ABOARD THE MALACHOR , 40 YEARS ABE:
"Am I?" Darth Revan began to laugh. "Look again, young Jedi."
The sharp words she had meant to speak died on Breha's tongue as she stared out at the sight before her. The New Republic fleet had indeed arrived: bulbous and beautiful Mon Calamari cruisers, sturdy old Corellian corvettes, tiered Nebulon frigates, blocky dreadnaughts; darting amidst them all were squadrons of X-Wings and A-Wings and B-Wings and E-Wings, even a few aging but reliable Y-Wings…
And all of them so, so hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned by the mass of Imperial ships opposing them.
Breha had never seen an Imperial fleet like this. Had more ships arrived since she had been taken captive, or had she just been too focused on her immediate flight path to take-in the extent of the fleet before? She didn't know. All she knew was that for the first time, she understood the phrase overwhelming Imperial might.
This must have been what it was like for the old Rebellion, in the days when the Empire had been a galaxy-spanning enterprise opposed only by a rag-tag army held together by spacetape and spit more than by durasteel and laser charges.
Even that wasn't an accurate comparison, though, because the New Republic fleet here in battle was no rag-tag ramshackle army of rebels...and yet still, they were overwhelmed by the Imperial forces around them. As Breha watched, another Nebulon frigate snapped in two, gouts of flame issuing from its splintered decks before it was wiped from view by a massive explosion.
Breha raised her cuffed hands to her mouth in horror. "No," she whispered. "That's impossible. The Imperial Remnant doesn't have that much firepower…"
"It does now," Revan said calmly. "And it is a remnant no more."
Much as she wanted to, Breha couldn't argue.
