han frowned. It could have been worse, but it was a much smaller force than he would have expected protecting an installation with so many valuable persons allegedly within. Either they were wrong about the leadership being here, after all—a possibility he certainly wasn't going to mention, with Vader standing right there, having declared that the Jedi Skywalker was present in the system—or the Rebels were spread thin, too.

"Launch all TIE fighter squadrons," he ordered, moving to interface with his command console.

"Belay that order."

Han turned around and blinked at Thrawn. The Chiss was known for his unorthodox naval tactics, but launching fighter squadrons in a situation like this, to deflect attention from the Star Destroyer and engage the small, hard-to-hit enemy starfighters, was just common sense. "Admiral?"

"We needn't risk the lives of our pilots here, Captain," Thrawn explained, watching the distant specks that were enemy craft drawing closer. "The Executor is more than capable of sustaining the damage a task force of this size might inflict. Continuing to push toward their base and prompt evacuation is our only concern."

Han gave him a wounded expression. "You want me to just sit here and watch them pummel my ship?"

Thrawn cocked an eyebrow.

"I just put a new coat of paint on this thing," Han pressed.

"My apologies," the admiral said, deadpan.


The command center of AOH-113 was, if possible, even more hectic than the corridors leading to it. Luke winced reflexively as the hatchway hissed open to admit him, allowing a torrent of shouting, footsteps and computer sounds to bombard his ears.

It was, at least, easier to navigate than a cramped hallway. The room was laid out in a wide, three-layered oval, with the upper two layers housing dozens of crewing stations and the bottommost layer containing a conference table, a few more computers, and a large holographic tactical display. Spanning the entire far wall was a massive viewport looking out into the asteroid field—

And, presently, the ever-growing hulk of a Super Star Destroyer.

Luke dragged his eyes off of the menacing shape and peered around, looking for Leia. It didn't take long to spot her, exactly where he would have guessed she'd be: down on the bottommost layer, with Lando and the rest of the command staff, mostly clustered around the tactical display. He jogged down the steps, nearly bumping into a cluster of Sullustans arguing over a datapad.

He didn't even have to call out—Lando suddenly broke off from the others and headed in his direction, face set tensely.

"Lando," Luke said, panting lightly. "I tried to raise you guys on the comlink, but—"

"Jammed, yeah, I know," Lando cut him off, glancing out the viewport, where tiny flashes of light indicated that laserfire was beginning to be exchanged. "Spast. A Super Star Destroyer. They really pulled out all the stops on this one. Looks like Leia was right. The delays on moving out of here weren't just a coincidence."

"Sure looks that way," Luke said somberly. "But we can sort that out later. Right now, we've gotta get out of here."

"I'm gonna go warm up the Falcon," Lando told him, referring to the Millennium Falcon, the old saucer-shaped YT-1300 freighter that was his pride and joy—and which had provided more than a few harrowing escapes for all of them. "You'd better talk to the others. They're all so busy arguing over evacuation plans and rendezvous points that I couldn't get a word in edgewise."

"All right. Be careful," Luke said. Lando jogged past him, and he made his way over to the holographic tactical display.

He'd known they didn't have a whole lot of ships defending the base, but seeing it all laid out starkly on the display was jarring nonetheless. Their token force of a few fighter squadrons and three small Corellian corvettes looked positively meager in the face of a single Super Star Destroyer. Apparently the Imperials thought so, too, because the display indicated that it hadn't even opened fire yet on the Rebels nipping at their shields.

Leia was standing next to Admiral Ackbar. The Mon Calamari officer, dressed in the same white tunic that he always wore over his reddish, amphibian-looking skin, was the finest strategist in the Alliance. Luke hadn't seen much of him, even though they'd both been stationed on AOH-113 for some time now. The admiral looked markedly tired, indicated by his subtle but unusual pallor and the way his breathing appeared slightly labored.

Luke felt a pang of sympathy. Him and his friends sometimes felt like they never stopped for a break, but Ackbar had a whole lot more on his plate than they did, managing a massive theatre of war against enemies that vastly outnumbered them—not to mention the politics that were an unavoidable part of his position.

"…just don't have enough ships to carry everyone," Leia was telling the Mon Cal urgently. "We've had a steady influx of engineers and refugees, and since we weren't supposed to be here for so long we weren't prepared. We need to call for help."

"Help from whom, Princess?" Ackbar rasped wearily, resting his flipper-like hands heavily atop the tactical display. "We're not the only ones in need of ships. If we called for help, we'd just be leaving another target helpless." He exhaled, a sound like water being taken in through a straw. "I'm afraid we'll have to make do with what we have."

"Is there anything I can do?" Luke asked quietly.

Both Leia and Ackbar turned to him in surprise. Apparently, they'd been so engrossed in logistics that they hadn't noticed his arrival. "Luke," the former said, regaining her composure immediately. She looked around. "Where did Lando go?"

"He went to prep the Falcon."

Leia opened her mouth to say something—but whatever it was, Luke never found out. At that moment, a deafening crack filled the air, and the base shook as though rammed by some gargantuan interstellar creature; lights and displays flickered erratically, leaving the entire command room briefly in darkness. Shouts and startled cries marked the reaction of most.

As soon as the lights had stabilized, Luke glared toward the Super Star Destroyer outside. "They're not messing around." He grabbed Leia's hand. "Come on. We've gotta go."

"He is right, Princess," Ackbar said before she could launch into the inevitable complaint. "Go. We don't have long."

Figuring that had settled it, Luke turned and started to walk toward the stairs, hand still clutching Leia's; but she remained rooted in place. "Not without you, admiral," she said, her lips pursed in a way Luke had come to recognize as a surefire indication that she wouldn't be swayed.

Ackbar's bulging eyes widened even more than they already were. "I must stay here," he sputtered. "I am the military commander of this installation, and—"

"And the Alliance can't afford to lose you," Leia inserted, her voice now low and urgent. She cast a look at the rest of the command staff clustered around the display, who were watching the exchange silently. "That goes for all of you. We've lost far too much already. If you were captured here—or worse—the Alliance would be much worse off."

Ackbar worked his wide mouth several times, looking around at the others.

"If you all come with us on the Falcon, it'll save room for others on the evac ships," Luke piped up. "Every seat helps. But we have to go now."

Leia gave him a look of silent gratitude. Ackbar seemed to deflate. "Very well," he conceded. He gestured at the gathered staff. "We will accompany them to their ship. But first—" He turned around, to face a Bothan hunched over a computer station. "See to it that all of our data banks are purged, and order our fighting ships only to continue their delaying action until they are in danger of losing shields. Either when that happens, or when the last evacuation vessel has cleared the base, they are to immediately retreat to the rendezvous point."

The Bothan acknowledged. Ackbar gave one last, reluctant look around the command room, and then started in Luke's direction. "Lead the way, Jedi Skywalker."


"That shield isn't giving an inch, Rogue Leader," commented the voice of Rogue Seven.

"Keep firing," Wedge Antilles ordered, wondering even as he said it why the Super Star Destroyer wasn't firing back on them. For over ten minutes now, the Rebel ships—his Rogue Squadron, made up of himself and eleven other X-wing pilots, along with two other, more mixed-ship squadrons and the three Corellian corvettes that made up the bulk of their firepower—had been fixing sustained fire on the Executor, zipping and weaving all around it to avoid return volleys that were inexplicably absent; the only turbolaser blasts had been directed at the distant asteroid base. Combined with the fact that no TIE fighters had been launched, Wedge was starting to get a bad feeling.

And anytime a lack of return fire and enemy fighters was more troubling than their presence, something was very, very wrong.

Wedge glanced down at the displays on his X-wing's console. The Star Destroyer hadn't even been slowed down by their delay tactics; it was moving inexorably closer to AOH-113. At its current speed, it would be able to start launching troop shuttles in a few minutes—or worse, depending on whether they wanted prisoners or not.

"What's your game, big fella?" he muttered under his breath.

Suspicions or not, there wasn't much he could do except keep firing.

So he did.


Darth Vader's eyes were closed, but he could still see.

Luke.

He stretched his presence in the Force out all over the system, enough of a show to fill any Force-sensitive's awareness, even overwhelm it. That was good. It was what he wanted. His son needed to feel how powerful the dark side was, because for all of his seductive talk of redemption and light at Endor, they were far past that. The galaxy was a whole different place now, more brutal and savage—it was darker. They could only survive, they could only climb to the top, by being darker than anyone else.

Luke. Come to me, my son.

A vague sense of resistance responded to him from the direction of the asteroid base, along with the desperate longing that characterized Luke's Force impression toward him. Guilt crept into Vader's world for a fraction of a second—the boy wanted a father, wanted so badly to find the good in him, and here he was trying to lure him into plans of coup and conquest—but he quashed the feeling instantly.

There was no room for weakness. Not anymore.


"Are you ever going to fix this hunk of junk?" Leia snapped, directing her voice down the corridor from the Millennium Falcon's cockpit, where she, Luke, and Admiral Ackbar were seated in the navigation, co-pilot, and communication chairs, respectively.

"She is fixed," Lando's voice snapped back, followed immediately by a loud thud and a hissed curse.

"Are we certain this ship will make an adequate escape vessel?" Ackbar asked dubiously, his eyes taking in the cockpit's homely-looking console arrangements with the air of one investigating a derelict ruin.

"You've seen it in action," Luke reminded him. "It's the fastest ship in the Alliance."

"Perhaps," Ackbar allowed. "But watching it in action and being on board are two very different things."

Just as AOH-113 took another glancing hit, leaving the hangar lights winking on and off spastically and several pieces of delicate-looking machinery falling over to inglorious deaths, Lando bustled into the cockpit and settled into the pilot's seat. "Alright, Luke, we're ready to go—fire her up."

Luke obliged, moving his hands over the various buttons and switches that his station provided while Lando did the same on his end. They were rewarded by the Falcon's engines roaring to life. It was a sound Luke had learned to love, often meaning—as it did now—that they were about to get out of a tricky situation.

"This ship is going to give me an ulcer one day," Leia remarked as Lando chuckled in satisfaction.

"This ship is about to save our hides, again," Lando retorted sanctimoniously. He turned partly in his seat to wink at Ackbar. "Strap in, Admiral, you're in good hands."

"Force save us," the Mon Cal grumbled.

Lando pushed the acceleration lever forward, and the Millennium Falcon blasted into the starfield beyond the hangar, leaving AOH-113 behind forever.


A new reading caught Han's eye on his command station. "That's it," he told Thrawn. "The last life readings have left the base."

The Chiss nodded, eyes fixed somewhat dreamily on the Rebel starfighters darting like gnats around the Executor. "Their fighters will pull back momentarily," he said. "Once they've gone, leave three shuttles of troopers to secure the asteroid and mine for data."

"Got it." Han keyed in the order, and turned back to the viewport. Now they would see if Thrawn's plan worked.


An asteroid half the size of the Falcon glanced off its deflector shields, leaving the ship swaying momentarily and several startled exclamations sounding from the lounge area currently housing AOH-113's command staff, including a rather prissy complaint that could only have belonged to See-Threepio.

Lando let out a low whistle and laughed. "Forgot how much fun it is to fly through an asteroid field."

"'Fun isn't the word I would use, General Calrissian," Ackbar said stiffly.

Luke's console beeped urgently, and he leaned in close to read the data scrolling across it. "Uh oh," he said.

Leia peeked over his shoulder. "What does that mean?"

Luke was saved the trouble of answering by Lando's loud oath and the sensation of being pressed back into his seat as the gambler swerved the ship sharply into a new direction. "We got company!" he barked.

Beyond the viewport, blocking their exit from the asteroid field, was a Star Destroyer. One of the smaller builds—a Victory-class—but more than enough to handle a single YT-1300 freighter.

"What, a Super Star Destroyer wasn't enough?" Leia griped, her fingers deathly white as they clutched her chair arms.

"Of course not," Lando grunted, gunning the ship toward another possible exit vector. "Don't tell me you've forgotten how popular you are, they're trying to impress—sithspit!"

Luke grimaced, pushed back into his seat again as the Falcon plummeted straight down from its current heading to avoid flying into another Star Destroyer's tractor beam range.

"They're covering every escape route," Ackbar observed faintly.

"They can't do that," Leia said. "There's no way they can cover the entire asteroid field."

"Not perfectly, but effectively enough," Ackbar replied. "A single modern Star Destroyer has a wide tractor beam range. If a few are spaced out around the entire asteroid field—"

"Then they have a chance of catching us no matter where we go," Luke finished grimly. He looked at Lando. "We're gonna have to take our chances."

"Not so fast," Lando corrected, squinting at his console. "Look—the evac ships are all converging on that one vector."

Ackbar rose creakily to his feet to look at the display. "For good reason," he rasped, pointing. "That is the only route not covered by a Star Destroyer's tractor beam range."

"Not exactly subtle, is it?" Leia said.

"No," Ackbar agreed. "It has to be a trap."

"Maybe they just didn't bring enough ships to cover every point," Luke suggested hopefully. "So they covered the ones they thought we'd try."

"Doesn't matter what the reason is," Lando bit out, grimacing as another asteroid jolted the ship. "I'll take my chances with the unknown instead of flying straight into a Star Destroyer."

No one could argue with that logic. Luke closed his eyes, reaching out with the Force, trying to detect any warnings that they were about to fly into a trap, as Ackbar and Leia suspected.

There was, indeed, a feeling of a trap being sprung all around them.

The problem was, he got the distinct impression that they were already caught.


Wedge Antilles shook his head, juking his X-wing to the side to swerve around a cluster of the asteroid field's cosmic rubble. It was obvious the evac ships dead ahead were being shepherded by the Imperials—and they were going willingly right into whatever trap was set up for them.

Still, as long as Rogue Squadron was around, he wasn't ready to give the Empire this victory just yet. He shot a tight smile out his cockpit in the direction of one of the eleven X-wings flying all around him. The rest of the Rebel ships had, of course, followed Ackbar's retreat order and slipped past the Executor—conspicuously unharmed—to jump into hyperspace minutes ago; but Rogue Squadron had earned its name for a reason.

His helmet's comlink sent a burst of static into his ears for a moment, followed by the faint pickup of someone speaking through jamming. "Rogue Leader, this is Colonel Vikari on evacuation vessel RH-3566. Your orders were to retreat. Do you copy?"

"I copy, Colonel," Wedge assured him lightly. "But we figured you guys could use some help. Judging from the Star Destroyers surrounding the asteroid field, I'd say that we were right."

There was silence from the other end, and then what sounded like a wry chuckle. "You Rogues are more trouble than you're worth sometimes," the Colonel said. "You won't hear any complaints from me, Antilles. Thanks for the escort."

"Don't mention it." Wedge flicked off the comlink with a motion of his chin, and settled more comfortably into his starfighter's cockpit, tightening his grip on the steering controls. Whatever the Imperials had in mind, Rogue Squadron wouldn't let them get away with it too easily.


The Millennium Falcon quickly zipped ahead of the slower Alliance evac ships, and set to the task of maneuvering around the asteroids that marked the fringe of the field.

"I'm not picking anything up in this direction," Lando said slowly, peering at his readouts. "I dunno, Admiral, I think the Imperials might have made a slip-up. Maybe having a Super Star Destroyer went to their heads on this one."

"That is the Executor," Ackbar reminded him heavily. "If it is not Darth Vader in command, it is someone else of high placement. Do not underestimate them."

"Do you sense anything, Luke?" Leia asked quietly, leaning over the back of the Jedi's chair.

He shook his head hesitantly. "It's hard to say," he said. "Lately, it's been hard to pick out one dark patch in the Force from the—"

"We're clear," Lando whooped. Beyond the cockpit, the last asteroids fell behind them, leaving only clear space. A wide smile on his face, the gambler flexed his fingers and reached for the hyperdrive controls. "Strap in, boys and girls, we're about to ditch this party."

And that was when, out of nothingness, an Imperial-II class Star Destroyer appeared directly in front of them, its silver-white hull filling the viewport.

"What the—?" Lando gaped, fumbling at his controls. Luke was already on it, his reflexes honed by the Force, moving to maneuver the Falcon out of the Destroyer's range—

But it was too late.

"We're caught," he said tightly, jabbing in frustration at his console. "Tractor beam lock."

"I don't believe it," Lando said, sounding simultaneously awed and outraged. "Where did that thing come from? I didn't get any readings!"

"I don't suppose you did," Admiral Ackbar remarked, a foreboding tone of resignation in his voice. "Because the Empire has apparently obtained a cloaking device."

"A cloaking device?" Lando echoed incredulously. "That's impossible. The tech has always been too bulky and expensive."

"Let's debate this later," Leia interrupted them curtly, hovering between a sitting and standing position. "Come on—you've made so many modifications to this ship, surely you have something to get out of a tractor beam…"

The words died on her lips. Luke hadn't heard the last few words, anyway; he'd been too busy watching with something like disbelief as the other Star Destroyers, all four of them, moved neatly into encirclement postures around them and the helpless evac ships.

For years, they'd evaded Imperial fleets, dodged their way out of seemingly impossible situations, defeated forces much larger than their own—

But for the first time since he'd been brought aboard the second Death Star and taken before the Emperor, Luke Skywalker could not see any hope of escape.


His X-wing jerked to a halt so suddenly that Wedge's entire body slammed, hard, against his seat's straps. Blinking blurriness from his eyes, he toyed with his steering controls, with casual delicacy at first and then with increasing agitation. "What happened?" He barked.

"Tractor beam, Rogue Leader," one of his wingmates told him, sounding breathless. "That Star Destroyer, the one that came out of nowhere—must have been waiting to snare us—"

Wedge glared balefully at the hulking Imperial behemoth that filled the world beyond his cockpit. A spasting cloaking device? Since when did the Empire have anything like that up its sleeve?

He shook his head stubbornly. No, there was no way they were trapped, not now—not after they'd escaped so many situations like this one. It just didn't seem possible.

But luck, as Lando Calrissian was fond of telling him during games of sabacc, always ran out eventually.

"Blast it, Calrissian," Wedge muttered. "I hate it when you're right."


Han let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his entire body slumping in relief, and let himself bask in the uncharacteristic expressions of celebration being passed all around the Executor's command bridge.

It was a sight he very nearly couldn't believe. The entire Rebel force, trapped in the Chimaera's enhanced interdiction beam, hovering helplessly in space, surrounded by Star Destroyers—and ripe for the picking.

It was the sight of a successful operation after an endless string of failures.

He turned to look at Thrawn. The Chiss was wearing his characteristically faint smile as he activated his chair's intercom system and spoke into it. "Well done," he said, and then flicked it off. It was as close as the crew of an Imperial vessel was prone to get to a head pat, and it would only enhance the heightened morale of everyone aboard.

Pride blossomed in Han Solo's chest, for the first time in far too long. There had been moments when the Empire he served appalled him, when he had gone so far as to consider deserting; but on a day like this, under the command of the Grand Admiral whose mentorship, and whose potential as a leader, was the only reason he stuck around, he could envision a day where the Galactic Empire inspired respect instead of fear and loathing.

Thrawn appeared to notice he was staring, and looked back at him with eyebrows politely raised.

Han shot him a smirk. "Figured out what you're gonna say in all your HoloNet interviews after this?"

Thrawn rose to his feet and walked over to the very end of the bridge walkway, so that his face was a mere foot away from the viewport. "There will be no time for HoloNet interviews, Captain," he said, and when he turned his face to look at Han, his eyes appeared to be glittering more brightly than usual. "We have a war to turn around."

Then, without warning, the bridge was flooded with flashing red light and the sound of klaxons, and a moment later an ensign's shrill words cut through a bridge that was suddenly otherwise deathly silent.

"Admiral! Incoming ship—no, ships—sir, incoming fleet!"

Thrawn's smile was gone. "Rebels?" His brow wrinkled. "That's impossible."

"No, sir." In the pulsing red light of the proximity alarms, the ensign's face appeared the very visage of ill tidings, an effect enhanced by the animal fear in his eyes.

"It's the Yuuzhan Vong."