"Commander, we have to leave. Now."

The warning did not ring false in Thrawn's ears. Still, he sat on the observation deck in what she assumed was his favorite lounge chair, calm as a Nabooan wind, observing the spectacular view through binoks with increasingly analytical eyes.

"The Supremacy will arrive shortly, with its Duonoughts in tow. When that happens, the Order will finally decide no ground shall be conceded. Have the fighters already begun pulling out?"

Tore, the Zabrak female, nodded.

"Ja, the penultimates have."

"You know the plan for the rest."

"I do. Scramble them now?" He did not turn to face her, only continued observing the growing churn of the sky. The clouds were darker than she'd ever seen them on this world ever before - quite a few other worlds, too. Turbolasers had that way of reacting with atmosphere, she remembered. This whole planet would go to merter before long - any more than it already had.

Yet her commander sat here now, as she'd already remarked. One of Thrawn's alien proverbs about insanity came to mind.

She went back into the complex, began barking short trigger commands to facilitators. She made a move to an observation balcony overseeing the hangar, laid her elbows on the railing. Not many ships remained, but enough for an armed escort fitting of, say, an Imperial frigate.

A Chiss Imperial frigate. Their ticket off Jakku. In a way, the thing was a miniaturized Star Destroyer with the emphasis on speed, keeping the stretched-diamond shape and luna-grey color scheme, a little bridge blister nearer the back end. Several turrets throughout the ship, although nothing too big. Enough to get them out, though.

The remaining Clawcraft wing commander stopped next to her.

"Still himself?" He pointed to the roof, and the man resting on it. Tore nodded.

"Oh, ja. Unbecoming of a Nuruodo, almost. By their standards, he's already senile."

"But then again, when do their standards ever make sense?" She performed a good mimic, down to the contrived syllable twistings at the speed of light.

"'Yiou niydt noöldt uwndyrstaendt, oihnljyi do!'" The commander chuckled. At least one Blue Man's accent had been that thick when Tore met them. Good thing they needed only do, because sometimes understanding them was not just impossible.

Below them, the members of the Rodian's squadron were running below them in full black stormtrooper gear.

"Well, I gotta go."

"May the - " She decided against finishing the sentence. None of them needed or wanted to hear it, especially not the old Admiral.

Soon, the Pellaeon and its escort wing would be departing. She could just hear the yells over intercoms now, several seconds in advance. The comlink/readout on her arm started pulsing a holo-blue diagram into the air, providing verbal announcement of the enemy's arrival.

"First Order flagship and escorting Resurgent Duonaughts spotted overhead. All remaining Imperial fighters to hyperspace. Orbital bombardment estimated in ten minutes."

Cutting it close. Far closer than normal.

"Is the Pellaeon ready?" Thrawn was already down the ladder. Old though he was, he was already walking away at a speed requiring Tore jog to keep up with him.

"She's ready. Escort wing readying to launch." Then, she added: "Enjoy the view, Admiral?"

Without looking at her: "Ships visible from space with the naked eye are always worth the time." She also expected him to talk about what works of art they were. Although she admitted a one-of-a-kind like the Supremacy would be worth the personal view.

They climbed down another set of ladders, another set of platforms, aboard a horizontal turbolift, dismounted. The frigate's entry ramp was down, and they strode across to board. She estimated they had eight minutes now.

A shame they were bugging out like this, no matter how inevitable it was. Best they could do was lose with grace, and know how many to take down before making their escape.

The ramp came up almost before they were clear. Thrawn didn't seem to mind.

"Launch," he dictated, even as they lifted off. Two minutes to break atmosphere, another minute or so to finish final jump calculations. That was, if calculations weren't already done. Of course, they needed to get clear of anything with sufficient mass to even consider jumping.

He left for his private command room.

She jogged to the bridge. Grey-, black- and white-uniforned officers of several major species were relaying different data to one another.

One saw her enter, took note of the grey-gold uniform, went to a quick, urgent salute.

"Underadmiral." She nodded.

"Report."

"For lack of better term, we couldn't be more trapped. The battle's wrapping around the planet, down into the troposphere. Calculations are already complete, but gravity here's insane."

So's our Admiral, old age or not.

They'd waded into Hel.

Hel shouldn't be turning its attention to them. Eclipses don't fire at nothing, and they were too far from any New Republic force outside a trio of fighters.

"Are our cloaks up yet?"

"Negative." For a moment, Tore's world tilted, and the lights went dark. When they leveled out, their lights were not the same ones: the red alert lights.

"Definitely negative now. That's our cloak generator and redundant power."

Everything was walled off, on all sides. The wall was alive. And the pieces of the wall were trying to kill each other.

Transmission from Thrawn's room: "Straight through, full sublight, guns forward."

The holo-blue diagram of the situation was as you'd expect when the Zabrak turned to consult it: a big buzzing mass of nothingness. As the old scmirf manipulated the image on his end, the Pellaeon rattled again.

Zoom in on the frigate's current path, outlined by a stringy yellow-norang line. It punched through the ormign-hive like a blaster bolt, breaking out of the gravity bubble and hitting hyperspace.

Alone.

The navigators were already carrying our their Admiral's orders.

Njel, she thought. He can't do that! Those are - !

"Escort squadron down to three fighters," someone shouted. "Negative, make that two."

Outside, a Clawcraft passed in front of them, bearing the red stripes of wing leader.

In all her time with him, she'd never seen him sacrifice soldiers for a personal escape. Even in tight spots like this, there was always some way out, some greater trick!

Then again, time goes forward forever - never repeating. He'd taught her that.

But that's where the patterns began. And sacrificing soldiers so willingly was never part of that pattern.

"We've lost our escort."

"Duonought on us. It's separating!"

Sure enough: behind them, a Resurgent separated from its steel-grey platform - a Mandator-class Star Destroyer; both were now opening fire on them, although accuracy was clearly not these gunners' strong suits. (Thank the New Republic and a certain Hexect for shifting their sights.)

They also still had some agility advantage, although deploying some TIEs would always do good for destroying that.

But no TIEs came. Enemy ships were turning away.

"Almost outside gravity sphere. Ready for jump."

At least one gunner with decent sights got lucky.

Still, they managed a jump to hyperspace. Alone, as the Old Blue Man had estimated.


From the bridge of a hammerheaded Eclipse Destroyer, General Armitage Hux watched as the frigate's escorts were plucked from the sky.

"Concentrate our fire on that frigate. We must erase every Imperial asset we can."

Like good little forces of fear, we've let most of them slip through. Stupid, stupid!

"General, confirm: Imperial frigate Pellaeon."

Ah, yes.

His own holodiagram focused on the red points - their ships; and the yellow points - their enemy.

Blasterfire. Klaxons.

"Duonoughts sustaining targeted damage to turrets. It's one of ours."

"What?"

It pulled up on their diagram: a lone Hexect, clearly standing out from the others, firing on his comrades when their backs were turned.

His Supremacy must have enjoyed his good timing:

"Luke Skywalker," he declared over his personal holoprojector. Hux jumped a little as his deformed projection came to life. "That Imperial frigate is no longer your concern, General. Mark that Hexect!"

"It will be done, Father," he told Snoke. To the bridge: "Gunners, mark it." Back to Snoke: "But Chiss Admiral Thrawn is - "

"You will not question me, my Son," the corpse ordered. "You will focus on Skywalker!"

He became a sharp jade point on their diagram. And it must've known even as the order was given, because he broke formation and throttled it back into the New Republic zone.

"Gunners on the Pellaeon: fire!" Several got off shots. That would have to be enough.

The Supremacy was now getting involved. It dispatched two squadrons of TIE fighters - led by the Knights of Ren in their leading Silencers, no doubt. Not the Hexects, but true TIE/fos, forward dagger-shaped wing foils and all.

The Pellaeon wavered a moment, escaped their gravity well and winked from existence. He'd lost a grave threat to the Order's superiority. They would suffer dearly for that, all of them.

But His Supremacy - Hux's Father - was right. If they could destroy the last of the Jedi…!

"All Eclipse bowcannons to the nearest scumship, fire at will. Open channels the Supremacy and Duonoughts."

A comms operator: "Channel open, General."

"Good." He tapped the comlink on his First Order insignia, checking if it still worked. Silly habit, but a habit nonetheless.

"This is General Hux, do all ship tacticians copy?"

He heard a storm of affirmative-affirmatives. Good.