Note: I have now corrected a few errors in this chapter and those preceding it, regarding the numbering of Republic naval units. I hope this hasn't caused too much confusion, and apologize for my oversight.
10
Press On
31 Lüindel, 1,018 DÉ
28.8.20375
When Bastila opened her eyes, she was almost shivering with cold, her entire body damp beneath the layers of her uniform. Her head swam and her vision blurred in the dim light of the ready room, and for several long minutes she couldn't so much as lift a finger. She had been working upon the fighting on the right flank, which had greatly intensified some ten minutes after the Deralí made her jump to hyperspace, only to abruptly cease just a few minutes ago. It had been going superbly at first, with the 2nd and 24th concentrating against a smaller Republic force and dealing out substantial losses. Then the enemy had brought up reinforcements, and the fight became more balanced; and although she did all in her power to discourage the foe, and was certain that she could have regained the upper hand given time, somebody on her side decided to break off the engagement altogether. The two Imperial task forces jumped away at 1009, and quiet descended all along the front, and she was left with nothing to do besides recover her strength.
And you could certainly stand to do that, you silly idiot. It's only two hours into this business, and you can barely move. Get up! she silently shouted at herself as she struggled mightily to shift herself from her seat. It was not physical exhaustion as she was accustomed to, no ache or burn in her muscles, but rather a paralyzing numbness, as if her nerves had taken a holiday. She had to will the feeling back into her body, focusing on a pit of strength deep in her chest and imagining it expanding, diffusing into her blood and her nerves and spreading all throughout her. Only then could she grip the arms of the chair, plant her feet firmly on the floor, and push upwards. It seemed to happen in slow motion, her limbs reluctant to respond to her command, but stand she did.
With the intercom still disabled, she couldn't hear the navigator's warning of the impending drop to realspace, but she didn't need to.
"Oh, bollocks," she cursed the quivering sensation rising up through the deck and into her rubbery legs. She maintained a firm grip (or as firm a grip as she could manage) on the chair as she waited for it to subside, only to be shaken by a sharp jolt, which was repeated a half-second later. She lost her grip, reeled, caught the edge of the desk, and arrested her fall.
It was several minutes more before she had regained sufficient control of her body to stagger the few meters across the room to the synthesizer and refill her glass. As before, the water was an elixir of life, pure refreshment that restored some semblance of wellness to her being. She refilled it again, this time only halfway, and carried it back to the desk, where she returned to her seat with a heavy sigh. It's not over, she told herself.
"Bridge, SCC, report," Revan spoke, surprising himself with the hoarseness of his voice. He had spent most of the flight to Lok meditating on the enemy's whereabouts - both the forces he was pursuing here and the reserve units Kechel believed were hiding near Zolan - and the effort had had much the same effect on him as Battle Meditation did on Bastila, albeit not on so depleting a level.
"SCC, Bridge," Tanen answered. "Null Quantum Field Generator 8 cut out early - we're diagnosing that as I speak. We also have Task forces 22, 23, and 9 on sensors, all in our immediate vicinity."
Turning away from the microphone, Revan cleared his throat before asking, "Shall we have any difficulty in jumping again?"
"All other generators are showing green. I'll have a go-no-go report in five minutes."
"Very well. This ship must be ready to jump in no more than fifteen, and the sooner the better."
"Yes, sir."
"SCC out."
They're there, he thought as he locked his gaze on the Maill system. He could almost see them, lurking beneath the orbital plane, between the orbits of the first and second planets. Almost… Try as he might, he couldn't actually see them, however, and therefore could not discern their numbers. Certainly fewer than us, maybe two-thirds. Was that knowledge, though, or was it hope? No, he didn't sense the kind of danger that he would have were they a more significant threat.
As for Kechel's problem…
The moment he let his eyes wander from Maill, he realized that Kechel had disengaged on the right flank. In fact, there was no right flank remaining whatsoever. As the display updated for the first time since the ship dropped into realspace, it indicated the 2nd and 24th Task Forces in hyperspace on their way to Zolan, ETA 1031. And there's no one in Zolan - I searched there. There were two Republic battle groups in the Ando system, though their icons indicated only an approximate position.
"Get me Kechel," he rasped. "And a glass of water."
As ill-fortune would have it, he was in the middle of draining the glass when the admiral appeared, obliging him to hastily finish and set aside the glass.
"Sir," Kechel greeted him simply.
"Admiral, what has happened at Ando? Why was the attack broken off so soon?"
"Immediately after I last spoke with you, I ordered Orsk to throw in his full weight, and Morrett to come up fast and encircle the enemy. We were concentrating against a single battle group - we believe it was the 16th - and we really had a twist on them. I mean, it looked to be a repeat of what happened at Ryloth, that we would crush them, right up until 0950, when a second enemy battle group dropped in. I hoped that we might at least encourage them to retire, but they had a good position, and they showed no signs of going anyplace. Bearing in mind the necessity not to squander our strength, I decided that the business could go on for some time without a decision being reached, and ordered our people to jump to Zolan to hunt for the enemy reserves. Obviously, there can be only one battle group left there, and when we catch it, we'll tear it to pieces."
He resisted the initial impulse to tell her that she should have forced the issue at Ando. He had felt Bastila at work there, and was certain that she could have sent the enemy into retreat if granted time. It was, after all, his order to preserve the strength of the 2nd and 24th, and he certainly couldn't fault Kechel's logic in preferring to destroy an inferior foe, rather than face one on more equal terms.
"They're not at Zolan," was all he said in the end.
She frowned, nodded subtly, was clearly concerned that she may have gambled and lost.
"Yes, just after we broke it off at Ando, there was a flurry of comm traffic, and then nothing more from Zolan. They're clearly on the move, so the only question is: where to? I have an idea that they're still near Zolan, but it is, as yet, only an idea."
"I suspect you're correct. Now that they've lost contact with us, they have no idea as to where we are, or what our designs may be. They do not know if we intend to renew the attack, or if we are disengaging from battle. At this end, they are most definitely regrouping at Maill, for they have suffered grievous losses here, and must consolidate their forces. On the right, however, they are lounging about at Ando, and debating whether they should stay put or withdraw and consolidate their forces on that flank, as well. They must begin to suspect that the attack on the right was a feint, and so I believe that their reserves are drawing back from Zolan, coming this way, but not very far, mind you, not very far."
"No, they're still too confused to commit the last of their reserves, but that's going to change. If they're smart, they'll pull out of Ando altogether, and soon, and unite with that group near Zolan. As soon as our people reach Zolan, I'll order them to disperse into a search pattern," Kechel moved to bring a map projection into Revan's view, and highlighted a section of space, "here. The instant one unit makes contact, all others will converge: I mean to find that reserve battle group and destroy it before it can be rescued."
Revan studied her search field, which partly overlapped with the area where his sensed believed the enemy to be.
"I should like to expand that search area more this way," he told her as he highlighted a section of space on his own display for her to see. "This locale would position that reserve group more evenly between Ando and Maill."
Kechel struck a contemplative pose, with the knuckle of her index finger held to her chin, as she regarded the proposal.
"Very well, sir. We'll be a tad thinner, but all units will still be within a few minutes of one another. I'll make it so. What are your plans, however, for moving on Maill?"
"I should like to hit them immediately, but I'm obliged to delay until Morrett and Orsk find that reserve group, or else it's liable to move before they can engage."
Kechel paused to consider the situation, likely weighing the risks that the enemy might leave Maill even before then. The plan had been to maintain pressure on the enemy at all times, or as nearly so as possible, in order to prevent him from concentrating in any one direction. He was spread far and wide at the moment, but that could easily change during this lull in the fighting.
"With all due respect, sir, it's my advice that you should time your attack on Maill for 1045, or thereabouts. Hopefully, the 2nd and 24th will locate the reserve group quickly."
"Agreed: I shall time my attack for 1045 exactly." He clasped his hands behind his back, stared past Kechel to the display. "Bear in mind, Admiral, that by the time we are finished at Maill, 1st Armada will be at or around half strength."
At last she managed a smile as she said, "Yes, sir."
"Carry on."
"Yes, sir."
He all but fell back into the chair, biting his lower lip in frustration with himself. It was too late to do anything about it now except press on, and move swiftly before the enemy got himself organized. It will take those task forces a few minutes to calculate their new jump, and another eleven or twelve to reach that reserve group, so that puts them in action at…1044, assuming the enemy is still there. They have interdictors with them, they can hold the enemy there and destroy him completely. That must be the 39th lurking around Zolan, and they are very much weakened from Operation Drumbeat, which is why they're so far back from the front. They won't last long. I must wait…1045, yes, the timing would be perfect. But do I have the time to wait? Will they let me wait?
He wished desperately to go to Bastila, to tend to her, but he needed to be certain of the 39th's position, and the chrono was reading 1019, which left him with just thirteen minutes, eleven to be sure he could comm Kechel again if need be.
"SCC, Bridge," Tanen's voice broke disrupted his inner monologue.
"Bridge, SCC."
"Sir, the ship is green across the board."
"Understood. The next jump is fixed for 1032. I'll send you the coordinates momentarily."
"Yes, sir."
"SCC out."
He took half a minute firing off the Maill drop coordinates to both the Deralí's bridge and the thousands of other ships presently floating nearby. Then he shut his eyes and sank back into the Force, the command center fading away as though eclipsed by a dense blanket of fog. So little time…but I've done this before under identical constraints, and succeeded. Concentrate…concentrate and see.
The genuine difficulty, after all, lay in gathering the slightest sense at all for where one's target lay within the near-infinite expanse of the cosmos. That was a process akin to sitting perfectly still in the middle of an exceedingly large field and trying to locate an insect by the sound of its buzzing wings. Once you actually heard the insect, you knew that you must be close, and had only to take a good thorough look around. Look, dammit, look! He returned in his mind to the patch of open space which his intuition had earlier decided was special enough to cause a little tingle in the part of his brain just behind his eyes; and there he tried to picture the empty, deathly void. As viewed through the filter of the Force, he saw something there, like a star, except that stars didn't look like stars as viewed through the Force. Stars were pure white, masses of energy without life, but this was more like a flame. Drawing closer, the solitary point divided and resolved into many, and then each of these into a dense cluster of warm, glowing lights, each one of which was a life. There! There were unquestionably starships there, at any rate, and with time pressing upon him he could not afford to determine how many were actually present, but what else could be there if not the 39th Battle Group?
His eyes snapped open and his fingers flew across his keypad, entering the new coordinates along with the instructions: "To Grand Admiral Kechel, C-in-C 1st Group: Center your search pattern about this point, and keep it tight. Revan." Only after he sent it did he take the time to check the wall chrono, which, to his infinite relief, read 1031:37. Cutting it close again, and altogether too close for comfort. A few seconds later, the jump alarm wailed.
The moment the ship was back in hyperspace, he hurried from the command center to the ready room, where Bastila was leaning forward over the desk with her arms serving as a pillow beneath her head. Through their bond, he could feel her exhaustion ebbing as she rested, and her strength welling up anew; and when she lifted her head to look at him, there was a set to her jaw and a glow in her eyes that starkly contrasted with her otherwise-worn appearance. Sitting all the way up, she leaned back into the chair and stretched her arms above her head.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Tired," she yawned. "Very tired."
"Is there anything you need?"
"I…well, yes, actually," she began a bit sheepishly. "Could you help me back to your quarters?"
"My quarters?"
"It's closer than my own. I've been very thirsty and…well…nature takes her course," she said rather quietly.
"Oh. Right. Well, come along."
She could stand well enough on her own, though it required some conscious effort to stay upright, but she couldn't guarantee that she could make it all the way to his cabin without mishap. In fact, she made it most of the way without need of his aid, keeping herself balanced with her arm sliding along the wall, until she was actually trying to go through the door into the cabin. There, when she stepped inside and the wall fell away, she staggered and would have fallen had he not been there to steady her with a firm grip on her shoulders.
"Thanks," she said groggily. "I feel like I've been awake for days."
She stooped to remove her boots before going any further, but he gently stopped her with a light touch on her arm.
"No, don't trouble with that," he said softly.
All she could think of at the moment was that it was impolite to go tramping through his quarters in her boots, but there seemed to be some sense to his words.
"Why did Kechel call it off at Ando?" she asked. "I would have broken them."
"She's trying to catch the enemy reserves - the 39th - and destroy them."
"Oh."
Bastila forced her brain to pick up its weary pace, and understood the logic of the move. Kechel couldn't have known what effect Bastila was having, but she did know that her objective was to attain the highest possible kill-to-loss ratio, and that was not, under ordinary circumstances, feasible against a roughly-equal foe. Given her knowledge of the situation, the admiral's decision to pursue the inferior force was the wise and proper one.
"If you'll excuse me," she said as she made her way down the little hall to the bathroom.
After washing her hands, she splashed a healthy dose of cold water on her face, into red eyes that burned with a longing for sleep. I was at Bimmiel for five hours, but that was nothing like this, nothing at all. There are so many minds spread out so far… In ten minutes, the whole of 1st Group will be engaged, all eleven thousand ships, or what's left, anyway. And how many have we lost? For that matter, how many have they lost? Certainly more than us - a lot more - but this is hardly over. How much longer can I go on? she asked herself as she shut the door behind her. However long it takes, was the only answer she could accept from herself. She would demand nothing less.
And so it was that, at 1043, she was seated back in her chair in the ready room, wishing Revan success as he reluctantly left her again. There was a part of her that dreaded going back into the discomfortingly out-of-body state that was Battle Meditation, and dreaded the feeling of being utterly spent that was sure to follow, but there was no escaping it. Like every other woman and man in 1st Group, she had a part to play, and hers was one with far greater impact than that of almost anybody else, and she could not shirk her duty. She could not live with herself if she did. She would do her duty, and at the end of the day, the war would have drawn closer to a victorious conclusion, and her dream would be closer to reality.
As before, the Deralí lurched hard into realspace as she dropped into the Maill system, only this time Fahn and his people had no time to troubleshoot the hyperdrive. The first word spoken on the bridge after the drop was uttered by Tanen, who ordered the DSO to raise shields. After that, it was the sensor chief's turn.
"Contacts! Multiple contacts throughout the whole forward hemisphere. IFF confirmed from contacts across the board… Hostiles confirmed, range to closest three-two-zero thousand…"
"Copy that, Sensors, I can see it," Tanen cut him off rather abruptly.
In fact, the entire three-dimensional expanse of the tactical display was filled with contacts. The schematic jumped and skipped for a couple of seconds, changing scale, shifting its focus, until it showed all contacts currently on sensors. Clustered together in the center were the amber "hostile" icons, vaguely divided into two amorphous clouds, one slightly larger than the other. Surrounding them on all sides were the three Imperial task forces, though the 9th was presently some distance outside of firing range. The other two, however, were no more than a minute away.
"XO, take us in."
"Helm, steer three-one-one, neg zero-two-six, ahead flank."
"Three-one-one, neg zero-two-six, ahead flank, aye."
"DSO, shields full forward."
"Shields full forward, aye."
"Targeting lock on multiple hostile contacts. At present rate of acceleration, we'll be in range in thirty-nine seconds," reported Weps.
"Copy that, Weps, weapons free. Commence fire the moment we're in range."
"Weapons free, aye. All guns to auto-fire."
On the display, Tanen saw all the Imperial ships in motion, slowly building speed as they converged upon the cornered enemy, with the exception of a couple of squadrons from the 23nd Task Force, which were hanging back of the main body. Tanen didn't need to call up their ident codes to know that those were interdictors, and that this time, there would be no escape for the enemy. This was to be a fight to the finish.
"Sir, be aware that Null Gen 8 is off-line," Fahn announced during the wait for the ship to close with the enemy. "No details yet on repair time, and I expect that I shan't have any for a while now."
"Understood. So long as we can still jump."
"Affirmative, sir. All other generators are still green, and we are within operational limits for hyperspace flight."
"Ten seconds to firing range."
"DSO, stand by on decoys."
"Standing by on decoys, aye."
"Five seconds."
"Helm, all stop. Hold present course and speed."
"All stop, holding course and speed, aye."
"I have a shooting solution…main and secondary batteries firing."
Leaning forward in his chair, Tanen watched the display intently, waiting, waiting… There! An amber contact changed to a square, followed six seconds later by a second. For the second time this day, he felt a sense of power such as he had never before known. For all her faults, this ship was a marvel - a deadly, overwhelming, terrifying marvel.
Two minutes after the Deralí dropped into the Maill system, Revan switched his strategic map from a view of the battle taking shape before him to a schematic of the 2nd and 24th Task Forces as they dropped into realspace. More so than the outcome of his "own" engagement, this filled him with a dreadful anticipatory anxiety. If the 39th Battle Group escaped, the other two enemy units still loitering near Ando would likely survive as well, which would render Operation Impulse only half-successful. It would still be a victory, but by no means the devastating blow he had intended.
Then his eyes were met with a sight which lifted a crushing weight from his chest, as little amber triangles winked into view, one by one, until the full compliment of the 39th Battle Group was displayed. Right on top of it sat the Imperial 50th Fleet. Why, if it isn't Grier, he thought with a little rush of pride. The man was a superb officer, clever and loyal, who had served with him for the year leading up to Malak's failed coup. Revan had every confidence that Grier would do well there, and hold the enemy until the 2nd and 24th had united in five or six minutes. Unfortunately, he also had to remind himself that the Republic would be reinforcing the 39th in approximately thirty-eight minutes, which would not leave them sufficient time to finish the job. Ample time to wreak havoc, though.
Leaving the conduct of that fight to Kechel, he switched back to the view of Maill. The 9th was still out of range, but closing at maximum acceleration, while the 22nd and 23rd had joined the Deralí in meting out a terrific thrashing. While one of the Republic battle groups present was fresh, the remaining two were already well below half strength, and their crews badly dispirited, both as a result of their earlier actions.
The following hour of his life was wholly occupied with the task of coordinating six thousand warships in a battle that was steadily degenerating into a melee. He could feel Bastila hard at work (too hard, though he couldn't very well ask her to stop or ease up), and felt for himself the increasingly hopeless sentiment of his foes. Unlike in the earlier fight, their fire was directed more against the Imperial interdictor frigates than the Deralí, escape clearly being their chief concern. This posed a problem in and of itself, as Jalesk struggled to preserve his limited number of the vital-but-vulnerable ships while still positioning them close enough to keep the enemy firmly anchored in realspace.
At around 1120, he witnessed a shift in the enemy's strategy, which, out of sheer desperation, turned increasing aggressive. An attempt was launched to break out of the encircling cloud of Imperial warships, with several fleets lunging hard at a gap between the 9th and 22nd, only to find the opening slammed shut against them. Desperate fighting ensued, and for ten minutes or so, there was some question as to whether or not the breakout could be contained. The moment the breakout attempt had begun, however, Revan had ordered all units not under attack to advance. Under pressure from behind, the enemy's counterattack faltered and turned back, and by 1135, the outcome of the battle was altogether obvious.
In the meantime, the Republic had brought its two remaining battle groups - by now positively identified as the 16th and 55th - into action against the 2nd and 24th Task Forces at 1129, which was too late for most of the 39th. By the time Revan had the opportunity to speak with Kechel at 1137, that unit had been reduced to a shell of its paper strength.
"By all measures, sir, this battle is developing better than we had hoped," she addressed him with considerable pride evident on her face and in her words. "I do wish we could have had more time alone with the 39th to finish their destruction, but Orsk and Morrett estimate that unit's losses - both destroyed and out of action - to be somewhere on the order of eighty percent, if not more."
"Though we now find ourselves slight outnumbered there, is that not so?"
"Unfortunately, but we'll be pulling out imminently - quitting while we're ahead, as it were. Any ships with an inoperative hyperdrive are already under tow."
"Yes, you may proceed to withdraw the 2nd and 24th as you will."
He wished desperately that he could have somehow reinforced them, held the enemy there and finished the job, but there was no one left to send, so instead he watched Kechel press a few keys on her armchair console, after which she informed him simply that, "It's done."
She then visibly relaxed, and continued, "Based on all I've seen, it appears that the action at your end is close to wrapping up on an even more positive note: the enemy there is completely finished. They have to surrender, or else we'll butcher them to the last."
"You are right, of course. They cannot possibly endure for very much longer, I can feel it. I must ask, though if it is your intent, after withdrawing, to unite the full strength of 1st Group here, or else hold to the 2nd and 24th near their present position, but out of the fighting."
"I was leaning toward the former."
Revan paused to consider her words, and also the strategic display. He zoomed it far out, well past the confines of the Maill system, until he could see the Chommell Sector. Bastila is so certain about Chommell, that how can I possibly doubt her as to its importance? Those two battle groups must retreat somewhere. They could go back to the Doldur Sector, but would that not be better held by units of 4th Armada? In that scenario, the 4th will be spread out, and in need of someone to guard its flank.
"I would be more comfortable if we were all united," she elaborated, "especially since Hrask recently sent me a communiqué expressing his concern that 4th Armada might be moving to defend the Corellian Run. He argues that if they do that, they'll be in a position to cut us off from 2nd Group."
"He sent me the same message some twenty minutes ago," he replied nonchalantly. "In fact, not long after the fighting here started, I received a warning from him that he was monitoring a large volume of comm traffic from 4th Armada. While I do not begin to doubt the accuracy of Hrask's reports, I do not, however, believe that the enemy is seriously contemplating a major counterattack at this time."
"That would appear unlikely, I agree, especially given the developments of the last hour. At this point, getting between us and 2nd Group would be foolhardy at best."
"There's also a distinct lack air of panic about the enemy's movements. This is a maneuver designed to prevent us from making a dash into the Core - a knee-jerk reaction - rather than a prelude to a well-planned counteroffensive. I expect they're spreading out 4th Armada, rather than concentrating in any one direction, at least until the arrival of their strategic reserves."
"Yes, Hrask does exaggerate at times," chuckled Kechel. "All the better to give him an excuse for action."
"I'm not averse to him making a show, however, in order to buy us the time we need, on the sole condition that he doesn't overly commit himself, which is, of course, another one of his proclivities."
"Then you intend to finish the job with 1st Armada?"
"Of course. Once this business here is concluded, and 1st Group is together, we shall search for the 16th and 55th, and hopefully entrap and destroy them."
Kechel was all but ecstatic at the idea, though she remained silent for several long moments while she thought on it.
"If 4th Armada is holding the Corellian Run, or soon will be, then those two groups will likely be positioned to guard its flank…most likely in or near the Chommell Sector."
"Chommell," Revan echoed with a solemn nod.
"Yes, just as Captain Shan suggested," she replied with a thin smile. "It's not lost on me, sir. Wherever we hunt for them, though, I don't think we can afford to wait too long - as you mentioned, their strategic reserves must be on the move by now."
"Those people on Coruscant know all too well by now that they have a disaster on their hands, and must consequently act to prevent us from advancing unopposed. That must certainly be the one great fear dominating their thoughts: that we shall push onward into the Core itself."
"Losing systems hurts their chances of re-election," she quipped. "Can't have that."
"No, not at all," he laughed.
At that moment, he felt a faint shudder run through the deck, felt a matching sense of alarm through the Force, and said, "Shall we speak on this again later? I daresay I still have a battle on my hands."
"Yes, of course, sir."
"Until later, Admiral."
"Shield overload!" exclaimed one of the engineering officers on the bridge. Searching his displays, he elaborated, "Generator S5 overload, sir."
"Grid S5 failure," the DSO confirmed. "Doubling up on surrounding grids."
"Helm, roll port one-sixty," Tanen ordered at once.
"Roll port one-sixty, aye."
"Fire! Fire in Compartment 102, Decks 66 through 71," came another callout.
There was a long pause, during which the damage control officer should have announced that fire suppression systems were engaged, but there was only silence.
"Suppression?" Fahn asked at last.
"Automatic systems are down, emergency crews have been alerted."
"Shields overall down to sixty-one," reported the DSO.
"C Turret didn't fire," Weps broke in with a trace of confusion in her voice.
She checked her displays, fingers dancing across her keypad, confirming that the CTC still had automatic control of C Turret, that the turret was tracking, that its emitter was charged. All came back positive. Turning to one of her subordinates, she ordered, "C Turret to manual."
"C Turret to manual, aye." The ensign worked at his own console for several frenetic moments before reporting that, "C Turret is on manual, and remains locked on target, but the crew can't fire. The controls don't respond."
"Ma'am," reported a petty officer, "I'm getting some…unusual readings from MBE C."
"Specify," Weps ordered tersely.
"It's…open, ma'am…but it isn't. I mean, it's still charging."
"Fine, then close it."
"Closing MBE C… No response, ma'am. It must have been damaged when the shield generator went."
"Keep working on it. It's nothing but a damn power drain now, so get it closed."
"Yes, ma'am."
Céle didn't know which startled her more: the distant thud and the accompanying jolt she felt through her bench, or the subsequent alarm wailing in the confined room.
"Fire in this compartment," announced an all-too-calm recorded voice. Then the lights flickered once, twice, and went out, replaced by the dim emergency lighting.
"Helmets on!" Cálen barked.
Pulling the well-padded helmet down over her head, Céle twisted the collar and felt a sudden rush of cool air envelop her face as the suit automatically pressurized.
"Systems check," Cálen's voice sounded in her ears.
Céle pressed a key on her wrist-mounted console, and her HUD displayed the status of her suit's life support systems, all of which were presently running at full capacity.
Then they all just waited, everybody expecting that the automatic fire suppression systems would make short work of the blaze. The status display on the wall, however, was noticeably black, leaving them with no idea of what was transpiring outside the staging room.
"…respond… Damage 102, respond!" said a crackly female voice after a minute or so of tense inaction.
"Damage 102 here, ma'am," Cálen replied calmly.
There was a burst of static, then, "…your compartment. Do you copy?"
"Repeat, ma'am," he said.
"Suppression's out in your compartment!"
There was another burst of static, but that was all anyone in the staging room needed to hear, and Cálen immediately gave a quick, "Yes, ma'am!" as he unfastened his safety belt and leapt to his feet.
Unfastening her belt, Céle stood up along with everyone else as Cálen opened the hatch and, on the command of, "Forward!" they all set forth.
The staging room was on Deck 75, so they had to go up a ways to reach the fire, and the turbolifts were, naturally, inoperative. They were therefore obliged to climb a ladder up through an emergency access tube that Céle found to her discomfort was apparently designed to be just barely large enough to accommodate a person wearing a fire suit. When they reached 71, Cálen was the first one out of the shaft, and reported over the comms that he was reading a heat signature nearby. Céle, being the last in line, wasn't able to see it for herself on her helmet's HUD until some time thereafter. When she did, it was visible as a yellow glow down a corridor darkened with smoke.
"Gold and Blue Sections, get the hoses," Cálen ordered. "Everybody else check for survivors."
Positioned conveniently near to the emergency shaft was a large panel painted reflective yellow with a glow strip about its perimeter, and behind it were stored several five-hundred-meter hose reels. Céle, however, was part of White Section (she even had a big white stripe painted around her helmet), and was carrying a collapsible stretcher strapped to her back alongside a tank of retardant foam. She therefore followed a junior petty officer down a corridor, sweeping her head from side to side so that her thermal scanners could search for lifesigns. For some distance, she found nothing, concluding that most everyone here must have evacuated as soon as the fire started, but then she spied a wavy orange line on the other side of a wall, not far from a brilliant yellow glow.
"I've got one!" she announced, and was soon joined by a crewman who assisted her in prising open the nearest door.
Stepping into a machinery space claustrophobically crammed with pipes and power conduits, her HUD was almost whited-out by a rush of flame, and she instinctively leapt back, shielding her face with her arms as she did so. Even knowing that she was perfectly safe inside her suit, which prevented her from even feeling the heat of the fire, she couldn't help being terrified on a primal level. She froze for a moment, then took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and stepped forward straight through the flames. She stopped again, realized that she had to see where she was going, and forced her eyelids to open. The crewman was beside her, spraying white foam at the base of the fire, while she moved in the direction of the person she had glimpsed through the wall. She was able to see their heat signature again as she emerged from the flames, and moved toward them, only to catch her foot on something and stumble, seizing hold of one of the myriad conduits nearby to steady herself. Looking back and down, her headlamp barely piercing the pale grey smoke, she saw what she had tripped on and nearly vomited in her helmet: there was a shriveled, blackened, eyeless face staring up at her, and one shrunken arm extended rigidly outwards with its fingers curled into a claw. She turned quickly away and found the survivor, who was a woman lying face-down with her arms covering her head.
"Over here!" she shouted as she opened the first-aid kit on her belt.
Switching her HUD with the press of a key on her wrist console, she set it to scan for heartbeat and respiration, both of which her suit's sensors detected, albeit at a low level.
"She's alive! Get over here!"
Turning her over, Céle found that the woman was burned on her face and hands, though not nearly so badly as her fallen comrade, her primary ailment being smoke inhalation. With a solid regimen of kolto patches and injections, there probably wouldn't even be that much scarring, or so Céle told herself as she strapped an emergency breathing mask over the woman's nose and mouth, setting the associated oxygen canister beside her head.
"And you get over here, ma'am!" the crewman shouted back at her. "We can't move anybody with this fire here!"
Céle turned and dimly saw him continuing to spray the fire, but knew the amount of foam in his backpack was limited. Grasping the sense of his words, she got up and forced herself back to the flames, unclipping the nozzle from her belt and spraying more foam onto the blaze. As soon as they had cleared a path to the door, they hurried to the fallen woman and unfolded a stretcher.
"Alright, lift on three," Céle ordered as she took hold of the woman's shoulders. "One, two… You shithead! Lift both her legs!"
"She's only got one leg, ma'am!" the crewman protested.
To her horror, Céle saw for the first time that he was right, and that one of the woman's legs ended above the knee in a bloody tangle of torn flesh.
"Do what you can!" she all but screamed at him, though, at the time, she had no idea how she sounded. "One, two, three!"
They lifted the wounded woman onto the stretcher and hastily secured her to it with the webbing straps. Céle slipped the oxygen canister into a pouch at the head of the stretcher, then took hold of the handles.
"Again on three," she ordered somewhat more calmly. "One, two, three!"
This time they lifted the stretcher and, with the fire regaining strength, raced back out into the corridor, where they were met by neon yellow figures lugging a fat hose toward them. Seeing Céle and her comrade carrying a casualty, they stood aside just long enough for them to pass, then unceremoniously thrust the nozzle into the machinery space and unleashed a torrent of foam.
"You'll be fine," Céle found herself saying. "You'll be fine. Hold fast, you'll be fine."
In the heat of the moment, it didn't occur to her that, even had the woman on the stretcher been conscious, she couldn't possibly have heard Céle through the airtight helmet. For his own part, the man carrying the other end of the stretcher kept reciting to himself, "Come on, let's go. Keep it up, keep it moving. Come on, move it!" as if reliving basic training.
They stopped at the end of the corridor, where Céle bandaged the woman's severed knee. She did it all automatically, sprinkling on a packet of a combination sterilizing/cauterizing agent, wrapping the bandage neatly around the leg, and securing it with pre-cut strips of tape. Her comrade, meanwhile, had tied a tourniquet halfway up the thigh, and then they were back in motion. After several minutes, over the course of which the smoke grew ever thinner, they reached a blast door leading to the next compartment. With a click of her teeth, she switched comm channels.
"This is Troop Leader Diric at Hatch," she checked the ident panel on the door, "1071R requesting access to Compartment 103. Please respond."
There being no answer, she repeated herself twice more, during which time three more pairs of stretcher bearers showed up.
"This is Troop Leader Diric at Hatch 1071R…"
"Troop Leader, access granted," replied a garbled voice.
The blast door slid open and the eight rescuers stepped quickly through, met by a very young man whose face turned white at the sight of the wounded. One of them had half the skin peeling from his face, was still conscious (though, mercifully, heavily-drugged at this stage), and let out a long mournful wail as he tossed against the webbing of his stretcher.
Seconds later, they were met by a team of medics, and Céle switched from her commlink to her helmet's external speaker and microphones.
"We'll take them from here, ma'am," one of the white-clad orderlies told her.
She just nodded silently as she and her comrade set down their stretcher. It was immediately picked up again, and the woman whisked away around a corner and out of sight.
No sooner were they gone than they were replaced with a large number (she presumed forty) of crewmembers in the same neon yellow as herself moving at as fast a jog as anybody could manage in those suits. They came to a halt just short of her, and their commander, as identified by a double stripe on her helmet, seemed to make a cursory visual inspection of Céle's own party.
"Who's in charge here?" a female voice entered her helmet.
"Troop Leader Diric, HC, under temporary command of Chief Petty Officer Cálen, ma'am," she replied briskly.
"Is he inside?"
"Yes, ma'am, and we need all the help we can get."
"That's why we're here, Troop Leader. Lead the way."
"Yes, ma'am."
Switching back to comms, she turned to the group of reflective figures around her, visually confirmed that one member of each pair still had a stretcher, and ordered them, "Move out!"
Slouched in her chair in the ready room, Bastila was deaf and blind to the ordeal transpiring aboard her own ship, her every thought and sense being focused upon the conduct of the battle. She had worked the enemy into a panic, and when their desperate attempt at escape had failed, she had sent their spirits crashing into the hopeless black depths of despair. They were convinced that there was no help coming, that they had been abandoned to their fate, that they would surely die if they fought on for another minute, and it was with the greatest satisfaction that she felt what little remained of their resolve crumble into dust. She set all her will against them, and was rewarded by cool little cracks radiating through the Force as, one by one, the enemy began capitulating. One by one, ship captains broadcast their surrender and ordered their crews to cease fire; then it was squadrons, wings, flotillas. The effect was cumulative, like a pebble tipping a stone that nudged a boulder that started a landslide. Then, finally, the admirals of the three Republic battle groups signaled their surrender, the guns fell still, and the Battle of Maill was over.
She didn't even feel her face strike the desk as she toppled forward.
The next sensation of which she was consciously aware was Revan's presence through their bond: he was at once proud and terrified. Then she felt his hands on her shoulders, felt him pull her up off the desk until her head settled back against the padding of the chair. She heard him speak, but the words were a jumble, unable to clearly pierce the ringing in her ears. Forcing her eyes open, she saw swirling doubles of him leaning over her, his lips moving, his face brightening as he watched her come around. Then her stomach convulsed violently and, tearing away from his grip and leaning over the arm of the chair, she wretched hard onto the floor. Tears dripped from her eyes and acid stung her throat and sinuses as her innards clenched over and over, continuing to do so even after there was nothing left to come up. At last it came to a merciful end, and she sat back upright, her vision still blurry, although there now appeared to be only about one and a half Revans in front of her.
"Bastila," his voice broke through the whine in her ears. "Can you hear me?"
She tried to speak, but nothing above a soft hiss would emerge, so she just nodded.
"Oh, Bastila, you…you had me worried."
Bending down, he put his arms around her and hugged her close, and she feebly returned the embrace.
"Just a moment," he said suddenly as he released her.
He reached the synthesizer in just a couple of strides, both of which looked to her to be longer than a man of his stature ought to be able to take, and filled a glass with sparkling cool water, which she subsequently felt gliding over her lips and down her stinging throat. She drank it slowly, savoring every last drop, even those that trickled down her chin.
"More," she was able to whisper when the glass was drained.
She downed three glasses before her thirst was sated, and by the time she was finished, Revan had resolved into a single figure that was only slightly out of focus.
"We won," she said with a smile.
"Due in no small measure to yourself."
"Thanks."
"Shall I take you to the infirmary?"
Taking stock of herself, she quickly decided that there was nothing wrong with her apart from extreme exhaustion, and shook her head in the negative.
"Just tired," she said. "N-nobody gets a…a wound badge for that."
"No, I suppose not," he said with a little forced levity.
"What's next?"
"For you: rest. In the broader sense, we're staying here until the 2nd and 24th link up with us, which will take place in about twenty minutes. After that, we shall leave here the 24th, along with any ships unfit for continued operations, to guard the captured ships, while the rest of us jump to Chommell to find the last of 1st Armada."
"We can't wait. Jump as soon as we can. Their reserves…" she said, thinking of the distant warning that had been whispering in the back of her mind.
"I know. While I hope that we may yet capture or destroy 1st Armada in its entirety, we may also be left with insufficient time in which to finish the job."
"What about…" she had to pause to catch her breath, "Hrask?"
"As soon as I'm done here, I'm going to speak with him. I'm certain now that 4th Armada has spread out to keep the front from collapsing, so he has his opportunity."
"Time it with Chommell."
"That's the idea."
"And fetch a bloody cleaning droid."
"Yes, My Lady," he said with a little chuckle.
While he did precisely that, she let her eyelids droop shut under their own weight and tried to put the battle from her mind, and focus only on restoring her strength. She was so very, very tired - more tired than she had ever been in all her life. It was as if she had been awake for a solid week, her brain as well as her body mutinying against her will to keep going at all cost. She drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware that the door opened and a softly-whirring droid trundled in to vacuum her ex-stomach contents off the deck and scrub the spot to a mirror finish. For a time, she thought she heard Revan's voice, though he wasn't addressing her - she could always feel now when his thoughts were of her. Eventually, however, he did speak to her, bringing her as close to wakefulness as she was capable of being.
"Bastila?" he whispered, careful not to wake her if she was asleep. She felt his warm hand on her own clammy one. "Are you awake?"
At that moment, however, she was at least partially awake, and so answered, "Hmm?"
"I mustn't delay any longer. I must speak with Hrask."
"Go," she said with a subtle nod, and felt him take away his hand.
She heard his footsteps as he went to the door, but he stopped before it opened.
"I love you," he said softly.
Though it wasn't the first time she had heard those words, they sent a warming rush of energy through her, or at least enough for her to open her eyes and turn her head to face him.
"Tho thíle íl dur," she told him truthfully.
He was held there, temporarily riveted to the spot by her words, and struck by the weight of emotion behind them that came flowing through their bond. Words failed him, and he could do naught but bow to her before taking his leave.
After he was gone, she reclined the back of her chair and let her eyelids fall shut once more. It had been almost a surprise to her, telling Revan that she loved him, but she had meant it with every fiber of her being. It felt right, so very right, and it was a relief to have told him, and to admit it to herself. What the revelation meant for the future, she didn't know just then. There's no time for that now, she told herself. Get some sleep. She sat there, leaning back in the soft chair, enveloped in cool, silent twilight, and let herself fall into the deepest slumber of her life.
"Ma'am, there's nothing for it," a master petty officer addressed Weps as he smacked his palm against his console. "MBE C is totally unresponsive. It won't close."
Swiveling her chair to face him, she pursed her lips before asking, "Have you tried routing the commands through Program 11E-9?"
"Yes, ma'am. I've also tried 11É-3 and 6N-9, all with no effect."
"Weps, what exactly is the status of C Turret?" Tanen interjected.
"C Turret is completely operational, but the emitter's unresponsive. The sensor lines are obvious intact, since we're getting data from it, but every command line to MBE C must have been severed when that shield generator went." "So MBE C is continuing to charge and you can't stop it, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir. For now, that means we're drawing power that could be diverted to the other turrets to increase their rate of fire."
"And, if I'm not mistaken, it means that in twenty-six hours, MBE C will overload and vaporize the ship, is that not correct?"
"That is correct, sir, but there's always the option of closing the conduit at the associated primary capacitor. The trouble is that once we do that, we won't be able to open it again any time soon, which is why I wanted to avoid that option if at all possible."
Tanen tried to recall why it was that they couldn't reopen that conduit, tried to picture the paragraphs and words from the pertinent section of the operations manual, and failed. As if reading his mind, Fahn turned and offered up an explanation.
"A shortcut in the design, sir. Those actuators can only close, not open, leastways not without sending a team in there to do it manually."
"Can we redistribute power from that capacitor to the other emitters?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then close the conduit to MBE C and redistribute power."
"Closing Conduit 45C, aye," said Fahn, the only one on his staff with the authorization level to shut down a pain power line. "Conduit 45C is closed."
"Weps, please confirm."
"That's affirm, sir: MBE C no longer charging. I still have no control, but at least it's not charging."
"Rerouting power."
Tanen shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still on edge in spite of the battle having been over for nearly twenty minutes.
"What's the status of the fire in Compartment 102?" he inquired.
"The latest report from damage control has all survivors evacuated, and right now, I have only one alarm still lit."
"Good enough," he said, then, raising his voice to address the entire bridge, added, "I'm going to need an operational status report soon, people - the C-in-C won't wait on one indefinitely."
That sentence seemed to lower a smotheringly-thick blanket over the bridge crew, who had undoubtedly been thinking, or at the very least hoping, that the fighting was over for the day. Truth be told, Tanen himself had no idea whether or not it was, since it was obvious that they had already won a smashing victory. Being thoroughly familiar with Revan's past actions, however, he had to acknowledge the very real possibility - even probability - that they weren't finished yet. Where other commanders might pause to rest their forces in the wake of a major triumph, Revan could be relied upon to seize the opportunity to further hammer an already-reeling foe. Tanen certainly hoped this would be it for today, but he wasn't holding his breath.
"Number eleven pipe, one meter!" Cálen barked over the comms. Céle, her facemask fogging as she dragged a gnarled, tangled mass of wire and sheet metal out of the way, watched him turn and point his whole arm at a crewman whose name she couldn't have remembered even if she could see his face. "Yes, you, go and fetch a meter of number eleven!"
"Yes, sir!"
While Céle struggled to clear the working area of debris, the chief petty officer was engaged in cutting away a section of a ruptured pipe. The twisted, peeled-open steel tube reminded her of the unopened cans she once used for target practice as a girl, back when she thought it was the funniest thing in the whole wide world to watch whatever beverage was inside go spurting out in a frothy geyser. Her parents had soon put a stop to the wasteful-if-hilarious sport, and made her use only empty cans from then on. She was altogether certain, however, that there had been nothing to laugh about when this pipe had blown. This was, after all, the room from which she had carried a woman with half a leg blown away.
She had helped carry a total of five men and women from Compartment 102, all of them badly wounded in one way or another. Fortunately, she had seen only four dead in her search of the compartment, which meant that most of the crew stationed there must have been able to evacuate quickly. By now, so far as she could tell, most if not all of the fires were out. She guessed that many had, in fact, probably burned themselves out quickly, since there was a minimum of flammable material on board, and all gas lines running through the compartment had been shut off within seconds of the explosion that started it all. What that explosion had been, she could only speculate. A blown power conduit, or an overloaded shield generator, most likely, for she fortunately saw no evidence of a direct hit anywhere.
"Troop Leader, get over here and hold this!" Cálen shouted to her. (It didn't make any sense for him to shout, since she couldn't even hear the cutting torch through her helmet, but he was shouting anyway.)
She dutifully ran over to him and took a firm hold on the piece of pipe that was about to come free. When it did, she suddenly discovered that it weighed about forty kilos, and fortunately for Cálen (and especially his feet and shins), she was in peak physical condition; and though she might have stumbled slightly under the sudden and unexpectedly heavy load, she maintained her grip. Hefting it up into a firmer hold, she carried it away and unceremoniously deposited it amongst the other scrap. At all times, she quite deliberately kept her eyes away from the spot on the floor where she knew the burned and mutilated body had lain, though there was nothing whatsoever there now.
"Well," she said as she rolled her shoulders as much as she could in the fire suit, working out the kinks that had developed from working in the bulky garment, "it would appear that you can at last say that you did something in the war."
With no section of replacement pipe yet in evidence, Cálen took the opportunity to lean against the nearest wall and rest. She couldn't see his face clearly, but she was well-trained in reading body language, and had no difficulty in telling that he was troubled.
"You're right there," he said, "but here's the catch: now that I've actually done something, I wish I'd never had to. Including this one, I've served on four ships now, and all of them took damage in battle, but until today, the shit always hit the fan someplace where I wasn't, and so I never had to deal with it. I never saw…what happens. Well, afterwards, in the infirmary, but that was only when the survivors were all bandaged up. That's bad enough, but… Well, you saw. I mean, I'm glad I could do something this time, but what if…"
"What if you didn't do enough?"
He turned so that she could finally see his face through his visor, though still not well enough to read his eyes.
"It's stupid, isn't it? I got people out of here, got them out alive. I did exactly what I was trained to do. I shouldn't have anything to feel guilty about."
"I've been there before, back home when I was a police non-comm. There was one day - 17 Dûlif, '12 - when I was off-duty, at a pharmacy. You see, I'd sprained my left ankle a few days before when tackling a speeder thief who'd decided to make a go of it on foot, and so I had to go pick up an anti-inflammatory for it. Anyways, not five minutes after I left, a junkie went in, stabbed the pharmacist and the clerk to death, and made off with as many pills as could fill his pockets." She kicked a piece of scrap metal across the floor. "If I'd been there a few minutes later, they'd still be alive."
Naturally, Cálen could offer her no answer, just stood there leaning against the wall and holding his cutting torch.
"I spent a long time asking myself if there was some way it could have turned out differently," she went on, "but in the end, I realized that sometimes you just don't have the chance to make a difference. Sometimes, it all comes down to dumb luck. So, whenever you can, you have to put everything you are into doing your job, in order to make up for those times when you can't do a damned thing."
"I reckon you're probably right," he said very quietly.
There was a long silence between them, eventually broken by the arrival of two crewmen hauling a section of pipe.
"About time," he told the men with the pipe, all traces of melancholy instantly gone from his voice.
It was with the utmost reluctance that Revan departed the ready room, his natural instinct to keep watch over Bastila while she was in her weakened state being only amplified by her parting words to him. Those words had cheered him immensely - even more so than the historic victory unfolding - but she could scarcely have chosen a more inopportune time to utter them. Standing in the corridor outside the SCC, he shut his eyes, slowly drew and released a cleansing breath, and reminded himself in no uncertain terms that he had a greater obligation before him. His wrist chrono read 1203, the entirety of 1st Group would soon be assembled in the Maill system, and Hrask with his 2nd Group were awaiting the order to go. Now was not the time for personal sentiment.
Just as he was stepping into the SCC, his commlink chimed.
"Revan here," he answered as he brought it to his ear.
"Bridge here, sir," said Tanen. "I have the status report you requested. Most critically, shields overall are at fifty-seven - we'll begin to see partial penetration by heavy turbolasers at forty-three. Generator S5 is gone - not temporarily down, but physically gone - and while we can double up on surrounding grids, that still leaves a weak point on our central-port-dorsal area. C Turret is off-line and will not be restored for several days at least; eighty-three percent of secondaries and ninety-two percent of point-defense guns are still operating at full capacity. Our stock of decoys stands at thirty-nine percent. Main engines are all at full capacity, and all hyperdrive field generators except for 8 are operational. There were fires associated with the shield generator overload, but those have all been extinguished. Apart from that shield generator, we have sustained no significant damage, all other failures, including C Turret, being attributable to technical malfunctions."
"Is she fit for continued operations, Captain?"
"Sir, it is my professional opinion that she is fit to continue operations, but by no means fit for continued operations. Assuming that we encounter the same level of fire as in the past two actions, the shields will hold for twenty-five, perhaps thirty minutes, before the ship begins to suffer from hull strikes."
"This ship is too precious to the war effort to risk any significant damage, and she has already inflicted upon the enemy a volume of destruction that, prior to this day, would rightly have been deemed inconceivable. We are going back into action on the condition that you have not only my permission, but my express order, to withdraw when our shields reach forty-six percent effectiveness."
"Very good, sir. What is to be our destination?"
"I shall have precise coordinates for you soon."
"Yes, sir."
"SCC out."
Revan took the comm from his ear, slipped it into his pocket, and took but a few seconds rest before ordering contact established with Grand Admirals Hrask and Kechel.
The golden summer sun filtered through a network of branches as Bastila climbed a forested hillside, digging her boots into the soft floor of dry needles, occasionally finding solid purchase on an exposed root or protruding rock. Her ears were entertained with unfamiliar birdsong and the soft creak of swaying trees, and a faint rushing sound in the distance. The higher she climbed, the thinner the woods became, the more the sun's warmth fell upon her, and the stronger the breeze became. Soon she could see beyond the trees to a grassy slope dotted with grey slabs of bare, weathered rock, and the breeze grew to a genuine wind. Tilting back her head, she looked up at the azure sky, across which raced strung-out white clouds. Onward she strode, with boots clacking on rock, and as she crested the hill, she was struck by the wind's full might. Her hair was whipped back and her clothes flattened against her body, she could hear only terrific roaring of the gale in her ears, and it was all she could do to hold her ground against the onslaught.
A peculiar compulsion drove her onward, however, and though it demanded all her strength just to take one more step, she pressed onward until she was met with a sight so beautiful that it left her more breathless than even the tempest that assailed her. She stood atop a mountain, and from her perch could see for what seemed an infinity in all directions. She gazed down over green valleys through which rushed wild rivers; waterfalls that cascaded down mountainsides, plummeting off one rocky precipice after another; sparkling lakes at the foot of grey cliffs, some of them quite large and elongated and home to thickly-forested islands; rolling hills blanketed in flowers of white, yellow, and violet; and in the distance, the blue-grey waves of the sea pounding sandy beaches. She could still feel the wind buffeting her, but no longer was it a labor to stand against it, as if she had become immune to its power. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes as she stood there, basking in the majesty of it all.