Rise'hara rubbed at his nose, trying to staunch the flow of blood from it. Blood was an anomaly in combat. Blaster bolts usually cauterized wounds, and wounds rarely bled. He stood up, ignoring his pounding forehead. Rise'hara wasn't going to be stopped by a little pain. He intended to do all he could.
"Shut up!" he yelled into the cacophony of the bridge. "What hit us?"
A trio of Y-wings flew past the bridge in response. A half dozen TIE fighters latched onto the Y-wings' tails, driving them away from the Binder.
"Damage report, now." Rise'hara dabbed at the blood streaking down his face.
"One gravity projector is destroyed. The other three are operational," ensign Karave's voice quivered. "Three quarters of the fleet is…gone, sir."
The bridge quieted. Rise'hara's head felt heavy and big on his shoulders. He didn't care so much about the gravity projector but this fleet was under his command. All the deaths were his fault, in a sense. "Reroute power but keep those projectors on. Stop firing, move us away from the battle."
The Binder's guns went dormant. Beyond the viewport, the stress of battle showed. The husks of hundreds of starships littered space. More and more Rebel craft poured into the system, rounding up the Imperial fleet into one place. The Rebellion's attempt to cut the fleet in half had failed but they could win with their superior numbers.
Rise'hara knew the futility of some battles. This was one of them.
The Corellian Fleet was lost.
The thought saddened him. He'd fought and lost so much for the Empire. Corellia was supposed to be where we rebuilt. Made a stand against the Rebellion and pushed them back. More small Imperial ships exploded. Barely a dozen Imperial Star Destroyers lived and a hundred support ships—if they were lucky. In all his years of Imperial service, he'd never suffered such a stinging defeat.
Rise'hara saw the destroyed Mon Cal ship in front of the Binder and the dead image roused him to action. He had never surrendered in his career. Even in the unsuccessful situations he had never retreated from a battle. No, we can't win this. But we can take as many of them with us as possible. We don't need to retreat yet. "Cancel that last order."
Rise'hara studied the battle map. Nearly half the Rebel fleet had been destroyed in the battle [del]. The Rebellion was winning but with major losses. If the Rebellion wanted his home world, Rise'hara intended to make them pay in full with blood.
His command on this bridge was incontrovertible. The rest of the fleet was under his command but they were disorganized now, getting picked off by the hordes of Rebel Y-wings. The fleet was near death but perhaps he could call the Imperial forces together.
The atmosphere on the bridge was tense. Rebel ships were pushing closer and closer to the Binder. His next order would be the last one he ever issued. If it is, it better be good. He had a good repertoire of rousing speeches to get the bridge crew ready for battle. Now though, he seemed at a loss for words. What good was a speech in the middle of battle?
He remained stationary, rooted in position. His action—or inaction—could end the battle in two ways. Either he went out as a weakling or an Imperial martyr.
Rise'hara thought back to the zenith of Imperial power. The Empire had controlled the whole galaxy. At that time he wouldn't have needed to die. I can't change what the Emperor chose to do. I can only choose now what I do.
Out of the way of the battle, Rise'hara struggled with what he'd say. Let the galaxy know we fought to the end.