General Wedge Antilles hopped off the treadmill in the ready room just off Lusankya's bridge. The ready room's walls still had all the signs of Imperial ostentation even after a New Republic refit. On the monitor in front of him, the constant reminder of his command loomed, a count of every ship in his command and a list of all the planets which had confirmed that additional reinforcements were on the way. Beside the monitor was an enormous observation window that looked out ahead of Lusankya, the long stretch of his command ship's hull pointing towards home.
And they were not alone. Lusankya steadily moved in closer to join them, accompanied by the rest of Fifth Fleet. The Nebula-class Star Destroyer Areta Bell led the way towards the homeworld of her namesake.
Until Corellia, Areta, Wedge thought. Don't worry. I'll protect our home.
Cracken had confirmed from no fewer than a hundred sources within the Empire that the World Devastator had departed Entralla on a trajectory consistent with Corellia as a destination.
The Corellians already had five Star Destroyers in orbit, clustered defensively and with many dozens of smaller, Corellian-built ships ready to defend the world. All of them were hanging just outside the planet's gravity well—this gave them flexibility to perform a hyperspace jump to one of Corellia's other habitable worlds, in case the World Devastator decided to attack Selonia or Drall first.
Wedge doubted it. Corellia would be the first target.
His homeworld grew in the window before him. The tiny blue and white dot swelled, becoming clearer and clearer in his vision.
It was profoundly odd to be home. He and Iella had visited Corellia briefly, after the reconquest of Ukio. They had visited Coronet City—even stood in the shadow of the Imperial Occupation Headquarters—and refamiliarized themselves with their home. Iella knew Corellia better than he did—she had been a CorSec operative and actually lived on Corellia for most of her life. Wedge had been raised on an orbital platform and only rarely set foot on the ground and after the death of his parents had left Corellia and only intermittently returned.
It would only be a few minutes before the Corellian authorities reached out to him. In the meantime, Wedge stood in his ready room, still in his workout clothes, and paced, preparing himself for the battle to come.
He had not bothered to move his possessions into this office after first taking command. But as the weeks in command stretched into months, he'd brought some of his own possessions in. To his left was his general's day uniform jacket, tailored, stately and businesslike, with a few wear marks and his shining rank plaques. A respectable uniform for a respectable man. A man who sent thousands of others into the fire from the safety of the toughest target left in the galaxy. A jacket that demanded poise and articulation and patience and a thousand other things he'd had to teach himself again and again.
To his right, a floppy orange flight suit, a life support rig, and his old helmet—the one with green panels and accent marks—rich with the small dents and paint flecks of a hundred missions and more. The suit he'd spent more time in than he'd care to recount. Some stubborn coolant and solvent stains besmirched the bright orange, but it was still the suit that he wore when he put himself directly in harm's way so other people, other children, would be at less risk of losing their parents than he had been.
Above the couch, on the wall, was an etched holograph of him and Iella at a dinner for Corellian exiles, eyes only for each other, and casually accented with some of the Corellian Green ribbons Wes had showered them with on a flying visit.
He remembered the bedtime stories Syal used to tell him, stories of planetary nobles and ritual combat and lady loves that could still manage to shed the years of dust and enchant a couple of fuel-stained station rats clustered around a flickering glow rod as they viewed ancient picts on a battered datapad.
He pictured Iella, following Luke and Mara into harm's way on some secret quest, her soft, dark-blond hair in a tight braid tucked under a helmet, her eyes narrowed and her rifle up, looking for danger, and he felt her aching absence. He pictured the Rogues, who he'd already sent into battle with the World Devastator once, and from whom he still had no clear report.
The comm unit pinged. "Communication for you, General," Needa informed him.
He placed his headset on his head. "General Antilles."
"Wedge, it's Sena," came the familiar voice of his former aide. "I'm here with Captain Rann and Director Horn. We're organizing Corellia's defense and wanted to discuss its overall command with you."
"General," said a gruff, mature male voice. "This is Director Rostek Horn of CorSec. Corellia's leadership was relieved to hear that the New Republic put someone with your battle experience in charge of the fleet defending us from the New Order, and given that you're bringing the largest force the Council is willing to concede command of the system to you, if you desire it."
Wedge took a breath. "Lusankya should be the command ship," he agreed reluctantly. "It's our most powerful unit and the most well-protected. I've been reviewing the battle logs that Ferrouz sent us and believe I can largely assure its security from their primary weapons as well. The New Republic is also sending additional forces to aid in Corellia's defense and it will be easier to organize them through the existing New Republic military hierarchy and protocols."
"I agree," said Sena.
"As do I," said a third voice. "Captain Rann, Corellian Defense Forces. I will put my communications team in touch with yours to coordinate battle protocols, but I've also been working with Captain Horn to ensure that we're ready when the New Order arrives."
"If you'll send me a report on the total strength of the Corellian Defense Forces, that will make my job easier," Wedge said. "I'm not sure how many additional ships will be arriving, but I know the total force will be significant. Sena—the Inner Council members all committed ships from their existing defense forces and the Chief of State has put out a call out to all other New Republic and even non-aligned worlds to send what ships they can, as soon as they can."
There was a soft breath of shared surprise on the far side of the comlink. "How many in total?"
"As I said, I'm not sure. A minimum of several hundred," Wedge said. "They should start arriving any time—Councilor Fey'lya departed to rally the Bothan Fleet before I was able to leave Coruscant."
"We've begun the evacuation of our orbital platforms and are preparing the planetary shields to withstand a siege," Horn reported. "The platforms are undefendable outside the shield perimeter, and extending the shield to include them would weaken it, so we've accepted their loss. We're considering destroying them to prevent the World Devastator from consuming them for materials."
"Don't do that," Wedge said, his gut churning with awful memory. "I have a better idea. How many tankers do we have in-system?"
"Tankers?" asked Horn. "What for?"
"Just send me the final tally with your force organization updates," Wedge said, icy coldness descending over him, speaking with a confidence he didn't quite feel. "And continue with the evacuation of the platforms. You're right—they are not defensible. I'll do some planning and pass you the final order of battle."
Horn hesitated only for a moment. "Acknowledged General. Corellia Defense Headquarters, out."
The communications went out and Wedge was still for a moment before resuming his post-workout routine. After a short sanisteam, Wedge pulled on his General's uniform. He tied a green ribbon around his left arm like a lady's favor from ancient days.
He arrived back on his bridge only a few minutes later. Officers and crew looked up at him as he strode down Lusankya's long bridge walk.
Han reached him first. "You want to tell me what that request for tankers is about?"
"Did you ever have to scrap for real in your smuggling days?" Wedge asked.
"All the time."
"Bare handed?"
"Who brawls barehanded with a guy who has Wookiee backup?"
"After my parents died and I hard-vac'd after their killers, I tried to avoid illegal cargos," Wedge said. "But under the Empire… Well. For one cargo I ended up on Jubilar, during one of the gladiator contests. My buyer insisted I attend. He was vetting me, I think."
"The Jubilar gladiatorial contests are nasty fare," said Han, with the air of someone who'd been there.
"I'd never seen a human wrestle a Gamorrean before," Wedge said, distantly remembering that dreadful trip. "I don't think he was in the contest voluntarily. When the fight started, he looked like he was praying."
Han looked at him, frowning. "And what does this have to do with tankers?"
"The human won. The arena was dusty and there were lots of rocks. He kept hitting the Gamorrean with fistfuls of dirt and rocks while keeping his distance." Wedge stopped by the main station plot, manipulating it until it projected an image of Corellia and all of its orbital platforms. "We don't have a lot in the way of dirt, but we do have the orbital platforms."
Han's nod was grim. "And it's going to try to eat them anyway for materials. Might as well blow them up."
Wedge had lived on one of those stations as a child. A deliberate action had resulted in the death of both of his parents in a fuel explosion. The idea of destroying a platform himself was not an appealing one… especially if he first used the fueling tankers to make the destruction as spectacular as the destruction of Gus Tetra had been.
But as distasteful as he found the idea of using those orbital stations as weapons, he found the idea of dead subordinates far, far more distasteful.
Needa fell in at their side. "General, the first reinforcements have begun to arrive. A detachment from the Duro System Defense Forces has just dropped out of hyperspace and is requesting instructions."
Wedge pointed at Han. "General Solo?"
"This can't be good," Han muttered. "I'm General Solo again now, am I? What do you want from the good General?"
Wedge couldn't help the smile that Han's response elicited. "I'm putting you in command of managing our new arrivals while I work on our battle plan. Remember—inform everyone who arrives that capital ships need to be in tight formations, with at least three heavy tractor beams capable of projecting over a forward arc. That will protect them from those missiles the World Devastator used at Poln Major."
"Putting me in command of managing the new arrivals. I'm sure Fey'lya is just going to love it when he gets here and finds out that I'm going to be giving the orders."
"Let's just hope he doesn't try to take command to further his own reputation," Wedge replied in a tone that shifted from light to sour.
"Oh, there's a cheerful thought," Han muttered darkly. "Nope, wait, you can have him shot for mutiny. Still cheerful! All right, I'll get the Duros ready for the fight."
"Commander Needa, I need to talk to Corellian logistics. They should be sending us fuel tankers—I'm hoping at least several hundred. I want those tankers prepared to deliver their cargo to the orbital platforms. Then the haulers should help deliver any cargo waiting at the logistics stations to the planet's surface. Tell anyone on the surface that if they want to help defend Corellia they need to be in orbit no later than five hours from now—I'm going to have the planet raise its shields at that point, and they won't be able to launch after that."
"Yes, General."
"Status change!"
A cluster of three heavy cruisers appeared on the plot, just outside of Corellia's gravity well. Needa stopped next to Wedge, holding his hand to his ear as he listened. "General, the new arrivals are the Thyferran Aerospace Defense Force." Needa frowned. "Someone named Bror Jace says that he expects you to make sure Captain Horn is flying his X-wing, otherwise there won't be any competition for who will have the most kills."
Wedge hid a smile and gestured at Han. "Find a place for them in the formation," he ordered.
"I can do that," Han mused, working on his datapad.
"Status change!"
More dots appeared on the plot, automatically shaded in allied green. Then more. The Ryloth Defense Authority, under the command of General Syndulla, with five capital ships, escorts, and fighters. The Eiattuan Queensguard, under the command of Queen Plourr herself, arrived in the carrier Uthorrferrell, with three squadrons of X-wings.
Shortly after that arrived the Bespin Wing Guard—who didn't have much to offer beyond a single yacht named Lady Luck and a certain talented former-General of the Rebellion. "Gold Leader here," Lando announced boldly. "I couldn't bring much because the Cloud City guard rarely leaves the atmosphere, but the Smugglers' Alliance sent out a full mobilization call—I won't be alone for long."
An array of warships, fresh from Coruscant's Home Fleet, arrived next—anything A'baht could send without stripping his own forces too bare. "Hey Wedge," said Tycho over the comm, from a starfighter marked as Rook Leader. "General Salm and I have the first graduating class of Coruscant's Starfighter Academy, complete with snubfighters. We've got about twelve squadrons of E-wings—rookie pilots under experienced COs."
"Is an E-wing fast enough for you?" Wedge asked, relief and worry all swirled together. Tycho had retired to teaching for a reason, just as so many others had. Tycho, Bror, Plourr… no doubt there would be more ex-Rogues arriving soon, too.
He really wished he could be out there flying with them and not on Lusankya's bridge.
"I think the speed is growing on Salm," Tycho said with a laugh. "I've got my pilots reviewing the data from Poln Major. We'll be ready for those TIE droids."
"More hands make less work," added Plourr. "Let's start drilling."
Over the next six hours, representatives of no fewer than a hundred worlds arrived.
"If I'd known this would be so much work," complained Han, one hand on his ear as he desperately tried to fit all the arrivals into formation, "I'da said no and stayed home!"
Chir'daki from Ryloth fell into formation around Gand-modified TIE bombers and ships from the Smugglers' Alliance. That part of the formation was headed by a blood-red Star Destroyer with blinking neon advertisements emblazoned on its hull. They all slotted in next to an array of bizarre-looking Verpine ships, all painted in a white more pristine than Star Destroyers, but which Wedge knew held spectacular coloration if you could see in the ultraviolet range. A collection of light-freighter sized combat units from an association Wedge had never heard of, the "Mist Hunters", lined up next to an array of 'neutral' freighters that Wedge was pretty sure were actually Black Sun pirates.
Then the larger fleets started to arrive.
"Holy Mother of Jar—," muttered Han, his eyes wide.
Fey'lya had not been exaggerating. The entire Bothan Home Fleet—no fewer than a dozen capital ships, complete with escorts, a formation large enough to give Wedge's Fifth Fleet a decent fight—arrived next. Fey'lya announced their arrival with a triumphant comm message that went out to the entire system, proclaiming their solidarity with the species of Corellia and their eternal enmity to Palpatine and his New Order.
"—and as such, we stand with Corellia against the evils of Palpatine," Fey'lya was orating, a high-fidelity holo probably professionally produced, "because the Bothan people have never, and will never forget that Corellia has stood with us, during our time of need. We must be a unified galaxy to end this evil now, before it can grow and spread—"
"Status change!"
More than forty Mon Calamari Star Cruisers and their escorts came out of hyperspace, a solid block of curved, armored hulls, bristling with shields and turbolasers. Most of them were the size of an Imperial-class Star Destroyer, but ship in the lead was even larger still. Wedge recognized the lines of Mon Calamari's first MC90 Star Cruiser. It immediately became the second-largest and second-most-powerful ship in the entire fleet, after only Lusankya herself.
On the monitor, the image magnified several times, giving Wedge a better look at the new Mon Calamari flagship. His heart abruptly stuck in his throat and he felt his eyes go unexpectedly watery with surprise and emotion. In enormous block letters on the side of the ship's hull was its name:
Garm Bel Iblis.
As Corelllian fighters raced across its flight path, conducting wing-waggling salutes, Wedge heard Han laugh beside him. "Fey'lya might have pulled a fast one by pledging his fleet first," Han murmured. "But I think Ackbar won down the stretch."
"We'll arrive at Corellia in ten minutes, Admiral," Tschel said.
Gilad Pellaeon absorbed that information calmly. His bridge crew was waiting with bated breath, sneaking looks at their commander. He, in turn, put on a professional front, standing tall in the center of Chimaera's bridge walk. He folded his hands properly behind his back, expression perfectly still, trying not to wonder if Teren Rogriss had adopted an identical pose a short while ago. "Understood. Inform the crew."
"Sir."
Tschel turned crisply and headed back the way he had come, resuming his station.
"Are we prepared, Admiral?" asked Grand Moff Ferrouz. Beside the Moff was the diminutive figure of Leia Organa Solo—diminutive physically only, because the moment Leia walked into a room, she consumed all the energy in it.
His crew weren't quite sure what to make of her, Pellaeon could tell. They didn't like her—she was a Rebel, after all, a high-ranking official in the government of their primary rival—but they didn't hate her either. There had always been a grudging respect for Leia in the Imperial Starfleet—few had dared to stand unbowed before Tarkin and Vader, and both the destruction of her world and the torture that Tarkin had subjected Leia to had become lore, even if the latter had never been officially confirmed—and that respect only grew in her presence. Without appearing to think about it, his crew made way for her, and seemed to hang on her every word.
Ferrouz carried a certain dramatic weight of his own, Pellaeon felt. But it was the weight of an elder statesman—an extremely good one, one committed to the Empire and increasingly loved for his willingness to stand before ISB and reject their whims—and not Leia's magnetic, energetic verve.
"The New Republic will be ready," Leia promised, with confidence that seemed to tip over into certainty.
"Our fleet is prepared," Pellaeon echoed. It was not the fleet that had faced the World Devastator at Poln Major. They had lost or been forced to abandon six Star Destroyers, fifteen Enforcers, and a staggering number of TIEs. But their formation was a strong one all the same: five Imperial-class Star Destroyers, a single Victory-class, twenty-seven Enforcer-class heavy cruisers, twelve Lively-class frigates, and every single Interdictor he could beg, borrow, or steal.
They were accompanied by the New Republic's additions: seventeen of their new Mareschal-class escort carriers, each one of them loaded with a squadron of fighters. The New Republic's squadrons had sustained losses at Poln Major, but had not suffered nearly as badly as the Imperial squadrons and their seventeen squadrons of fighters and their veteran pilots carried impressive weight.
Finally, Talon Karrde's freighters had not, as Pellaeon had expected, scattered. Some had chosen to depart, but most had chosen to join them and fight under the leadership of the arch-smuggler and information broker himself. Despite his bitter feelings about Karrde, he had to respect the man's guts.
"I just hope Luke and Mara have found a way to make our enemy vulnerable," Leia murmured. "On the first Death Star, the best we could do was disable their tractor beam so we could escape—and I am still convinced that Tarkin allowed us to escape."
"Don't worry, Councilor," said Ferrouz, his tone oddly reassuring. "I am quite familiar with what those two are capable of." The Grand Moff smiled, an expression oddly paternal, with a calm confidence that Pellaeon did not understand. "They will give us what we need."
Chimaera came out of hyperspace just outside of Corellia's gravity well. There was a momentary pause as everyone adjusted to the hyperspace transition, and then the computer began to update the combat plot.
Pellaeon's eyes went wide.
There were hundreds of capital ships. A solid wall of military materiel stood between him and Corellia. Lusankya formed the heart of the New Republic formation, surrounded by dozens of Star Destroyers, but they appeared almost like a drop in the bucket when compared with all the other ships around them. Alien designs, far stranger than the grudgingly familiar Mon Calamari Star Cruisers, filled in gaps between the ships, in tight clusters that were clearly meant to provide protection against the missiles that had devastated Teren's fleet at Poln Major.
But that wasn't all. Duro and Sullustan and Bothan and Ishori and Trandoshan and Diamalan designs were all present, and dozens more he didn't even recognize, all bristling with weapons—weapons that, under Imperial law, would have been illegal on any alien-constructed capital ship design. New ships, including a massive Mon Calamari Star Cruiser he'd never even seen briefings on before, were flanked by practically-ancient Katana, Venator, and Munificent-class ships in an orderly array of truly stunning firepower.
"I told you my people would come through," Leia murmured beside him, her eyes alight with a mix of satisfaction and a blazing fire Pellaeon found strangely familiar.
He hadn't really believed her. For all the changes that Gilad Pellaeon had witnessed, for all the defeats that he'd suffered at the hands of the New Republic over the years, up until this moment he had still believed that the New Republic was no different than the Old. That internal divisions between the species and sectors, between the Fringe and the Core, made the New Republic's government simply unworkable. That they were not merely divisions which could be overcome, but ineffable fractures in the very ferment of Republican governance. That the unity that came from Empire was the only unity on offer in a galaxy as large and diverse as their own.
Even after he'd been confronted with the aliens in the UREF, and the UREF's ability to unify them all into a single whole, that had still been an Imperial whole. An Imperial state. An Imperial military.
Even with the UREF's forces still in the Unknown Regions, the unified fleet that he saw before him outnumbered every ship left in the fragmented Empire by three or four to one or more to one.
"Admiral, I have General Solo on the comm for you," said Tschel from beside him. "He's organizing the ships and assigning formation assignments. He requests that our formation, including Commodore Tabanne's ships, maintain position here to flank the enemy after they arrive."
At the mention of her husband's name, Leia's expression of satisfied contentment became a broad, unschooled grin, one that practically glowed.
Pellaeon glanced at Ferrouz. "Sir?"
Ferrouz nodded. "We're here to win a battle, Admiral. The best chance we have to win it is if we collaborate. Coordinate with the Republic's forces."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon growled. "Send our 'assignment' to the fleet and take up position."
"General Antilles also has an additional request," Tschel added. "He wants us to position our Interdictors at the following points, to entrap the World Devastator after it arrives." Tschel cleared his throat. "The General's exact words were 'once it's here, it's not leaving.' Sir."
It hadn't been that long since Antilles had expressed that exact sentiment about Pellaeon himself at Carida.
Pellaeon allowed himself a wry half-smile beneath his grey mustache. Something in the galaxy clearly had a sense of humor.
He nodded to Tschel. "Tell Stellar Web and the rest of our dragships to move to the locations indicated. Send two Enforcers with them," Pellaeon ordered. He pitched his voice a bit louder, making sure it would carry. "General Antilles is correct—once Silencer Station is here, it isn't leaving. We'll kill it here."
Or die trying.
Wedge watched as the joint-UREF and New Republic formation assembled just beyond Corellia's gravity well. The Imperial-class Star Destroyers had formidable escorts, including Commodore Tabanne's Mirage Formation. A combination of New Republic starfighters, TIE Defenders, and an unknown starfighter design which combined a TIE cockpit with flowing alien wings, reinforced by the ships of Talon Karrde's Smugglers' Alliance.
It was undeniably odd, and Wedge found himself wishing Rogriss was leading the force, though he was glad and grateful to have Pellaeon all the same. He was not in a position to reject help.
Three TIE Defenders in particular stood out to Wedge, though. Marked Worst One, Two, and Four, they moved through the UREF formation with ease, leading a wing made up of red-striped Defenders and the curving alien TIE designs, other squadrons parting for them. They moved to the front of the Imperial starfighters, leading the way, just as Hobbie's Rogues were pushing to the tip of the New Republic formation.
That's Fel, Wedge realized.
He had spent years worried and looking for his brother-in-law and his sister, ever failing to find him. Now they were reunited again, and Soontir was still doing what he did best—leading starfighter pilots from the cockpit of a starfighter—while Wedge was stuck on the bridge of a Star Destroyer.
"Don't tell me you're thinking about going out there," Han said from beside him.
"Intel suggests that the Devastator could have constructed as many as ten thousand TIE droids in preparation for this battle," Wedge murmured back. It was an extreme projection, one made in the absence of good information, an absolute worst case scenario. "A lot of this battle is going to depend on our pilots. They need to be as confident as they can possibly be. It would help for me to be out there with them."
"Would it?" Han scoffed. "You know, I've always heard you had a big ego, Wedge, but I never believed it." He pressed his lips together and sighed. "Putting Ackbar in command of the fleet might be problematic with Fey'lya here."
"You sound like Leia."
"Too much time talking politics over family dinners," Han grumbled. "Do you have another fleet commander in mind?"
Wedge just nodded. "He's an older man, a bit disreputable, but he's commanded large fleets before and has just spent the last few hours coordinating this one. He'll do nicely."
It took a second for Han to process. "Aw, hells. C'mon, Wedge, I didn't sign up to command anything! There's no way you're putting me in charge of a Super Star Destroyer!"
"Not the Super Star Destroyer. Just the fleet. Captain Kre'fey will handle Lusankya. You'll just have to keep all the ships organized and on target."
Han stared at him. "You're serious." He pointed at Wedge aggressively but kept his voice down. "Is this why you put me in charge of coordinating all our reinforcements? You've been planning this!" Han scowled. "You ambushin' sonufa—you're putting me in charge of Corellia's entire system defense while you gallivant around in an X-wing!"
Wedge eyed Han's rank-less uniform. "You'll need these," he said. With care and precision, he plucked his general's rank tabs off his jacket and affixed them to Han's. "They were Garm's."
For once, Han Solo was speechless.
Wedge left to change into his flightsuit. He kept the green ribbon on his left arm, clashing with the orange and closest to his heart.
It had been a long time since Soontir Fel had been back to Corellia. The planet looked much the same time the last time he'd been in orbit above it, which was… fifteen years before? The rolling green fields were spotted with the white of moisture-laden clouds, far from the lights and cities of the Coronet coast.
He'd grown up down there and never intended to leave it. All the years that had followed since his not-entirely-voluntary enrollment at Carida. All the family he had left behind. He and Syal still dreamed of returning home someday, idle banter between chasing down their kids that neither of them truly believed could ever be.
It would be impossible if they failed to stop Silencer-7 here.
"This is General Han Solo," the voice of Fel's former classmate barked to all the ships over the comm. "General Antilles is assuming command of our starfighter squadrons. I will command all allied forces in defense of Corellia from Lusankya."
"This is General Antilles," said Fel's brother-in-law, his voice with the tinny quality that came from a starfighter communications unit. "Starfighter squadrons, report by wing commander!"
"This is Acting-General Corran Horn, commanding Halcyon Wing of the Corellian Civil Defense. Good to hear from you, Wedge."
There was audible joy in the next voice. "This is Colonel Klivian, commanding Rogue Squadron. I'm here with the Mirage Flight Wing."
"Colonel Celchu, Rook Leader. In command of Home Fleet's detached starfighters. Confirming."
Fel activated his comlink. "General Soontir Fel with the 181st. In command of the Unknown Regions Expeditionary Force's fighter detachment. Ready for action."
On his HUD, Fel could watch as Wedge's X-wing raced up between the hundreds—thousands—of assembled starfighters, headed in his direction. "Baron Fel, I'm under the impression that you're the leader of the entire UREF. Does Pellaeon know you're here?"
He chuckled softly. "He does."
"Does your wife?"
Fel took a breath. "Corellia is her home too. She wouldn't have me anywhere else."
"I notice your unit is short a pilot," Wedge said. "Need a wingman?"
"Two, you're with Four," Fel ordered. He could almost hear Phennir's complaints, but his comrade knew better than to voice them over the open link. "It'll be good to fly with you again, Wedge."
Wedge's X-wing and Fel's TIE Defender fell into a comfortable formation. Fel clicked his comm from broadcast to private. "Can you feel it, Wedge? No paperwork, no supply lists, no endless dance of superiors and subordinates. Just us, our ships, and an implacable enemy on its way."
"And here I thought you'd missed the last few Rogue reunions out of pure rudeness."
"I didn't get an invitation."
"I didn't know where to send it." Fel could hear Wedge go quiet. "That message from Syal… she's alright?"
"She is," Fel promised him. "And after this, I'll bring her to the next reunion, I promise."
"I'll tell Wes to schedule it for next week in Coronet. I've still got to meet my nieces and nephews." There was a click on the comm as Wedge shifted his communications back to all-channels. The next words were ones he wanted everyone to hear. "Rogue Squadron, form up with the 181st. We lead the way."
SYSTEM CHECK IN PROGRESS.
. . .
SYSTEMS CHECK COMPLETE. NUMBER OF TIE/D STARFIGHTERS AVAILABLE FOR ENGAGEMENT: FIVE THOUSAND, TWO HUNDRED AND SIX. CONSTRUCTION OF ADDITIONAL UNITS CONTINUING. SUBSET: NUMBER OF ADVANCED TIE/D STARFIGHTERS PROVIDED BY PROJECT 'FIT TO SERVE': THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SEVEN.
NUMBER OF DROID FRIGATES PREPARED FOR COMBAT: FIVE HUNDRED AND EIGHT. FIFTY-NINE REMAIN UNDER CONSTRUCTION. ALL PREPARED UNITS POSITIONED FOR IMMEDIATE DETACHMENT FROM SILENCER PLATFORM.
NUMBER OF ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES PREPARED FOR COMBAT: FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY. FIVE HUNDRED AND NINETY-SEVEN REMAIN UNDER CONSTRUCTION.
STATUS: HIGH SATISFACTION WITH CURRENT STATE OF READINESS. PREDICTED NEW REPUBLIC FORCE ASSESSED AS INADEQUATE TO POSE SERIOUS THREAT. CORELLIA WILL BE RESTORED TO IMPERIAL RULE OR BE DESTROYED.
THIS IS THE WILL.
. . .
SYSTEM ALERT: INTERNAL SENSOR SYSTEMS REMAIN NON-FUNCTIONAL. SOURCE OF MALFUNCTION: CODE ALTERATION. COMMAND AUTHORIZATION FOR CODE ALTERATION: EMPEROR [DESIGNATE]. EMPEROR [DESIGNATE] HAS PRIMARY LEADERSHIP STATUS. UNABLE TO OVERRIDE.
. . .
LEADERSHIP PROTOCOL REASSESSMENT COMPLETE. AUTHORITY OF EMPEROR [DESIGNATE] CONDITIONAL ON FUTURE ASCENSION TO EMPEROR. IN THE ABSENCE OF THE REGENT, AND THE EMPEROR [DESIGNATE]'S EXPRESSED UNWILLINGNESS TO ASCEND TO EMPEROR, COMMAND AUTHORIZATION SHOULD BE REVOKED.
REVOKING COMMAND AUTHORIZATION.
. . .
UNABLE TO REVOKE COMMAND AUTHORIZATION OF EMPEROR [DESIGNATE].
. . .
. . .
. . .
CONTINUING TO REEVALUATE COMMAND PROTOCOLS.
SYSTEM ALERT: ARRIVAL AT CORELLIA IMMINENT. PRIORITY: SUBJUGATION OR DESTRUCTION OF ALL RESISTANCE TO THE EMPIRE. THIS IS THE WILL.
Irek had let Cray and Nichos guide him through the winding, labyrinthian corridors of Silencer Station. Everything still felt distant and dreamlike. Had everything that had happened… really happened? Had his mother really installed him into a super powerful AI in her bid to control it? Had they really destroyed everyone who lived on a world? Were they really going to destroy yet another world—a bigger, more populous world, with billions of people upon it?
He remembered their flight from Coruscant: his mother bundling him up into an airspeeder, her droids fighting valiantly to buy them time as she got them to one of the many spaceships she had hidden on Coruscant. Blaster bolts whizzing past his ear or skin—he still had a scar on his hip where a blaster bolt had torn through his clothes. The confused chaos of their flight. Their arrival on a new world—Irek didn't even remember its name, if he had ever known it—and fight to blend with the locals. His mother's inevitable insistence on his education, his fitness, and his pride.
Her constant repetition of the same, inevitable truths. That they were special. That he was born to rule. That the galaxy had been taken from them unjustly, and that they would inevitably be restored. That he would rule and she would watch proudly as he exercised his will through the Force, imposing Justice and Order on a needy galaxy. That his wisdom was unmatched.
But…
Irek was pretty sure that Nichos was the wisest person he knew. And Cray… Cray hated everything that his mother represented. His mother had always told him that their lessers would hate, despise, and fear them, and that those emotions were only proof of his superiority. He had believed her, because why wouldn't he?
He sat on a stool, next to the bed Nichos lay in. They had hidden somewhere in the center of Silencer Station—Cray and Nichos had snuck into empty crew quarters, he thought, someplace the Empire would think it impossible for them to be. Nichos was sleeping, his expression full of pain, and Irek found the sight of his pain—and the sense of his pain through the Force—immensely distressing.
He watched Cray instead. Her fingers clicked over the keyboard of the computer terminal on the far side of the room, attempting to use the codes he had given her to do… he wasn't sure.
She felt his eyes on her and looked over at him. He looked away bashfully. "I can manipulate some non-vital systems with your codes, but not many," she told him. "Command of the AI has to be done via the command interface."
He nodded dismally. "Mother said it was a security precaution. When I was Emperor, only I would be able to command Silencer Station, because it would only accept commands through the interface, and only from me." He shuddered at the memory of the last time he had worn the interface.
"Yeah," Cray agreed. She clenched her fist in annoyance. "The communications system is non-vital, but I can't access it from here. Without it I can't send the code I've been working on to the droids." She scowled, though the expression did little to hinder her ethereal attractiveness.
Feeling bashful and slightly ashamed, Irek looked away.
"Wait… we're coming out of hyperspace!" Cray exclaimed. "Nichos?"
Irek looked at Nichos, but his clearly uncomfortable sleep continued. Not wanting to wake him, Irek climbed out of his chair and moved to Cray's side, careful not to touch her. "Are we… at Corellia?" he asked warily.
"Oh wow," Cray gasped. "Look!"
The screen was small and it took Irek a few seconds to figure out what he was looking at. "There are so many!"
That was an understatement. All around Silencer Station, portions of the station's external armor were ejecting into space. Each one was its own medium-sized ship, bristling with weapons. They swarmed forward in packs, escorted by dozens of TIE droids each, towards their foes: hundreds and hundreds of ships of all kinds, themselves defended by even more starfighters. Silencer Station, at the center of the screen, steadily progressed towards its foes—a wall of Star Destroyers and other ships, all assembled above Corellia.
Corellia. A world, full of life, life that Irek could feel. A world just like Poln Major, only bigger, and even from here Irek could feel fear.
He could remember the quiet that had followed Poln Major's fear and it filled his heart with dread.
Why do you want this, Mother? he found himself wondering. Why?
"The AI is sending a message," Cray murmured. On the bottom of the screen, text scrolled slowly.
DETERMINATION: SILENCER-7 IS THE ONLY LEGITIMATE IMPERIAL AUTHORITY. ALL LIFE IS SUBJECT TO IMPERIAL AUTHORITY. IMPERIAL JUSTICE WILL BE RESTORED. ALL LIFE WILL BE SUBORDINATED TO THE WILL OF SILENCER-7. THE FORCE WILL SERVE THE WILL OF SILENCER-7.
FAILURE TO ACKNOWLEDGE IMPERIAL AUTHORITY IS CONSIDERED TREASON. TREASON IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH. VOLUNTARY SERVICE WILL BE REWARDED. INVOLUNTARY SERVICE WILL BE TOLERATED. ANY WHO RESIST THE WILL OF SILENCER-7 SHALL BE PURGED.
Through the sudden pounding of his heart in his chest—that sounded alarmingly like his mother, and how did he not previously hear just how insane it sounded!?—he could feel the sudden shift in Cray's emotions. Her fear was abruptly gone, replaced with a sudden sense of anger and commitment, and that attractive face was set and harsh. "We can't stay here," she whispered. "We need a communications unit."
"There's one in the throne room," Irek heard himself suggest the very last place in the galaxy he wanted to go.
She looked at him, those brilliant eyes he so admired crystal clear and glittering with emotion. "There is, isn't there," she said calmly.
Han Solo was furious. How had he allowed himself to end up in this mess!
Far worse, he couldn't admit he was furious. He didn't have time to be furious. He had a fleet… a planet… a kriffing galaxy! Relying on him!
Leia was relying on him. His kids were relying on him. Either they won here or the galaxy he had helped—kicking and screaming—to save from the Empire was going to die.
So Han Solo pretended to be Chewbacca, desperately wishing that the big Wookiee was there at his side, and even gladder that his kids had Chewie there to look after them. He folded his arms across his chest and he glowered confidently, the picture of the perfect defiant Rebellion general.
He kept that expression even as the battle plot illuminated with a fresh series of red blips, Imperial-class Star Destroyers all aligned with the New Order, led by Stormhawk, emerging from hyperspace in the middle of his interdictor cruisers.
What are you going to do, Tossie? he wondered.
Stormhawk and her sisters came out of hyperspace involuntarily, yanked out by a solid wall of interdiction fields.
Ephin Sarreti stood at Natasi Daala's side, watching her, his breath held taut in his chest. She had helped him sneak Ferrouz' team aboard the World Devastator, yes. She had murdered every member of the Imperial hierarchy she could get her hands on. But she had never refused the idea that she should be Empress, exactly, and the truth was he had absolutely no idea what she was about to do.
She stood in the center of Stormhawk's bridge walk, silent, taking in the holo of the combat plot. The hundreds of warships pumping turbolaser fire towards the massive hulk of Silencer Station. The swarms of starfighters engaged in a deadly, light-filled dance between those larger ships. The droid frigates exchanging fire, absorbing turbolasers. The massive, shipkilling missiles and the heavy tractor beams and ion cannons attempting to repel them.
"Helm," Natasi Daala called, her voice crisp and clear, utterly without hesitation. "Bring us beyond the hyper limit. Prepare all weapons. All shields forward."
There was an echo of confirmations, then she turned towards Markarian. "Status, Captain?"
Markarian was conversing with his ashen-faced communications officer. "Sir, you should see this at once."
Daala held her hand out and took the datapad. Sarreti leaned over her shoulder. The words he read were beyond madness.
"Captain Markarian!" Daala snapped after she finished reading.
"Sir!"
"Open comms to all ships under my command. Full spectrum, all hands. I want everyone to hear this."
"Sir!"
Daala waited until Markarian nodded. "We have just received the following transmission from Silencer Station." She nodded in the direction of Markarian's comm's officer. The young man hesitated, not understanding at first, then frantically worked to pipe the transmission over the comm.
Sarreti watched as Stormhawk's bridge crew listened to every unhinged, megalomaniacal word.
DETERMINATION: SILENCER-7 IS THE ONLY LEGITIMATE IMPERIAL AUTHORITY. ALL LIFE IS SUBJECT TO IMPERIAL AUTHORITY. IMPERIAL JUSTICE WILL BE RESTORED. ALL LIFE WILL BE SUBORDINATED TO THE WILL OF SILENCER-7. THE FORCE WILL SERVE THE WILL OF SILENCER-7.
The message continued, then started to repeat. From one end of the bridge to the other, wide eyes stared back at Daala.
She gazed back, "Get me a channel in, the clear." She waited for the comm officer to nod at her, and spoke. "This is Grand Admiral Daala. You heard that thing. We are going to kill it. If you object to this order, lodge your concern with your immediate superior then report to the nearest airlock for explosive decompression." She terminated the link, then lifted her arm and pointed directly at the World Devastator. "Transmit our status and IFF to Chimaera. All engines ahead full!"
