Chapter Twenty Eight

"Someone's coming," Jacen said cautiously, his senses acutely scanning the area ahead. Behind him, Truul and a squad of five rebel soldiers moved quickly through the deserted halls, their blasters at the ready. They had already lost a man to an imperial patrol during the short trek towards from the bridge, and Truul wasn't about to risk anymore of his men. The Major motioned to his troops with his left with his gun hand, his right still hanging limply in a sling. The rebels understood the order and slipped quickly into side door s that lined the hall. Jacen and Truul moved into a side passageway and hunkered close to the wall, eyes fixed in the location that the jedi had indicated.

After only a few moments several figures, followed by several more turned a corner and moved quickly down the hallway towards the rebel position. The failing power systems, weakened even more by the charges the imperials were detonating all over the ship, had begun to short out light fixtures, and thus the approaching beings were bathed in darkness, appearing only as ghostly outlines. Truul tightened the grip on his blaster pistol and Jacen's thumb hovered near his lightsaber's activation panel. Even with his enhanced senses, the jedi could not determine the identity or intent of the incoming group, but the increased stormtrooper activity in the last few minutes gave him cause for concern.

"Can you make any of them out?" Truul whispered anxiously. Jacen shook his head, his eyes straining against the darkness. Then one of the lead figures approached close enough to catch some of the light that was still generated at the other end of the hallway. There was a gleam of white plastoid. Jacen threw his arm across the Major's chest and pushed him further into the shadows. "Stormtroopers, a lot of them," he breathed through clenched teeth. Truul nodded and moved his hand to sight his blaster into the hallway beyond. The first of the beings started to pass the opening, still vague, distorted silhouettes. Jacen spotted a likely target, one lacking the noticeable body armor of a stormtrooper, perhaps an officer, and leapt forward, grabbing its neck. His lightsaber burst to life and settled under the man's chin, casting an eerie light over the corridor. "All of you halt!" he ordered. "Throw down your weapons or he…" Jacen trailed off as his eyes adjusted to the light. Half of the stormtroopers around him weren't wearing their helmets and appeared to be unarmed, and the other half weren't stormtroopers at all.

Almost as soon as he had seized the suspected officer, two blaster muzzles were thrust into his face, both held by people he knew quite well. "Jacen?" one of them asked, a woman. Startled, the jedi looked over at his captive, whose throat was a centimeter away from a green blade of energy. Immediately, Jacen disengaged the blade and replaced it on his belt, adrenaline quickly being replaced by embarrassment. "Sorry captain," he said, blushing slightly. Picard regained his balance, and straightened his uniform. "No harm done, Mr. Solo, just try to pick your target more carefully next time."

Someone activated a glow lamp and the hallway was illuminated by a yellow glow. The Captain, Master Chief, and security officer Jossa all stood around him, each with an evidently commandeered blaster rifle in their hands. Behind them, the Klingon Lt. Worf, Tassadar, and ten rebel officers stood, some supported by partially unarmored stormtroopers. The imperials all shared resentful, furious expressions, although they cast nervous glances towards the towering reptilian and the weapons in the hands of those Alliance personnel who could walk unsupported. "What's going on here?" Truul asked gruffly as he emerged from the shadows, still hefting his blaster. One of the rebel officers, Lieutenant Dahrk, stepped into the glow lamp's sphere of light and responded. "Major, what are you doing here? Didn't you hear the evacuation order?" Truul shook his head. "No sir, we must have been in comm blackout area. Me and my men, and Jacen here were going to support the bridge guard. Got a little tied up with a stormtrooper patrol a few decks down." The lieutenant nodded. "The bridge has been evacuated, and we were making for the primary flight deck. All personnel are to abandon ship immediately, Admiral's orders."

Truul glanced around the gathering, his eyes lingering on the disarmed imperial soldiers. Whatever had happened up there, he sure as hell was going to get the details out of someone when this was over. "Where is the Admiral?" he asked, noting the Mon Cal's absence. Dahrk shook his head wearily. "He had to remain on the bridge, he was badly wounded. We were…" The lieutenant was cut off by an explosion nearby that shook the deck plate. Very nearby. "I believe it would be prudent to discuss this later," Lt. Worf said, swaying as he forced his stun-numbed legs to stand on their own. There was no argument.

The primary landing bay was a hive of frantic activity. Rebel personnel and droids of all ranks ran too and fro, load essential supplies and passengers into crammed transports. Others guarded the entry ways as aliens and humans in various states of hopelessness and injury, fleeing the scattered stormtrooper commando units and large sections of the ship that were being depressurized by imperial sabotage. Across the ship, Crix Madine and General Rieekan had retaken one of the other docking bays, as well as a large block of escape pods. The imperial resistance was scattered and weak; evidently they were retreating as well. The battered Home One was dying, and both sides were determined not to go down with her. Beyond the atmospheric shields that covered the launch opening, the Redemption was in view, its docking tubes ready to receive fleeing vessels. On the flagship's other side, the Republica also waited, the only hope for beings force to flee aboard life pods.

The trio of ships, along with a small collection of depleted fighter squadrons and a handful of freighters had formed together, and under the direction of the Admiral's final transmission, had begun to blast forward, heading for a position just over the Executor's bow. Close behind them, the rest of the imperial fleet was in pursuit, its Star Destroyers in full firing range. However, although the fleet was a perfect target for all of the imperial warships, they had eased their attack, confident in their victory and under orders to give the boarding parties time to evacuate. The captains of the remaining Alliance ships were taking advantage of the lull, and were dumping every spare joule of power into their engines, and the foremost of the fighters were already diving between volleys from the Executor's point-defense turbolasers.

"Was the mission successful Captain?" Riker asked, stooping on the shuttle Jailbird's loading ramp as Picard and the others ran across the landing deck towards the waiting ship. Jean-Luc glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of Lieutenant Dahrk as he lead the remaining bridge crew, Truul's squad, and a group of very dejected stormtroopers into one of the few remaining shuttles. "The Admiral was mortally wounded by an imperial incursion," he replied, pausing alongside his first officer as Jacen, the Chief, and Aleen Jossa helped the still weakened Tassadar up into the ship's mouth. "We had to leave him on the ship's bridge when the rest of the crew was evacuated, but I believe he has a surprise or two left for them before he goes." Riker nodded and moved to the side as Worf and Truul, who insisted on breaking off from the command crew and piloting "his ship" out, made their way towards the cockpit. When he was sure everyone was onboard, Picard paced up the ramp. "Were you able to make it here without incident?" he asked as Riker retracted the slanted platform behind him. When the ship was sealed, the first officer sighed and shook his head. "We ran into a boarding team on the way down." Riker paused, glancing into the crowded crew cabin. "Dr. Crusher didn't make it."

The Captain looked silently at Riker for a long moment, the mild expression he had been wearing on his face previous to the news now a mask. He shook his head slightly; the fighting must have gotten to him. "I'm sorry Number One, I don't believe I heard you correctly," he said. Riker placed his hand on the Captain's shoulder. The Captain and Dr. Crusher were quite close; such an unexpected loss would be hard to take. "The Arbiter saved the rest of us, but… I'm sorry Jean-Luc, she's gone." Involuntarily, Picard placed a hand onto his face and began to pensively rub it, his mind unable to accept the information. A blaster bolt must have struck too close, he thought, his ears were deceiving him. He pulled the hand down and was about to ask the suspect question again when his eyes wandered into the chamber beyond.

There, given a wide berth by the somber passengers, a slender body lay on a flight bench, its arms crossed at the chest. As if in a dream, Picard drifted away from Riker and moved too the body, his steps shaky and uneven. It was a woman, her eyes shut and red hair draped beneath her head. Before the face before him had even fully registered, Picard dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face. It was Dr. Crusher; his ears had not deceived him. "Beverly," he breathed, taking a cold hand into his own. Deep within him, a floodgate of emotions long years of training and an inherent fear of personal weakness had kept at bay broke down, and he wept. This woman, friend and confidant, and perhaps even something more, was dead, and it struck him at a far deeper and more personal level than anything ever had, even the loss of his ship and its crew. This almost irrational feeling of loss swept him up, and a new feeling poured into his mind, one he had not felt for years. He hated the Empire. Hated it as much as the Borg, and even more. The anger and despair that had built within him ever since the Columbus had attacked, since the Enterprise had been destroyed, since his crew had been captured, erupted forth and latched onto the singular thought. He was going to make the Empire, and all who served it pay, somehow, some way.

As he stared into Beverly Crusher's pale face, these thoughts slowly faded into the recesses of his brain. The rational parts of his mind tried to expel the dark thoughts, but they remained, far removed and hidden, but there nonetheless. Revenge could wait, but it would not abide unfulfilled forever. But for now, Picard drained of purpose and alone, left only with his tears. He did not resist as Deanna Troi laid an arm around his shoulders and helped him up into a seat. For that moment, he had the strength for nothing else.

The Jailbird shot out of the Home One's hold, right on the tails of the last fleeing transports. Truul maneuvered the shuttle away from the rebel command ship, falling into place with the fighter screen that surrounded the Redemption. "It looks like she took a lot of damage," Riker commented from the copilot's seat, gazing at the scores of blast marks that now adorned the frigate's hull. Truul adjusted their flight telemetry to bring up position to the ship's aft. "It'll make it out of here, made it this far," Truul replied. "Unless, of course, the Admiral can't deliver on his promise." The Major's concerns were not without reason, the Executor loomed directly ahead, emerald turbolaser streams gaining in intensity as the fleet grew closer. They were committed to the escape path, and if Ackbar couldn't pull one last trick out of his sleeve, none of them were going to leave the deathtrap. "I'm picking up signals coming in from behind, imperial fighters," Riker said monitoring the tactical display. Truul gritted his teeth and powered up the shuttle's minimal armament as fighters clustered around them broke off to waylay the new wave of Ties. The Executor, now filling the viewscreen, unleashed new torrents of fire upon the fleeing rebels, and the nearby frigate began to list under the withering barrage. "If he's gonna do it, he'd better do it fast," Truul muttered.

Admiral Piett stood on the bridge of the imperial flagship, a look of mild frustration on his face. The losses during the boarding action had been considerable, more than two hundred soldiers lost on approach and nearly a hundred more in the bowels of the Mon Calamari vessel, not to mention the dozens of Tie fighters destroyed while defending the boarding craft. If he had been allowed to proceed as he saw fit, the rebel fleet would be nothing more than flaming wreckage by now, instead of the force that was once again threatening to break the fleet's trap. Still, an order from Lord Vader could not be refused, and Piett had been forced to launch slow, costly strikes against the other rebel vessels, careful to avoid the Home One, even as his targets used it for cover. Even with a full battle group of destroyers at his command, the rebel's were able to launch a stalling resistance.

From a communications terminal, an officer called for him. Piett paced over quickly, eager to divert his gaze from the miserable spectacle outside. "Yes," he asked curtly. The young commander at the turned to him and saluted. "Sir, a transmission from Lord Vader's starfighter. He says you may fire at will, the Home One is no longer off limits." The glimmer of a smile crossed Piett's lips and he relaxed slightly. The boarding teams evidently had failed, but at least the battle could be ended swiftly now, without the protection of the rebel flagship, the remaining combatants could not withstand the Executor's full firepower, especially not at close range.

"Turbolaser grids A through D focus firepower on the Home One. Divert all our available Tie squadrons, as well as those from the main fleet to engage the remaining rebel support craft. Allow none to escape." Piett belted out orders, now in his element. As crewers rushed to comply, the imperial Admiral paced calmly back to the main viewport bank, boots clacking against polished deck plate. The colossal bulk of the Executor stretched out before him, the three rebel cruisers insignificant specks of to the port bow. These ships, the largest of which was only a quarter the length of his vessel, were quickly obscured as thousands of weapons platforms across the Super Star Destroyer's hull unleashed an unimaginable wave of energy against them. Piett would not have to face failure this day, he would not meet Vader's wrath again.

The rebel starships, enhanced and enlarged on his viewscreens by advanced imagining systems built into the transparisteel, shrugged off the first barrage and returned fire, but at only a few hundred kilometers and closing, they would not survive many more firestorms. Piett wondered what they could possibly be planning; attempting to escape by bypassing the imperial flagship was a fool's errand. At the angle they were coming at, the Executor's guns would tear every ship apart before they even passed the bridge tower. However, the ships kept on coming, staying just outside of the Star Destroyer fleet's heavy guns, harassed by Tie fighters and shaken by unending volleys from the Executor. The remaining Alliance light cruiser his sensor officers had identified as the Republica began to move off the Home One's inner flank, slowly dropping under and then behind it. Piett raised an eyebrow. They were still using the flagship for cover even though it was no longer under Vader's protection, why? Piett considered and then cast the worry aside; the rebel command ship would be nothing more than atomized wreckage in moments any ways. "Keep focused on the rebel flagship. When it falls, the others will be without resources. They will fall."

As they raced forward, the remnants of the rebel fleet moved closer and closer, the Home One and its shield absorbing volley after volley for its companion ships. Mon Calamari shipbuilders were renowned for the toughness and durability of their vessels, but no ship could withstand the full firepower of the Executor for long. "Sir, the rebel command ship is altering its orientation," an officer called from a sensor post across the crew pit. "It's tipping of its central axis." Piett walked briskly to a display and looked on as a tech brought up a detailed view of the craft. It was indeed altering orientation, its closer side turning down towards the Executor's hull, its surface beginning to flame as turbolasers worked their way through failing shields. Odd, the Admiral thought, by turning in such a way, it was both exposing a flank that was already heavily damaged and also throwing off targeting fields for the cruiser's few remaining guns. It was possible that the damage had caused a loss of attitude control, perhaps even a gravity failure, and the imperial ship's sensors were picking up hull stresses indicative of such failures. Even so, the starship was very close, less than one hundred kilometers away, and the rebels were known for unconventional tactics when in dire straits such as this, even suicide maneuvers.

At almost three klicks long, the Home One would cause significant damage if it impacted, but such a possibility was highly unlikely. Capital ships of any make were not known for their maneuverability, and at the parallel angle the enemy craft was at, any such turn would tear the engine block right off of the ship. All the same, Piett didn't want to take any chances. "Target the thruster and engine clusters, alert me if there's any attempt to maneuver any closer to us," he said, pacing back to the viewing deck. Beyond the windows, a squadron of Tie Interceptors hurtled past, moving to join the fray that was now just off and above the port bow, illuminated by crisscrossing flashing flecks of red, green, and blue light. Tiny fightercraft harried each other over the smoking and damaged hulls of the rebel cruisers, intermittent bursts of yellow, memorials for fighter pilots caught in the path of the colorful streams. And still more ships entered into the desperate fight.

"Admiral," a lieutenant called again. "The Home One is launching escape pods. The Republica is moving to collect them." Piett frowned, still gazing out at the light display. Despite it's heavy damage, the Alliance flagship was still the most heavily armored and powerful ship in their fleet, why would it be evacuating? Had they taken more damage than his analysts suspected? He looked at the image of the capital ship closely, picking over its exposed side. Aside from the swarm of escape pods streaming away from it to be picked up by the tractor beams of the other Mon Cal ship or be vaporized by turbolaser volleys and agile Tie fighters, the facing side of the ship was silent, blackened and scarred. Almost every weapons emplacement had been blown away and even the docking bays were collapsed and breached, but as a virtue of the alien engineering, the engines and shields were still online, although every turbolaser blew away another generator or thruster bulge.

Another concentrated burst from his heavy weapons tore through the Home One's shields and struck the primary hyperdrive cluster. As the shockwave of the blast spread through the starship, other drive tubes went dead, and the rebel flagship began to slow, now carried only by its inertia. Piett smiled, the trap was complete. The Home One was now incapable of escape, and without her support, so were the remaining ships. A commander approached him from behind and offered a respectful salute. "Admiral, the rebel command ship has lost all drive systems and main power. Their inertial dampeners and life support systems are failing." Piett looked out at the waning battle a moment more and then turned to his subordinate, an air of victory about him. "Excellent. As soon as the…" A commotion from down in the crew pit diverted his attention before the latest order could be delivered. A man at one of the sensor adjunct posts was tapping his controls, confused. "What do you have to report," the lieutenant next to Piett asked, looking down on the man from his elevation. The crewer looked up at his superior, nervously adjusting the comm earpiece on his head. "I'm not entirely sure sir," he said. "There are unusual power fluctuations on the Home One's far side." He looked over his displays again. "Docking bay and loading port areas."

The information filtered into Piett's brain and his years of command training and naval simulations disassembled and applied it to the situation outside. Then it clicked, made perfect sense. Unfortunately, it clicked too late. Before he could belt out another order, Piett's eye's caught sight of the viewport, now plainly visible, almost directly parallel to the towering bridge of the Executor. Then, as he watched, the Mon Cal ship shot to the side towards his ship, as if pushed by an invisible hand. "Explosive depressurization!" some on shouted. "All over the far side, all bays!" The rebel ship hurtled through the emptiness of space, sending startled fighter squadrons scrambling out of its way. Armor plate and communication outcroppings peeled away as the tubular vessel contorted under the strain of the sudden change in course. All over the imperial command ship, turbolasers furiously pounded the ship, but it was too massive, the blasts blew molten holes in its metal skin, but could not alter its course.

As his crew worked frantically behind him, Piett watch in horrible fascination as the massive projectile grew closer. The move had been brilliant, unexpected, and in an instant, it had turned the tide. For even without looking at one of the computer displays which now displayed course projections and damage estimates, he knew the impact would be fatal. There was no way to maneuver the Executor away in time. As Admiral Piett watched the flaming rebel ship slam into his ship's perimeter shields and plunge through, a small consolation passed into his mind. At least he wouldn't have to greet Lord Vader with failure, and given a choice between that and the superheated structural pylon plummeting towards his bridge, he would choose the latter.

From the small cockpit of the Millennium Falcon, Han Solo watched as the remnants of the Home One rend smoking chasms across the Executor's hull. As its bridge tower spouted flame, the former smuggler sent a respectful salute to the brave Mon Calamari who had just blazed them a path. In the seat beside him, the Wookiee Chewbacca let out a low growl, sharing in Han's gesture. Behind them, Leia Organa leaned on Han's chair watching the imperial command ship list heavily to one side, clearing a new path for the now tiny rebel force. "Thank you Admiral," she mumbled under her breath. The three of them observed the spectacle for a moment more before a Tie fighter streaked over the viewscreen, harassing the two remaining star cruisers as they rocketed out system, eager to escape the gravity field of the disabled Executor and the distant interdictor ships. Han flipped on the comm. "Wedge, you still hanging on up here?" After a moment, a voice heavily distorted by static replied. "Thanks to the Admiral. What's up?"

"Some of those fighters are still on the Redemption," Han said, pulling himself alongside a pair of B-Wings. "Can you keep them off until the fleet can jump out of this hell hole?" Wedge's X-Wing and several wingmen hurtled past from below. "On it general, they won't know what hit 'em." Han nodded, and flipped of the comm line. To the side, Chewie garbled something, indicating at a new group of signals on the freighter's heads up display. "Yeah, I see 'em," Han said, and then turned back to Leia. "There are a couple squads of Tie's coming from that command ship, harassing some of the stragglers. If you don't mind risking your nails highness, I wouldn't mind having you back down in one of those guns." Leia snorted a small laugh, recognizing his playful tone. "Well, I suppose Threepio wouldn't mind too much if I took over for awhile." Han turned sharply in his seat, a horrified expression on his face. "You let Goldenrod in the Falcon's guns?" Leia laughed again, and detached herself from the back of Han's chair. "Cool it flyboy, I don't think he would get behind one of those things if you bolted him there, she said grinning mischievously. Han turned back to his controls, his face slightly flushed. "Oh, right."

Leia slid out of the small chamber and made for the bottom-mounted quad laser cannons, and Han jinxed his ship into a roll, swinging back away from the main fleet. Chewbacca shifted through sensor readings and brought up their target, a Lambda-class imperial shuttle was twisting in-between rivers of green fire produced by a trio of pursuing Tie's. The small ships easily dodged the transports slow gun emplacements and continued their attack, tracing deadly lines across its shields. "There's something you don't see every day," Han commented, coaxing the Falcon to go move faster. One of the Tie fighters broke off from the pursuit and hurtled towards Han, its laser cannons streaming. However, even before it could set up for another attack run, a set of red bolts erupted from under the Corellian freighter's hull and skewered the attacking ship, shearing the round cockpit from its wings.

"She can shoot," Han grinned, turning the Falcon back at the remaining imperials. However, he found that they were no longer there. The golden carapace of the Lady Luck soared around behind the rebel Lambda, its shields absorbing micro meteors of pulverized fighter plating. Lando Calrissian's yacht pulled up along side of the Falcon as it swung around the shuttle again, making sure there were no fighters still tailing it. "Looks like we made it," Han said, his ship to ship communicator online again. "Yeah, we made it," Lando replied, subdued. "We lost a lot of good men today, too many. I don't know if the Alliance can recover." Han smiled. "Hey, they've still got us buddy. That's gotta count for something."

Before the pair of ships, the shuttle was moving quickly to rejoin the fleet, which was almost at a safe jump position. A transmission for the craft broadcast into both cockpits. "Thanks for the assist guys. I didn't want to see what the imperials had in store for stragglers," a gruff voice said. "No problem," Lando replied. The two pilots continued the exchange, but Han didn't hear the rest of it. Chewbacca suddenly let out a loud, warning bark, and Han shifted his attention back to his controls. Upon seeing what had triggered Chewie's ire, he yanked the piloting yoke to one side violently, sending the Falcon into a spin away from the shuttle. "Lando!" he screamed over the comm, but it was too late. From beneath his contoured ship, a trio of green pulses pumped up into energy shields and plowed through them, tearing away at the hull. Desperately, Han wrenched his ship out of its roll and fired a concussion missile at the unseen attackers. The glowing projectile streaked through the night and exploded just below Lando's ship, smashing two Tie Interceptors and scattering their shattered remains in a mighty shockwave. However, a third ship easily avoided the blast and curved around Lando's ship which was now careening through space aimlessly, its engines and shields offline.

As Han dove after the attacking Tie fighter, Lando's voice crackled weakly over the comm, distorted. "...lock down the…loosing control of…Han, take care of Chewie and Le…you have…ellion is up to you…sorry." The sound cut off. "Hold on," Han said through gritted teeth, pushing the Falcon as fast as she could go towards the crippled yacht and its attacker. Fire spat from twin quad cannons tracing the tiny starfighter as it began another attack run. The Tie slipped easily through the hail of energy bolts and fired a new volley at Lando's flaming ship. The energy bolts tore through hull plate and ignited gases within, and gouts of flame raced across the hull. For a moment, time stood still in Han's mind, the Luck frozen in space, engulfed in flames, the enemy fighter racing past its prey. Then, in a final conflagration of fire, the ship exploded, and Lando Calrissian, general, gambler, friend, was no more.

For a moment, Han Solo was frozen, staring at the cloud of gas and debris that had once been his friend. His head was foggy, and the world slowed around him, as if he was wading through murky water. Then the angry roaring of a Wookiee nearby awakened him, and he was back in the present, his hands gripped tight on the control yoke. The imperial fighter had doubled back from the expanding wreckage, and ignoring the Millennium Falcon was racing after the fleeing shuttle. The shock that shrouded Han quickly passed, and was replaced with anger, fury. His ship shot after the Tie Fighter, and he wasn't about to let it kill again.

Jacen Solo stood in the cockpit of the Jailbird as Riker and Truul guided the ship towards the main fleet. The young Jedi however was not paying attention to the rebel ships, nor the two pilots, not even to the grieving passengers in the hold behind him. His thoughts were focused beyond the confines of the ship, set on a point in the blackness of space. Vader was out there, and he had just killed. Jacen did not feel General Calrissian and his crew die, but he felt his grandfather's reaction to it. The connection they shared at that moment was powerful and frightening, Jacen could sense the Dark Lords feelings, his motives and he in turn could feel Jacen's. In that moment of clairvoyance, Jacen was immersed in Darth Vader's anger, his distain, and his fear. They were as dark and powerful as he had felt before, on Poloon Three, and yet there was something different about them. In that brief instant, he could touch Vader's deepest wishes, his motivations. They were cloudy and distant, and Jacen could not comprehend their meaning, but through the haze one emotion was clear. Doubt. The Dark Lord of the Sith and new ruler of the empire was no longer sure of himself.

The moment of empathy passed as swiftly as it had come and Jacen was left only with the present. And for some odd reason, a feeling of hope.

"Can you maneuver this ship away from him?" Riker was saying as a blast rocked the ship. Truul frowned and shot a look at the commander. "What do you think I've been trying to do?" He turned his gaze back to the viewscreen, where the rebel fleet was preparing to jump into hyperspace. "Whoever he is, he's faster, more maneuverable, and more heavily armed then we are. Unless General Solo can get him off our tail, I don't think we'll be joining the fleet at rendezvous." The Alliance fighter force was still occupied keeping Ties off of the heavier ships, and if any of them did notice the embattled shuttle, they couldn't make it in time. And it seemed that the Falcon was having a hard time with their pursuer, who was jinxing nimbly through streams of quad laser fire. The fighter opened up again, and the shields shuddered under the hit, indicators on the control board glowing red. The shuttle's automated rear gun opened up as the fighter approached, but the Tie easily avoided the bolts and continued firing.

Another volley impacted the shields and they fell, allowing a few bolts through to the hull. The laser blasts blew away the pestering weapons emplacement and smashed the shuttle's hyperdrive. "Loosing hull integrity!" Riker shouted as the hits rocked the ship. "Shields have been taken offline." Screeching into view overhead, the imperial fighter overtook the craft and shot past it. Then the tiny craft decelerated slightly and flipped over, its fixed guns training on its target again. It hurtled back towards them, and its laser ports began to glow, ready to deliver the finishing blow. Desperately, Truul ignited the atmospheric thrusters, and his shuttle began to shoot up, but the enemy ship followed them, locked onto the ship with unshakable focus. Its pilot pressed the firing stud, and livid green pulses formed in their barrels.

Then came a jolt that almost knocked Jacen to the floor, accompanied by the sound of warping and tearing metal. For a moment none of those on the bridge could understand what was going on, and then the view screen was obscured by a wall of durasteel. There was the horrendous sound of the Jailbird's wingsbuckling and snapping upwards as their flight locks were overcome filled the ship, soon accompanied by another deck-shaking impact as the shuttle hit a solid surface. Truul shook his head, clearing the stars out of his eyes, and then looked over at his copilot. Riker was clutching a cut on his forehead caused by the impact, his eyes squeezed shut. Behind them, Jacen was picking himself off the floor, hauling on the two command chairs. "You two all right?" Truul asked, looking back out the viewport, which was now filled by a solid wall of dingy metal. There was something familiar about the wall, he just couldn't place it. Another tremor ran through the ship, not an explosion or laser impact, but the controlled hum of machinery. On an impulse, Truul looked up through the viewport, and watched as the small slice of starfield that still registered through the window disappeared, another metal plate slowly blocking it off. The Major looked back down, and it dawned on him. For the first time in hours, a grin split his face.

The Coral Iris floated a moment, stationary in space as the loading bay doors closed over their precious cargo. Then the freighter surged forward, its laser cannons thrumming to life. The Tie fighter took the arrival of the new ship in stride, and expertly flipped out of the way of the streams of laser fire, almost as if the pilot had predicted the deadly energy would appear there. Nimbly, the fighter dipped under the manta-ship's wing as it shot forward, peppering its shields with a new cannonade. The twin laser cannons on mounted into the wings of the Iris swiveled back and continued they're interference fire, but the tiny ship dodged those deftly as well. Before it could reorient itself to fire again though, two new waves of molten energy blossomed across the Tie's path, this time from behind. The Millennium Falcon was back on its target, and the gunner in the lower cannon pursued the rapid ship closely with deadly particle beams.

The Tie fighter seemed briefly indecisive, split between the retreating Mon Calamari ship and the attacking freighter. Han Solo, at the Falcon's controls, forced the fighter to make its move, lobbing a missile directly in its path. Incredibly, the Tie turned and bore down on the projectile. The missile seemed to shudder, and then changed course, flying harmlessly off into empty space. The two combatants were now bearing down directly on one another, the Falcon taking laser hits in its shields and the imperial fighter dodging the ones directed at it. The craft flew straight and true, neither willing to break off, weapons systems etching conduits of light in the vacuum.

But then suddenly, even as it seemed the two ships would collide, the Tie fighter broke off, spinning past the Millennium Falcon and back towards Sullust's primary, a distant speck of red. "Oh no you don't," Han snarled and turned his ship in a sharp arc, and was right back on the imperial's tail. Beside him, Chewie growled apprehensively, staring at the fleet of Star Destroyers that still hung in the distance, toward which the fighter was heading. "He killed Lando," Han snapped back. "I'm not going to let him get away, he's going to pay." Anger still coursed through the man's veins, and he was no longer a freedom fighter or general, he was just a man out for revenge. Then he felt a warm hand fall onto his shoulder and he looked up, ready to berate whoever it was who had broken his concentration. Leia stood there, looking down on him with sadness in her eyes. "There's nothing we can do Han, he's too far away." She sighed. "You have to let it go." Han turned his head away from her sharply and shot back, "He killed Lando! You want me to just let him leave?" He bore down on the acceleration controls, and his ship moved closer to the fleeing ship.

"I know Han," she said, her voice quavering. "He was my friend too. But if we keep after him, you'll be running into a fight not even you can bluff your way out of. Do you think Lando would want you to do this, to die like this? The Alliance still alive, and it needs us, it needs you more than ever." She squeezed his shoulder lovingly. "But it's up to you, Chewie and I will follow you after that ship if that is what you really believe is the right course. Choose now Han, while you still can."

The man stared into the former princess's soft face, and then sighed. He slowed the ship, and the enemy fighter shot away, beyond reach. Leia squeezed his shoulder tighter and Chewbacca let out a sigh of relief, and Han slumped in his seat, letting the rage and adrenaline drain away.

Slowly, the Falcon turned back towards the rebel fleet and blasted back towards them, bypassing a handful of Tie fighters that were fleeing a few parting bolts from Wedge and his squadrons. There were still freedom fighters left in the galaxy, only time would tell if there were enough. Sighing and looking back upon the Sullust system one last time, Han joined the ragtag fleet, and in a burst of motion, disappeared into blackness.

Mounted in the navigation socket of an X-Wing, a blue-plated astromech droid beeped and whirred in anticipation. Seated in the starfighter's tiny cockpit, a clean-shaven young man in full flight gear smiled. "Yes Artoo, I'll find someone to clear the muck out of your gears as soon as we dock." The little droid was notorious for his dislike for water, and the swamp planet he had just been on was quite wet. Thinking about the stormy world of Dagobah, brought a sad frown to the man's face, and he sighed. The meeting he had just had there was still fresh in his mind, and he was unsure of what his future would hold. Still, Luke Skywalker was a Jedi, and he was ready to face anything that would be thrown against him.

"Ready for realspace reversion in five," Luke said calmly, placing his hand on the engine controls. R2-D2 whistled that he was ready, and Luke depressed the control under his palm. Beyond the cockpit's transparent canopy, the darkness of hyperspace melted away into a thousand streaks of light. The ship followed these streaks as they morphed into distant stars, and Luke Skywalker was in Sullust's gravity field, already searching the sky beyond for the rebel fleet. It was not there. Instead, the colossal forms of nine imperial Star Destroyers loomed before him, giant wedges of gray durasteel and weapons clusters. Beyond they're lines, the battered and charred form of the Empire's flagship drifted, huge pieces of metal fused to it at odd angles. "What the… Artoo, shields up!" Luke ordered, overwhelmed by the sight before him. "Begin scanning for Alliance signals, if there are any left." Luke's X-Wing halted the inertia caused by the hyperspace reversion, and turned back, its engines flaring and wings deploying into combat positions. Directly before him, another shape loomed, a Star Destroyer sat in wait.

Invisible claws reached across space and seized the rebel vessel, Artoo screeching as the imperial tractor beam projector found purchase on the fighter. The tiny craft was tugged towards the cruiser's main bay, looming above like the toothless mouth of a giant. As the imperial craft completely filled his vision, Luke Skywalker had a distinctly bad feeling about this.

End of Part One