R2-S2 was as surprised as his pilot, but being an R2 he worked things out slightly quicker. At the same time that Borath's stick turned unresponsive, Maestro lost all sensor input from the sim feed - he knew it'd been cut off. He was still interfaced to the ship's computer of course, so he rattled off a quick query. Naturally, it was in binary, so replicating here for the record wouldn't be especially useful. Suffice to say that it amounted to the droid equivalent of 'What in the name of the Sith-ridden Force is happening?'

It is a common misconception that vox-less droids communicate in simple, perfunctory terms. Their language is, in fact, as colourful as any organic's, although most droids cover this up quite effectively. R2 units are notorious for their individuality, their attitude being that how they speak is nobody's business so they will behave exactly how they want, thank you very much. Think of them as permanent teenagers with the added ability to be useful. They often adopt similar speech patterns to their owners, so a droid like R2-S2 is fairly restrained in his normal speech - Borath is not given to obscenity - but there are some with very foul processors. Sadly, superfluous expletive, even of the garden variety, is not above a droid. Right now, Maestro is pretty confused, so he snaps harshly at the central computer. Of course, it takes only 1/100th of a second. At this current point in time, Borath's brain is mulling over the fact that the X-wing isn't going anywhere, despite the stick being all the way across to the right.

The computer informs the impudent R2 that Destiny is under attack by several fighter squadrons. Currently attacking the Destiny's fighter escort are two squadrons of R41 Starchasers, with another inbound escorting half a squadron of T-wings. S2 is cynical, and fires off a snide remark about dust on the scanners. (R2s do not hold very high opinions of starship computers, probably because starship computers do not like R2s very much.) Destiny replies that it doesn't care what the R2 thinks, but it'd better get its metal butt across to the fighter bay right now because if it doesn't there won't be a fighter bay to worry about. S2 wails loudly (ignoring Borath's uninformed cry, although impressed that Borath's brain got around to it this quickly) and asks how far away the T-wings are. The reply (eight klicks) elicits a scream, and a rapid disengagement from the simulator before Destiny has the chance to be smart again.

By now, Borath's screen has gone black, and the canopy is about to rise. Maestro is pretty worried, and quickly hooks up with Kaz's R5 and Teskan's modified R2. They know about the crisis, of course, and are rapidly heading for the astromech service lift as well. None of them are very optimistic about their chances. Behind them, their pilots are emerging from their simulators, as yet blissfully unaware of the emergency they are about to face. It was at times like this that Maestro wished he was serving drinks on a sailbarge.

The pilots were immediately silenced by the announcement. Borath turned his head in time to see the astromechs disappearing down the service lift. They're on their way to the fighter bay already?! he thought. Teskan spoke.

"It seems that our metal companions are already on the way to the fighter bay." He was climbing down from his cockpit. Borath just jumped, thudding to the deck plates gracelessly, and almost falling over. Kaz landed nimbly from her jump and grinned at him.

"Time to get to the fighter bay, Borath! If Maestro beats you you'll never live it down!" she said and hurried out of the door after Teskan. Borath followed them, and crashed into Bamarz, who had amazingly managed to choose exactly the wrong time to walk past the door to the sim room.

"Get to the fighter bay Bordan! Your astromechs are already there!" he barked, and rushed off. Borath almost screamed, but broke into a run instead.

Unfortunately, he didn't run fast enough. He skidded into the bay in time to see Kaz and Tesk bound up the steps to their fighters. Maestro taxied his X-wing toward him, the canopy opening, and technicians diving out of the way.

"Hope you put the heaters on, Maestro, it's freezing in here!" he quipped as he swung into the cockpit. Ignoring his astromech's warbled derision, he flipped the canopy switch and took over the controls. Teskan and Kaz were already moving into position for take off, and the remaining techs were all leaving. Borath went for a cold start, firing up all four of the X-wings fusial thrust engines with no warm up, and then punched the throttle full forward, burning out of the magcon field ahead of his two friends. He heard Kaz chuckling over the radio, but she was soon cut off by another voice that Borath didn't immediately recognise.

"All pilots, listen carefully, this is Admiral Durnick. The craft currently attacking Destiny must be eliminated immediately. Allowing any to escape may compromise the security of our next mission. Repeat all fighter craft must be destroyed at any cost." Borath's eyebrows migrated up to his fringe.

"Maestro, open a channel to the other two, and get me the nearest T-wing on the screen." The astromech complied, a bleep signified that the channel was open. "This is not right, there's something distinctly not right about this," he said, sounding flustered.

"It is unwise to disobey orders from your commander, my friend," answered the Calamari. Borath was silent for a moment as he evaded an attack from one of the R41s escorting the T-wings and then rounded on one of the bomber craft.

"There are R41s and T-wings attacking Destiny, fighters usually used by pirates, right? So how come our next mission involves pirates? And why doesn't Durnick want to capture a few for interrogation?"

"Think about it Tesk," added Kaz, "there's always stuff you don't know about pirates. Killing them all is not good tactics." Borath smiled as his target exploded, and was about to continue the conversation when another voice broke in.

"Stow it pilots, no private chatter. Switch back to the main channel right now." It was Horn. "All pilots, this is a battlefield situation, and I am taking command. I am now your immediate superior, and I want some of those fighters disabled."

Borath was momentarily distracted from Corran's communication by a pair of R41s who had decided to gang up on him. Getting annoyed, he sent his X-wing into an inverted dive, looping back up and around on the two pirates. He flicked his weapons select over to torpedoes and linked both tubes to fire simultaneously. The two fighters, still trying to work out where he'd gone, were less than a quarter of a klick away. He fired off two volleys, one at each ship, without bothering to aim. One exploded, the other managed to dodge one, which detonated anyway due to its proximity to its target, allowing the other projectile to penetrate the shields and destroy the entire rear end of the craft. Borath swung straight back to the T-wing he had been pursuing and opened up on it again.

Corran, however, was in the middle of getting himself court-martialled for insubordination. "B-wing group Blue, I want at least two T-wings and two R41s disabled right now. Other fighters, take down shields only, and then leave your targets to the B-wings, unless I specify otherwise." He hoped he hadn't pushed his luck.

"Corran, I hope you're not pushing your luck, my friend," came Face's voice through a private channel.

"So do I. Could do with some help here, though."

"What, with Durnick?"

"No, with the R41 that's about to wax me!"

"Aah. OK." Face, currently on Corran's wing, throttled back, pointing his fighter at the offending R41 that was crawling all over Horn's X-wing. He pumped shot after shot into craft, which exploded. "I see what you mean. Sorry," Face deadpanned, sounding as unapologetic as possible.

"I'll let you off. But what are we actually going to do about Durnick? He's going to be mad." As if on cue, the Admiral's voice cut through their conversation on the fighter channel.

"All pilots, this is Durnick. I ordered all craft destroyed. Somebody has some explaining to do." The flint-cold voice had returned.

"Sir," Corran piped up, "in accordance with New Republic battlefield precedent, I have taken direct command of all fighter groups. In terms of fighter experience, I outrank you, Sir, and am within my rights to request that some craft be disabled."

"Pilots, you will obey my orders - destroy all craft."

"All pilots, belay that order. Continue disabling craft. You may only destroy craft that present an immediate threat to Destiny." There was no reply from the Admiral.

"Corran," came Face's strained voice through the still-open com link, "be careful. It won't take him long to refute that sithspit excuse at a military tribunal." Corran knew, of course, that his actions could result in court-martial, but had tried not to think of that. He was a hero of the Republic, surely his opinion counted for something? And he knew he was right, with a surety born of the Force.

"Face, there's something very wrong here, I can sense it. Durnick's withholding something, I'm sure he is, he..."

"Corran, why can't you just use your magical powers to probe his mind? If we're talking security of the Republic here, I'm sure you'd get away with it. If you're right. If you're wrong, of course, they'll probably lock you up with an ysalamiri for life." Corran snorted, but the thought chilled him - he had considered probing Durnick forcibly, but wanted to steer well clear of any actions that would push him toward the dark side of the Force. He had tried a passive probe, just opened himself to Durnick's presence, but was left only with a feeling of general unease, not one of deliberate deception.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. But there's something fishy going on. Why doesn't he want to question these pirates? The more we know the better. Unless there's something about this mission that he doesn't want us to know, of course."

"Paranoia doesn't suit you Corran. I'm sure there's a perfectly rational explanation for..." His voice broke off as red laser fire blazed forth from the Destiny's gun turrets, raking across the battlefield. "On the other hand," Face muttered. Corran wasn't quite so calm.

"What in the name of the Sith is he doing? He's going to kill us all!"

"All pilots, this is Durnick. Several fighters are attempting to escape. They are still within Destiny's mass shadow, and not yet able to jump to hyperspace. I don't want them to leave. Destroy them. This is a matter of Republic security."

This latest order reached Teskan's ears while he was attempting to evade the attack of an R41 pilot who had decided that if Teskan's defence of Destiny involved an attempt to destroy the T-wing he was assigned to escort, he wasn't a very happy pirate. Teskan, on the other hand, would have given anything to be in a nice peaceful ocean somewhere, many light years from this cockpit, which was rapidly filling with smoke.

"Help!" he rasped over the comm. as he slipped right, barrelled hard over, and yanked back on the throttle. The R41 flew right past, while the T-wing dived back toward Destiny. Sithspawn! thought Teskan, and he dived after the T-wing. With its shields down to only 20%, the T-wing didn't last long enough to fire on Destiny, and in a desperate last attempt to escape the R41, the Calamari pulled hard over, and nearly crashed into the X-wing of Espar Kanord.

"Woah!" came the human's voice over the comm. "I got him, he's down."

"Thank you, Espar." The human waved at Teskan from beneath his canopy and then wheeled around back to the fight. Teskan decided to take a few moments to get repairs done. "M9, time until repairs are complete?" he asked his astromech. Only two minutes. Excellent, he thought, as he glanced at the translation screen. He turned his eyes and his scanners to the fleeing craft that the pilots had been ordered to pursue and destroy. After a moment his brain paused, having realised that the two didn't agree. The CMD indicated that the craft had between five and eleven percent shields remaining. One had badly damaged engines, another inoperative laser cannons, and so on. His eyes, however, told him that if any of them were not very heavily armed, lethal and fully functional, then he was the son of a sea slug. He couldn't see any evidence of damage whatsoever, despite the cosmetic damage of peeling paint and scorched metal. It was a trap. Obviously.

He turned back to the fight, and saw that it was almost over. Republic fighters were heading towards the fleeing craft. Perhaps it wasn't quite so obvious, the Calamari lamented. The ships were flying toward their own destruction.